#gr getting sentimental

[jacenotjason]

thought you might find this fun to look at; i'm working on mimicking the spooky month wiki for toyhouse ocs :3c

still a wip but at least i can share this one with everyone when i'm done with it! it will be a little less advanced than the one i use but whateverrr !!!

(ofc people who have my other code can still use it <3)

WAOWOA!??!! THATS SO COOL!!!!

IT IS FUN TO LOOK AT!!!

[kaciidubs]

Gentle | Monstober Mini Fic

We won't talk about how late I am to everything currently, yeah?

✧ Summary: In which you get to finally indulge in your Orc boyfriend, even if it's just the tip of the iceberg. ✧  ✧ Word Count: 1.7k ✧ Warnings: Monster fucking, Orc! Chris, smut, fluff, slight size kink, slight humor ✧  ✧ Female! Reader [No use of Y/N] | You/Your pronouns ✧  ✧ Additional Tags: Chan is referred to as Chris, Channie, Baby, Reader is referred to as Pretty, Pretty Human, Human, slightly edited [I finished this at 3:40am] ✧ Stray Kids Masterlist ✧ General Masterlist

“Alright, Channie,” you spoke softly, your fingers tugging at the smooth ribbon of your sheer robe, “gentle.”

“Gentle.”

Your heart warmed at the way he parroted your advisory – a softness that was a stark contrast to his otherwise rugged features. 

Anyone in your position would've been fairly scared out of their minds, but you were far from it - this was liberating, exhilarating even. 

An orc and a human - your orc, the man you promised to remain by no matter the difficulties and stigma. 

This type of pairing wasn’t rare per se, but it was certainly less explored due to various... differences, to say the least; if not for the way he completely dwarfed you in sheer height and mass, then for the way he could lift a couch with one hand as if it were as light as a feather. 

Contrasts, like in the way his hand could easily cover your entire face while yours could barely cover the expanse of the line of his jaw to his upper cheekbone.

However, those differences only proved to fuel your desire for him more, and your sentiments were reflected tenfold – that much you were extremely positive about.

“Slowly.” Chris affirmed, the huskiness of his tone spurring goosebumps along your skin.

Nodding, you let the robe slip from your shoulders and fall to your arms, fighting back a smirk as his eyes flicked to the exposed skin. “Slowly – and if you want to stop, we’ll stop.”

His heated gaze met your own sultry stare, a knee-buckling grin accenting his gorgeous tusks. “If you want to stop, we’ll stop.”

Cementing the verbal agreement, you dropped your arms and let the robe flutter to the hardwood floor without a sound, leaving you bare and open to his viewing pleasure.

“Pretty.” Came a breathless sigh, and you weren’t sure if he truly meant to say it out loud as he regarded you with the same look of awe as one would to a radiant sunset.

You stepped away from the pool of fabric and sauntered your way toward the bed, climbing onto the plush mattress before finally making your first form of contact with him ever since you’d entered the room; hooking your leg over his waist and sitting pretty against his abdomen. 

“Hi.” Resting your hands against his chest, you reveled in the warmth that radiated off of his body before a small smirk grew on your lips, “Come here often?”

A strong huff shook your body against his as he rolled his eyes, though his amused smirk didn’t go unnoticed as a large hand trailed along your side before cupping your cheek. “Quiet, come.”

Obliging his request, you allowed yourself to be dragged down into a slow kiss, ever mindful of the tusks that grazed the corners of your lips.

Slow and steady only seemed to last as long as each breath that passed between the two of you - short and waning, while whatever semblance of control began to chip away with every subconscious grind of your hips against his lower stomach. Your desperation was only made worse when you felt the pressure of his tip meet the curve of your ass on one particularly long drag; the large head twitching slightly and the fabric of his boxers slightly damp.

“Channie?” You breathed against his lips, pulling away just enough to meet his eyes, your unspoken question translating perfectly with the heat of desire burning within your irises.

He took you in for a moment, eyes jumping between your own and your lips, “Okay.”

That was the last thing you remember properly registering before you found yourself grinding against his cock like a bitch in heat; your brain short circuiting the minute your pussy nestled against the wonderful veins that decorated his length like a textured map. It was heaven - at least, as close to heaven you would be getting as your aching cunt still felt empty, yearning for the final piece of your lover that was so close but still so far away.

“Fuck- ‘M not going anywhere, pretty.” Chris huffed, grunting at the way your nails pressed a little harder into his chest, yet it still wasn’t enough to break skin. “Take your time-”

“Christopher,” you all but whined, pinning him with a look that made his dick throb underneath you, “we take our time when you eat me out, we take our time when you finger me - right now I need you as fast as I can, as hard as I can. Can you please just give it to me like I want?”

Sliding your hips up, your body shivered as the large head of his dick slid through your folds, the smooth skin a welcome sensation against your sensitive clit yet an agonizing reminder of what you’re unable to partake in full.

“Come on, take care of me the way only you can, baby.”

The way only he could - even if it wasn’t to the extent you deserved, you still ached for him, and what type of Orc would he be if he continued to deny his little human what she wanted?

You could sense a shift in the air, a change that caused a spark of electricity to shoot down your spine, but before you could say anything your body jolted forward from a cant of his hips; a fiery glint flashing in his lidded eyes.

“Don’t know if I should call you needy, or greedy,” he murmured, large hands coming to rest on either side of your waist, “always ready for more no matter the limits.” He took the initiative in guiding your hips up the underside of his cock, using you like a toy as his tip bumped against your clit, “Pretty human, can’t get enough of what’s already too much to handle normally - I wonder who spoiled her?”

A short whimper escaped you as his own hips rocked forward, dragging his veiny cock back through your folds in a pace reminiscent of intermittent, languid thrusts.

“Who did this to you, pretty? Hm? Who made you this greedy?”

His goading tone made your pussy throb, clipped gasps tumbling from your lips while you endured the ride he controlled.

“Answer me, human.” He snarled, eyebrows pinching as his intense gaze kept your eyes locked on his own.

“Y-You…” The timidness was foreign to your ears, this new side of your lover completely new to your psyche. “You, Chris.”

A deep rumble reverberated within his chest, a lowly chuckle as his lips curled into a cocky smirk, “Me? No - see, I only give you what I think you can handle, it couldn’t be me.”

Your hands gripped his shoulders, nails pressing into his skin, “Chris-”

“I’ve only given you enough to keep you satisfied, enough to make sure that your needs were well taken care of,” his faux thrusts grew quicker, slicker with the mixture of precum and arousal that glistened along his dick, “maybe that’s what made you start thinking you could take more - crave more, is that it? Did I ruin my pretty little human?”

“Y-Yes!” Dropping your head forward, you swallowed thickly as your legs twitched at his sides, the stimulation conquering you in ways you’d never felt before. “You ruined me, Channie - C-Can’t even think about going back to a-another human, it wouldn’t be enough.”

His hands flexed, body shuddering with a deep breath as he tried his best to conceal the pride that swelled within him. “Another human, hm? What about another Orc?”

You shook your head vehemently, “No- God, no, it’s only you!”

“Eyes up, pretty.”

Lifting your head, you met his sultry gaze with pleasure glazed eyes.

“Say it again.”

“I-It-” A broken moan tumbled from your lips, your orgasm just on the horizon, “It’s only you - I only want you!”

His eyelids fluttered, hips bucking just a bit harder, “F-Fuck, good girl.”

“I-I’m close, Channie,” you whimpered, your body working overtime to try to overpower his grip on you to garner a fraction of more stimulation, “I’m so close, baby.”

“Go on, pretty - come for me, show me how gorgeous you’d look coming on my cock.”

Your stomach clenched hard enough to make you double over, though his hands kept you steady as your walls fluttered and throbbed, choked breaths shaking your body all the while.

Chris grunted, clenching his jaw as he slid his hips back just enough to nestle his tip against your spasming cunt, daring to press it harder against your entrance in wishful desires of feeling more of your warmth - his eyes fluttering shut as his mind ran wild.

“C-Chris?”

“So close…” He breathed, hips twitching as his conscience fought against his reality. “Y-You’re not the only one ruined, pretty,” his hips continued to rock up, fucking you with the only part of his cock that could remotely fit, “what I wouldn’t give to be inside of you, to feel you fully - my pretty human.”

“Inside…” You parroted breathlessly, one hand sliding to his chest while the other ventured up to tangle in his mussed curls, “To feel me… To come in me…”

His hands squeezed your sides, trembling slightly as he shook his head, “D-Don't.”

“Can you? Like this? Just this once?” You rolled your hips back, wiggling against his tip, “Please, baby - show me how gorgeous you’d look coming inside of me.”

“F-Fuck, fuck, fuck-”

You felt his cock twitch, his hips bucking up until a loud moan flew past his lips.

The sensation was new, different yet welcomed all the same; the warmth of his seed flooding against your cunt before excessively dripping toward your clit and creating a puddle on his lower stomach.

Your body attempted to press back further but you were stopped by his vice grip, pulling you away so the last wave of his orgasm could paint a few lines up his stomach.

A whine of protest floated through you, “Channie!”

“Pretty,” he deadpanned, blinking hard before opening his eyes to look at you with a raised eyebrow, “you’re getting too greedy now.”

“It’s your fault for being so irresistible.” Huffing out a light laugh, a shiver ran down your spine as you felt some of his cum subsequently drip out of you.

Humming in faux agreement, he nodded, “Well, let’s go get cleaned up and you can tell me all the ways me being irresistible turns you into an insatiable beast.”

✧. ┊Tagged lovelies: @having-an-internal-crisis-rn, @midnightfrog625, @anyhow-everything, @bangchanbabygirlx, @sweetracha, @nightimescapes, @caitlyn98s, @ch4nn13luv, @ihrtlix, @jeonjungkookenthusiast1997, @maximumkillshot, @y-ur--i, @acker-night, @dreamescapeswriting, @specialstay, @s00buwu, @tinyelfperson, @jj-stay, @katsukis1wife, @inlovewithmusician, @keen-li, @armystay89, @main-character0, @vampcharxter, @ddyskz, @prettymiye0n, @bbgnyx, @bahng-chrizz, @milknhoneyracha, @hann1bee, @palindrome969, @newhope8, @kpopsstuffs, @starquokka, @wolfs-howling, @laylasbunbunny, @4-chan-inpadella, @butterflydemons, @kimahreummm, @ta3baee, @bethanysnow,  @skz-smut-reader

✧. ┊If your username is in bold italics that means tumblr won't let me tag you. If you’d like to be added to the taglist, fill out this form!

[kaszuma]

Second Guesses | Hoshina Soshiro

Part 4 of "Certainly Yours"

pairing: Hoshina Soshiro × fem!reader

summary: you and Soshiro have never once addressed your relationship. But that all changes when he sees a man hand you a drink.

warnings: mentions of alcohol. Adult drinking. Afterparty drinking. Hint of Jealousy, Nothing too serious.

wc: 2,836

---

note: Not proofread. Not really good at writing jealousy for Soshiro. I assumed he'd be more subtle in his advances. I've already planned out the next part. Might be getting an NSFW scene soon. So stay tuned.

---

It's been a few days since you've established this strange relationship with the Vice Captain of the Third Division.

All those admiring glances and careful touches have now been pried open to reveal lasting kisses in the hallways of the early mornings when no one was watching. Even in the heat of the afternoons, he made it very clear to you that he was handsy. Desperate to be close to you. And his palms, which had often been restrained to make innocent touches on your shoulder. Would evolve into a hasty fit of grabbing. Slotting themselves around your waist, subtly spelling his name on the small of your back. All a ploy to pull you much closer when you kiss.

And you reciprocated all the same by running your hands through the smooth roots of his hair. Scratching the gradual taper down to the base of his neck. Where you'd feel him shudder from your touch. Desperate enough so that he stops you from your movements to reply back with an even larger gesture.

Like you had deserved the world and back.

But despite the risky kisses you two would share in the middle of work. Soshiro had made sure that no one was watching. Keeping his loving glances to the privacy of your eyes. Letting not a single person witness his affection for you.

Not letting anyone get any dirt on him. And surprisingly, he was pretty good at keeping this situation between you two a secret.

From pulling away the moment you'd hear voices. Or looking around to see if cameras and voice recordings were within reach.

And luckily since he had access to most of it, he'd easily be able to remove the evidence before Captain Ashiro can check herself.

And should they be discovered? Soshiro was a master of evasive manipulation. Likely with his words alone, he'd be able to wriggle his way out of the situation and make up an excuse for the both of you so that you won't be caught in the awkwardness of it all. Both a boon and a bane to be dealt with.

Though, you highly doubt it would ever come to that situation.

Because for as long as you remember. Despite the guise of his easy-going persona. He was still the respected Vice Captain everyone knew him as. And like his responsibilities. He remained disciplined, loyal to Kaiju slaying. His meticulousness shows in the way he practices his swordsmanship to the privacy he has with you. He keeps his cards close and you even closer.

He holds you as if you were a treasure he found and was unable to share, lest you be taken away from his safekeeping.

And God forbid, if something happened to you.

There would be hell to pay.

And like all his bad habits. He had been able to keep up this persona. Even with you, it seems he still isn't used to that newfound feeling that he's come across. He wasn't used to the ever growing importance you had on his life.

Unable to comprehend the feelings that bloomed within him when you managed to crawl your way into his hardened heart. And now that you're there, he doesn't know whether to hold you tighter or not.

And for whatever reason. You understood that sentiment exactly. Even when those words never left his mouth.

Although it wasn't ideal, you had decided not to confront his aversion to public intimacy. If he had not decided what you are to him. Then so be it. You would be nothing and everything to him, if that helped ease his mind.

Soshiro was a busy man. He was often the last person to shut off all the lights in the training room. And the first person to grab a cup of coffee in the mess hall. And to ruin that routine now, and ask for his confirmation of exclusivity? You’d rather not overwork the poor man who already has enough on his plate. The task was still far too early a concept for the both of you to grasp.

So, you let the man be.

As much as it did sting to see him ignore your presence entirely instead of greeting you in the crowded mess hall. You had not moved from your spot. Letting Soshiro take the lead. Only hearing the trace of his faint laughter ring out as he answered vaguely from the few questions he'd get from some of the officers.

And you smile knowing fully well that he had not alluded to you at all when someone asked if he was seeing anyone.

That is until that persona of his cracked unexpectedly..

It was the evening after a successful mission. The third division had just gotten back from exterminating an army of Yoju in the area. And just like its repertoire, no casualties were sustained during the attack. Not even a broken combat suit that needed fixing. Which made your job a little easier no doubt.

And now, the entirety of the Third Division had been invited out to drink. Renting a large bar down the street, nearest the base.

It hadn't been a few minutes since you sat down. Recognizing a few operators like Okonogi who invited you to sit down next to her. She had excused herself momentarily, likely a trip to the restrooms. When suddenly a martini slid towards you. It had the color of liquid poison, and it reminds you that you haven't had a single drink that night. Unlike the few rambunctious folks who had cheered when a glass of beer was poured to their glasses.

The moment you turn your head you see the telltale signs of an Officer staring right back at you. His grin was one you hadn't recognized, languidly pushing the pretty glass towards you where it was within reach. His cheeks aflame from the steady intake of alcohol.

He was likely a new officer. A recruit from this year's batch. Otherwise, you'd have recognized him from the plenty of times officers would come by to the lab to have their weapons upgraded or repaired.

“Drink up! It's a successful night after all.” He moved uncomfortably closer. And you could smell the stench of his breath that made you want to cringe away. But you didn't really want to seem rude, so you gently nudged him back. To leave enough room between the two of you. Luckily he had seemed to have gotten the hint and poured another glass for himself.

“Want another one?”

The encouragement makes you smile. He had likely not realized that he had been talking to the wrong person. Too drunk to notice that you weren't an officer like the rest of the people in the bar.

“No thank you. I'm good.” you said. “Though, you might consider drinking some water? Maybe it'll help you sober up.” You gestured to the bartender. Though the martini is handed to your palms before you could raise your hand. And you caught yourself before the liquid could make a mess and spill all over the place.

“The night's still young and it's rare that the Captains are treating us to a drink.” He convinced you. And you find yourself second guessing, staring at your drink in thought.

It did look like a very expensive martini. And from the looks of the officer that had offered it to you, he'd been chugging down his own set that he had ordered himself. Already moving on to give you some of his glasses that he had planned to drink.

It wouldn't hurt to taste it, right?

“I suppose it wouldn't hurt to try.” You had interjected, already moving the petite glass to your lips.

What you hadn't realized however, was the intense stare you'd get from the back of your head. Red eyes line your figure from across the room. And the bottle of Sake he had ordered was long forgotten at his table with Captain Ashiro.

Before you knew it, the glass rim had been blocked by a hand. And you could see the appearance of an arm obscure the right side of your vision. Blocking both the drink and the drunken gaze from the officer in question.

“Don't ya know you shouldn't accept drinks from strangers, sweetheart?”

Soshiro's husky voice quivered from behind. And you could hear the way his chest rumbled as it pressed against your back. Hand already putting the martini back on the table, away from your lips.

“Vice Captain..?” You hear the officer exclaim in slow syllables. And suddenly the man shot up in a salute. Though dazed from the drinks he clearly had, the rest of the officers behind him had laughed. Clearly amused that the Vice Captain had made an appearance, with an audience no less.

And that was enough to turn your head around to meet his eyes.

And his smile. The smile that had always been difficult to read, had not faded at all the moment you faced him. At least not entirely, as it looked a little irritated. More forced than usual. It seems you're starting to get better at reading his grins. At least, to some extent.

“At ease, we're just about to leave.” He spoke nonchalantly. His gaze not once leaving yours. Which makes your breath hitch slightly.

Your eyes had darted around, first seeing the perplexed faces of the officers. And then seeing the calm expression of both Okonogi and Captain Ashiro just eating some karaage from the sidelines. With the bespectacled girl in particular, clearly enjoying the attention both you and Soshiro had received. She had probably returned long ago and saw the commotion happening.

Likely alluding to the fact that they had already been made aware of their strange relationship. Which makes you a little calmer, knowing that this hadn't been an official work setting. Celebrations at the bar is one thing, but plenty of the Third had still been present, making this seem all the more exposed than ever.

Shit.

Why was he here?

Wasn't he afraid of letting people know about them? or whatever situation their relationship was at the moment. He had made it very clear that he wasn't keen on his admission. Not a single word from his lips that they were more than friends. Let alone lovers. What's changed?

“We were?” You had whispered to him.

“We are. So let's go, yeah?” He simply gestures for you to stand up, hand on the small of your back whilst pointing his chin to the direction of the door. Though before he could gently lead you away the same officer had squinted his eyes. As if a strange idea had popped into his head, but had doubted the premise for it to be factual.

“Where are ya’ going, Vice Captain? You can't just pick girls up like that..” You had seen the small twitch on the corner of Soshiro's lips. It quivers in that irritation you knew well. And it was just their luck that this drunken officer had spoken his thoughts out loud.

Shit. You decide to intervene. “No need to worry, I was just about to grab an uber back to base anyway-”

“What?” Soshiro had looked at you. “No yer’ not, do you know how late it is?”

You had flinched upon hearing Soshiro's firm voice. A first in which he spoke to you with a slightly raised tone. And you could feel the curious stares in your direction.

“Yes, I am.” You said. “And the Vice Captain here is only going to escort me out until my ride is here.” You say between gritted teeth. The sorry excuse of a reasoning was sloppy at best, but you had at least hoped some people had just gotten the picture and left the topic alone.

But Soshiro couldn't help but sigh, remorseful of the way he had raised your voice at you like that. He was only concerned for your safety. And added to the irritation of prying eyes, he didn't mean to reveal so much just from one sentence of his.

“No, Just-” He starts, “Listen, I'll take ya home myself. I don't want ya out this late. Now come on.”

He had grabbed your wrist. Already pulling you along to the exit. Of course, this had garnered stares from their audience. And although some had been wise enough not to ask further questions.In fear of insubordination, it seems not everyone had been sober enough to read the room.

“Woah..Am I missing something here? It's like you two are dating.” The officer had taken a sip of his martini. Curiously glancing around and back at the two of you.

And Soshiro looks back at the crowd who now had incredulous looks on their faces.

“Got a problem with that, soldier?” He spoke with his eyes open. Deep crimson staring at the soldier who could barely stand from the Alcohol he consumed. And you could feel the way Soshiro had nudged you past the door before you could meet any of their prying eyes.

“N-no sir.” He had gulped, turning around to pour himself a shot. Likely already knowing that he might've done himself in by the look at Soshiro's face. His expression, though laid-back as usual, had spoken everything it needed to tell him.

And he was definitely going to run laps, or clean bathrooms the morning after.

“You there. Remind him tomorrow morning to meet me in my office.” He pointed towards the Officer that was nearest the drunken man. Who had proceeded to drink another glass. And before he could hear the response. He walks out the bar's entrance, with you in tow.

Immediately you turned towards him. Brows furrowed in response to his strange behavior. Jealousy was one thing, but now you had an even bigger question. A more sincere one, that you didn't think would be a possibility until now.

“Did you really mean that?” You spoke hesitantly. Watching him walk past you, fishing out the keys for his car.

“Mean what, sugar plum?” and you had half a mind to roll your eyes. Suddenly baffled that his demeanor changed so quickly.

“Don't change the subject. Do you or do you not mean it?” She had stopped walking. And halfway on his step Soshiro had turned towards her. A hint of shock on his expression, but it was so miniscule that you were second guessing if it was truly there.

And his grin had been all the same.

…

Silence would engulf the two for a moment. The type that had been sickening if it went on for too long. But Soshiro hadn't let it get that far. And he spoke.

“I mean it.”

He had turned to avoid your gaze. His hand fidgets to fish out the keys in his pockets, despite having already found it long ago. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it for a while..I just..didn't know how.”

“So you shamelessly announce it to the entire Third Division?” You couldn't help but smile. Reaching out for his hand until she held him firmly. And his touch had all but devoured her warmth.

“Do ya’ have to remind me?”

“Yeah. You dug your own grave on that one.” A chuckle escaped your lips. And he turns to you. With unusually pink cheeks that had reddened up to his ears. A rare sight to behold it seems.

“So?” He started. “Do you want to? Be with me, I mean.”

“Hmm…let me think..” You had walked much closer to him. Until you were practically chest to chest with his solid form. And before you knew it, you were leaning up to capture his lips for a momentary kiss. Taking his breath away like all the times he had done the same to you.

Though, you hadn't expected his immediate reply when he slid his free hand to your jaw. Replying back with purposeful kisses. This time, slow and drawn out. Not at all the rush you were used to from all the kisses prior. The haste was likely a result from not wanting to get caught.

And the moment you pull away, you could see the familiar cheeky grin he has on that face of his. Thumb running across the underside of your jaw. “I assume that's a yes?”

“What do you think, genius?”

You feel yourself be pulled into a tight embrace. And you could smell the fresh laundry of his uniform invade your senses. His scent had been all but intoxicating. Relaxing you to the bone. Helping you feel safe within his arms that not even a single Kaiju would dare threaten.

“Yer’ really keepin me second guessing huh? I suppose I deserve that.” He spoke, burying his face against the crown of your hair. Relishing in the feeling of your steady form.

And he supposes he'll have to ask a thousand times more if he was allowed to.

So that no more second guesses are made.

[fayes-fics]

Reunited

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: When Benedict returns from a few days away, he has some very specific demands...

Gif credit: @captainbucky-yt (used with permission)

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, dom/sub dynamics, DD/LG play, daddydom!Benedict, blindfolds, hairpulling, dirty talk, smidges of nipple play and spanking, vaginal sex, restraint (wrist binding).

Word Count: 2.9k

Authors Note: Another smut roulette sprint that grew legs. I ended up writing it over 5 separate half-hour sprints. The roulette wheel gave me the writing prompt: "Spread your legs for Daddy; I want to see you." This is a married couple playing together. Unbetaed filth. Enjoy? <3

“Stay, little one,” he commands, a rich chuckle in his voice as you whine.

At least the crackling fire warms your flank, the thick rug under your knees plush, sitting on your haunches submissively, blindfolded, naked, awaiting instruction.

He is sitting in his wingback chair, not far away. Or at least you think he is based on the sounds you hear: the clink of the stopper on his crystal decanter, the pour of liquor into a heavy tumbler, the strike of a match and the earthy scent of cigar smoke tendrils snaking in the air.

“Daddy, please touch me,” you pout.

He has been away for five days, and you have missed him terribly. When he swept into the house fifteen minutes ago, he dismissed the household staff for the evening, stalked into the drawing room where you were happily reading, kissed you and gave you your codeword with a challenging glint in his eye. Instantly, you were stripping and obeying, only too keen to play your special game. Panting as he tied a blindfold carefully over your face. But now he hasn't touched you since. You squirm, feeling yourself already so aroused. 

“Hmm, no, I think I will enjoy the view a while longer….” his counterpoint echoing into his drink as he takes another sip - his voice a velvet tease, knowing you can feel his stare on your skin, watching your body as you flex, breasts tingling, pussy wet.

“I have been a good little girl,” you are trying to entice him. Goad him into getting up and coming to you. Even if it���s only to drag you by your hair to sit in his lap.

He huffs bemused. “Have you now? What does that entail?”

“I have not touched myself since you left,” you sigh, feeling your pussy clench at the mere mention. It's not true, but you think he’ll appreciate the sentiment.

“That's a complete lie,” he barks a laugh, and the leather chair creaks as he seems to stand. “Do you know how I know?” he adds, the thud of his riding boots seeming so loud on the rug as he approaches. 

“No,” you breathe, tilting your head naturally to where you think he towers over you even though you can't see him.

There is a scent of woodsy cologne, cigars and something that is all Benedict as he bends down, breath gusting hot in your ear. “Because you would have made a mess of my rug by now,” he whispers hotly, “just dripping at the sound of my voice, would you not?” A large hand clamps around the back of your neck, and you gasp. “I asked a question…” he adds pointedly.

“Yes, Daddy,” you answer instantly, attempting to pitch forward and nuzzle against his thigh, but he holds you in place firmly near the base of your scalp. “I am sorry I lied.”

“That is alright,” he mollifies. “I did not instruct you to refrain from touching yourself this time, so you are forgiven, little girl. But you do need to do one thing in recompense.”

“Anything….” you exhale shakily as he releases his grip, pouting as he seems to return to his chair.

“Lay on your back and spread your legs for Daddy; I want to see you. All of you,” he orders, hearing him take another drag on the cigar, tapping it upon his ashtray.

Scrambling to obey as best you can without sight, the wool rug tickles your shoulder blades as you recline. Pulling your feet up close to your bottom, shoulder-width apart, taking a deep breath, trying to ignore the throb in your clit, the need to touch it so great.

“Wider!” 

You instantly shuffle your ankles further apart, allowing your knees to fall to either side, spread obscenely wide now, feeling the stretch in your inner thighs.

“Good girl,” he soothes. 

The room feels so quiet again, just the hiss and crackle of the logs in the fireplace, the tick of the carriage clock on the mantle and the occasional sound of him taking a drink or puff. After what feels like an eternity, you plead quietly for him. He doesn't respond. Almost as if he is ignoring you, but you know he is not. Know he is watching you intently, likely a lopsided victorious smirk on his handsome face as he takes another sip, eyes raking your skin, taking in every minute detail of your arousal and revelling in your discomfort.

The waiting is the very worst part. Butterflies behind your ribs and a dull ache in your pelvis that needs him. You know how much he gets off on this - watching you, knowing how aroused you are but unable to do anything but whine and plead and beg. You feel your pussy clench around nothing as your mind floods with images of what you want him to be doing, and you squirm as you feel a drop of moisture leak from yourself and run down your bottom cheek.

“I knew you would make a mess of my rug eventually, little girl,” his clear voice ringing out almost startles you after being quiet for so long. “Such a wanton thing, aren’t you?’

“Only for my Daddy,” you assure.

There is a rash of movement, and you gasp again as he suddenly looms over you, likely on all fours, the ruffles of his shirt teasing your puffed nipples, the tickish wool of his britches rubbing your inner thighs, as his brandy-sweetened breath puffs over your face.

“Am I not just the luckiest man alive to have such a sinful, naughty little girl all to myself?” his ask is rhetorical, the flattery making your heart speed up, hopeful that he will take mercy and finally touch you.

“I am the lucky one, Daddy,” you fawn, lifting your hips off the carpet to rub yourself shamelessly into his crotch, delighted to feel a touch of heated bulge there before a large hand wraps around your hip and pushes you back down forcefully, pinning you flat again.

“Behave!” he warns.

“Or what, Dadddy? Will you spank me?” Unable to resist being insolent with him, knowing how much he loves you acting feisty.

“You would enjoy that far too much, you vixen,” tone affectionate, dryly amused.

The hand moves from your hip, and you pant as it travels upwards. It's a firm stroke that has your belly rippling and breath catching in your lungs. Trailing higher, you cry out as suddenly two strong knuckles wrap on either side of your left nipple and tug hard. You hiss as he squeezes tighter, that ache in your cunt growing stronger; he knows how much an edge of pain makes you even more heated.

“I hear there are decorative nipple clamps in Paris,” he recounts casually as you writhe and moan in his continued hold. “I think my little one would look so pretty dripping in jewels. Don't you?”

Your agreement is a hiss between ragged breaths, a zinging in your clit now from the ache in your breast. Just as the pain becomes a tart metallic taste in your mouth, he lets go, and you stutter and sink back into the carpet, a delicious throb in your pebbled nipple, knowing it is darkened and swollen from his treatment.

“And guess what else they do, little one?” he goads, the hand sweeping back down over your diaphragm, making a beeline for where you want him most.

“Tell me, Daddy….” you beseech, head following the sound of his voice as he seems to swing over your leg and settle on your left side, pressing his erection into your hip and rutting slightly.

You cry out as that hand grasps your labia and tugs on your clit hard. “They do a clamp for your pretty pearl down here, little girl,” he lectures, his thighs ensnaring around your left leg to hold you down and open to his slightly rough treatment.

“Please….” it’s a request for anything really: the jewelled clamps, his fingers to sink into you and assuage the ache you feel, his kiss… whatever he will allow.

He releases his hold, and you whimper, eyelashes fluttering hard against your blindfold, chest rising and falling rapidly, on tenterhooks for what he will do next.

“I so enjoy watching you like this,” he confesses, nuzzling your hairline. “My lustful little one just dripping nectar for me. You would do anything right now, would you not? Anything I told you,” his tone dripping with pride.

“I am yours, Daddy, to do as you wish,” you avow, a want to submit, please him, thrumming hard in your veins.

“That’s right,” he breathes, his lips hot on your temple. “Now be a good girl and roll over.”

Your stomach clenches as you flip over onto your belly, the rug abrading your hardened nipples as he rounds behind you and harshly pulls your hips up high, shuffling your knees forward so you are at a steep angle.

“Keep your head down, my girl,” he warns, your cheekbone catching on the wool fibres as you pant in anticipation, feeling the back of his hand brush your bottom, him fighting open the buttons on his britches. 

You cry out as he spears into your body harshly, your walls stretching around his invading cock, fingers sinking into the deep pile beneath you, seeking purchase, as you revel in his hearty groan and curse.

“Fuck I have missed your ripe, tight, soaked cunt,” he exhales raggedly, his large hands clutching your hips as he withdraws slowly and then plunges forward, your calves raising from the floor with the force.

Then he is setting a punishing pace, his hipbones digging into your bottom with each thrust. Your eyes roll shut, letting your forehead sink into the rug, uncaring of the chafing there, his mounting harsh and unforgiving, precisely what you have been craving. A yen to be marked by this, by his actions.

“Who do you belong to?” he snaps, raising a hand and spanking possessively across your bottom as you moan loudly.

“You, Daddy,” you clamour, uncaring if any staff hear you. They could watch for all you care right now - stand in the doorway, seeing him almost fully clothed with you naked, hips high, face down, blindfolded and taking his cock deep as you drip down your thighs for him. In fact, just that illicit thought has you clenching around him, his cock feeling huge as he growls at the slick contraction, his movements becoming even rougher, another firm spank that makes you howl, his fingers digging into your cheek, prolonging the sting.

Then he stops, holding still buried so deep it almost aches, missing the drag of every contour when he moves, tilting your pelvis in a silent request for more.

“Don't move, my girl,” he warns, grasping your hipbones. 

You stay still, moaning lightly, desperate for some friction on your pulsing clit to push you towards ecstasy.

“Please, Daddy…” you appeal mutely, muffled into the rug.

“I love it when you beg for me,” he admits, hands running covetously around the swell of your bottom and then sweeping up your back. He leans forward over your spine, those shirt ruffles tickling your shoulder blades this time. 

You hiss as he grabs your hair, twisting it in his grip, a tingle on your scalp as he leverages you upright, teething the shell of your ear.

“I wish I could stay right here forever,” his voice a hot whisper. “Buried to the root inside my little girl as she cries for more. If I could die anywhere, this is where I want to be. You, your surrender, your tight slick cunt gripping me, your wanton breathy pleas. ‘Tis as if heaven is on earth.”

His filthy poetry has you panting as a hand slips from grasping your hair around to your throat. He pulls you both upright, you bowing back into him, wishing he was naked like you so you could feel the heat of his flesh on yours, leaning into that broad chest.

Then he starts to move again, thrusting slowly, the hand around your throat tightening so he can feel the vibration in your windpipe as you moan loudly for him. His other hand questing into your folds, catching your clit.

“Come on, my sweet little girl, give it to me,” he tutors, open-mouthed, teeth grazing your cheekbone.

Already wound so tight with arousal - since he walked in, really - it doesn’t take much to have you babbling mindlessly, spiralling that abyss, taking each thrust with a loud moan as his fingers rub in a brisk motion.

“That’s it,” his buttery voice a contract to the almost punishing grip on your throat as you start to fracture around him, rippling on his thrusting cock, a wave of ecstasy crashing inside, fanning out to every cell. Dimly, you hear him heaping praise upon you, groaning loudly, but it's quiet behind the rush of blood in your ears, going limp and pliant in his strong hold, your muscles tensing and releasing.

“Did I do well, Daddy?” You drawl, drowsy and sated.

“Yes, little girl,” he coos, kissing your ear. “That felt amazing, But I’m not done with you yet….”

It’s then you realise he has not come, still rock hard inside you as aftershocks quake your being. Without withdrawing, he bears you down onto the rug, arranging so you lay face down, placing his clothed knees on either side of your thighs and squeezing your legs together. A thump of clothing hits the carpet as he discards his jacket and waistcoat. You breathe heavily as he rocks gently into you, your mind resetting, realising this is just a reprieve. 

“Hands behind your back, little girl,” a clipped decree. 

Without thought, you heed the order, feeling a soft, silky material wrap around your wrists, knowing instinctually it's the cravat from his neck. It is one of his favourite ways to restrain you, you being bound in his clothing, his scent, something primal. He places your bound hands in the small of your back, and then his shirt sails to the floor. He is left in his woollen britches and boots as he leans over you again; you sigh contentedly as his bare skin brushes your spine, a radiating warmth you want to burrow into.

In this position, your thighs squeezed together, hips tilted, laying facedown on the rug, hands bound, you are entirely at his mercy. And you know he is not going to be slow or gentle. He is going to be rough and carnal, chasing his pleasure as you have had yours. Bated breath as you await his next move, reigniting the molten fire, clit throbbing.

Warm hands wrap around your shoulders for leverage as he settles over you, and then you stutter as he withdraws and drives in hard, your whole body rolling, this position allowing him the deepest penetration.

“Oh my god, Daddy…” you splutter, feeling a pressure behind your ribs from his weight pinioning you.

“Take it, little one…” he counsels, his breath hot in your hair. 

Pleasure grows with the harsh snap of his hips, your hands pinned into the small of your back, his abdominals pressing into your thumbs with each stroke. He moves faster, pounding now, your skin blooming darker where the rug chafes your body, but it is secondary to the onslaught, feeling yourself notching higher as he steadfastly pursues his pleasure.

“Touch me please, Daddy,” you mewl, knowing you can come again with a modicum of stimulation.

“Is my greedy little girl ready again?” he gusts, panting hard.

“Yes, please,” you appeal, trying to twist your head to meet his eye pleadingly.

With a gruff noise, a hand roughly worms its way under your left hip and ploughs into your slit again. It's like a lightning bolt through you; instantly, you are screaming. His other hand suddenly clamps over your mouth, his hips never wavering in their rhythm.

“Shhh, little one”, he chastises, even as you can hear the pride behind his words that he can do this to you. “You do not wish to alarm the neighbours, surely?”

You shake your head as you whimper, muffled into his palm, unable to keep silent as you spiral so high so fast, almost dizzying. Take heaving breaths through your nose as his nose is pressed into your scalp, huffing hard, taking you so hard now he grunts with every thrust.

Then you are freefalling again, crying out and drooling against his fingers as this time you pull him with you, the constriction on his cock milking him of every drop as he cries your name and stills, that trademark warmth blooming deep inside. Spasms cause him to rut into you a few more times before he collapses to one side, considerate not to crush you.

The room echoes with your panted breaths as you both recover. Benedict pulls you into his arms, arranging you in an enveloping hug, his hands swirling delicate, intricate patterns on your dewy skin as the fire roars beside you.

“Welcome home, husband,” you sigh contentedly after a restful beat, nuzzling into his neck, tasting the salty tang of his exertions.

“Thank you, darling wife, I have missed you so very, very much. Thank you for this,” his tone is heartfelt, holding your face and planting a chaste kiss on your lips, his kind eyes dancing in the flamelight.

“Anytime, my love, anytime.” Your offer is sincere, revelling in the fulfilment and peace your playtime brings. "We should always be reunited thus.”

He chuckles and shoots you a look of pure devotion. “Indeed we should…”

Join my taglist here

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies @balladynaaa

[moniericreative]

The Saddest Tragedy of 2/2; Damned Regardless of Choice

Wasn't sure if anyone else already talked about this, but after going through the Persona 5 Royal Artbook a while back, and again recently... Something about the whole situation just really struck with me.

Obviously, spoiler warnings ahead for Persona 5 Royal, specifically Third Semester's Februrary 2nd.

So, unsurprisingly, I'm referring to Maruki's Deal.

It's a common interpretation that Akechi's 100% gung-ho against it.

But there's two separate moments that show a rare bit of... Wavering in his resolve.

The first is the Phantom Thieves meeting in Maruki's office with Lavenza:

Out of all of the Phantom Thieves, the only one to play devil's advocate and remind the group that Maruki's actions benefit them too is... Akechi, of all people. Not Joker, not Makoto, not Lavenza or anyone else.

It's solely Akechi who brings that fact up.

In the same meeting, beforehand he was very upfront and crass about how manipulative Maruki was being, and how the man played the other thieves like a fiddle...

And yet he says this in spite of all that.

There was no reason or prompting for him to, and Ryuji even rejects him politely afterwards too.

So surely this was just an off-line of simple pragmatism, right?

Well, here comes moment number 2, in one of the optional Jazz Jin hangouts you can get with him:

He plays it off as some idle food for thought with no deeper meaning, but... It's Akechi. He usually doesn't just say things just to say them.

There's always a hidden meaning to his words.

It's pretty obvious he's referencing his space in the Phantom Thieves, a group that's civil with him but doesn't particularly have any inclination to be friends with him... But it does beg a question...

Is he happy? Now that he's no longer being controlled by Shido, or burdened by a lifelong revenge?

By the sheer existence of this conversation at all, directed only towards Joker and in a place that he's comfortable in (second to Leblanc) it's pretty safe to say he is, but has reservations about it (i.e. 'If their happiness hinges on the group's unhappiness.')

Now where does the artbook come in? Well, inside the P5R artbook, there's a handful of interviews that expand on some parts of the Royal exclusive content.

What was the one bit that stuck with me?

(Thanks to VeskScans on Twitter for the high-quality scans of the artbook: https://x.com/VeskScans)

Per fan-translation:

Creator's Comment: "When I think about how Akechi's wish is to play chess with the protagonist after school, I want to tell him 'You like the protagonist after all, don't you?'"

Akechi's Wish.

He has a wish that Maruki actually does grant him, and it's to essentially be friends with Joker. It's mutual to Joker's own wish to be friends with him.

So add up the context of all three, and it paints a very depressing picture already:

Akechi is genuinely happy for once in his life, but doesn't think he deserves it at the cost of everyone else's. It runs opposite to his own sense of Justice, and his negative views on himself as a "cursed child," and that fuels him to keep denying it.

So with him being split between the two sentiments... It's unsurprising that he would rely heavily on Joker to make the ultimate decision; Whether to accept, or to deny. Because he himself can't, and Maruki knows full well of that.

Sure, he keeps pushing Joker to deny Maruki... But why?

Is it because what Maruki's doing is wrong, and he needs to be stopped? Is it the closest thing to a punishment for all of his actions, which has been constantly denied to him up to this point? Is it the closest thing to a confirmation that he's undeserving of such happiness, especially with how much blood is on his hands?

Who knows.

So how does any of this tie into Maruki's Deal on 2/2? Isn't Rejecting a false reality the obvious choice here?

Well... It's simple.

You're not really picking between a true reality and a false one.

You're picking between:

The acknowledgement of Akechi's growth (Hereward), the righteousness he carries as The Justice arcana, and his freedom from being under someone else's control his whole life.

And this:

Think about it. Maruki gives you multiple opportunities to accept his reality, and they become increasingly personal to Joker with each one.

First is the happiness of the general public.

Second it's the happiness of the other Phantom Thieves, especially Sumire.

Then finally, it's the happiness of both Joker and Akechi.

If the first two couldn't sway Joker's decision, why would the third?

Because you want Akechi to be happy and no longer suffering. You're the one in control of making that decision as the player, remember?

And both he and Joker are also fully aware of that, given how they look back at you in the "Accept" ending.

Not to mention in spite of how he reverts back to his "Detective Prince" mannerisms, almost as if he was a different person entirely... We never actually get any indication that he goes off to fight Maruki alone, or try to fix everything himself, do we?

Sure, he says "... Well. I have your answer. There's nothing left I can say. Our deal's off."

But what can he say? Once again, you've exceeded his expectations.

And once again, he's left as speechless as his "you really are..." moments.

You chose him over a "true reality." You told him to his face that he matters, you accept him as he is in spite of everything he's done, and you want to keep spending time with him as equals. As friends.

There's no anger, betrayal, shock, or even hurt in his voice. Just quiet acceptance because after all they've gone through together, he knows Joker wouldn't lie about that.

It's a truth he has to accept, even if it conflicts with his image of himself. He's wanted by someone else, for the first time in his life.

Of course he has no need for a deal anymore. They were always the closest things he was willing to get to a friendship, without establishing a close tie that could potentially hurt him in the end.

Why would he need one when you chose your bond over all else?

You proved to his face that it's not just some temporary truce with mutual benefits. It's a genuine bond for both parties, not just to him.

... It's just a shame that something you've done with him up to this point with genuine intent has been perversed into a means to sway both boys and you into compliance.

Ultimately though... You're the one stuck between two choices for him:

Forsake Akechi's happiness, and finally being wanted for who he is and not whatever pleasant image or service he can provide.

Forsake his freedom, and all the growth and accountability he's accumulated thus far from his own sins.

This teenage boy is damned regardless of the decision you make. All because a man with a Jehova complex noticed that he matters to Joker (and by extension you as the player), and uses him as an ultimatum to get Joker (and you) to comply.

All because said man is well-aware that Akechi's actual fate is vague. Did he live? Did he die? Who knows, neither he or Akechi actually confirm it. They just dance around the subject and leave the assumption up to you. But he'll take full advantage of the vagueness to justify his actions to you, and show why his goals and yours are "truly in alignment."

And the worst part is that Maruki's doing this with a genuine intent to make his life happier afterwards, much like youself. It's not out of malice, or a sick sense of delight, or with the airs of playing god.

He's distorted. He's a man with good intentions that have become so distorted that he inadvertently perverses the very desire to do good for the world.

And just like Shido, and Yaldaboath, before him...

Akechi's the number one casualty.

You're just forced to decide which part of him the gun is aimed at this time.

Because this boy can't have both. It's one or the other.

[earthstellar]

Earth Music on the Lost Light: Human Music That Cybertronians Like

we know for a fact that the Lost Light has access to human media, primarily movies, TV shows, and music-- and we know they generally seem to fucking love most of it, or at least find it interesting

but what would everyone's tastes be, in regards to Earth music?

time to talk about music for a long time!!! strap in, enjoy some tunes

we already know Cyclonus has impeccable taste and enjoys some of the best jams the 80s had to offer.

I can't help but imagine Rodimus being given a media archive of Earth tunes to approve for the Earth Dance would only result in chaos

(it's not like he would say no to anything, he absolutely blanket signed it all, it's just an obligatory thing-- or Ultra Magnus tells him it is, solely to keep him away from Important Captain Things that he would rather handle himself or hand off to Megatron, lmao. the shit that really needs to get done)

and this is how Rodimus discovers the somewhat questionable yet amazing genre of "mid-90s underground techno rave mix tapes"

(somewhat related, I still think Testarossa might as well be Rodimus' theme song, although it's not a 90s track and has more of an 80s synth vibe)

Rodimus would love that "computers are the future, fuck yeah let's make Digital Cool Future Music" mid-90s shit, there is no way he would not. it has the exact energy level that appeals to him and is also cheesy and weird and chaotic. and has like 500 different sub-genres, so his selection is endless, lmao.

he would probably find it cute that this is what humans imagined to be the peak of "digital sound" at the time. like lmao this was the best humans could do when asked to create music that sounds like it was made by robots or other mechanical space future cyber lifeforms--high concept!!! he would probably find it interesting and endearing. this is what organics think non-organic music is like!!

anyone acting as DJ at Swerve's on any given night would be so, so mad that Rodimus keeps requesting shit like "DJ MASSIMO ITALO DISCO BEST RAVE TUNES LIVE FROM LONDON 1995" or "DJ ARMPIT SLUDGE FEST HOUSE-RAVE-DRUMS N BASS SET 1996" for them to play, lmao

not individual tracks. the whole album. entire mix tapes of random, somewhat questionable mid-90s techno house rave bullshit.

that having been said, that good ass early 90s trance techno might send him into a spiral depending on his mood at the time, lmao (it's been known to happen)

but at the same time I can imagine him sharing tracks like Solar Quest - Space Pirates with Drift and they'd both just sit there and jam out, but quietly, thinking about shit while sitting in a port window next to each other (this was peak sleepover party techno, Back in My Day-- many deep conversations were had while listening to stuff like this, lol)

Drift would probably find some of Rodmus' recommended stuff to be pretty good for meditation-- although once he finds out about the human drug culture involved and certain concepts of experimental consciousness etc. that surrounded techno/rave and other related genres, it might cause him to pull back a little bit

(until he finds out about kandi culture, in which case, Drift would love the idea of hand-made unique bracelets and sentimental trinkets being made and exchanged at warehouse shows purely out of Good Vibes and Love for Fellow Beings and it turns out actually he fucking loves this shit, a chill vibes based "expand your mind" kind of music subculture appeals to his Spectralist sensibilities and he likes sharing tunes with Rodimus in return)

Drift picking tracks on his own would likely lead him down more of a classic rock road, but more of the chill side of things, more of the folksy type of classic rock -- I can see Drift really enjoying Spirit in the Sky - Norman Greenbaum or California Dreamin' - The Mamas and the Papas. or like, Incense and Peppermints - Strawberry Alarm Clock.

I mean, Drift might even go Full Earth Hippie and end up liking Green Tambourine - Lemon Pipers, lmao. in fact I am fairly certain of this.

I can see Drift loving Aquarius/Let The Sunshine In - The 5th Dimension. the whole vibe would probably appeal to him.

he'd quite possibly also like I Need a Dollar - Aloe Blacc, but it hits him in a place that still hurts to think about. so it's in rare rotation.

meanwhile Ratchet would probably be fine with classic rock too, like the good Dad Rock shit, just a lot of tracks from the 70s/80s -- a couple tracks he and Drift could probably agree on would likely lean more into the experimental/psychedelic rock side of things, like White Room - Cream or something like Wheel in the Sky - Journey

Rodimus tries to troll Ratchet by recommending Old Time Rock n Roll - Bob Seger, but joke's on him because it turns out Ratchet loves it, lmao

Swerve would go all out on classic bar jams for the evening playlist. Chill, good shit like Do It Again - Steely Dan.

Megatron would love Sinnerman - Nina Simone; He'd send it to Drift in a command crew level secured data packet, and they would both feel the hell out of this song. They don't need to talk about why. They never mention it to each other.

Megs would also probably love These Old Bones by Dolly Parton (mostly due to the lyrics, rather than the upbeat tune, but he would find it relatively relaxing), as well as 9 to 5 (of course), and similar music. Country from back in the day when country music was more about the struggle of poverty and the working life of rural people. Country music from back when songs told all the untold stories. He can respect that.

He'd listen to You'll Never Leave Harlan Alive by Patty Loveless and it would get him right in the fucking spark. Megatron is the Cybertronian equivalent of an Appalachian miner, god dammit. He understands.

Megatron would also like Johnny Cash; He would overthink Ghost Riders in the Sky and it would depress him, partly because it reminds him of Seekers... sigh.

I think he'd also like Cold War - Janelle Monae. He'd be way into good lyrics; What's being said in a song matters most to him. "This is a cold war, you better know what you're fighting for..." Indeed.

anyway I like thinking about what jams Cybertronians might like from their available selection of Earth tunes

[berryhobii]

Namjoon as your werewolf boyfriend….

* Follows you around EVERYWHERE

* To the bedroom, to the kitchen, to check the mail

* Even to the bathroom (he’ll just wait outside for you)

* Hovers around you while you cook

* Always eager to taste anything and everything

* He’ll sometimes try dipping a spoon into something when you’re not looking

* “Hey! No!”

* Then here comes the pout and the teary eyes

* And because you are oh so very weak to him, you’d relent and let him taste

* Then he’s happy again and you fall a little more in love with him

* He’s practically a big lap dog in both his human and wolf forms

* When you’re relaxing on the couch or in bed, he’ll come and plop himself right on your lap

* When he’s in his human form, you don’t mind it as much

* But his wolf form is 10 times larger and furry

* You always insisted on getting a bigger couch but he’d just say

* “But this is our first couch together. It has sentimental value.”

* Him and his big heart

* Ugh you loved and hated it

* The ash colored wolf would stalk from somewhere, following your scent to the living room

* You’d be watching television or playing a game on your phone when suddenly your vision would be blocked by a mass of fur

* He’d be careful of his nails to not hurt you, climbing onto the too small couch for some cuddles

* “Oof. Namjoooooon. You’re heavy.”

* He’d just huff as if saying “don’t fat shame me”

* Knowing there was no moving him once he was comfortable, you just had to accept your fate

* Sighing, you’d lean your head on his back, focusing back on your phone or the television

* Eventually you’d mindlessly start petting him, running your fingers through his soft fur

* Something new you learned about his fur was that he doesn’t need to wash it since he gets a new coat everytime he shifts

* Crazy right?

* (Do y’all ever think about that type of stuff with werewolf au’s?)

* Anyway

* He’d relax under your ministrations, a deep and content rumble vibrating in his chest

* If you were feeling down in the dumps, he’d play fetch with you

* He sort of hated acting like a dog but seeing your happy face everytime you threw the ball made it all worthwhile

* One time you tried to convince him to dye his fur red and be Clifford for Halloween

* That was a big no

* “We could be little red riding hood and the big bad wolf.”

* “I’m not a stereotype, y/n.”

* “You’re literally watching birds right now.”

* “Bird watching is a very popular hobby!”

* “Yeah…..for dogs…”

* You did convince him to dress up but he decided to be little red riding hood

* That means you were the big bad wolf and the opportunity was too good to pass up

* “My my, little red. You look good enough to eat.”

* He froze up at the feeling of your claw like nails running up his broad shoulders

* “B-baby…”

* He turned to face you, already finding you on your knees before him

* Your golden colored contacts stared mischievously at him

* Hands gripped the edges of his loose fitting pants, pulling them down his legs

* He grunted when your warm palm enclosed around his growing shaft

* “We should really get to the party…ah.”

* Your tongue darted out to lick at his head, the saltiness of his precum sparking your taste buds

* “What’s the rush, little red?”

* When you were in public, he went from a sweet baby to an overprotective boyfriend

* Your scary dog privilege let you walk around without worry

* Sometimes if you wanted to go somewhere at night, he’d shift into his werewolf form and trail along side you

* Even other dogs would scamper out of his way and creepy men didn’t even look in your direction

* No one really knew werewolves existed so to regular people, he just looked like a huge dog

* A dog that was almost the size of the car but you digress

* In his human form, he was always holding your hand

* Moving you out of the way before someone could bump into you

* Staring down every person that got a little too close to you

* And those few times people have been rude to you, he’d let out a low warning growl

* You’d sometimes have to keep him in check with a gentle hand on his chest or a brief look that told him not to overdo it

* Werewolves were unbelievably strong in both forms, scarily so

* You’ve never seen Namjoon get truly feral but you watch a lot of nature documentaries

* So you could only imagine him if he was really angry

* Your boyfriend was also beefy as hell, compliments of his genes so you knew he could protect you

* But that didn’t mean you wanted him breaking someone’s bones and possibly going to jail

* Still, seeing him get all worked up did get you all hot and bothered

* MATING PRESS

* Your flexibility sucked when you started dating

* So in order to keep up with him, you started doing flexibility training at home

* Where at first your hamstrings would burn, now you could throw your feet behind your ears like nothing

* Sweat would drip down his body as he pounded into your puffy cunt

* Making sure you felt every single inch he had

* You wouldn’t be able to tear your eyes away from how your pussy stretched around his girthy cock

* Every thrust would make your tummy bulge, showing you just how deep he was

* He could definitely go multiple rounds

* Stamina 10/10

* He’s a definite Switch and a Pleasure Dom

* He loves taking control like his alpha instincts tell him

* But he also doesn’t mind letting you dote on him

* PRAISE KINK

* Call him a good boy and let him know how good he’s making you feel and he’s doing his best to make you feel even better

* He also loves when you ride his cock, saying sweet praises to him that made his toes curl

* “That cock’s s-so good, Joonie.”

* “I love that fat cock in my cunt.”

* “You’re gonna make me cum again.”

* “Such a good boy.”

* He’s definitely a whiny baby

* He’s most sensitive behind his ears

* Duh

* He’s a biter too

* Seeing the indents of his teeth all over your skin just did something to him

* He couldn’t mate you all the way so biting you was as close as he could get

* He plunges his entire cock into you when he’s about to cum

* He wants you to feel his cum deep in your stomach

* Yeah he had a bit of a breeding kink

* Could you blame him?

* Your cunt was always so wet and ready for him

* How could he not want to put a baby in you?

* Especially when you’d wrap your legs around his waist to keep him from pulling out

* “Fill me up. Wan’ all your cum.”

* He hated when his cum would leak out, quick to plug you back up with his fingers

* His protective nature wouldn’t even let you leave the bed

* Wrapping his arms around you and rubbing his scent all over your skin

* You’d indulge him for a moment but that sticky feeling would get uncomfortable for you very quickly

* He’d whine when you tried to get up, giving you those puppy dog eyes

* “Just a few more minutes.”

* “I want to clean your cum out of me.”

* It’s like a dagger through his heart

* “I’ll clean you.”

* “Your tongue doesn’t count, Namjoon.”

* After promises to make him his favorite meal, he’d release you

* But alas, your knees would give up on you

* Good thing your ever attentive boyfriend was there to carry you like the princess you were

* “You’re such a damsel in distress. You can’t even walk by yourself.”

* You’d huff and bite his collarbone in retaliation which would pull a moan from him

* “Hey, no biting. Bad girl.”

* “Woof.”

[vivid-ink]

"To Know You Again" Chapter 1 - Homecoming

Pairing: Neteyam x fem!Omatikaya OC Summary: “Do you remember our last night here? The night before my family left?” The warm, rumbling timbre of Neteyam’s voice washed over her. “Yes,” Naia whispered. How could she forget?... She had replayed the memory of his lips over and over numerous times. One corner of Neteyam’s mouth lifted in a small smile as his eyes tracked over the delicate bridge of her nose and over her steadily flushing cheeks. His gaze stopped to rest on her lips, “You gave me something that night. I think it's time I returned it."

An exploration of what if Neteyam had to leave a girl he was close to behind when his family fled to the reefs to seek refuge. AU - Set 7 years after TWoW, exploring the many emotions and the eventual romantic reunion between Neteyam and his love. Warnings: Adult content 18+, MDNI Content: Romance, drama, angst, fluff, sexual content, smut, soulmates, bonding. Word Count: 6k Notes: This is my shorter chaptered piece, which is cross-posted on AO3 and Wattpad too. But I've noticed that the Avatar fandom seems much more active on here, so here is my story's Tumblr debut. I hope this brings you Tumblr folks much enjoyment! <3

Pronunciation note: Manaia – Ma-ny-uh, or Ny-uh for the shortened version of the OC's name.

Manaia’s disgruntled eyes seethed at the mortar and pestle before her as her hands furiously worked, grinding away at the tough roots in the wooden receptacle. If looks could kill, the implements she held would be smoking now, charred and blackened by her resentful gaze.

The tsahìk’s hut was filled with her mother’s exasperated voice, countered only by Mo’at’s unruffled words as the Omatikaya tsahìk sat by Manaia, grinding her own roots and herbs in a separate mortar.

“Talk to her, tsahìk!” Ayepni implored, gesturing avidly toward her daughter while she paced to and fro before the pair of women seated on the ground, “She will not be betrothed to Tupou!”

Ever unflappable, Mo’at took in a slow and meaningful breath and her voice was placating as she addressed Manaia, “Tupou is in line to be the next olo’eyktan and as tsakarem (trainee tsahìk), it is tradition that you will be mated to him when the time comes for you both to lead this clan.”

Manaia hissed acridly, repudiating the sentiment, “Well then perhaps the Omatikaya should appoint another tsakarem! Leylani perhaps?”

“You have trained as a healer and spiritual shaman for years! All through the Long War you have aided tsahìk Mo’at and studied under her. Will you throw all of the hard work she has put into you away?” Ayepni exclaimed, maddened, “All because of your silly feud with Tupou?”

“There isn’t any silly feud!” Manaia refuted, slamming her pestle down into her mortar with enough force that chunks of masticated root flew out of the vessel to spatter the mat beneath her. She did not have any feud with Tupou, they simply did not get along. They never had, even when they were younger. Tupou found her mouthy impudence unladylike and she found his cocksure demeanour infuriating. She continued, “We’re just very different people and we don’t get along. Besides, Leylani has trained with me under Mo’at too. There isn’t any reason the role of tsakarem can’t be passed to her.”

Mo’at surveyed the bickering mother and daughter with shrewd eyes. Manaia had been a conscientious student through the years and her bond with Eywa was strong. The girl had all the makings of a great tsahìk and Mo’at had sensed that this was to be the girl’s path since she was a child.

A mild headache bloomed behind her temples and Mo’at sighed quietly to herself. If only her daughter’s family had not had to leave the clan at the start of the Long War. Things would be so much simpler now with the hierarchy as it was then, with Jake as olo’eyktan and Neteyam as his successor. Neteyam and Manaia had been close as children…

“It has been many moons since the end of the Long War and you are a woman now, Naia. Time to grow up!” Ayepni admonished, ceasing her pacing to stand before her daughter, her tail swishing in annoyance behind her, “Tupou is an accomplished and well-respected warrior. He is handsome and well-bred. It would be an honour for you to have him as your mate.”

Manaia bristled at her mother’s patronising use of her shortened name. There had only ever been one person she accepted calling her by her nickname and she had not seen him in years. “I don’t wish to be betrothed to Tupou! I have prayed to our Great Mother and I don’t see him in my path. I don’t see myself mating any man!”

Naia knew her last words were a lie.Her heart belonged to a boy she once knew; a boy who would be a man now, living far away in the reef clans. She would mate him in a heartbeat if she could... Alas, dreams were free.

With a loud snarl of frustration, Ayepni swept out of the tsahìk’s hut, leaving Naia alone with her mentor.

“I apologise, tsahìk.” Naia breathed quietly, returning to her task of pulverising the contents of her mortar, “That argument should not have happened in front of you.”

To Naia’s surprise, Mo’at chuckled, “It’s alright child. Your mother has always had a hot temper and a quick mouth. You are more alike than you know. She just wants what is best for you.”

Naia grunted in acknowledgement, slowly decanting the mashed roots into a larger vessel. Her thoughts were running away with her now, leading her to the reefs of Pandora where she wondered how he was and how he was doing. Her heart whispered his name… Neteyam… How did he spend his days? Was he happy? Mated, perhaps? Naia banished the thought when it pricked sharply in her chest. It would not surprise her if he was. Now that the war was over, people had begun returning to their lives, finding love and happiness again. He was a world away from her…

The Long War against the sky demons had waged for six painful years. Many lives were lost and the balance of life had been upset. Victory had come about at the Great Mother’s hands when she fed a hallowed plague to the waters of Pandora, poisoning the sky demons. The sky demons had perished, but all who held faith in Eywa had escaped unharmed.

The clinking of the wooden bangles around Mo’at’s wrists as she worked was a pleasant and soothing sound, and Naia forced her thoughts away from Neteyam. He was a beautiful memory from her younger years and he would stay that way. There was no use stirring up her tender emotions from the past. After all, it was also a little awkward daydreaming of Mo’at’s grandson in her presence.

Mo’at watched as Naia refilled her mortar; a sprinkle of pungent herbs, a dash of seeds and a splash of oil to make an invigorating infusion to energise and revitalise. The young woman was lost in her thoughts and a small crease knitted her brows in a frown. Mo’at’s gaze trailed from Naia’s face, down her seated form, graceful and lithe. Gone was the tomboyish girl who had refused to keep her hair any longer than her chin, who had hated excessive jewellery and elaborate clothing.

Not that Naia was vain now by any means, but she had grown more feminine as she had matured into a young woman. Her head was shaven on one side, but the intricately beaded braids of her hair brushed her shoulders on her other side. Large, gold eyes sat in an oval-shaped face with a delicate nose and smooth, wide lips. She was pretty, though Mo’at knew Naia would never agree. Not when Naia’s days were spent learning alongside Leylani who was objectively considered one of the most beautiful young women among the Omatikaya.

Setting down her own implements, Mo’at reached out to clasp Naia’s wrist gently, getting her attention, “Do you want to be tsahìk after me, child?”

Naia’s eyes met Mo’at’s piercing but tender gaze. She could not lie to the woman. Mo’at often perceived things without ever being told, courtesy of Eywa, she supposed. Naia had never spoken to anyone of the tender feelings she had harboured for Neteyam all these years, but as Mo’at’s crinkled eyes bore into her, Naia could not help but feel as though the woman knew anyway.

Remembering then that she had been asked a question, Naia cleared her throat and replied, “I don’t want to be tsahìk if it means I have to mate Tupou or any other potential successor in this clan.”

“Because you think boys are gross?” Mo’at teased, chortling, and a toothy grin danced across her wizened features at the look of shock on Naia’s face. It was a sentiment that Naia often used to proclaim as a teenager when all her peers had gone through the starry-eyed phase of discovering the opposite sex. Mo’at knew there were rumours that ran rampant about Naia’s preferences. She had never so much as flirted or dallied with any of the clan’s young males and with her tomboyish past, many thought she maybe preferred women. But Mo’at knew better; Manaia had only ever had eyes for one boy…

Naia gawped at the older woman and she felt a flush heat her face. She proclaimed indignantly, “I don’t think boys are gross!” She pursed her lips and a sheepish grimace followed, “Not anymore anyway. I do like men, just not Tupou.”

Laughing heartily now, Mo’at hushed the young woman, “Don’t fret. I don’t believe the gossip that goes around the clan.”

“Good. People spout a lot of rubbish!” Naia gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes then, “Nimwey brought her boy in to see me the other day about the pustules on his face. It was just typical teenage skin, you know, hormones and all. Apparently she’s been telling him his skin is like that because he never cleans his food bowls off properly, and every grain of wheat he leaves behind causes a pustule on his face!”

Mo’at guffawed at the ridiculous old wives’ tale, and then her expression turned sombre as her laughter died down. She reached out to stroke Naia’s cheek, her eyes meaningful, “If the Great Mother does not mean for Tupou to be part of your path, then he won’t be. But you must be open to all possibilities, Manaia. Let not your heart cling on to tender hopes of the past, lest it forgo the opportunities of the future.”

Rumbles of discomfort rolled in Naia’s gut at Mo’at’s words. She knew exactly what the tsahìk’s implication was. While her mind agreed wholeheartedly, Naia could not snuff out the flame she held in her heart that seemed determined to burn bright for eternity. She had tried many times before and had failed miserably. Neteyam was her first thought in the morning and her last thought at night... The years that had passed since the Sully family’s departure had done nothing to change that.

“If Tupou will be olo’eyktan after Tarsem, then Leylani should be tsakarem. She is skilled in your teachings too, as I am.” Naia declared stubbornly, “They are close and Tupou much prefers her. They would certainly make a stronger partnership than Tupou and I.”

Mo’at exhaled with a resigned sigh. The young woman was stubborn. Unease prickled at Mo’at’s skin as she considered what arrangements would need to be made to formally appoint a new tsakarem. It was true that both Leylani and Manaia had trained competently under her, but Mo’at had always had a deep, unspoken sense that the tsahìk’s path was Manaia’s to walk.

Not wanting to cause any more dispute for the moment, Mo’at reluctantly acquiesced, “Alright, I will speak to the clan’s elders. The responsibility can be transferred to Leylani.”

“Thank you, Mo’at.” Naia said, swallowing the tight lump in her throat. Healing was her calling though and while relinquishing her role as tsakarem would mean she would no longer be a spiritual leader, she still wanted to practise her healing skills. The thought caused her to add in quickly, “I’d still like to work with you and heal though. If you’ll allow me to.”

The tsahìk’s expression softened and she graced Naia with an earnest smile, “Of course, child.”

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Naia’s parents had been less than impressed with her decision to step down from her role as tsakarem. She had returned each evening after her workday to the disappointed gaze of her father, and her mother’s cold shoulder was a silent force to be reckoned with. It had taken a few weeks for the storm to blow over before her mother started speaking to her again.

A chesty cough reminded Naia of her present surroundings and she returned her attention to the child before her. Little Entu was suffering from a severe bronchial infection and the toddler squirmed, fretting in discomfort as his lungs fought to draw in breath. She smoothed her cool fingers over the child’s forehead to soothe him. Bringing a pungent smoke roll of medicinal herbs to her lips, Naia sucked a breath into her mouth and blew the smoke out over the child. The tsahìk’s hut was already hazy with the spicy fumes and she prayed it would help relax the child’s airways.

“He is better than yesterday,” Mo’at remarked, tidying away a set of stoppered vessels from her work station in the corner, “Still coughing badly, but it is mostly an irritant to him than a threat to his life.”

Naia sighed and nodded, “The cough just sounds so awful coming from a little one so young. He will need to stay here tonight still.” Another whine escaped the child and she returned to pacifying him with gentle murmurs.

“Yes, Leylani will come and relieve you soon. She will take the night shift and watch him.”

Eclipse was nearing and the horizon had begun to paint itself in shades of auburn and pinks as the light began to fade. The beautiful light illuminated the vast crevice at the mouth of the Omatikaya’s High Camp stronghold, casting shadows against the rocky walls of the cave system as people milled about.

Naia stretched her neck from side to side, hearing the vertebrae pop and snap quietly from her movements. It had been a long day and she was looking forward to having some time to herself unwinding in her grotto. The grotto that had once been their spot.

There was commotion outside the hut then and Naia’s ears pricked upward in alertness. Gasps and cries of surprise sounded from the people outside, followed by ululating calls of joyous welcome. Something was happening. Mo’at rose to her feet and she padded over the carpeted floor to the entry of the hut, sweeping the draping cloth aside to peer out the entrance.

The older woman gave a sharp inhale and a beaming smile swept across her sage face. Naia heard it then; the words and cries being shouted outside.

“Toruk Makto!”

“Toruk Makto’s family have returned!”

She froze and a thick buzz settled over her ears. The only thing audible to Naia in that moment was the increasing rate of her beating heart. Was she dreaming?... Could it be true?

Naia’s gaze flicked to Mo’at who stood smiling at the mouth of the hut, one wrinkled hand over her mouth as tears of happiness began to pool in her eyes. Naia urged the woman, “Go, Mo’at! Go to them. I’ll stay with Entu.”

As much as Naia wanted to jump up and run outside to see for herself, she was still working, and of course Mo’at should be the first to see her family. Mo’at shot her a grateful look and promptly left to greet her kin.

Vaguely, Naia wondered to herself… Was Neteyam back too?... Her heart thundered with a myriad of emotions. Excitement, disbelief, nerves… She dared not to hope too much. Perhaps it was only Jake Sully and Neytiri who had returned for a visit. The Sullys had called the village reefs home for many years now, all through the Long War and even after. There was a real possibility that they would choose to remain there permanently.

Looking down, Naia discovered that Entu had fallen asleep, the child’s chest rising and falling in shallow but consistent breaths. The sounds of celebration and reunion continued outside, and the temptation to join the throng was strong. Glancing downward one last time at Entu, she figured a look would not hurt. She would not leave the hut, but she could at least watch from the entrance.

Approaching the flap at the entry, she reached for the draped cloth and shifted to stand in front of it, keeping it pushed out of the way with her body. Four splendid ikran stood perched on the edge of the cave mouth, heads tossing as a younger woman tended to them. Tuk? By Eywa, she had grown! Naia still pictured a gambolling seven-year-old when she recalled memories of the girl.

Naia recognised Jake and Neytiri immediately, surrounded by a happy horde of clan members who had rushed to welcome them. Hugs and clasped forearms were being exchanged, and she spotted Mo’at among them who held her daughter in a tight embrace. Three Sullys identified, but judging by the number of ikran, it meant there was still a fourth…

There was another individual standing on Jake’s left, also being warmly received by several of the clan’s younger warriors from Naia��s generation. Was it Lo’ak or Neteyam? Naia shifted her feet impatiently, realising that the individual was being blocked by another male who had his back to her. She would recognise that flamboyant hairstyle anywhere; cropped on both sides with an elaborate cluster of braids trailing down the centre, adorned with beads and feathers. She rolled her eyes. Move your fat head, Tupou…

After what felt like an eon, Tupou stepped aside to allow a shorter young woman to greet the individual. Naia blinked scratchy eyes, squinting. Leylani’s shorter stature allowed Naia to glimpse the individual and her breath hitched when she finally laid eyes on him then. Neteyam! She watched, speechless, as Leylani leaned up to speak into his ear and Neteyam graced her with a wide smile in response.

Naia’s heart skipped a beat. The details were fuzzy at the distance she was watching from, but she knew without a doubt it was Neteyam. Eywa, she had missed that smile… He looked older, of course, grown up now, but it was still the same smile in the same face she remembered from her memories. He was so handsome…

More young warriors and hunters pushed forward to greet him. These were the people they had both grown up with and many of them had been close in their younger years. The eagerness to welcome their old friend was understandable. However, Naia did not miss Neteyam’s distracted gaze in-between his politely returned greetings. She saw his head swivel about, looking through and around the gathered crowd. He was looking for someone.

A sliver of hope unfurled in the depths of Naia’s heart. She followed the line of his golden gaze, flitting from person to person until he looked up then and his gaze locked with hers. His brows raised a fraction, as if in recognition and his eyes settled firmly on her. Heat flushed through Naia, prickling at the surface of her skin, rushing out to her fingertips and trickling down to her toes which curled slightly into the rug beneath them.

Suddenly feeling incredibly shy, she whirled away from the entrance, breaking the piercing eye contact and strode back into the hut.

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

It was stupid, it really was. She was being ridiculous.

Naia had spent the better part of the last seven years dreaming of this day, fantasising of Neteyam’s return to the clan. Yet here she was, holed up in her little grotto like a coward. She had fled the tsahìk’s hut the moment Leylani had arrived to relieve her of her duties. The other woman had attempted to strike up excited conversation about the Sullys’ return, but Naia’s nerves had gotten the better of her and she had waved Leylani away as politely as possible with a fib about being fatigued.

The flame in her lantern flickered, signalling its imminent expiry and she sat upright to add more oil to it so it kept burning. This grotto had been their spot years ago.

After the dreaded return of the sky demons and the forced move to High Camp in the Hallelujah Mountains, she and Neteyam had found this isolated system of small caves not far from the stronghold during one of their evening explorations. Its nooks and crannies had served as convenient hidey-holes away from the worries of life. The grotto had been a quiet place for them to just be themselves with each other.

Naia looked around herself at the rugs that cushioned the ground and the soft bolster rolls she had stolen from her family’s tent to make the place more comfortable. The blanket around her knees was not even a blanket at all, but an old flying shawl that once belonged to Neteyam. With a growl of frustration, Naia pressed her fingers to her tired eyes and lay back again, peering up at the starry night through a fissure in the cave’s ceiling. She knew why she was nervous, knew where the feeling of dread that plagued her now was coming from.

The reality of Neteyam’s return had brought with it a confronting possibility, one that Naia had not thought of before as his return had never seemed likely. What if he did not feel the same way? What if he had not missed her at all?

What if she was the crazy one clinging sentimentally on to youthful feelings that for most people, would have probably faded away with time? Her heart squeezed at the thought. She had wished so long for this day and now that it was actually here, Naia ashamedly felt like she was safer in the illusory retreat of her dreams.

Naia had never planned to feel this way. Her feelings had crept up on her younger self and before she knew it, she had fallen in love. She remembered the day she had realised…

*** FLASHBACK - 8 YEARS AGO ***

Naia hovered by the entrance of the Sullys’ family tent, wringing her hands absently. She tried her best to tamp down the roil of nauseous worry in her gut. It was a happy day after all. Neteyam had passed his final rite of passage; his Dream Hunt.

Only the males in the clan completed this last rite and it was a dangerous feat. There were Na’vi who died during this rite, where they were put into a chemically induced trance by swallowing a psychoactive alkaloid worm and stung by a toxic arachnoid. The men would then begin their spiritual hunt for their path in life until the trance wore off.

Neteyam had passed, but the exercise took people to the edge of death and Naia knew that the ordeal had been taxing on her friend.

The heavy cloth flaps of the tent parted then and Neytiri exited. She stopped at the sight of Naia, registering the look of deep concern on the girl’s face. Neytiri cast a reassuring smile at Naia, knowing the girl would be worried for her son, “Hello Manaia. He’ll be alright. He’s asleep but you can go in and see him if you like.”

“Thank you, I’d like that.” Naia responded graciously, and she disappeared without any further preamble into the tent.

Neytiri bit back a chuckle. For a tomboy who proclaimed often that she found the opposite sex unappealing, she was certainly very attached to Neteyam. Naia certainly did not think Neteyam was gross.

Inside the quiet embrace of the Sullys’ home, Naia padded carefully over to where Neteyam lay on his back on his sleeping mat. Folding her legs beneath her, she sat by his side and surveyed him. His breaths puffed slowly and evenly from slightly parted lips as he slept and apart from a slight sheen of sweat on his skin, he appeared otherwise healthy. Naia felt her worry dissipate at the sight.

Neteyam was her best friend. She did not know what she would do without him.

Naia knew she was not like the other girls who gushed over new jewellery and spent hours re-braiding their long locks into intricate styles. Naia considered herself groomed as long as she ran her fingers through her short hair in the mornings and put on clean clothing. She was not demure by any means and her smart mouth often took people by surprise. Her peers found her odd and she was often excluded from company as a result. But Neteyam had always accepted her as she was.

There was a large bowl filled with water by Neteyam’s head and a clean pile of folded cloth squares sat beside it. Taking a square of cloth, Naia submerged it into the cold water and wrung it dry. She folded it in half and lay it across his forehead and repeating the same process, she lay another wet cloth over his chest. The warm season was humid and the cloths would help to keep him cool.

He looked so peaceful as he slept and Naia let her eyes follow the unique patterns of bioluminescent freckles that dotted his cheeks and trailed up the bridge of his nose to disappear under the cloth over his forehead. Dreamily, her gaze fell to the curve of his lips then. What would they feel like under her fingertips?... What would they feel like against her own?...

The last thought startled Naia out of her reverie. Embarrassment heated the pointed tips of her ears. Had she really just been thinking about kissing Neteyam? One half of her was aghast at the thought, while the other half wistfully pointed out that he was a nice boy and very nice to look at too. As she confronted her embarrassment, Naia let an involuntary groan of mock disgust escape her and it disrupted Neteyam’s restful state.

Neteyam’s face contorted and a pained groan left him. Cursing silently, Naia chastised herself for forgetting her surroundings and placed a hand on his chest to settle him with soft hushing. He squirmed even more then and his scrunched eyelids opened to reveal bleary gold orbs. Leaning over him so she could check his pupils like Mo’at had taught her, Neteyam jumped then at the sight of her.

“Hey, it’s OK, it’s just me.” Naia breathed steadily, removing the wet cloth from his forehead to soak it again in the cold water.

Neteyam grunted and a wan smile lifted the corners of his lips, “Sorry, I thought you were Leylani for a moment.”

Naia’s brows lifted in question and irritation flashed through her, “Why’d you think that?”

A sleepy mumble, “Dunno. She’s on duty today isn’t she? I thought maybe Grandmother had sent her over to check on me.”

“Well, I’m sorry I’m not Leylani and that you didn’t wake to her beautiful face instead.” Naia said, attempting to sound calm, though she knew she had failed miserably when her words sounded like a sour hiss even to her own ears.

Neteyam snorted and coughed as his laughter escaped him, “No, I just meant that I wouldn’t want her to see me like this.”

His words did nothing to assuage Naia’s flaring annoyance.

“Ugh, you boys are all the same, honestly! Drooling after her big eyes and her pouty lips-”

“Naia-”

“She could easily lead all of you round by your cocks-”

“Manaia-” A slow and deliberate growl from Neteyam.

“What?!” Naia spat heatedly, further displeased by Neteyam’s use of her full given name and his interruptions. She much preferred it when he called her ‘Naia’. Only he called her that.

Neteyam pursed his lips impatiently at her and sighed, “Don’t misunderstand me. I only meant that I wouldn’t be completely comfortable with Leylani checking on me. I’m glad it’s you. I don’t feel like I have to put up any fronts with you.”

Naia felt her irritation fizzle out at his sincere words. She gave a half-hearted harrumph in response and placed the cool cloth over his forehead again.

“Thanks Naia,” Neteyam muttered, before a teasing glint sparked in his eyes and he asked, “Did you worry for me?”

“Yes, of course.”

Neteyam snickered and he reached out with a hand to curl it over hers, causing a flurry of tingles to erupt in Naia’s stomach, “I told you I’d be OK. I’m a mighty warrior.”

Naia giggled in response to his quip. And there it was again, that warm and prickling urge to touch him. She wanted to nuzzle his cheek and kiss him.

Eywa help her, she was falling for him. Hard.

*** FLASHBACK END ***

They had grown particularly close in the last year before his family’s forced departure, and their relationship had teetered on the delicate line between friendly and romantic affection.

The passing of Neteyam’s final rite had meant that he was busy during the days with the rostered patrols and hunts that formed a warrior’s duties to the clan. Their separation during the days had only served to bring them closer in the evenings once Jake and Neytiri were done with their own work and Neteyam was relieved of watching his siblings.

Naia rolled over onto her side, tucking her face against one of the bolster rolls as she recollected their evenings together, a pensive smile dancing on her lips. They would meet at the grotto after last meal and Neteyam would regale her with tales of what had happened during his day’s patrol or the day’s hunt. They would play a game of Five Stones and talk of menial things, and when the season got cold, they would lie alongside each other under the blankets by a small fire and watch the stars until they fell asleep.

There had been a secure comfort between them when they were curled around each other for warmth; their skin pressed against each other’s as she lay tucked against him with her cheek against his shoulder. However, that was as far as their affection had gone.

In hindsight, Naia realised that she and Neteyam had basked in the luxury of the time they thought they had, unhurried and shy in their blooming bond. They had been young after all, fifteen-year-olds new to the idea of potential romantic connections. At least, Naia had assumed Neteyam felt the same way. She had never spoken of her growing feelings for him, nor had he given any verbal indication of his own, but she felt the tenderness between them had been evident in the way they were around each other.

When Naia had eventually made her feelings known to him, it had been out of sheer desperation as her world had crumbled around her; when they had run out of time.

*** FLASHBACK – 7 YEARS AGO ***

Tomorrow? They were leaving tomorrow? Naia stood stunned before Neteyam as her chest heaved with mounting panic at the revelation. Jake and Neytiri had broken the news to the Omatikaya earlier that day that the family would be leaving the clan to seek refuge elsewhere from the sky demons. It was both to protect their family as well as to protect the people.

Neteyam had managed to sneak away amidst the anxious bustle of his family while they packed their belongings and readied their ikran for the gruelling journey the morning would bring. He had known she would be waiting at their spot.

“How long will you be gone for? When will you return?” Naia asked tremulously, her golden eyes wide and frantic.

The burgeoning lump in his throat was beginning to hurt and Neteyam swallowed it down tightly, “I don’t know. Probably not for a long time, not until the danger of the sky people is gone.”

“I don’t want you to go.” Naia’s voice was a keening moan as her throat constricted from her imminent tears.

“I don’t want to go either, but it’s not safe for the people if we stay. The demons are hunting my family!”

“I want to go with you!”

“No, you can’t! You must stay here. Your family is here!”

Naia’s expression twisted into a pained grimace and her vision blurred, her eyes pooling with barely contained tears. Her breaths hitched as her frame fought to suppress the sobs that threatened to tear their way from her soul. Neteyam was her truest friend. She turned to him for everything and losing him would leave a gaping hole in her heart.

“Don’t cry, Naia. Please don’t cry.” Neteyam’s voice wobbled unsteadily, his own emotion threatening to overwhelm him. Naia never cried and the pitiful sight of her now caused a painful stab in his chest.

Neteyam’s words broke her and the floodgates of Naia’s tears burst forth. Her hands moved to shield her face as she sobbed and she felt Neteyam’s arms encircle her in a tight hug. One of his hands cupped the back of her head, pressing her face into his shoulder, while his other hand rubbed slowly up and down her back.

A voice he recognised to be his father’s called his name in the distance and Neteyam muttered a strong curse. Burying his nose into the Naia’s short choppy locks, he sighed softly, “I have to go now. I’ll miss you.”

Naia clung on even tighter to his shoulders at Neteyam’s words of farewell. She could not deny the truth of her feelings anymore and it hurt to hold them in. She was in love with him and she had been for many moons now. She felt his hands come to rest at her hips, gently trying to pry her away.

By Eywa, she loved him. However, her words would not come to her amid her hitching breaths. No matter. She could show him all the same. Naia’s grief made her bold and, stepping back, she cupped her face with both hands and leaned in to press a salty, tear-stained kiss to his lips. She felt him stiffen in her hold and his breathing halted. His lips remained unmoving beneath hers and Naia pulled away at the realisation.

Neteyam’s face was stricken as she blinked perplexed eyes at him. Hurt speared through her chest and Naia wondered if she had made a gross miscalculation. He had not returned her kiss.

Jake’s voice sounded again, this time in the much nearer vicinity, and Neteyam began his slow retreat as he made to leave. He cast a pained grimace at Naia and his head shook sorrowfully, “I’ve got to go, I’m sorry. Goodbye Naia, take care of yourself.”

Naia’s gaze never left Neteyam’s back as she watched him stride away and she felt her wounded heart plummet like a stone into her stomach.

Goodbye my love…

*** FLASHBACK END ***

Cussing quietly to herself at the memory, Naia cringed. Perhaps he had not felt the same way after all. The recollection of her unreturned kiss twinged in her chest and she quickly pulled the shutters down over her heart. It had been seven long years and she was grown now. Time to let her daydreams and childish fantasies go. She would need to pay her respects tomorrow; it would be improper not to greet Toruk Makto’s family and welcome them home. She would bury her feelings and treat it as a fresh start.

Letting her heavy eyelids droop, she tucked her knees closer to her chest and curled into a more comfortable resting position. Naia pulled the flying shawl up around her shoulders and turned to press her face into the soft bolster roll next to her. She resolved to sleep in the grotto tonight. Her parents knew she was very independent and if her occasional overnight disappearances bothered them, they had never remarked on it.

Sleep was almost fully upon her when a deep voice startled her out of her drowsy state, “Naia?”

Fright rushed through Naia in a powerful torrent and she leapt up in an instant to face the intruder, instinctively crouching low into a defensive position with a snarl, her tail lashing behind her. No one had ever found her here and the disturbance was a shock to her system.

The male at the grotto’s entrance immediately took several steps back, holding open hands out before him in a non-threatening display of submission, “Whoa sorry! Hey, it’s alright! It’s just me.”

Naia took in the sight of the large male in the burnished gold of the lamplight. Strong legs and narrow hips flared out to a lean torso. His chest and shoulders were well-muscled and woven armbands sat snugly around impressive biceps. The musculature of his stature was unfamiliar to her, but as her scrutiny stopped to rest on his face, she found his visage to be a very familiar one indeed.

Neteyam.

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Author’s Note: Can you feel the romantic tension in the air? :P Teehee! We will see their full interaction in Chapter 2! Thanks for reading and leave me a line with your thoughts!

Chapter 2 - A Kiss Long Awaited

[wutheringskies]

Re-reading MDZS: CH 11 - 16

I'm rereading MDZS with my friend @zenenini out loud (with voice acting, it's so fun!) and here are some of our observations:

1. Wei Wuxian is such a gaslighting girlboss. The narrative is written interestingly, where firstly, we see the actions and the dialogues and only afterwards are we exposed to Wei Wuxian's thoughts - such as him sneaking out from behind "Lan Wangji's area of protection" to get whipped by Jiang Cheng in a way that he'll only crash into Lil Apple and prove that he's not possessed this body.

2. Lan Wangji's Wangji is stronger than Jiang Cheng's Zidian. The line went like, "the former waned, the latter waxed." And Wangji produces ripples of energy like a wave, and brightens up the night sky to look like it's daytime.

3. Even if Wei Wuxian is the ultimate evil overlord patriarch, the public cannot deny his talents, his looks and his charming personality. I found it extremely funny that they didn't comment on the increduility of the charming, 4th ranked Yiling Laozu possessing the body of a cutsleeve because Jiang Cheng, who was ranked 5th, was there and they didn't want to anger him by complimenting wei wuxian.

4. Sizhui is such a wangxian child - like he's got the manners of Lan Wangji and the wits of Wei Wuxian. Sizhui is a REAL mediator, not Lan Xichen.

5. Lan Wangji probably thought Wei Wuxian played Wangxian or came under his "protection" willingly because he'd have remembered the past.

6. Wei Wuxian calculated everything perfectly down to the last detail of how to get away from Jiang Cheng etc, but did NOT expect Lan Wangji's personality change and has stated twice he believes him to be possessed instead.

7. On the matter of Jiang Cheng, like I said - Wei Wuxian previously never compared Jiang Cheng to anybody, even encouraging his natural talents. He knew Jiang Cheng hated comparison the most, yet throughout the narrative in present time, he compares Jiang Cheng with Lan Wangji relentlessly.

8. Wei Wuxian has not experienced a single positive emotion upon seeing Jiang Cheng well, etc, only disbelief that his hatred was still strong. Jiang Cheng has only felt disgust towards Mo Xuanyu being gay, and anger, hatred and a desire to torture Wei Wuxian.

9. Wei Wuxian is such a Lan, like I'm always shocked by just how much Lan stuff he explains - the origins behind the name Cloud Recesses, the discipline wall, the manner of the disciples, etc.

10. Lan Wangji: Let him cry. When he is done, drag him inside. (fuck)

Lan Xichen: you should treat your guests with more courtesy

Lan Wangji: anyway you are going to meet Jin Guangyao again lol bye

Lan Wangji: drag him inside

Wei Wuxian: ???

11. The fact Lan Wangji can read behind Wei Wuxian's intentions - he knows WiFi will annoy his brother, so he silenced him.

12. I also wonder just what was going inside Lan Xichen's head. How are you so aloof bro, let me know what are your thoughts? Btw, loved how we got told about the Jin Discussion Conference rn.

13. There was a paragraph comparing the statuses of illegitimate sons of Jin Guangsham, I found that interesting.

14. Wei Wuxian thinks both Lan Wangji and Jiang Cheng are against him, yet it's better to be locked up than be whipped!

15. Wei Wuxian ALWAYS notes the scent of sandalwood when Lan Wangji is involved and what does he say again, the smell "had a way of tugging at one's heartstrings???" like bro... it's just you. But what's insane is that, he's moving towards the incense (probably in an attempt to smell like Lan Wangji!) What Zene and I said about this was "bro, you're probably are just a zither under Lan Wangji's hands cause why does everything tug at you"

16. Reading Wei Wuxian's narrative is like: although it wasn't sentimental: IT WAS SENTIMENTAL. HE MISSED IT.

17. Wei Wuxian thinking of how Lan Wangji probably practices his zither in this room, etc, and then randomly throwing in the knowledge that btw, he used to dig graves, find holes etc is so him.

18. Wei Wuxian had the greatest idea of stealing a jade token, and he was even aware of how the security would be like - like, this guy, apparently has the worst memory ever. and he remembered where the cold springs were exactly. WHY? Because of that ONE moment. 19. Wei Wuxian already recognized Lan Wangji from behind - he commented that the person was a bathing beauty.

20. The fact Wei Wuxian was looking at Lan Wangji in a 'im attracted' sort of way, but rationalised it by saying that he was only looking at the scars, or the seal, and that of course, he can't be actually attracted to a man! Like, ugh, bro. You have a storm coming. 21. Lan Wangji: are you sure that this is what you want? WWX: blushing like a slut LWJ: then stay like this for the whole night Me: SKDJKSJDKSJDKSJDKSJDKSDJKSDJKSDJSKDJKJ 22. The fact that Wei Wuxian couldn't sleep, and THAT is why he went to Lan Wangji's room, and then rationalized it by saying that he was gonna get the jade token - and then he threw himself onto Lan Wangji. Also, the fact that he's so chill about escaping, like i bet he's thinking, let's just have as much fun as we can, i'll leave anyway ~~ 23. Lil Apple is Wei Wuxian's comfort person, therapist, mother, and best friend. 24. Wei Wuxian sad thoughts about how Lan Wangji probably thought about him like everyone else did - a tyrant, etc. And him mocking the Lan Sect's 'righteousness.' 25. Wei Wuxian had thoughts about the sear. LIKE DON"T BE A COWARD SPEAK THEM OUT. Also, Wei Wuxian had thoughts about Lan Wangji dressed down, in simple, night robes. >< 26. Wei Wuxian trying to think over their relationship and describing it as moments that got lost in the bigger span of time. 27. 15 year old Wei Wuxian was IT. like, idk, he was just IT. Also, Jiang Cheng just exists to mock, berate, warn, make fun of, etc. And Nie Huaisang was already so keen, like he noticed that LQR was targeting WWX more than the others, and didn't dismiss his ideas. 28. LQR: as a disciple of the YMJ sect, you shouldn't be too proud at knowing these things Also LQR: look at my self taught, prodigy born, second heir, best disciple Lan Wangji, who knows everything! And of course, as the second heir, he is expected but that's not the point. The point is HE IS BETTER THAN YOU AND YOU ARE A MENACE TO SOCIETY. WWX: ah, yeah, fuck this imma out 29. LQR forewarned us about WWX's future TT 30. LWJ didn't express as much outrage over Wei Wuxian's demonic theories as LQR did, but he was intrigued. 31. Dude, Zene and I were thinking of just how many regrets LWJ fostered for 13 years. WWX: Lan-er-gongzi, do me a favour and look at me! WWX: Won't you look at me? WWX: Lan Zhan, look at me! WWX: Do you... hate me that much? WWX: I really wanted to apologize! 32. VERY IMPORTANT DETAIL: In a way, both Lan Wangji and Jiang Cheng got punished with the discipline whip for saving Wei Wuxian, and the discipline scar remains as a reminder to 'never make the same mistake again.' But Lan Wangji makes this 'mistake' every day. Jiang Cheng, on the other hand, despite getting his whip mark from the 'unrighteous people' never protected Wei Wuxian again. 33. The detail that people in the Jiang Sect have so much servitude towards Jiang Cheng, and are so in-tune with the regular ploy of 'catch the demonic cultivator to torture him.' 34. Wei Wuxian fucking gaslighted the HECK out of Lan Wangji! He's so dauntless, like, nothing scares him bro, i understand why people wanted to off him. LIKE HE's SO ON THE PAGE. 35. Wei Wuxian: Lan Wangji is very pretty. VeRY PRETTY. Wei Wuxian: who cares if he hates me, does he think he is that pretty?

Also WWX: YEAH FUCK HE IS THAT PRETTY 36. Wei Wuxian: why should i learn the lan clan rules? i don't intend to marry in the lan clan! (also wwx, using about 3-4 lan rules at lwj to rile him up) 37. Lan Wangji: You, go outside, we have fought before. (clown music) Wei Wuxian: Against the rules HAHAHAHAHAHA LWJ: WHAT SORT OF PERSON ARE YOU? WWX: A MAN. 38. WWX tried to befriend LWJ for a month or so, he failed, and he decided to make him experience his firsts - the first time he shouted and cursed was at WWX LOLOL. 39. NHS being like don't worry bro keep up the free entertainment and you can get as many porn books as you like!

[vibratingskull]

I love the way you write Thrawn sooo much! You’re so talented!! I would really love if you did a continuation of the story with the shy, stuttering reader, perhaps with some crushes and romance, if you’re so inclined? That story made me so soft!

Thank you so much, dear ❤���

Part 1

Thrawnxgn!reader

You’re deeply focused on your drawing, moving your stylus on the screen, retouching the defender AGAIN. You bite down your cheek, thinking back at Pryce's reaction, she’s truly mean and rotten to the core, you don’t like her.

Well, to be fair you don’t like politicians in general, but her? It’s a completely new level.

Thanks to Thrawn you avoided complete humiliation but you feel like she will hold the grudge and unleash it on you when she gets the opportunity. You will need to watch behind your back now. 

You’re internally fuming.

You sigh, turning your head to turn a button of your tablet and jump out of your skin.

Grand Admiral Thrawn is right behind your back, leaning over your shoulder to watch you work.

“Maker, Gr-Grand Admiral!” You shout, putting your hand over your beating heart. “You’re gonna kill so-someone one day!”

“Do not mind me, continue to work. It is a very interesting process.” He tilts his head, vaguely amused by your reaction.

“In fact I-I just finished.” You grumble, trying to calm down your heart. You hand him your tablet to get his opinion “I modified… The heart and mo-motor to lighten it. It-It would solve the pr-problem of admiral Kon-Konstantine.”

He slowly nods, unfolding the different layers of the prototype plans. 

“How are you feeling?” He finally asks, raising his burning red eyes from the screen to meet yours.

“I-I think it’s a good so-solution. Th-their gr-gra…” You gulp, squirming on your seat under his intense gaze and focus on your next sentence “Their gravitational centers should be more ba… balanced now.” 

Maker damnit, almost!

You internally curse yourself, you’re in your own lab, on your own territory, stop acting so cowardly and control your voice! You’re a chief technician of the Empire! Act like one!

He slowly shakes his head and looks around your empty lab, before going back to you.

“I was talking about what happened earlier, cha’cah.” He speaks softly. “You gained back the upper hand, but I saw you were hurt by Pryce’s words. Do you wish to speak about it?”

Oh… Oh.

“It’s no-nothing. I’m used to i-it.” you lie. “I-it’s like a mon-monday for me.” you try humor.

Judging by his unimpressed look he sees right through your lie and doesn’t find your pique at yourself funny.

“I am serious, cha’cah.”

You lower your head, fidgeting your fingers. What can you say? You’ve lived through mockery all your life and you buried yourself in works to forget. You chose a field where you didn’t need to speak with people, until you became chief technician.

He takes one of your hands and kneels before you, looking up at your lowered gaze, squeezing it gently.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?”

You nod,avoiding his gaze, preferring to remain mute rather than having your voice crash with emotion in front of him again. Maybe a bad habit…

“I want you to know it. Whatever it is, you can tell me. I can bear the weight.” His hand comes to your chin, forcing you to look at him. “Alright, cha’cah?”

You gulp.

“Al-alright.”

He nods, satisfied.

“I know you are upset. Can I do something for you?” He asks gently, rising back on his feet.

“D-don’t you have du-duties to attend to?”

“It can wait until I have comforted you.” He casually responds, like it was normal to throw away his Grand Admiral’s duties for something so trivial as your sentiments.

But you take comfort knowing you precede his duties.

“Ca-can I have a hug?”

He chuckles, circling you with his strong arms, pressing you against his heart.

“Of course, cha’cah. You can have one anytime.” He kisses the top of your head, caressing your back.

You snuggle against him, holding him tight, listening to his steady heartbeat, your ire subsiding in the moment’s softness.

@Bluechiss @thrawnalani @justanothersadperson93 @al-astakbar

Tag list

[jisokai]

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

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

part 3: that we’ll string together.

sero hanta x reader ch 3/6 | 14.7k words | masterlist | ao3 cw: more mentions of a deceased family member and grief (that is poorly repressed) notes: songs are memories by maroon 5, counting stars by one republic, yellow by coldplay

the five times sero reaches for you.

✰.

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

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

Leaving spaces open for her to respond."

-The Night Circus, by Erin Morgenstern

Davide appears in your studio unannounced.

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

“Only a little,” you promise.

He gasps. “You won’t even deny it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Which was going to be when, exactly?”

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

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes. “Dramatic.”

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

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

“My abuela,” you manage softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won’t hate the circus,” you argue.

“Uh oh—”

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

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

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

“Ooh, another point for the circus.”

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

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

Fantasy.

“Babe?”

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

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

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

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

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

He scoffs. “Already finding my replacement?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantasía.

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

“No one,” you grumble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door slams open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s different this time.

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

And they’re filled with bottles. 

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

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

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

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

You are hit with an overwhelming scent of salt.

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

When you look up, you are there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first clear memory you see is Sero’s.

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

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

“Abuelita!” you hear yourself shout.

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

This is a circus of cruelty, you decide.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have no strength. You open it.

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

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

Sit still, you toucan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want to ask if it’s all for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not sure,” you say honestly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like a dog, you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hanta.

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

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

God, this man needs a break from you.

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

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

You nod dumbly, swallowing as warmth bloom in your cheeks. Kaminari hands Sero his order, slender fingers removing the lid of the dark drink before holding it to his nose for an inhale. You look away, hand slipping into your pocket to clutch the green marble between the fabric. Last night you took that bottle with you, the one with abuela tucked away inside, but when you left the tent it became nothing but a small glass sphere. You want to yank it aggressively from your pocket and put it on display, demanding answers for what you saw… and why you can’t have it again. Your stomach tightens.

Others filter over, thanking Kaminari for the drinks and rummaging through the box of snacks. You relax at the sight of Momo, talking animatedly about the show tonight. Shouto and Touya make an appearance shortly, acts finished. Sero is quiet, you notice, more subdued than the previous days. You can overhear his conversation with Kaminari, but it’s incomprehensible, rapid Japanese, as you try to maintain yours with Momo.

Your eyes lock once, but he looks away first. Your stomach clenches again.

You wait with Momo before her act, near the opening towards the stage. She stands confidently, eager to make her way to her performance.

“I’m amazed by how not-nervous you are,” you tell her.

She smiles softly. “I’m certainly nervous, but more excited than anything. When I first started performing, as a teenager, I could hardly find the courage to stand on stage.”

You stroke your thumb over the marble in your pocket, the memory of your own first performance—your discomfort and your nerves and the disaster that followed. Your face twists with uncertainty.

“Break a leg?” you offer, then regret. Is that a phrase used in the circus? Are you cursing her?

“Thanks,” she answers with a smile.

She eventually parts the curtain to take her place on the darkened stage, leaving you at the edge between the inner and the outer—the carefully crafted world of performance, and the mess of construction behind it. You squeeze the marble in your pocket, taking it out to confirm its existence. In the dim light you can hardly tell it’s green, but there are shiny speckles scattered within, reflecting silvery light sweeping over. They’re layered throughout the clump of glass, everywhere and endless.

You exhale and turn to walk back to the main room. You jump in surprise when you see Sero, shadowed in the corner by the entrance. He bristles when you jolt, marble falling from your hand with a clack and rolling towards him. You feel your stomach drop, filling with dread—the fear of losing something.

“Sorry!” he says, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He crouches to pick it up before you can tell him not to bother. His hand pauses briefly before carefully grasping the small object. Your heart buzzes as it rolls to the center of his palm, his fingers folding to gently squeeze it. When he stands, his arm stretches to return it, and you have the urge to shiver when his fingers brush yours. They're warm. Hot, even. When he pulls away, the marble is safe in the center of your cupped palm.

The expression he wears is complicated, but you think he mostly looks confused. “A keepsake?”

You aren’t sure if he means for the circus or something else. You want to ask him if he recognizes it, what it means. How it can hold something so important and so vivid. All you can manage is, “I found it yesterday. In the festival.”

He looks surprised, shooting a sliver of disappointment through your chest. You want to frown at the feeling, your hope fluttering away. You hoped he knew what it was. A part of you hoped that he was the one orchestrating the tent to begin with, that he was letting you in himself.

“It’s pretty,” he says.

You nod. When you tuck the marble safe into your pocket again, you relax.

Sero looks calmer too, shoulders a little lower and face softened. You’re distracting him, you think, from his anxiety for his performance. You smile, an attempt to reassure him. His lips part slightly, eyes gently widening before they crinkle at the edges, teeth displaying in a crooked grin. The warmth that floods through you is palpable, embarrassing, such an intense feeling for someone you don't know. But you grin back excitedly, that bubbling of child-like giddiness strong in your chest.

The tent tonight is empty, void of tables and shelves and little objects to touch or open. Instead it is endless, one never-ending tunnel, stretching impossibly far. The light above is still dim, soft and warm as it casts against the fabric edges, illuminating just strong enough to reveal the floor. A vibrant mosaic swirls below, clusters of colored glass slotting neatly together, white plaster spacing them apart while also holding them together in place. The shards by your feet are a rhythmic pattern of white and yellow and red, the beautiful warmth of a corn snake. It looks alive from a distance, a breathing monster when the light flickers across the tiny tiles. You take a step, and the refraction offers the illusion that it is slithering away.

One more step lands you on the tail, and immediately you are surrounded by bright purple. Tall lengths of purple, like giant knives that bend and sway, streaks of pale gold and neon green running through them. You feel yourself tread forwards, the vibrations of your movement reverberating through your belly, rubbing against the ground beneath you. Your head darts to the side, tongue flickering to smell the air. It only takes you another moment to realize you are the snake, slithering through a sea of grass, grass that is warped by an infrared vision. Maybe stalking, waiting, enjoying the dapples of light that peek through the canopy above you, warming the smooth scales that line down your body.

The change in perspective is alarming, unsettling. But it’s exciting, watching the world through unreliable eyes, instead letting a new sense guide you. There’s damp, cool air resting on your tongue, refreshingly crisp. Your body curls freely, waving through divots in the ground, brushing against a rough stone along your path. 

You fade in and out of animal metamorphosis, reappearing as a human in the tent at the head of the snake, now walking forwards towards the extended paw of a gray wolf, glimmering reflective triangles scrunched into clusters of fluff. When your shoe makes contact with the edge, green and yellow floods your vision and the scent of pine takes over. You walk along soft needles that carpet the ground.

Next you’re a fish darting through warm water, gills breathing deeply as you slot yourself between corals. Then a polar bear, giant paws carrying along endless sheets of ice and leaving indents in the soft layer of powder on top. A dragonfly, world separated in two warped globes as you clumsily land on a bundle of brush leaning into a river’s edge. As an octopus you roll your tentacled body along the ocean floor, curling and grasping a closed mussel in your row of suckers. Your body is heavy and slow as a tortoise, but completely content with itself dragging against dry dirt. And then you’re a howling monkey, grasping swaying branches to swing through a jungle canopy. The air rushes against your face. You feel free.

This trail of other lives, the opportunity to live as another, is almost a gentler, more lighthearted version of what the tent offered you last night. You walk along the path greedily, giddy as you inhabit other species, get to be small or big or something you never imagined.

(Maybe you are all the same—creatures living for their very first time, as earnestly as you can while you try your hardest to survive, or even to live. To make do with the vessels you inhabit and to explore every crevice of what you’ve been offered. Whether it’s the sky or the sea or the dirt, there is a place for you to be.

There are so many places to be, so many purposes to fulfill. How does one choose?)

The next mosaic is a vibrant green bird, the long length of the guacamaya verde: the green macaw, your military macaw. You pause, brain stuttering at the sight. Are these tents really… for you? But why? Who has any reason to go through this effort, to share such… secrets.

Secrets, because that’s what they are. Impossible moments and experiences, precious memories that you can’t even match to their owners.

You step forward, body falling through the sky as you fly in the body of a green macaw. That overwhelming feeling of freedom rushes through you again, chest light against the wind and face soaking in the breeze. The world is expansive and sharp and saturated. You can see the canopy below you, giant fanning leaves and clusters of tall, tall grasses. There are blooms of orange, the flaming flowers of the Llama del Bosque—The Flame of the Forest.

The sky is vast and blue and yours. Endless freedom, endless choice. Nothing holding you down, nothing clipping at your wings to prevent your journey forwards. The joy is uncontainable, bubbling from your throat in the form of excited chirping. You laugh at the sound, manifesting as a squawk that pulls more laughs from your chest.

There’s a response, another call in the distance. Your head twists, neck craning towards the sound. The small ruffles of feathers across your neck brush the skin beneath, making you twitch and shiver, body faltering in the air as your wings tilt. You dip slightly, arcing through the atmosphere as you search for the origins of the sound.

Another green macaw swoops to your side from above, chirping. It's an emerald against the sapphire of the sky, shimmering. Large wings flap beside you, nearly brushing your own. Your heart swells, never having been this close and intimate with a bird before. As a human you are a distant admirer, watching content from the ground as they whoosh above you. But now you’re here next to one, as one, comrades gliding through the sky, chartreuse swathes of paint in a canvas of cerulean blue.

You coast together, soaring through air and wind. Your new friend tilts forward, dipping to swoop to the ground before soaring far beneath you. Your heart rises to your throat with nerves, but you take the plunge and dive down to meet it.

Cold air rushes past you as you find yourself running through the stalls. You yelp in surprise, and the lack of warning before you were removed from the sky. Now you stumble on two legs, trying to slow yourself while simultaneously reacclimating to being on land, body falling forwards as you barely catch yourself.

You’re finally stable, chest heaving as you stand by a market tent, the clink of change and mumbling of exchanges bringing you back to earth. Your body is on fire, tingling with life and anticipation. You turn your head quickly, confused how you arrived here, back through the front of the tent and into the row of artists. Nobody looks surprised by your appearance, not blinking an eye as they pass, caught in their own worlds.

You turn helplessly, body buzzing with disbelief. There’s a giddiness in your chest—the belief in something impossible. Otherworldly.

The red-draped tent stands quietly, unassuming, soft folds spilling onto the plaza floor. You walk towards it slowly, curiously. When you pull the curtain back and step inside again, it’s the small, empty, ordinary space of a covered market tent. A part of your heart clenches in disappointment, wanting to relive that special feeling or freedom and flight over and over again. Then it stutters, painful with an emotion that touches on pride, maybe spiteful glee at the implication that the tent was for you. That it emptied itself after it carried you on your intended journey.

You step back into the markets with a skip, giddiness uncontained. You’re a child again, impatient to move, to do something. The stalls blur as you flit through them, weaving along the people and rows with a thrill.

You see Momo.

The world of glee you’re lost in comes to an end momentarily. You falter, conflicted as you watch her bend to a knee next to a young boy—a fan bouncing with excitement for a photo. You haven’t stayed long enough to see any of the cast the past two nights, running away too soon or too quickly. But here’s an opportunity right before you, a potential answer.

She approaches you first.

“Are you enjoying your evening?” she asks. 

“Of course,” you reply honestly. More words bubble at the entrance of your mouth—vulnerable questions, skeptical demands—but they don’t manage to escape.

“It’s a beautiful night.”

You hum in agreement, and leave it at that.

When the next day comes, you tell yourself you need to stop, that this itch you have to run back, the anticipation you can’t shake off, is a fog over your mind, not allowing you to think clearly. Deluded thoughts of running away start to seep into your brain. You try to remind yourself that it’s not a delusion; they want you, Kendo’s offer being proof. Then you think you’re delusional for believing it.

You wonder if you should take a break, stay away for one night to let your mind reset and have a sense of tranquility. Not this habit of chasing cravings—dreams and fantasies of running away with them, never looking back. How can you do that with a box of ashes in your living room, an anchor chaining you down. You repeat this to yourself, a mantra as you push fabric under the needle, glide scissors through careful outlines of a pattern to stitch together.

But when the evening comes, you can’t stay away.

This time when you pull the flap open and step inside, you nearly trip into a vast pool of still water. You land on a gondola, rocking harshly from your clumsy footing. You manage to grasp the edge of the wooden boat, holding your body rigid as it eventually comes to a still.

Before you is a pond, or maybe an ocean, a clear blue body of water reflecting the brightness of the sky. There’s a faint blush of orange seeping from the horizon, sun hovering a few degrees above the surface. It must be a lake, with the giant, twisting mandarin tree that stands before you. The trunk is thick and sturdy, giant bundles of leaves bursting from the top and sprinkled with clusters of oranges. You’ve never met a tree this massive, at least ten times the size of its standard.

At the base of the trunk, where bark meets water, the surrounding surface is filled with fallen leaves and oranges. They float calmly, mirroring the canopy above. A wind rustles your boat and the branches, leaves chattering—whispering to each other. Two oranges break from their stems, plummeting below. They sink at first, spurting water from their point of impact. A wave rolls through, gentle ripples disturbing the silent blanket of green and orange.

You breathe, citrus and clarity entering your lungs, your mind. Everything is quiet. Still. 

Your eyes sweep the gondola, its dark and empty body. Feet move carefully along the bottom, the vessel rocking with each step. You grasp the handle of the oar once it's in reach, tucked in the elbow of the fórcola, and lift to place the long rod into the divot at the top. You pull experimentally, the bow slicing through blue ripples; you and the boat trudge forward as one—awkwardly curving to the left.

Your movements are unpracticed, never having been the one to pilot a gondola before, only ever the passenger. The boat rocks choppily with your command, switching directions constantly and moving with no predictable pattern. But it’s fun. You laugh when your steering propels you in the opposite direction you intended. The sound expands into the vast space beyond, carried by another breeze that flutters across your skin.

The tree is still out of reach, likely another ten minutes of amateur paddling. But you notice an orange floating in the water, only an arms length away. Quickly you tuck the oar securely before you carefully lean over the edge to grab the fruit.

The pads of your fingers brush the skin—smooth and wet. Slightly bumpy. And then it’s soft. Papery thin, folding under the pressure of your touch.

It opens into the bloom of a lotus flower.

You startle at the change, boat jerking at the force of your reaction. The water jostles, lotus wavering on the rough surface, but it looks calm, unworried. Content to ride out the wave. The air has a stronger tang of citrus, a cloud of orange spreading through the air.

Your miraculous touch persists as you slowly approach the tree, transforming the little fruits into opened flowers, crowns of orange with fiery red edges. They look like layers of sharp spoons, folds of colored paper, licks of flame reaching back for you. But they’re cool to the touch, soft, thin. 

As your boat cuts through clusters of oranges, parting them through the water like lanterns floating through the night, you reach for them, entranced at their unfolding. Flowering. The moment feels too beautiful, too peaceful for you to be a part of it. You don’t understand how your fingers, oftentimes nothing but hurried, rushed, clumsy appendages, could have such a magical effect. How they can transform. Create. 

Reveal. 

As the sun dips down, kissing the horizon, orange floods your vision. The sky becomes the petal of a lotus, red and orange and pink melding into one another, like blotches of ink seeping through cotton. The water is a liquid mirror, a chameleon to the sky, and the little lotus flowers nearly vanish, lost to the quilt of warmth they are sewn atop of.

You breathe deeply, calmly. Fresh, warm, citrus air fills you. You think if abuela were a color it would be orange. That fleshy inside of a limón mandarina: covered in green skin, a citrus that leans a little more sharp, a little more sour than the one you’re surrounded by now. This one is soft, sweet, with an orange skin that matches its inside, with leaves of a deeper green than you’re familiar with. But it’s equally warm, equally loving.

The peace in your heart is unfamiliar, one you haven't known for years. You bask in the balmy light of the falling sun, the hazy glow of a light burning out. You bask in the security of your feelings, your strength, your ability to remember, and to remember with ease.

When the sun finally dips, extinguishing its light into the water below, you are on firm ground. Unwavering ground. Steady ground. There are no lights above you or water beneath, just solid earth.

Your tranquility persists when you step out into the night air, body completely at ease. The world has a new sense of clarity, reality that you can experience freely. Free of shackles to your own mind and fears. Free of questions terrorizing your heart.

Free of embarrassment, when you bump into Sero near the musicians.

He looks surprised to see you, or maybe nervous. You aren’t entirely sure, only able to observe wide eyes, a slight pink across his cheeks, a smile that doesn’t quite split his face. But you take it in stride, lips curving softly as you greet him.

“Hi Sero,” you greet, then pause. “Hanta,” you correct yourself, his given name still unfamiliar to your tongue and mind.

“Hey,” he says. It’s breathy. Soft. You hear clearly over the ambiance of the music and the crowd, somehow.

You don’t respond, feeling no reason to, letting your eyes sweep through the plaza instead.

“Are you… enjoying yourself?”

You hum as you turn back to him. “Yeah,” you say. “Tonight’s been… really good.”

His face twitches, lips tugging higher up his cheeks before they’re smothered back down. His eyes relax. You think his shoulders drop slightly. 

A silence passes through you, a third presence to mediate your conversation. You accept it easily, let it hang in the space as you stand towards the edge of the scene. Moments go by. You let them.

“Care to dance?” Sero—Hanta asks abruptly.

You feel your cheeks tighten, lips stretching as you look down at yourself, your mismatch of patterned pants and too-big shirt. Chunky boots that would crush his toes. Then you turn to him, eyes crinkled with amused concern. You tap your horrible, chunky boot against the toe of his shoe.

“Only if you’re brave enough.”

Sero’s face breaks into a crooked grin. You watch his eyes unfocus, darkness smearing against his skin, hiding in the crease of his eyelids. His lashes are long, you realize, dark feathery strings that frame honest expressions. And his teeth are so bright, boasting a smile that shines.

No more words pass between you, silence still a third participant in your conversation. It’s only long glances, eyes flittering over features. An occasional yelp or grimace when you inevitably step on his toes.

But you’re at ease. At peace. Warm, with his hands on you.

The feeling does not persist to the morning.

In the rising sun you are a regretful creature, face flaming against your pillow—in attempt to suffocate yourself—as you recount the night before. The ability to let go, to exist in the moment and in complete peace, is a distant dream. Now you are embarrassed. Panicked.

When you rise and check your phone, there is a missed call from your sister. You drag your thumb across the screen to send the notification out of sight. Out of mind.

You arrive at Chiara’s early, letting yourself in to find her sitting in the living room. She grimaces as her eyes sweep over you.

You’re in your dress of stars. Bunches of sleek, dark fabric spill over your figure, elegantly taught against your waist and tightly wrapped around your torso. The shape is littered with glimmering flickers of silver, star-shaped stones and beads and gems sewn delicately into the skirt. A feathery length of ribbon is tied to each one, sheer silk that lifts as you walk, taken by the rush of your movement. The same misty fabric coats your arms in loose pleated waves.

You think you’d look captivating, ethereal even, if you didn’t pair it with a bright red beanie and thick, yellow-plaid coat. You smile, assuming they’re also the source of your friend’s disdain.

“I’m afraid to find out what shoes you’re wearing.”

You pinch the fabric around your thighs and lift, tendrils of frosted ribbons swaying as you reveal your most dirty, weathered, casual sneakers—once white but now grey, or maybe brown. Chiara scowls.

You linger quietly as she readies, heart nervous and distracted. It’s the final show, the last night of the festival. Likely the last night of secret, quiet little tents. Tents made just for you.

After she changes she shoves a jacket into your hands—a matching black with a sheen instead of rough felt and fleece. You pout, knowing you won’t be as warm, attempting to make a compromise that you’ll take it off when you’re inside, but she won’t have it. You manage to argue for your shoes, but she yanks the hat from your head as you exit her home, tossing it behind the door before locking it quickly. She ignores your protests and pushes you towards the elevators.

When you settle comfortably in your seats, jacket shrugged from your shoulders as you expected under the warmth of the canvas top, it nears half an hour to the start of the show. Chiara grumbles next to you at the punctuality.

“Scusami,” you apologize half-heartedly. “I’m excited.”

Her furrowed eyebrows and scrunched mouth soften, features smoothing as she rolls her eyes. You grin. She averts her eyes, glossy nails threading through the pages of the performance booklet.

“Sorry in advance for my lack of enthusiasm.”

“It’s fine,” you tell her. You know she doesn’t understand why you chase these shows. This one is even further from her range of interest, since the masks leave little to be studied from a cosmetic standpoint. “Thanks for coming anyway.”

She scoffs. “Of course.”

Seeing the show a second time in full and in the audience has a special quality. The first had the element of surprise, a suspense that gripped you tightly. This time you’re full of anticipation, and as Midoriya told you when you met—spending time backstage and seeing the hidden parts of the show help you appreciate it more, better understand the amount of work and skill that went into certain acts: to achieve ideal transitions, to tell the story.

Momo's act is executed perfectly for the last time—the last time here, in the city where you made her gown. The last time here, with you in the audience. The last time here, you floundering in uncertainty. You would tear up easily if it weren't for Chiara's nails digging into your arm.

Even after several days of seeing snippets of the show, of catching performers in costume and preparing backstage, you aren't prepared to watch Sero's performance. He's more captivating than the first time you watched him, stealing your focus and your breath as he moves. Would it be weird to ask for a recording? For some way to watch him in the future? Are you going to be cursed with mere flashes of his movements for the rest of your life, wishing you could see him again?

You try not to stare, in case your friend catches you. But you give up in an instant, accepting that you set yourself up for failure.

When the show runs its course and the audience makes to leave, Chiara’s grip on your hand is painful.

“What the hell was that!?” she exclaims over the rushing of the crowd.

“What? The last performance?” You can admit the giant, mechanical puppets were unexpected, but you think they worked well for the show and as promotional pieces.

“The whole fucking show! And shit Tucano—your dress!”

You laugh, nodding in agreement. 

“Do you know that guy, the white haired one doing the handstands?” Her eyes are wide, boring into yours with interrogation. “I think the booklet said his name is—Shigaraki?”

Your face twists in confusion. “We were introduced, but I haven’t spoken to him much.” He’s quiet and kept to himself, though you aren’t sure if that’s limited to his backstage personality.

You make a face when you realize what she’s thinking. Your eyes drop in disbelief, lips tightening in a line when she asks, “Introduce me?”

“You can introduce yourself,” you say. The row finally clears and you step from the line of seats to walk towards the stage. The guard is the same as the one from the first night; this time he doesn’t stop you from climbing up the steps and through the curtain.

The room is in a frenzy when you enter, many of the actors half undressed as they change into their festival costumes for the last time. Some scurry to begin the process of deconstructing the props. Large trays of catered food lay on folding tables near the center of the room, plates and bowls unfinished and scattered around the space.

Momo is by the entrance when you walk in, still in full costume, to give you a hug. The embrace is tender, soft and warm as you carefully bring your arms to her waist to return it.

“What an incredible first week!” she exclaims when you pull away. Her eyes shine with glee and pride. “Quite possibly the best we could have imagined.”

“You deserve it,” you tell her. “I’m so happy for everyone. And it was a dream… to be able to be part of this.”

The edges of Momo’s eyes deepen while her dark irises shine. She blinks rapidly before grasping your hand. “Don’t act like this is our goodbye. We still have Carnival.” The Ambrosia Carnival—happening for the next three days, where the crew and puppets will be paraded.

“Are you going to be free? To get dinner with Kendou and myself before you leave?” she asks.

You nod eagerly. Momo’s eyes sweep to Chiara, then back to you. The looks you exchange are an agreement that you’ll work out the details later.

In the meantime you introduce your friend to the cast. Chiara stands confidently, shaking hands and explaining her work. Her English is more refined than yours, her accent less noticeable and language more eloquent. Sometimes you forget this side of her, used to crass Italian that lovingly insults you—not unlike your sister’s Spanish. Your sister… You briefly wonder if she acts like Chiara when she’s working. Her missed call comes back to your mind. You shake the thought away.

When you return to the present, Chiara is gone from your side. You frown and look around the room, eyes widening when you see her enthusiastically talking to Shigaraki. He looks intimidated, almost cornered, and you watch with uncertainty if you should interfere.

“Is that your friend?”

You turn to Sero’s voice, sending a mental apology to the white-haired man, knowing you won’t move to save him. You hum in affirmation. “Chia. She can be kind of intense.”

You itch to compliment him, ramble on about his performance, the fluidity and the beauty of it. How it still takes your breath away despite having seen it several times by now. Then you remember the way you stepped on his toes last night, your giant boots making your movements choppy and clumsy. You fight a grimace, clenching your jaw at the memory. He deserves the compliment.

“Your performance was incredible, again,” you muster.

His embarrassed smile makes a piece of you tense, wanting to curl your toes and clench your fist as you watch his eyebrows curve upwards, like he’s ready to dismiss it. You bite your tongue.

“Your dress…” he trails off, unsure how to finish. 

You brighten. It’s the first anyone has mentioned it tonight. “Oh! It borrows from Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda. I mean, it’s inspired by the fifth chapter. I wanted to play around with the concept of the stars, and I like the way it moves.”

You twist your hips slightly, letting the skirt twirl and sway gently over your legs. The sheer ribbons float along, a delayed trail of strings. An afterimage of your figure.

Sero’s lips part slightly as he watches the rustle of fabric. You think you can see awe, striking a giddy warmth through your chest.

A voice sounds behind you, deep with a rise towards the end that borders condescending. You don’t understand the words, Japanese, but you feel like they’re meant for you. A flash of irritation crosses Sero’s face, eyes darting behind you in a glare that almost makes you nervous.

You turn to see the Todoroki brothers. The younger one speaks when your eyes meet. “Don’t mind Touya, he doesn’t speak English.” He pauses. “And he insulted your shoes.”

You laugh, eyebrows raising curiously. “What did he say?”

Todoroki shakes his head. “It was rather crude.”

Neither Sero or Todoroki entertain your pleading for answers, and you’re forced to pout in your ignorance while the eldest grins to himself. His smile is sharp and glinting, a knife against skin. You remember Kendo’s comment: that he was originally apprehensive to join the circus. You wonder why, with how comfortable he looks with everyone. What held him back, and what finally convinced him?

You don’t ask, instead getting pulled into further conversation about your dress. Sero pesters you to take some of the food, offering a plate that you gently refuse. Only then does Chiara materialize next to you, graciously taking the dish that you won’t.

“Hey—” you try to stop her.

Sero grins. “It’s fine. There’s always extra. Please, take some too.”

Chiara grunts when you shake your head. “There’s no way you're passing up catering from la Brisa.”

You can’t relate right now, stomach sporting faint knots. They were easy to ignore at the beginning of the night, distracted by Chiara’s bickering and the show. But with each minute you get closer to wandering through market stalls, walking your way into that tent one final time. You’re too excited to eat—too nervous, even.

“I agree.” Hanta adds with a grin. He turns to Chiara. “I’m Sero, by the way.”

You pause, frowning as your friend introduces herself after Todoroki. You look at Sero skeptically, then as blankly as you can, ruminating on why he called himself Sero. I prefer Hanta, he told you.

“Tucano?”

You blink, mind returning as Chiara taps her nail against your arm. 

“Hmm?”

“I asked if you were gonna be okay, if I left before the festival,” she says, eyeing you. “There’s a club that just opened, but I need to change if I go.”

You frown. “It’s a Wednesday?”

Her face contorts between a grimace and a look of disgust.

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah I’ll be fine.” You smile at her gently, gratefully. “Thanks for coming.”

“Always, birdie.” You can hear the softness beneath her dismissal. You wave her off.

When you step in the tent for a final time, you fall.

It’s a plummet of surrender. The void is vast and consuming, the darkness of a night sky. A black piece of paper dotted with needles, a sheet of silken fabric pulled taught, lightness seeping through the threads. Your body burns against the rush of air, a meteor, a streak of fire in the coldest abyss, the vacuum of space and time. You let it take you, pull you through one final journey. The fall is fast and terrifying, stomach heavy as if you swallowed the weight yanking you down. But it’s safe. Free.

You touch land like a blazing arrow, fiery hot as you roll against the ground, body slowing as you tumble through long grasses. They are black, narrow blades that wave in the night, slivers of silver streaked down their bodies like shards of the moon. The vegetation is a cool mist against your searing skin. You roll slowly, turning gently onto your back when you finally lose momentum. You’re left staring into the sea of sparkles you just fell from.

When you sit up, you see that there is no end to the meadow in sight, not until you turn and greet looming, jagged mountains standing over your backside. They’re intense, watchful, protective of the moon, its light obscured behind their sharp figures. It’s all grass otherwise, rolling hills of hair blowing in a soft breeze. All grass, with one large pond carved into the carpet of the earth ahead of you.

You take your time approaching, crawling slowly through the grassland. A childish grin tugs at your mouth, feeling like a lion parading through its kingdom. The greenery rustles under every step, crunching beneath your hands and knees. You think if you were a lion you could feel the roughness of your paw against the fibers, your fur tickling your skin, mobile joints shifting under flesh.

The water in the pond is still, not a single ripple in motion. It’s surface is impossibly reflective, silver glass that captures every detail of the sky in sharp precision. When you lean over to get a glimpse of yourself, it’s not your own face that looks back at you.

The figure is dark, a shadow against the freckling of stars that twinkle from above. The silhouette is not yours. You freeze, heart racing as you are struck with realization.

Without hesitation, moving purely on instinct, you lean to dip your fingers into the pond, fist hovering over a cluster of stars, the face of Lepus’ skeletal form. You pull.

Bright, shining threads float through the air, silken lengths of stardust. They shimmer, glow under the gaze of the moon. You stretch the stars like silk, like you’ve dreamt since the day your eyes read chapter five of that mysterious little book. It’s a beautiful sight, the twisted, bright fibers floating through the night with every cluster you pull. Most shine silver and white. You notice a particularly thick thread with an orange hue—Jupiter, you think. Another is bright red. Mars.

You aren’t sure how to weave your stars and planets, holding the bundle of threads like a tuft of hair near the base. A braid could work, the closest weave you know to an actual rope. You imagine abuela scoffing as she watches you, retaining nothing from all the years you watched her work her loom. When you begin to separate the clusters of string, flitted through your fingers, a hand comes through the water to grasp your wrist.

At the heat of the touch, the searing contact of a palm and fingers over your skin, you are certain that Sero is on the other side.

He tugs you close, body falling through the portal of water, and you are once again shooting through the night sky. This time Sero falls beside you, one hand over your wrist and the other around your waist. Your body is burning again, searing as if his touch is everywhere, pressed deep into your side and holding you impossibly close. His face is still obscured, body still a void of darkness, a black hole. But you have no doubt it’s him. A tremor runs through you, heart beating rapidly as it pumps more heat throughout your body.

The universe is palpable, a tangible surface that you strike together. The stars are scattered beneath you as you are jostled in Sero’s—Hanta’s—protective arms. You want to press your face into his chest, dissolve into him as he cradles you, tumbling through stardust. After two more rolls you come to a still, laying gently on top of him, his chest a steady ocean wave beneath you. One of your arms comes beside him to lift yourself up, peering down. His face is illuminated in the moonlight, no longer a blank mysterious figure. You can see the white of his eyes blown wide, cheeks noticeably darker than usual. You watch him closely, unable to speak or look away as your body tingles, heart still pounding, racing through your chest and throat as you think of something to say. Anything. You feel weak under his gaze, arm a tremoring pillar.

The stars sparkle beneath him, like fine spheres of glass. When you clench your hand to try and steady yourself, shift for better footing, you realize it is glass. Sand. Black sand, the kind that twinkles in the day, a starry sky in the sun. You’re the first to break eye contact, sweeping past Hanta and across the shore. Your shore. The black sand of the Eastern coast—deep and rugged against clear blue waters that look murky in the night.

There’s a tug at your hand: Hanta, having stood without you noticing. You let him pull you, words still frozen as you watch his cautious face. He looks afraid. You are too.

He leads you to the water, your feet—now somehow bare despite still in your cosmic dress—pressing into the lapping waves. They don’t sink until they touch sand, instead pressing against the surface of the water, your sole a hydrophobic pad that can’t break through. Sero pauses once you’ve taken a few steps, turning to look back at you before he continues forward.

The trust is easy, natural. You think nothing of the disappearing shoreline, only looking ahead. It’s easy with him guiding you.

The sky lightens as you cross the ocean, black becoming a deep blue that lifts from the horizon, evaporating as vibrant orange takes its place, eventually fading into bright, constant cerulean. The sun waves through the air, eventually floating directly above you. Your heart steadies, slows, as you jog over the ocean in tandem. There is only peace, bliss. Freedom. It’s just you and Sero and the sound of the water. Sero doesn’t look back, not since the initial step off the shore. Only when a new form of land enters your sight—close enough for you to see sand—does he take another glance. His face is still smothered with worry. Your trust is still firm, but your heart wavers at his uncertainty. What is he doubting?

When your feet touch sand for a second time, tan clusters of shell and stone dust, it is fiery hot against your skin. Searing like Hanta, his hand still pulling yours. You run through jagged rocks and grasses, uphill, towards the back of a house. It’s small, with a sun-bleached deck. It looks familiar.

When you reach the deck, wood creaking under your weight as Sero pulls you through the backdoor, your vision flashes with the memory of a sleek black bottle. Then it’s you, sitting on the bench holding a maracuya to your lips, abruptly jumping to run inside and greet abuelita. You are once again in the warm confines of Hanta’s memory, this time as you. This time with him, to guide you through.

The inside of the house is empty, but you remember your way to the front door. You think he’s going to stop, open it and greet his abuelita. But he only pushes through, pulling you out of his childhood home as quickly as you entered it.

When you fall through the portal of the front door, his touch disappears.

You come to a stop, head spinning from the suddenness. Your ears fill with the thrum of layered chatter, dozens, if not hundreds of people surrounding you. You frown as you look around, at the new scene smearing into focus. A road stretches beneath you, dark pavement a runway for people dressed in a variety of parade outfits, flanked by neoclassical facades. It’s a sea of white in front of you, sprinkled with bright red and occasionally some blue. You’re the shortest in the crowd. When you look down to your own outfit, the layered chiffon of your dress is replaced with loose black fabric, the only color a swipe of lemon yellow across your chest.

You are once again a child about to dance through Fiestas de Quito—as a toucan.

Your head turns frantically, scanning your surroundings for your family. Your heart pounds in your ears, childhood nerves resurfacing despite being over a decade older. You think no matter how old you are, how many years have flown by, reliving this moment will always return you to the delicate glass of a child’s nerves, emotions so overwhelming all you can do is look for someone to reassure you.

The anxiety lifts, releasing from your stomach and your chest and your shoulders when you spot abuela, wrapped in cerulean and yellow fabrics as the blue and gold macaw. Mamá stands beside her with her hand in your sister’s, an aracari and hummingbird.

Your feet act first, scraping the rubber of your shoes against the pavement as you scurry over. Abuela’s hand is warm when you take it, the final balm you need to soothe the prickle in your chest. She smiles at you softly, encouragingly, face wrinkling as she walks forward to follow the next group of performers. Your heartbeat picks up again, skin flushing in preemptive embarrassment from the dance you’ll perform along the street.

But abuela is stable, walking forwards with a calm confidence that makes you think it’ll be okay. Your eyes dart to your sister and mother, stomach squeezing with envy at their shining eyes and hops of uncontained excitement. You feel a squeeze at your hand, a reminder that you’re okay. That it’s okay to be nervous and subdued.

Dancing through the streets of Quito is not exactly as you remember. The beginning is identical to your memory, your nerves churning, feet stuttering clumsily as you falter through your routine. Your eyes sting, lip wobbling as you scan the crowd—full of people watching you struggle through movements you practiced for so long. But abuela holds you firm, guiding you along. The warm, rough touch of her hand is your north star, a constant and a weight that keeps you tethered to the ground. Your other hand clutches the base of your mask, a dowel with that large, vibrant beak—a shield for your burning face.

You don’t remember enjoying the parade, only existing as a torturous memory. Even now, you wait anxiously for the moment you fall and break your ankle, anticipation clouding your heart. But somehow, soon enough you’re having fun, feet and body taking charge as your mind fades into the back. Is it because of abuela? Or even Sero, wherever he's gone? Regardless, you feel the grin on your face, the warmth in your chest as you deliver the practiced movements of your dance. The child in you is gleeful, hopeful. The costume is no longer an itchy cage, but a dressing for your movements as you finally settle into the music and the performance.

Before you know it, your hand is gone from abuela’s, giving you the freedom to twirl. You spin happily, face rushing through the open air. When you recenter to the front of the street, your eyes sweep through the crowd. A boy your age is watching closely, eyes wide with awe and mouth slightly agape. He’s dressed in bright patterned stripes, a contrast to dark hair and eyes. One of his hands is lifted, grasped by the woman standing behind him. Your free hand comes up to wave, passing your excitement through the air with a massive grin.

You watch an excited smile cross his face, expanding like an inhale, and you realize that it’s Hanta.

You don’t continue down the street to the end of the parade route. You don’t fall near the end, leaving the festival shaking with sobs and hiccups. Instead the world fades away in that moment, the crowd morphing around you, sky darkening, music shifting from horns and drums to the strumming of a guitar, all while you hold Hanta’s gaze.

You’re in Milan, flanking the live musicians at the circus festival as you stare at this man—his earnest, nervous expression—and wonder why the world is so cruel for not bringing him to you sooner.

"i'm never writing imagery every again," i say, lying.

when i first wrote this part i was like "this one's my favorite :')" and then i wrote the next part and the part after that and said nvm.

la Brisa is a real ristorante that i've never been to and honestly don't even know if they do catering but i'm so tired of researching that i can't be bothered anymore.

[itsblasttothepast]

Before I send you a new take on rumours, can I say what annoyed me in this race? (you can ignore this part) Sergio had a bad start and said he had no grip on the tyres. Bird's response: "It'll come to you later" (okay, standard response but why wouldn't you tell him something about the tyres to calm him down?). Then when the rain got worse (after the red flag) Checo had to ask Bird to keep telling him the gaps between himself and other drivers because he couldn't see - it made me angry becasue isn't that the engineer's job in the first place? Bird is not talking to Sergio, he is not responding to the questions and that's just unbelieveable (I understand that he could be tired after the triple header but this keeps on happening every race and I just can't find any more excuses for this guy) - BRING WOODY BACK Okay and now since the poison is out I can go for the rumours (I agree with you, we need to go crazier if we want to match the reality): The Markoner (I'm stealing the name) marriage: They will use the drama as a game to go back to their honeymoon phase ad restore the love they lost along the way, they will bring more drivers to destroy since this is the only hobby they share - they are looking for fresh meat because Sergio is taking to long to break and they need their daily dose of killed hopes and dream to function; Or they will keep pushing the 'they have the same car' agenda when we know for a fact now it isn't true, Sergio won't get any upgrades and will start driving a car made of cardboard and gum with one (1) RBR sticker on it and they'll still be saying it's the same car - they'll keep feeding the media to make Checo's life unbearable and then they will say they let him go because of 'taking care of their driver's mental health'; Separatly, I think Horner will say Lewis's signing with Ferrari was all a ploy to get him into RBR and in fact he will be driving for the team next year and Helmut will go back to saying Liam is their best option - and he will completly forget about Yuki for real, he will be surprised to see him in the paddock at all; Since Jos was there today I feel obligated to add him: He will do another 180' and start saying shit about Sergio again, claiming that Max doesn't need anyone in the second seat to keep winning and RBR will agree OR he will get even nicer than he was last week and hell will freeze over and world will end; And finally the media (and fandom in this one): They already did the goodbye party for Sergio so I'm not sure what can be even more wild (since he still has a contract and nothing was confirmed) but I'll try - All the sponsors will leave Checo and start supporting Franco (because for now he's the SkySport's sweetheart) and they will try to find ANY interaction Franco has with anyone to prove their theory. OR they will just keep on asking the same questions to Sergio and Max and RBR will end up with no drivers becasue the bulls will got to prison for beating up the journalists.

Oh, don't worry, I completely share thi sentiment as well, since the fucked up qualy, and what happened the first sprint race... it's like Bird it's saying 'I'm back to ruin you', and RBR it's allowing it. I'm glad Checo said something, but even then he's painted like the bad guy, 'oh, he lost his cool, he yelled at his poor engineer'... 🤦, we need Woody!

Also, taking advantage of this rant space, I'm also adding my own: RBR gaslighting Checo so bad. Marko and Horner saying 'we change his chasis because he complained about it, just to give him confidence'... what? They are acting like Checo is inventing all these problems, when they ducktaped his car and the brakes don't work since I don't know how many races before this one. They are honestly stepping up in their mind games and I fear for Checo's sanity at this point.

All right, back to our game, reality continues to surprass us with the rumors, but my take with Markoner (ft. Jos Verstappen who is back into asshole mode and said Liam would be a great teammate for Max) is that they are talking to Williams to play lottery seats. Williams needs money, that's not a secret. So RBR is asking for a driver swap and Checo goes to Williams, and.... Franco or Carlos, still debating this one, will go to RBR. Then to make Yuki better for keep ignoring him to be promoted, they let him believe his time will come... forever and ever.

Hey, you called it! Papa Verstappen is back saying shit against Checo and being a fan of Lawson, saying he would be an excellent teammate for Max.

Hey, here I have to take a break and ask you... why do you think Marko and Jos say nice things about Checo and then get back to the hate program? Do you think someone is calling the shots and telling them to back off sometimes? I can't come up a rumor for this one.

Oh yes, the fandom is already retiring Checo and being all nasty about it. But my take is that now they will say Franco is taking everything Checo has: his seat, his team, his sponsors, his wife and children... hell, maybe even his dog.

You know? Call me delusional, but when the reporters asked Max if he would be happy with Franco as his new teammate as the press is saying, I could swear Max looked sad. His answer was very neutral, but his eyes... I saw sadness there. I just hope that the little reunion they had today (Horner, Marko, Jos and Max) wasn't a ploy to see how to fire Checo.

And hey, if they fire him, I hope it cost them dearly, so much that they can't recover in a while (sorry, I'm petty).

[mahoganystudios830]

rant: please stop supporting the creators of TPC.

(tw: mentions of gr**ming, mentions of M*r*i T*uy*ma)

Can we please stop ignoring the fact that Brittany's sister is an actual p3do and Brittany is, from what we can tell, ok with it? And get them to genuinely apologize? (i saw an "apology" from her sister, it was all deflection, excuses, and self-pity. I am not counting that as an apology.)

Every once in a while, usually when a new episode of tpc releases, I see people try to do something but drop it the next day.

I'm tired of that cycle, as someone who was indirectly affected by her sister's actions and was actively fucking BRAINWASHED FOR SEVEN YEARS IRL BY SOMEONE IN THE TPC FANDOM. This person would send me Br**’s videos and art, when I was like 13, so she indirectly affected me with the content she had made, and likely many others.

I would like to stress that I can't speak for the victims of Br** herself, but from what I've seen many hold a similar sentiment. Forgive me if I am wrong, genuinely.

Unfortunately, I don't feel safe calling them out for many reasons, such as the person I mentioned or her family harassing me again, but I would if I could. Instead I ask TPC fans and my own fans to STOP supporting the sisters and SPREAD AWARENESS about the situation.

sorry for such a negative post by the way /gen

[ricflairdrip20]

I’ve Missed You - Third Kazekage x Reader

Another month has passed, and your faith has started to waver. Tears streamed down your face as you struggled to come to terms that Daichi is never coming back. You wiped it off with the back of your hand as you reflected on your last memory of him.

It’s been more than a year since the last time you saw him at his Kage office, handing him a bento box you made for him and returning with a warm smile and soft words of affection. You missed him so much, the kids have been using their mission assignment as an excuse to find their father, even though they’ve been told they’ll never find them. Like hell they’ll listen. Their father is a Kage, after all!

On the other hand, though, you grew impressed with your children’s strength. Your older son possesses an Iron Sand Jutsu, just like his dad and your younger son is a Wind Style user. You wish so bad that he’s here to see all of this, and to train your older son on how to control his sand. Although he’s getting the hang of it, you wish Daichi was here to share his wisdom and knowledge in that department, since he himself is an Iron Sand user. He would be so proud. With their strength, maybe one day, they themselves will become a Kazekage.

You sighed as you sat on your sofa. If by any chance at all he’s returning, you hope he knows where you are now residing. You had since moved out upon electing a new Kazekage, due to the rule. You made sure to pick the closest house, which is about a half a mile away from the Kazekage mansion.

You weren’t yourself these days, you hadn’t picked up your book, you barely cooked, and your children were constantly searching with no success. They made sure not to forget to take care of you.

You refused to call yourself a widow. He’s not dead, he can’t be! You hate it when people address you as the Kazekage’s widow and receive condolences. All the time. You always had to tell people that you believe that he’s still alive, although you weren’t sure of it.

Every night, it’s the same thing. Saying your good night to the kids, looking out the window and mentally pleading for him to return home.

You squeezed your eyes shut and leaned on the wall next to the window, more tears falling. It’s been more than a year. You’re starting to think he may never come back. How is this possible? You were so happy, you’re married to a hot Kage and you have two precious sons. It can’t end this way! It can’t—

Your thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. You were confused on why someone would be knocking so late at night. Then fear rushed over you. Did those shinobi come to tell you they found your husband’s dead body? You gulped hard as you slowly walked to the door with a sickening feeling in your stomach. You felt like you could throw up.

Slowly twisting the knob and pulling it open, you saw that it was not the shinobi, but the one shinobi you yearned for. The one shinobi you so bad wanted on your side. The one shinobi that you’re destined to be with for the rest of your life.

It was Daichi.

He was standing there, jaw slacked, then turned into a smile. His face is soiled, showing signs of struggle and his hair is disheveled. His clothes were torn and ragged.

“How- how is this…” Your brain short-circuited as you analyzed the familiar figure standing before you.

“I’m home, love,” he whispered softly. But you’re still processing it.

“Wait… is this a genjutsu or a substitute jutsu? You’re not some shinobi pulling a prank on me, are you? This doesn’t feel—“ He interrupted your ramblings by placing a deep kiss on your lips. It felt real and everything about it is just as you remembered. This is your Daichi, not some shinobi playing a sick joke on you.

For extra assurance, he told you things only you two know about and that’s when it dawned on you.

Your husband is home and alive.

“I’ve missed you so,” your voice muffled through his shirt, hugging him tight with Daichi returning the sentiment. After pulling away, you gingerly grabbed his hand to the kitchen table, tending to his wounds.

“Let the kids sleep,” Daichi spoke up softly as he sat down. “I’ll tell you all about what happened.”

You smiled widely. “And I’ll tell you everything that has been going on since you’ve been gone.”

You smiled so wide it made your face hurt as you gently dabbed his face with a little towel soaked with a disinfectant liquid.

You’re so happy that you got your best friend back.

[viilpstick]

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑?

How can a story never die? It is love we must hold onto, the origins brought to you by love. When a story like hers with such dedicated meaning and strong roots manacled into your DNA, it is a hard task to simply leave it all behind. Never easy, but we try. Minutes turn to hours, days to years and gone the moments that pass shall never be forgotten, especially for spiteful people, but may love live on inside our hearts keeping to those who you can be sure to never leave and always will stay.

𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔: Adeline Rosique, Twisted Wonderland oc

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: Major character death (background), a bit of oc x canon (relationships), the section "appearance" still not added, warn me if I forgot any

𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: Angst, hurt, hopeful ending (background), fluff and angsty (relationships)

𝒂/𝒏: She is kinda inspired by the Archer, from Taylor Swift and Belle's backstory on the live action movie

OFFICIAL INTRODUCTION: "I need to get... Excuse me. I need to pass. What? I don't care if it's a fight, I have important matters to solve. Isabelle and Leona are the one fighting? Sevens, and they try to make me believe they are not in love."

Adeline Rosique, the vice-housewander at Rosantée, the Royal Sword Academy's dorm, channels the spirit of the Fearless princess.

Despite her initial aloofness and strict demeanor, it doesn't take long to discover Adeline's kind and warm side, with an energy of big sister of everyone and all, intertwined with a playful and cunning sense of humor.

While rumors circulate about a dark past, Adeline appears unfazed, insisting it doesn't bother her – or so she tells herself.

BACKGROUND

Adeline, destined to be the future heir of the illustrious kingdom of Westerian Beau, faced a turbulent beginning marked by the disdain of her father, Grendel Enchanta. Born to a union between a human and a fae, Adeline's arrival into the world was met not with joy but with Grendel's palpable disgust. His dismay, however, went beyond the mere disappointment of having a daughter; it was rooted in the perception that she was, in his eyes, aesthetically displeasing.

Grendel, harboring a profound resentment toward his fae spouse, concocted a sinister plan in response to his daughter's perceived flaws. In a calculated move, he aimed to turn the entire kingdom against Adeline's mother, leveraging prejudice and deceit to manipulate public opinion. The ultimate goal was to isolate and abandon Adeline, leaving her to face the world alone and vulnerable. The twisted plot orchestrated by Grendel Enchanta wove an intricate web of familial betrayal and political intrigue within the kingdom. Shockingly, the malevolent plan proved successful as the sentiment in the kingdom gradually shifted, and animosity festered against their once-beloved queen.

Grendel seized the opportunity and, with his daughter Adeline in tow, clandestinely retreated to a secluded cottage nestled in the enigmatic Shaftlands. In this isolated haven, Adeline's formative years unfolded amidst the shadows of her father's manipulative schemes. The idyllic facade of the cottage belied the harsh reality that she grew up mostly alone, isolated from the warmth of familial bonds and the camaraderie of the outside world. The villagers' aversion to her, cast Adeline into a lonely existence, as even the village children shunned her. Ultimately for her appearance.

Left to her own devices, Adeline found solace in the companionship of a single friend, well, an animal, who proved steadfast in the face of her isolation.

With her father often absent from her life, the cottage in the Shaftlands became both a sanctuary and a prison for Adeline, a place where the echoes of betrayal and deceit lingered. As she navigated the challenges of her solitary existence, Adeline's resilience and the bond she forged with her lone confidant would come to define her journey in the shadowy aftermath of her father's malevolence.

Adeline grew to study in Sword Academy at the dorm of Rosantée. Despite the challenges imposed by her tumultuous upbringing, Adeline persevered and pursued her education at the esteemed Sword Academy. However, the corrosive environment of constant bullying during her initial years took a toll on her resilience. By the second year, the weight of relentless mistreatment became unbearable.

In a decisive act of self-empowerment, Adeline chose to take control of her narrative. She embarked on a journey of radical transformation, altering her appearance in a way that defied societal expectations and norms. This drastic change became a catalyst for a profound shift in the dynamics of her interactions. The very individuals who once subjected her to ridicule and cruelty now found themselves confronted with a version of Adeline that defied their preconceived notions. The newfound strength emanating from her transformed appearance not only shielded her from further mistreatment but also became a symbol of her resilience and defiance.

PERSONALITY

Possessing a personality like Adeline Rosique is having a personality like a mirror that has a duality of her heritage. Bold and resilient, she faces the world with a determination forged in the crucible of adversity. Despite the hardships she has endured, Adeline carries herself with an innate sense of grace and poise, a testament to the influence of both her human and faye lineage. We may say, Adeline is a bold and sassy girl, however, most of the time she acts serious, with a rare smile on her face. This is just a façade though to a girl who loves to talk and seems mostly happy to meet new people.

Adeline's disdain for those who judge her based solely on her appearance fuels her resolve to defy expectations. So, it is to be seen that through Shaftlands a poor old lady that wanders all night and day long is actually Adeline, hiding for those who seek her power for illness. To move through the city undisturbed, a seemingly unassuming old lady, free from the superficial attention that often accompanies her true form. But even so, during the night she no longer uses the disguise, and only walks with a big dark green hoodie. 

Her boldness is evident in the way, unafraid to voice her opinions and stand up for what she believes is right. Some people who know the truth about the “lady” say that Adeline fear is to be denied by people who surround her for only her appearance, that leads her to act most as somehow rudely towards people. Adeline's boldness, however, is not a mask for arrogance; rather, it is a reflection of her unwavering confidence in her abilities and her refusal to be defined by the narrow judgments of others. Despite that, Adeline is not without empathy. Her experiences have cultivated a deep understanding of the struggles faced by those who don't fit neatly into societal norms. She is quick to lend a helping hand to those in need, a trait that endears her to those who truly see beyond the surface. Another noticeable trait is the thought of never needing help from anyone, she can help everyone, never the opposite.

In the intricate tapestry of her personality, Adeline Rosique emerges as a symbol of resilience, grace, and defiance. Bold, polite, and unapologetically herself, Adeline stands as a beacon of inspiration for those who dare to embrace their uniqueness in a world that often seeks conformity. Adeline believes, that people can’t leave her, if she leaves first, so she tends to be somehow rude and stern to others who she doesn’t know.

RELATIONSHIPS (main ones)

Sebek Zigvolt: Sebek has low tolerance over her, mostly by the fact how ironic she is with Malleus, it takes a lot of patience for him to let her be around himself and Malleus, especially when Malleus says that he doesn’t mind her jokes and sarcasm, which is unbelievable! He is the heir to the throne and he shouldn't let her talk to him like that. Sebek wonders if the Young Master has a reason.

Epel Femier: This one is hard, she knows she comes off as annoying to him, so, when he acted more rude than he should with her, Adeline used her UM on him. He stayed inside all day long, only leaving when Poppy helped him to get the forgiveness of her. By the end of the second day he was back to normal. Adeline apologises by the way she acted, yet, she keeps an eye in both Poppy and Epel after it, with a sly hint of amusement.

Poppy Cosette (Oc made by @justm3di0cr3): At first, Adeline admits that she was a bit antipathetic, and she knows it. It was mostly her first side showing up, but once she had to spend time with Poppy alone, they both had a sisterly bound; and from that moment from time to time Poppy and her would spend evenings together, maybe making apple or lemon pies. That's when, Poppy doesn't bring baskets with flowers and bread to Adeline, the half faye melts on the spot.

Che’nya: Although she sees him as a weird guy, he does make her flash a bright smile accompanied with a loud laugh from time to time. Adeline thinks he is just the class clown. But when he catches the eye of one of her friends she comes off to be rather amused by him more easily than before.

Fauna De Lis (Oc made by @shinysparklesapphires): Fauna and Adeline are great friends, and in general Adeline has a bit of admiration for the kindness of the girl, with that she becomes somehow like a protective sister like she is with most of her friends.

Isabelle Desroisiers (Oc made by @midnightmah07): Adeline says that one of the purest hearts of all the people she has met was Isabelle’s, due to the lovely like and kind yet stubborn and curious was what drew Adeline close to Isabelle. The usual dates with the friends are in a cozy room with books, a chess game, snacks and some small gossip here and there. She was the only one to break the rule of “if I leave first, no one can leave me” because Adeline knows Isabelle would stay.

Leona Kingscholar: Although the truth about his and Isabelle’s weeding, Adeline always had a feeling of something that was within hidden between them too. In her head all the hatred was a uncovered love for each other (she turns out to be right, but at first she comes out as annoying). But, she can't lie when says she finds Leona mostly like an annoying bastard, yet, she had to pull up with his attitude.

Rook Hunt: Though Rook may stir a hint of unease in Adeline, their shared cunning and sly nature forms a common ground; That is the matchmaking couples, this is how they got to make "an apple tart" couple along, all part of their cupid-inspired scheming.

Adriano Mélombre: It sounds like a positive transformation in the relationship between the half-siblings, Adriano and the person you're referring to. Overcoming the past and developing a sweeter relationship can be a rewarding and healing experience for both individuals involved. The fact that Adriano has extended an invitation for them to live together, along with their mother, suggests a desire for closer family bonds and mutual support. Such developments often require open communication, understanding, and forgiveness. Living together can provide an opportunity for them to deepen their connection, create new memories, and foster a sense of belonging within the family unit. Family dynamics can be complex, and positive changes like this one demonstrate resilience and a commitment to building stronger relationships.

MALLEUS DRACONIA

Will wait for Book 7 to finish!

TRIVIA:

Adeline is twisted on the Enchantress from "Beauty and the Beast"

Adeline means “noble” or “nobility” from German

Rosique means both “Rose” and “magique” that is “magic” in french

18 years old, born in June 24th (Adeline’s birthday is national fairy’s day)

Adeline's dominant hand is right

Fav. drink + food: Cranberry juice, lemon pie.

Least fav. drink + food: Warm water, boiled eggs.

Hobbies: Dancing

Pet peeves: Overly judgemental people

Likes: Long walks in a breeze days, parties

Talent: Fast learner

Adeline is twisted on the Enchantress from "Beauty and the Beast"

Adeline means “noble” or “nobility” from German

Rosique means both “Rose” and “magique” that is “magic” in french

18 years old, born in June 24th (Adeline’s birthday is national fairy’s day)

Adeline's dominant hand is right

Fav. drink + food: Cranberry juice, lemon pie.

Least fav. drink + food: Warm water, boiled eggs.

Hobbies: Dancing

Pet peeves: Overly judgemental people

Likes: Long walks in a breeze days, parties

Talent: Fast learner

DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE OR REPOST IN OTHER MEDIA MY WORK viilpstick © copyright 2023

[fantasticalleigh]

don’t add fanfic to goodreads!!!

i know that once you publish something on the internet you essentially lose some ownership of it. you can’t control how/where/when it’s shared or who views it. but as a fanfic author i have to take some responsibility as to the places where it’s shared, especially when considering the fact that my work is absolutely not suitable for everyone and i don’t want it crossing the wrong paths or reaching minors, which is why i extensively tag it and add warnings as i go. it was created with the purpose of existing in fandom spaces only and not anywhere else, especially a website like Good Reads, which exists and is aimed more toward the general public rather than fanspaces.  i think this is part of why i’m so annoyed that it was posted there without my knowledge. (although i do appreciate the reviews of my fics also including warnings.)

 it being on good reads is especially fucky because of the batshit “buy it on amazon/barnes and noble” button underneath it. although it leads to actual published books with similar titles, it’s still fucking weird to see (made my heart stop for a moment as i envisioned getting sued to oblivion) and i don’t like the implication that you can buy it anywhere when fanfiction should always be free. there’s plenty of other FANDOM spaces to talk about/share/review fanfic online. i made a blog post about it over here as well for more thoughts (warning for dark and explicit material in the blog btw)

already submitted a request for my stuff to get taken down off GR. i can appreciate the sentiment behind sharing it there and wanting to review/critique it with others but this was not the way to go about it.

as a further PSA: i saw a lottt of other dramione fanfics on there. if you’re an author of any fandom i suggest you look yourself up too and see if your stuff is also there.  i genuinely didn’t think i would find myself on there and yet here we are.

-thewandererswanderingdaughter