#part of her has just been flat out avoiding telling him; having that conversation with him because she doesn't know where it would go

[mccleans]

i've gone to sleep angry and woken up angry every day since last saturday

[lisbonsteresa]

spiraling again

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

The Other Half Part Twenty Three

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Notes: This is a long one y'all. There's more angst, BUT there's a fluffy ending, so. Ya just gotta trust me.

Length: 6K

Warnings: Angst that ends in fluff, so you're gonna suffer, but you're gonna be happy about it; canon-typical violence; a D-level DC villain that's usually more of a Superman baddie, but he's fought Batman once or twice, so.

Summary: When Michelle had announced that she would be moving to Keystone City, you’d burst into tears. Your other friends had passed it off as you being overcome by the news of your oldest and dearest friend moving, but Michelle knew you, and she knew better. It hadn’t taken her long to drag the truth out of you. 

“I never liked him.” 

Michelle’s flat insistence makes you splutter a laugh through your tears. You sniffle, raising both hands and scrubbing at your eyes, knowing that you're almost certainly ruining your makeup. You’ve tried to put on a brave face, but Michelle has known since you arrived that something was off. She’s banished everyone else from the kitchen, giving the two of you a quiet space to talk. The odd swell of laughter and conversation reaches you every few moments, reminding you that you’re having an incredibly sensitive conversation just a few feet away from people that would probably sell it to the Gotham Gazette for one corn chip. 

“Yes, you did,” You argue, raising your hand and scrubbing a tear away. 

“...I mean, a little.” Michelle rips a piece of paper towel off of the roll, passing it over. “Did he tell you why?” 

You dab at your eyes, trying to piece a reasonable explanation together—one that wouldn’t shock Michelle and expose Bruce’s secret. 

You had waited up for Bruce all night, but he’d never come back. At least, he hadn’t come back to you. You’d realized when you’d gone down for breakfast that Bruce had returned, but slept elsewhere—down in the bat cave, maybe, or in an entirely separate wing of the house? But there he was at the table, genially listening to your father discuss whether or not the Metropolis Metros had any chance of making the playoffs that year. You had gotten yourself some coffee and sat at the opposite end of the table, unable to catch Bruce’s eye. He was avoiding it; he was avoiding you. He’d kept that up as you’d seen your parents to the car, as you’d hugged your mother and dodged her attempts to discuss what had been said last night. You saw the firm handshake that Bruce had shared with your father, the strained smile that he’d managed as your father had insisted that he hoped that there weren't any hard feelings. 

The two of you had stood side by side as the car pulled out of the driveway, hands to yourselves, eyes set on the fading red tail lights until they were out of sight. 

“Can we talk about it?” You finally hedged. 

“I don’t think there’s much to talk about.” 

You turned to watch him stride away, stunned. It took you a moment to follow, taking the stairs two at a time to catch up. 

“I think there’s a hell of a lot to talk about!” 

“I don’t agree.” 

“Why the hell not?” 

“Because they’re right.” 

“Excuse me?”

“They’re right!” Bruce barked, whirling around to face you. You froze in place, eyes widening as his yell echoed in the foyer. “I can’t keep you safe.” 

“You have kept me safe—You do keep me safe, Bruce!” 

“If I could, you never would’ve gotten kidnapped in the first place!” 

“I got out of there because of you—” 

“You got in there because of me!” 

“There are people in this world that are just plain greedy, Bruce. There’s nothing that you can do about that, it is not your fault.” 

“It’s my fault that you of all people were taken, and as long as you and I are together, you will continue to be a target.” 

“I don’t care!” 

“I do!” 

“Oh, so you get to go out every night and put people away and get the shit kicked out of you even though you know I hate it and that’s fine, right? Bruce Wayne can make his own damn decisions and put himself in as much danger as he wants, but I get into one little situation and that’s it? You’re decided? I don’t get a say in this?”

“You get a say. You have had a say, but I am through knowing that I’m endangering your life.” 

“Well let’s think this through, then. Who else are you putting in harm’s way? Lucius, for one—” 

“That’s enough—” 

“You’re endangering Alfred. Are you telling him that you’re through putting him in danger?” 

“Do not bring Alfred into this.” 

“It’s a bullshit argument, Bruce.” 

“I’m done talking about this,” He warned coldly, turning away from you. You didn’t let him get far, keeping a pace or two behind him as he strode toward the study.

“What if I’m not?” 

“I don’t give a damn.” 

“What do you want, Bruce?” 

“I want you to leave!” 

He stopped short again, but there was no danger of you slamming into him this time. In fact, you took one step back, then another. You searched Bruce’s face desperately as your entire body felt like it was going to cave in on itself. You shook your head a little, hands flexing at your sides as you forced yourself not to reach out, not to tug him in and hold him close and beg him, plead with him to reconsider. 

“You don’t mean that,” You insisted. 

“I do.” Bruce’s gaze dropped to your shoes. 

“Look at me.” 

“I’ll have Alfred pack your things—” 

“Look me in the goddamn eye and tell me that.” 

“You can stay at the penthouse until Michelle can move you back in.” 

“Bruce, don’t do this—” 

“You can take as long as you need.” 

“You—” You reached up, grasping the lariat necklace and yanking it roughly. You felt the clasp break roughly against your skin, heard diamonds scatter as you tossed it at his feet. “You are a fucking coward.” 

You hadn’t let him see you cry, but you were sure he’d heard you. You’d hardly made it into your shared bedroom before you’d knelt down and let out a raw, sharp scream—one so long and so loud that you were hoarse when it finally broke. You had spent the day hiding out in your room, and had only managed to stop crying just long enough to fake a few smiles at Friendsgiving. 

When Michelle had announced that she would be moving to Keystone City, you’d burst into tears again. Your other friends had passed it off as you being overcome by the news of your oldest and dearest friend moving, but Michelle knew you, and she knew better. It hadn’t taken her long to drag the truth out of you. 

“We just, um…” You sniffle. “We just haven’t been seeing eye to eye on a lot of things lately.” 

“Marriage? Kids?” 

You shake your head at her plying. 

“A lot of things.” 

“...Does this have anything to do with the fact that your parents were at Thanksgiving?”

“Let’s just say their visit was less than stellar.” 

“Oh, hon, I’m sorry,” Michelle shakes her head, taking your hands in hers. You give them a gentle squeeze in turn, eyes swimming as you look down at them. She’s quiet for a few moments before she plies: 

“What are you going to do?” 

“...May as well move to Metropolis,” You admit. “Mom and dad are there, you’re leaving, and Bruce…” You clear your throat. “There’s nothing keeping me here.” 

“Will they let you transfer at work?” 

“Something tells me they’ll have the bright idea first thing Monday morning.” 

“No, he wouldn’t.” 

“He’s stubborn. Once he gets an idea into his head, he won’t shake it.” 

“You can be damn stubborn, too.” 

You nod a bit. “I can, but I’m just…” You shake your head as the tears well viciously again. “I’m so damn tired, Mish. I can’t keep fighting for him if he doesn't want me.” 

“Honey,” Michelle sighs, crowding close and drawing you into her arms. You curl your hands around her arm, keeping her close as the sobs begin to shake you again. 

-- 

“How is the weather there?” 

“We’re really resorting to speaking about the weather?” You smile. “My my, times are desperate. Did you pull the lilies up yet? Must be getting cold over there.” 

“Now who is speaking of the weather?” 

You chuckle at Alfred’s reminder, shaking your head. The two of you go quiet on your sides of the phone. You focus your gaze on your mom’s macrame plant hanger, shifting from foot to foot. You know how Alfred is (“Just fine, as always, dear.”), but you don’t dare ask how Bruce is. 

“Have you settled in?” Alfred presses before you can bring anything else up. 

“Um…” Your brow furrows. “The office is nice—bigger desks.” 

“And the apartment? The car?” 

“I’m with my parents. I don’t have a car.” 

Alfred is quiet for a few moments before he offers: “Master Wayne—” 

“I know what he did,” You cut in quickly. You'd gotten the email from the newly Wayne-owned apartment building, as well as the message to pick your new car up from the dealership when you'd arrived in Metropolis. “I don’t want anything from him.” 

Alfred sighs softly on the other end, and it makes your gut twist. You lean back against the kitchen counter, looking down at the floor. 

“...How is he?” You finally mumble. 

“He misses you.” 

“Funny way of showing it.” 

“Buying you an apartment and a car?” 

“I don’t care about things, he knows that. If he cared, he would pick up the—...Damn phone,” You trail off in a mumble as you hear yourself growing more and more frustrated. You tried calling him three times before you left Gotham, but you hadn't gotten a single response. You haven't bothered to try since.

“Anyway,” You clear your throat, “You never answered me about the lilies.” 

“I have a few weeds to pull up before I cover the beds.” 

“You should do that soon. It’s only going to get colder. Are the lights up in the city yet?” 

“They are.” 

“Must be nice. I love Gotham at Christmas.” 

“How is Metropolis?” 

“It’s nice! It’s nice. It’s fine. Pretty. Good lights. Not as good as Gotham’s, but good.”

“Are the accommodations at your parents comfortable, at least?” 

Comfortable. That isn't the word you’d use. These days, you’re sleeping on a lumpy pullout couch in a cramped living room, living out of a duffel bag. They’re meant to be spending their days comfortably, not with their heartbroken daughter sleeping in the living room and trying to put the pieces of her life together. You’re grateful to them for opening their home, and you feel so ungrateful for feeling crowded, but a week ago, this was not the life that you pictured—

You raise your hand to pinch the bridge of your nose to stem a wave of tears. 

“Mhm!” You nod, though Alfred can’t see you, hoping that the affirmative movement will bolster the firmness of your tone. “S’nice, it’s cozy.” 

“I am glad to hear it.” 

“Yeah! Yeah, thank you.” You clear your throat. “I should get going for work soon, I’ve got a meeting to prep for.” 

“Of course. I'll send the remainder of your things tomorrow."

“Sounds great. I’ll call you soon.” 

“It will be lovely to hear from you then.” 

“It’s lovely to hear from you now.” You smile bitterly. “Bye, Alfred.” 

“Goodbye.” 

You lower the phone and hang up, raising your hand to swipe at the few tears that have managed to slip. Work, you have got to get to work. Your parents' place is a quick bus and train ride to and from the office, but you’ve been getting in early to get up to speed—and with the hopes of avoiding the paparazzi. 

There aren’t nearly as many as there were when you were in Gotham, but so far, you’ve had a handful lingering around the front door when you leave. They always throw out questions—Why’d you leave Gotham? Did you and Wayne break up? Did he cheat on you? Why aren’t you living in the apartment with your name on it? Are you ever going back to Gotham? 

You hadn’t bothered to answer a single question, just kept your head down and strode toward the train station. They had the decency not to follow you on, or back to the apartment. When you arrive this morning, there isn’t anyone with a camera outside the building. You give the receptionist a friendly smile before you head to the elevator, pressing the up button with a knuckle to keep from dropping your phone or spilling your coffee. 

The office is quiet when you step inside. You can see a couple of other people there, but they don’t acknowledge you as you settle in. You open your laptop, humming to yourself as the laptop begins to boot up. You heard a few carolers performing Silver Bells on your way to the office, and it is stuck in your head now. You rest your chin on your hand, trying to picture what the grounds’ gardens must look like all covered over. You can picture Alfred crouching down, covering the raised beds with chicken wire, with Bruce pulling it taut from the other end—

You shift in your seat, trying to push the thought of Bruce away.

He’d be bundled up, too, maybe using the spare pair of gloves that you bought for Alfred—

Ugh, stop it! Stop, just banish him from your mind. That’s probably impossible, sure, but you can pretend, right? You click on the internet app, and freeze when you see the loaded article on the homepage: Bruce helping a model out of a car. You recognize her. You're sure that you’ve seen her at a couple of Liz’s parties. You can’t quite remember her name, though…Your eyes stray to the description before you force them away again, pulling up your email and biting the inside of your cheek to keep from letting tears fall. It feels like all you can do these days is cry, no matter what you do. You know that getting over Bruce is going to be slow-going.

Your hand strays to your neck, where the lariat necklace used to sit…No. Nope, letting it go. Taking out your headphones, putting on your favorite angsty playlist and letting it go. 

--  

“How was your day, honey?” 

You poke through your container of leftovers as you lean against the kitchen counter. You give your mom’s question a placid smile, and don’t bother to say a word. You know that an admonishment isn’t far behind. 

“Oh, don’t stand and eat,” She tuts just a moment later when she spots you. 

“I’m fine standing, mom. I've been sitting all day.” 

“Your day, honey.” 

“It was okay. We got the invite for the Christmas party, it’s next week.” 

“Everyone was nice?” 

“It’s an office job, not my first day of kindergarten.” 

“Well,” She sniffs, “Forgive me for asking a question.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“Everyone's pretty nice, yeah, but...I don't know. We reviewed this application for a toy maker who wanted to set up a workshop for the holidays, but the board wound up turning it down. I thought it seemed like a good cause,” 

“Oh really, that’s nice.” 

Nice. She isn’t listening—but you push on anyway: 

“It’s a bummer, you know, this Schott Jr. guy’s application was kinda…Sad. It was a little childish, though. I think the writing on the grant really messed up his chances.” 

“You can tell me about it later, hon. I have my quilting group tonight.” 

God, your mother has more of a life than you do these days. “Well, have fun. Where’s dad?” 

“Late shift.”

“Out on Neville Island? Jeez, how late are they gonna keep him?” 

“Your father is a big boy.” 

“I know, just…” 

Your mom casts you an almost pitying look. “This isn’t Gotham, sweetie. He’ll be fine.” 

You nod a little, peering down into your remaining leftovers. 

“Have fun at quilt club,” You add as your mom heads for the door.��

“Sure! We’ll keep it down when we come in!” 

“Yeah, I know you all get really wild while quilting.” 

“Oh, and honey?” 

“Mm?” 

“Try not to spend the night sulking. Maybe…I don’t know, go to a bar, pick someone up—” 

You choke roughly as you accidentally inhale the bite of food. You regain your breath, throat throbbing as you gasp, “Mom!” 

“The only way to get over someone is to get under someone! Okay, I’m going, I’m going,” She insists, holding her hands up in mock-surrender as she edges for the door, taking up her quilting tote bag. You scoff, turning and practically flinging the remainder of the leftovers into the trash as you hear her footsteps retreat down the hall.  

“Only way to get over someone is to get under someone,” You mumble, “Fucking…Unreal.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek, glancing toward the trash can. Maybe you shouldn’t have thrown out those leftovers. You’re still hungry. Maybe you ought to get yourself out of the apartment, grab some food. Or...You reach into your pocket, drawing out your phone. You don’t call Alfred again—instead, you dial Michelle’s number and walk over to the couch, plopping onto it. You wince a little, glancing down at the cushions. You really should be more gentle with it, you are sleeping on it all the time.

You set the sound to speaker as you wait. It rings…And rings…And—

“You better not be calling to tell me that you’re back with that jerk.”

You can’t help but smile at Michelle’s candor. 

“I haven’t even heard from…Him.” 

“That jerk. Call him a jerk.” 

“Mish, please.” 

“Well, he is. But I guess I’ve said it enough for both of us.” 

“How’s Keystone City?” 

“Honey, I have never seen so much corn in all my damn life.” 

“Is it doing the men out there any good?” 

“It would have to be super corn if it did.” 

“How’s the apartment?” 

“Oh my god, it's fucking huge. Half the price we were paying in Gotham for double the size. You should move down here. With our joint funds, we’d be able to build our own mansion.” 

“Mm, I don’t think I could move down just yet. I’ve only been at the Foundation for three months, and just moved to this location a week ago. If I up and left now, I’d lose my job in minutes.” 

“We could find you one down here.” 

“Is it very busy down there?” 

“No. But maybe you could do with slowing down a bit.” 

“Maybe. Hey, have you gotten your tree yet?” 

“Have you?” 

“The couch folds out right where it would go. Mom’s thinking of getting a small one that she can put on the kitchen counter.” 

“She wouldn’t.”

“...I think it’s guilt,” You admit. “She’s why I’m here, anyway.”

“Ugh, you’ve hit the point of blaming your mother. Finally—took you long enough.” 

“Well,” You grumble, “She wasn’t thinking, but her not thinking kinda got me on her couch. You know what she told me before going quilting?” 

“What?” 

“That I should go pick up a stranger.” 

“What?” Michelle screeches, and you wince, turning your head away from the phone. “Oh, my god! Are you mortified? I would die, oh my god!”

You giggle, a lightness taking over you for the first time in several days. 

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, the sexual tension between me and the electrical sockets are slowly creeping up. I’ve gotta find my own place.” 

“If you need a reference—”

“I’ll call you—” 

“I will lie through my teeth.”

“You’re a dear.”

“...Have you spoken to him?” 

No. “No.” 

“Have you blocked him?” 

No. “Yes.” 

“Do you miss him?” 

Terribly. “Maybe.” 

“...Okay, here me out—” 

“Oh, no, Mish—” 

“I’m just saying, maybe your mom is on to something. Not like that, but—have you taken a moment for yourself since you got to Metropolis?” 

You think for a few moments, shifting back on the couch. 

“...No, I’m just working,” You admit softly. “I feel like if I let myself do anything but work, I’ll just…I’ll fall apart.” Your words quiver as you say it.

“I’m not saying don’t think about it,” She reassures. “I mean…It was almost a year with him, you know? Just…Don’t let that be the only thing that you think about.”

You sink back into your seat, lips pursing as your eyes begin to wet. 

“I don’t,” You protest weakly. Michelle sighs on the other end, and you know that you haven’t fooled her for a moment. You shake your head, resolved to push the conversation in another direction: 

“Are you going to paint any rooms in your apartment?” 

“...I got a few paint samples.” You can hear how reluctant Michelle is to move on, but feel a swell of gratefulness when she does. “Mostly blues and greens. I’m thinking of some kind of turquoise for the kitchen.”

“Some kind of turquoise? Isn’t there only one kind of turquoise?”

“You know, I used to think that, but the paint section of the store proved me very, very wrong.” 

-- 

You tuck yourself in early, knowing that you won’t be asleep by the time your parents get in. Still, you’d rather fake it than have them ask you if you had a nice night in. Worse, your mother could ask if you’d gone out and gotten under someone, as it were. You stare up at the ceiling, trying to focus on taking slow, even breaths. 

You can’t help that Bruce creeps up in your mind. 

What’s he doing right now? Is he creeping through some alley? Swooping down on a wrongdoer? Conferring with Gordon? 

Elspeth Emerson, that’s that model’s name. She’d hardly spoken a word to you the couple of times that you had met her. Come to think of it, you couldn’t remember what her voice sounded like. 

Can you even remember what Bruce’s voice sounded like?

“I want you to leave!” 

You wince at the thought, and you roll onto your side, as if you can pull away from the memory. Yes, you remember what Bruce’s voice sounds like. How long will it take until you forget? You peer through the curtains, chest muddling with pangs of regret and sadness as your mind begins to race—to wonder if things would be different if you’d just fought a little harder—

But how many times can you give your love to a man that’s trying to push you away? A man who only took a few days to get over you—or at least to go out and make it seem like he’s moving on? 

He must have known that you wouldn’t use that apartment, or that car. He must have just wanted to seem like the bigger person, as if he wasn't the one that had sent you packing. You huff softly, raising your hand to swipe your tears away as they begin to leak. It’s no use; a few slip. It’s only a moment before the trickle turns into a stream, dampening the pillow beneath your head.

-- 

You fall into a rhythm. It isn’t a rut—it is decidedly not a rut. You manage to get up and out of the apartment before your parents are awake in the morning. The paparazzi stop lingering around the office, because your existence ceases to be news. You stop flinching at the mention of Bruce’s name; you stop hearing his voice as you try to fall asleep. The ache of missing him doesn’t disappear, but it lessens, some. You don’t take your mom’s recommendation of getting over Bruce by getting under someone else. You consider it, sure. You download a couple of dating apps, but you never actually make a profile. There’s just nothing about it that feels right. 

You speak with Alfred almost daily—usually on the phone, if not over text. You don’t ask about how Bruce is doing, and he doesn’t tell you. 

That doesn’t stop you wondering. 

-- 

“What the hell is that?” 

“Did you see it?” 

“It’s so cute!” 

“Do you think it’s some kind of office Christmas gift or something? A little teaser before the holiday party later?”

“You hear Wayne’s gonna be in attendance? Someone said they thought the saw him in the elevator. Do you think it’s because of…You know—” 

“Who cares—Hey, does that thing move or is it just a decoration?” 

Your coworker’s chatter draws your focus, and you turn away from your laptop. You can see people crowding around something by the elevators. You stand, joining them and peering around them to try and get a look at what they’re talking about. You can just catch a glimpse of a brightly colored, 5-foot tall nutcracker. Your brow furrows as you take in the fuzzy beard, the crisp blue paint of the nutcracker’s coat, the bright gold buttons, and the rifle tucked at its side. You nod at the painted script on one of the boots. 

“What’s that say?” 

“Schott and Son.” One of your coworkers steps forward, stepping around it and eyeing the back. “There’s a button back here!” 

Schott and Son. God, why does that sound familiar? 

“Press it!” Someone else urges. You hear the gears crank and whir, quickly covered by a music box rendition of the Nutcracker Suite. You smile a little, as the Nutcracker’s arms move as if marching. You all startle, then laugh as it steps forward and does a short bow. It reaches around itself, and your stomach churns as it grasps the butt of its rifle. You take a step back, warning, 

“Uh, guys—” 

“Lighten up,” Someone scoffs, “It’s just a toy.” 

Their insistence is stifled by a gunshot, leaving the tip of the rifle smoking. You hear two panicked huffs before someone screams. You whirl around to see blood pouring from your coworker’s shoulder. Their scream is chased by others as the Nutcracker ventures deeper into the office, firing again. You scramble away as the others do, running for whatever cover you can find. You stumble as someone gives you a shove, practically climbing over you to get out of the way. You crawl along the floor, getting beneath a desk and tugging a chair in. You fold yourself in as tight as you can, clasping your hands together and fighting to keep your breathing and quiet as you peer out, watching people scramble to get out of the way of the Nutcracker. 

Fuck, you left your phone on your desk, so you can’t call 911—Surely someone has, right? Someone’s heard the commotion from another floor, or an alarm has gone off, something— 

You hear a horrifying thud, chased by a few more gunshots. You wince with the furious bashing sounds, raising your hands to press over your ears. You focus on your own pounding heart, your rapid breathing—

The feeling of the chair shifting beside you makes you scream and open your eyes. 

The sight of Bruce crouching beside your desk makes you crumble. 

-- 

“...It’s nice.” 

It’s a feeble attempt at a compliment and a conversation starter. It’s also an insane understatement. It seems that Bruce didn’t only buy you this apartment—he’d had it furnished, and filled the fridge and cabinets with groceries, spices, all of your favorite goodies. You look from the fully stocked bar cart by the kitchen over to the living room, where Bruce is hurriedly closing the curtains over the lowered shades. 

Maybe it shouldn’t be such a surprise that the apartment he chose is so big. 

Just being the bigger person, You remind yourself, He doesn’t want to be the bad guy. 

Bruce finally turns to look at you. You see his lips twitch with something unspoken before he purses them and swallows thickly. He looks so wan—pallid, and tired. He’d looked it when he’d found you beneath that desk, after apparently smashing the shit out of that Nutcracker with a printer. The ride to this apartment (in the car that he had bought for you and had driven to the office) hadn’t made it any better. Neither of you had spoken. 

“You never, um…” You clear your throat. “What are you doing in Metropolis?"

“It was requested that I make an appearance at the holiday party.”

Your gaze narrows slightly. You smell bullshit...But you're not really in the mood to litigate it right now.

“Right.” 

You turn away, finally, shrugging off your coat and tossing it over the back of a chair as you head for the bar cart. 

“Are you alright?” 

“I’m fine, Mr. Wayne. Great, even.” You take up a clean glass, setting it windowsill beside the car before you reach for the bottle of whiskey. “You want some?” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“More for me, then.” 

“Are you sure you wanna do that right now?” 

“I can’t think of a better time.” 

You reach for the seal, struggling to twist it off before you fling it away. You grasp the bottle firmly, trying to ignore your shaking hands as you lift it and the glass. You can’t steady them no matter how hard you try, but you pour anyway, some of the liquid sloshing over the sides and onto your fingers—

You go still as Bruce crowds up close to you, grasping your hands and forcing them down. The glass connects with the windowsill with a sharp, shrill sound; you wouldn’t be surprised if it was chipped, if not cracked. You squeeze your eyes closed as you just feel him—the heat and strength of him up against your back; the gentle press of his face against your hair, and the sound of him drawing in a deep breath; the warmth of his hands, steady over yours. Your lower lip begins to wobble as Bruce intertwines your fingers, using his grasp on your hands to curl your arms around yourself. 

“Good thing I wasn’t in Gotham,” You quip dryly, forcing your stern tone over the your rapidly fracturing resolve, “Or today could’ve been a real disaster.” 

You shake Bruce off, stepping out of his arms and snatching your glass from the sill, striding more deeply into the living room. You hear Bruce sigh behind you before he hedges: 

“What do you want me to say?” 

“An apology would be nice.” 

“You want me to apologize for wanting you safe?” 

“Was I safe today?” You snap, whirling to face him again. “Was that—Killer nutcracker something I was safe from? You can’t anticipate every moment of my life, Bruce. No matter where I go, I could be in danger. What, do you want me confined to a room somewhere and permanently out of harm’s way? What if someone breaks into that room?”

You search his face, desperate for some kind of recognition, some kind of understanding. Bruce shakes his head, his gaze dropping shamefully to his shoes. You lower yourself into an armchair, peering down at the amber liquid, watching it shift with your still-shaking hands. You hear Bruce cross the room before his shoes come into view. He grasps the wooden coffee table, tugging it closer and sitting on the edge of it. 

“I just don’t…I don’t like the idea that someone could come after you again, with the purpose of getting to me, or getting something from me,” He admits softly. “I can’t be the reason that I lose someone I love. I can’t do that again.” 

You lift your head as Bruce’s voice breaks, heart stuttering as you see his eyes well with tears. You set the drink aside, taking his hands in yours. 

“I know that it scares you. It scares me, too. But Bruce, you cannot protect me from everything. But you do—” Your voice breaks as your face twists with upset, “You do protect me, from so much. You protected me after the kidnapping, you protected me today. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t know what would’ve happened…’Sides between this and the attempted robbery at the store, I think I’ve proven that I can get into plenty of trouble all by myself.” 

Bruce huffs a shaky laugh through his nose as he nods. He raises your joined hands to his lips, pressing kisses to your knuckles. 

“I’ve missed you so goddamn much,” He murmurs. 

“I’ve missed you, too.” 

“I want…” He winces at the phrasing, and seems to reconsider. “I mean…Would you consider coming home?” 

Home. Your chest aches with it—with the thought of the mansion, and Alfred, and the covered garden beds. 

“Bruce…I love you so much. I want us to have a life together, but…” You shake your head, steeling yourself as his face falls, “But I can’t keep having this argument. I can’t be pushed away from you over and over again and keep wanting to come back. This nearly broke me—No, Bruce,” You chase his gaze as he averts his, holding his eye as your tone grows more firm. “I understand that you want me in one piece, I get it. But how the fuck do you think I feel, night after night, knowing that every time you leave may be the last time I see you?...If I come back,” You hedge carefully, “This is…It. If we implode, or you change your mind and throw me out again, we’re through, I mean really through—” 

“That will never happen again.” 

“But—”

“You have my word.” He says it firmly, holding your eye as you held his. “I…I acted like an asshole. I didn’t want you to leave, but I thought it would be better for you.” 

“Nothing about this has been better for me.” 

“I know, I see that now. I’m sorry.” 

You nod a little, looking down at your hands. 

“...You just want me back in Gotham so you can keep a closer eye on me.” 

Bruce chuckles softly, raising a hand to cup your cheek. 

“I want you back in Gotham because nothing has been right since you left.” 

You tip your face into his hand, letting your eyes slide closed and allowing your tears to fall as you accept the gentle touch. Bruce shushes you softly, smoothing your tears away and pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

“Tell you what,” He murmurs. “Why don’t you call your parents, let them know you’re alright and you’re spending the night here before we go back. I’ll figure out getting your things back in a couple of days.” 

“They’re not gonna like that…And the Foundation’s going to be pissed.” 

“S’okay. I think they’ll understand you transferring back after what happened in the office. They've cancelled the holiday party to secure the building, make sure that thing didn't have any extra surprises hiding anywhere.” 

“Speaking of which,” You lean back, scrubbing your eyes. “There’s someone you should look into.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“The uh…The Nutcracker, it had a name on it—” 

“Schott and Son.” 

“Right. Winslow Schott Jr. put in an application for funding from the Foundation, but it was denied.” 

Bruce’s frown deepens. “When did this happen?” 

“Uh—Two weeks ago, maybe? He left a few angry calls and emails, but then he dropped off, so we figured he’d given up.” 

“Did he have a company he applied through, or was it just him?” 

“Umm…” Your brow furrows as you try to remember. “It was…The Toymaker, or…The Toyman, something like that.” 

Bruce hums, nodding. “I’ll have Fox pull the file, see what we can find.” 

“Okay.” 

You stand and step away, and only make it a couple of steps before you hear Bruce stand. He catches hold of your hand, folding you into his arms. You go willingly, pressing your face into his neck and drawing in a deep breath as you cuddle close. 

"Bruce?"

"Mm."

"Why are you really in Metropolis? I know you, you hate these parties."

Bruce's thumb sweeps along your lower back as he peers gently at you.

"I needed to see you," He admits softly. "It was just supposed to be for a minute...But I was headed to your floor, and I heard the shots, and..." His face goes tight, his jaw tensing. "I couldn't stop myself."

"I'm glad you didn't," You give him a small, reassuring smile. "But I'm a little biased." You reach up, gently sweeping your fingers across his stubbled cheek.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” You accuse. 

“Told you,” He mumbles, “Nothing’s felt right since I lost you.” 

You tip your chin, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. 

“Then it looks like you found me just in time."

Next Part

[bri-cheeses]

Fiercely and obsessively (wrapped around your finger) — Part 4

| Rosekiller Soulmate AU | Previous part is here | Word Count: 716 |

-

Evan had been acting weird. Speaking in short sentences, avoiding eye contact, and finding excuses to be busy had all cultivated into some big, terrible behavior of Evan’s that was driving Barty up a wall. It had started with Evan and Regulus’s conversation in the library, but it had gotten steadily worse ever since then. And now, two days before Evan’s birthday, Evan was fully avoiding him.

Maybe some people would call it healthy, this step back from complete codependency, but it just left Barty feeling off-kilter, like a ship without an anchor. Without Evan, things were less bright, somehow, and had turned into something lackluster and dull.

The way things had been before this past week were undoubtedly better—Evan catching his eye after a teacher had done something stupid, or them racing through the halls together, or them sitting in the common room, all tangled up in one another as usual. That was how they were supposed to be, Barty-and-Evan, not Barty and oh look at that, Evan just happened to be standing beside him. That was just wrong.

So yes, it was safe to say that this new dynamic between them absolutely sucked.

And so Barty was going to do something about it.

“Pandora!” he called, stopping the blonde-haired girl in her tracks. She tuned around, and in the dim lighting of the corridor, her eyes looked just like Evan’s—blue eyes flecked with dark spots. They were magical.

“What is it, Barty?” she asked, and while their eyes and hair were the same, their voices were complete opposites. Evan’s was flat and somewhat toneless, while Pandora always spoke with an airy lilt in her voice.

It was the harsh reality check Barty needed, because the similarities between the two had gotten him lost in his worry of Evan’s recent behavior. He shook his head and focused at the task at hand.

“Evan’s been avoiding me,” he said. He sounded kind of despondent, which was an accurate representation of how he felt about the entire situation. Pandora nodded in understanding.

“Ah, yes, I thought that might happen.”

Wait. She had expected this to happen? Surely there was some logical reason behind Evan’s actions, then, if she had predicted this.

But Pandora didn’t say anything more, instead just standing in silence and staring at Barty as if waiting for him for speak.

And so, when she didn’t offer any further explanation, Barty was forced to push on.

“Why did you expect that? And how do I get him to stop doing that?”

There was a second of silence where it seemed like Pandora was content to just say nothing, and Barty opened his mouth once more. Luckily, she started talking before he had to ask again.

“Well,” Pandora began, “I know that he’s been worried about his soulmate mark. He wouldn’t ever tell you that, but it’s true. And since there are only two days until our birthday, he’s getting more and more stressed about it.”

He needed a second to digest that.

“Okay, so…” Barty thought out loud, the pieces not making much sense at all, “he’s avoiding me because of that?”

“Pretty much,” Pandora confirmed.

And wasn’t that odd? Barty didn’t have anything to do with Evan’s soulmate mark, so why on earth was he deciding that it was a good idea to withdraw from his closest friend? It just didn’t make sense.

But he didn’t have to understand it. He just needed to know how to fix it.

“Sure,” he lied. “Makes sense. But how do I get him to stop avoiding me?”

Pandora thought on that for a moment, her long earrings swaying as she tilted her head in consideration.

“I think,” she said slowly, after a long pause, “you probably just need to confront him on it. Don’t demand answers or anything, just make it obvious that you’ve noticed and that you’re upset that he’s doing it. I’ll think he’ll come around after that.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

Pandora shrugged. “Then you’ll have to wait a couple of days, until our birthday has passed.”

And then she skipped off down the rest of the hall, leaving Barty in her wake.

Two days. Two days he would end up going without Evan if he didn’t get this right.

-

(Part 5 is here)

[im-a-writer--im-in-distress]

Rules (#1 & #3)

Insert with: Ruhn Danaan

Reader: Female (she/her)

Rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI)

Words: A lot. (3500+)

About: Ruhn’s girlfriend has been faking orgasms…

Warning(s): SMUT (MINORS DNI); explicit sex discussion, oral (f-receiving), talk to your partners, peeps!

A/N: Day Three of Ruhn Week 2024! The prompt is "Chapter 3". @ruhnweek New stories all week! I recently stumbled onto this side of Reddit and decided to give them some love.

Well, there’s no way he was going in there now. Ruhn had just returned from his evening run, looking forward to a relaxing night with you. But when he’d arrived, he immediately heard your upset voice and Bryce in there with you. Her words had stopped him from bolting in there:

“Why would you keep that from him? Ruhn would want to know.”

And your response. "You can’t tell him, okay? He’ll think it’s his fault."

Ruhn pressed himself flat against the wall so that he could hear you clearly, the only two voices in the apartment.

“The last thing I want to think about is my brother in bed,” Bryce shivered at the ick of this conversation. “But if he’s doing a shitty job at sex, it is his fault.”

His brain short-circuited.

“He’s wonderful,” you said, emotions thick in your voice like you were close to crying. “He’s amazing. I don’t deserve him—”

“And yet you’re the one faking orgasms.”

The words slammed into Ruhn’s gut as his brain failed to catch up. Echoes of your sounds came back to him, part of him now trying to pick out which ones were real and which were fake. How long had you been faking it? Recently? Always?

He felt like he couldn’t breathe, and if the door hadn’t burst open at that exact second, he would’ve landed on the floor. Instead, as it happened, he was launched from his hiding place as Flynn and Dec burst into the house hauling a keg.

“We’re here for the party,” they chanted, and a small wave of people came in behind them.

“Get out. I canceled that,” Bryce barked, getting up from the couch. Leaving you sitting alone on it with your eyes pinned to the floor.

His first instinct was to confront you, to demand an explanation. But another part of him hesitated. Did he even want to hear any more? He felt a lump forming in his throat, a wave of self-doubt crashing over him. A bunch of other emotions filled the gaps. Why would you do that? As you continued to avoid his gaze yet kept trying to make yourself smaller under the weight of it, a thread of anger sewed into his skin.

Music kicked on and, despite Bryce’s best attempts, the party was on. With a loud sigh, Bryce crossed towards Aurora and yanked her to her feet. Pulling her with her, the annoyed redhead snatched her brother’s wrist in the other hand and pushed them both towards the bedroom. "And you two," she said, "are going to sort this out."

Bryce locked the door behind them. Ruhn grasped the rattly doorknob, and Bryce punched the door on the other side in protest. She shouted through the door. “Stay in there until you two have fixed this. Fucking cowards.”

Even though Bryce had stomped away and therefore they could escape, Ruhn remained frozen with his hand on the doorknob. The weight of Bryce's disappointment pressed down on him. She was right. He was avoiding a conversation that needed to happen. What the hell could he say, though?

"I'm sorry you overheard that."

Ruhn's heart twisted at Aurora's words. He couldn't help but feel betrayed. Why would she keep something like this from him? The self-doubt gnawing at him left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Why?" The question slipped out before he could stop it.

Your voice was barely a whisper. "Because… I didn’t want you to know."

Confusion struck him, and he turned around, long hair spreading like a shadow between them. He tried to wrap his mind around your confession, but the pieces just didn't fit together. How could you fake something so intimate? And now you act like this?

“You think I didn’t have a right to know?” Another thought struck him. “Or could I just not do it for you?”

“No, it’s not like that,” you started.

“No? You thought you’d just what? Make fun of me?”

“No.”

“Then what?” He couldn’t help it. The anger inside was growing and it seeped into his words. “You stayed with me because you wanted to be the Autumn Queen?”

“Ruhn—”

“Wow, Y/N. Wow. Well done. You had me completely going. I totally fell for it.”

He turned away. She grabbed his hand, but he shoved her off. “Back off, Y/N.”

That did it. Now she was mad. “Oh, fine. Just stomp off like a child. Don’t even try to talk to me.”

“Like you did?” he snapped, whirling on her.

Something crossed over her eyes, and the anger cut in half. “I should’ve told you the truth. Bryce helped me see that.”

“Bryce,” Ruhn scoffed. If you couldn’t even come to him with a problem, what the hell were you two even doing? “How long?”

You furrowed your brows.

“We’ve been together nine months. We’ve been sleeping together for six. How long have you been faking it?”

“I never faked our relationship.”

“Just our sex life.”

“No,” you said. “Just my orgasms. Everything else is real.”

“That’s kind of a big part of it,” he said, anger still laced tight in his skin.

“I don’t think so.”

Ruhn looked wide-eyed at you, the hurt cutting deep. “Right. Got it.”

He grabbed the doorknob again, cracking it sideways to break the lock.

“I can’t orgasm.”

Ruhn stood there for a minute, unable to process the statement. It was an odd way to phrase it. Finally, he glanced over his shoulder. “What?”

There were tears in her eyes, and Ruhn’s heart twisted. He immediately regretted looking back at her. He was almost out, almost free of potentially the most toxic relationship he’d ever been in. And then he saw her cry.

“I faked them because I can’t. I’ve never been able to. Not with you, not with anybody.” She drew in a fractured breath. “But I knew if I told you, you’d think it was your fault. That you weren’t good enough, or some ridiculousness like that.”

She took a step towards him, then lost her nerve and stopped. “I faked the orgasms so that you knew how I truly felt about us.”

“That you didn’t trust me,” Ruhn supplied. “Good to know.”

“No,” she said, a new wave of bravery locking her Y/E/C eyes into his. “You are perfect, Ruhn Danaan. You are everything I could ever want. You are kind and generous, with your love and with your time. You make me feel beautiful. And treasured. And I am so sorry that all of this has made you feel less than that, because that was never my intention. I was trying to spare your feelings, not hurt them.”

Anger seeped out of him like sand from a broken hourglass. But the hurt ran deep.

“You could have told me I don’t satisfy you.”

“But you do, you dumb, dumb male!” She cried, fisting her hair. “That’s the point. You satisfy me in every way that matters. Who cares if I can’t orgasm? I don’t. I have you. I am filled to the brim with you, and that’s all I need.”

You said you didn’t care, but you did. He could tell.

Ruhn sighed, a deeper emotion crawling up to the surface. "What bothers me is that you didn't even give us a chance to work together to fix it. You could have trusted me, Y/N. You could have told me."

Your heart clenched as his words hit you like a dagger to the chest. You could see the hurt and confusion etched on his face, and it tore at your soul.

"You’re right. I'm sorry," you whispered. "I should have told you.”

With his anger gone, Ruhn didn’t know where to go from here. You kept your gaze and your hands to yourself, like you expected him to walk off. He still wasn’t sure he wouldn’t.

But as the air hung between you like a chasm, he felt the need to at least clear the air. “Tell me now.”

Your eyes shot up to him in surprise, and then a blush broke out across your cheeks. You wrung your hands.

Ruhn reached over and took your hands, guiding you both to sit down on the end of the bed. You were stiff and so was he, but you deserved at least a chance to make this right. Especially after he’d reacted so poorly.

But after a long, awkward moment, the only thing you said was “I don’t know what else to say.”

“Well,” Ruhn swallowed, “tell me what you do like. What works when you touch yourself?”

You glanced up at him shyly before lowering your head. You’d retracted your hands from him when you sat down, and you were back to wringing them. “Um, not much. I mean, I have toys, but all they’re good for is overstimulating me.”

“Am I too rough with you? Is that why you aren’t finishing?

You met his eyes, this time shyness gone. It takes his breath away. Then, you sighed, muttering, “You’re still not understanding.”

“Then, tell me.”

At first, he wasn't sure you would. “It’s not that I don’t finish. It has nothing to do with you. It’s that I never have. I guess, there’s a population of us that have weak muscles down there. We get overstimulated way before we release.” You shifted on the bed, subconsciously putting distance between him and you. “It’s just something that happens. It has nothing to do with you.”

You said it twice, and you believed it. But he didn’t.

Another thought struck him, though. How often had he come undone in your hands, under your mouth? He had commented more than once on how talented you were in bed. Was that you overcompensating for what you clearly saw as a shortcoming? He tried not to think about the other males you had practiced on.

Which only left room for a wave of guilt to crash on him. You drew his release out of him like no one else ever had. Your touch riled him up like electricity on his skin, your kiss fire in his veins. He’d always been a sexual male, and she had never disappointed. But how cruel he had been, unraveling when she couldn’t.

“Don’t do that,” you snapped, poking him in the chest. “Don’t you feel guilty.”

You had moved closer, your E/C eyes piercing into his soul. You were so close he could feel your breath on his skin, and his body reacted accordingly. He tried to shove it down.

“Watching you…” You let out a loaded breath. “Watching you is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Fuck. Now was not the time to get turned on by her.

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “I want to satisfy you.”

“You do,” you said, your hand tracing up to his jaw. He swallowed.

But the insecurity was there under his skin, too. “No, I don’t. If you’re faking it, I don’t.”

“I told you already.” Your other hand tracked his tattoos and electricity lit up the nerves. “I only faked the end. Nothing else. Everything else is real. More so than it ever has been.”

Your eyes twinkled. “Before you, I didn’t even understand why it was fun. Sex. It was nothing to me.”

He pulled her arm down. “I shouldn’t touch you if it doesn’t feel good.”

“You taught me what it’s supposed to feel like. You taught me what it was to make love.” You cupped his face in both your hands. "With you, it's magic."

There were no words he could say to that. None that got even close to the feeling you had given him. All he had was a new resolve.

He swallowed, preparing for his own question. "What did previous males do to you?"

You pulled away in surprise, then eyed him. "You don't want to hear about that."

You were right. He didn’t, but… "If it helps you get off, I want to know."

He saw the arousal flash across your eyes, and it was nearly the end of him. But this was more important.

“Don’t bother. You’re better.”

He couldn’t help the smirk that appeared on his lips. “Alright, what do you like that I do?”

You smiled under the question, looking away. Then, you said, mood dipped, “I won’t ‘get off’. You shouldn’t worry about it. It’s okay.”

"You want it."

"But I shouldn't!" You cried, the sudden change rippling through the air. "You do satisfy me. You treat me well, you’re gentle, you’re being so sweet about this! How terrible am I to want more?"

Ruhn pulled your hands from your face. "You are a grown, powerful, sexual female. Of course, you want it. You SHOULD want it." You looked like you were about to cry. Like, you were about to break in his arms. "You say you can't orgasm. I say, you can learn. I'm going to help you."

“Ruhn—"

“We're gonna work on it. Because you deserve it. But—" he leveled his eyes with hers as his hand guided up her chin. "—no more faking. Every move you make, every sound that escapes, they have to be real, okay? I have to be able to trust you."

You didn’t have any faith in this plan of his. But you nodded. "No more faking. I promise."

“And you can’t go sabotaging this just because you think it won’t happen,” he added.

It took a minute for you to answer. “So… we’re okay?”

Ruhn released a breath, his hands finding their places on your skin. “Yeah,” he said, leaning in to kiss your temple. “We’re okay.”

You pressed your lips to his, and Ruhn slowed it to a lingering kiss. It was tender, but your whole body reacted like his lips pulled your very soul from your body. Whether it was in arousal or relief he didn’t know, and he didn’t care. The knowledge that at least this had always been authentic was enough to balm the remaining threads of betrayal.

You pulled away. "And you," you said, your finger back to poking at his collarbone. "You cannot take any lack of orgasm as failure on your part. Because I know you. You'll think it's you, and it's not. It never was."

Your words struck a chord in him. You were right, even if he was only just realizing it. Your confession had made him insecure, and he questioned your relationship rather than listening to you.

He slipped a hand into your hair and pulled your lips back to his. It's slow and deep, a coaxing of each other's tongues and mouths, as if for the first time. But it wasn’t the first time. It wasn’t even the fiftieth time. Ruhn had never enjoyed kissing a female as much as he did you. In previous relationships, he had always preferred other activities for his tongue. But with you— Kissing you lit up his soul, like a spark of starlight just from the touch of your lips. Your kiss was just as intimate and erotic as anything else. You swelled in his arms, like a balloon he was breathing air into, your arms wrapping around his neck and pulling yourself into him, fingers tracing through his long hair. It felt amazing.

Ruhn's own hands trailed along your body, feeling you react to his touch. He pulled you onto his lap, which you did with no fuss, pulling his lip ring into your mouth. A low groan rumbled in Ruhn's chest. You smiled against him. "I love your sounds."

"I want to hear yours," Ruhn said at your ear. His teeth trailed down the tender skin of your neck, and a heated breath escaped from your lips. He nipped. "You can do better than that.”

Your teeth came down hard on his shoulder, and Ruhn hissed, his hands digging into the flesh at your waist. You usually didn't bite until later on in the process. It made him happy. It was a sign you were just as turned on as he was.

He pulled back from your kiss, trailing his thumb across your lips as a breath shuddered across it. He caught your eye. "We didn't say this earlier, but I think it should be another rule: We tell each other the truth. Always. I'll go first:" he added, hopefully taking the danger out of the request. "I like it most when I get to taste you."

Your eyes grew wide at his confession, a sharp rise-and-fall of your chest spurring him on. "I love the feeling of you around my tongue, and I love the sounds you make when I go down on you."

He held your gaze, patiently awaiting your response.

It was a long wait. Red in the face, you found your words. "I like that, too. But I like it best when you're under me."

Ruhn's dick twitched at the thought. You liked riding his face the best? Fuck, you were created just for him.

Ruhn removed you from his hips and settled towards the head of the bed, while you discarded your underwear. He motioned for you, and you draped a leg across his face. The skirt of your dress settled around him. You lowered yourself onto Ruhn's awaiting lips, and his first movement was a long stripe of his tongue along your folds. You released a vocal sigh, and Ruhn traced his lip along your clit with a smile. His girl had always required extra work up to get vocal. Now he knew why.

He breathed in your scent, lapping at the wetness already heating your skin. Your hips rolled downwards, and his arms locked onto your thighs. One of your hands laced fingers with his. He growled against your core, and you whined softly at the sensation.

Ruhn took note. This was no longer about physical gratification; it was an experiment. Ruhn wanted to know exactly what he could do that would make you unravel. Every touch was to gauge your response. Now that you were being honest about how he made you feel, he wanted to know exactly how you would respond to his best work: his tongue stroking the length of you folds (breathy inhales and her hand squeezing his), his tongue penetrating her (inner walls clenching and rolled hips), his lip-ring against her clit (twitches and cries), him sucking on her clit with and without his fingers pressed inside of her (grinding down on him). He tried it all, and he stored away the information. The longer he worked you, the wetter you became. Which was impressive anyway, because you were already turned on when you first sat down on him.

At a particularly sharp suck on your clit, your entire body reacted, back arching as a fragmented moan escaped. Good to know. He ran his lip ring over the bud again, and you squirmed against him. His strong arms held your thighs tightly to him. You always had been wriggly. "R-Ruhn."

His name fell from your lips in fractured speak, and his dick twitched against his jeans. Hearing his name on your tongue like this was enough to drive him mad. He rolled that spot with his fingertips as his tongue dipped inside. Those inner walls were tight around his tongue, and Ruhn moaned, the vibration sending a shiver up your spine. You pulled against his hold again.

'Talk to me', Ruhn said into your mind, moaning again and the vibrations climbed upwards.

It worked like a charm. "Ruhn, you have to… stop with the clit."

Your words were nearly a plea, and you resisted his touch again. Ruhn released one of your thighs to give you space. Your hips lifted off of his lips a little, and he took the chance to slide two fingers inside. The soft moan that fell from you was everything.

His fingers pressed against your inner walls, and he was thrilled when you rutted against him. You were really trying to be honest with him. His heart swelled, and he kissed your core. His fingers curved in rhythm against that inner spot. Your hips rolled against his fingers, searching for the pressure, and all at once, Ruhn could feel your desperation. Your body knew you were close, even if you didn’t. You'd told him to back off, but you were right there. He could get you there.

Ruhn pressed a flat tongue across your clit, the pressure ripping a loud cry from your lips. That was new. Ruhn’s soul ate it up.

He did it again, needing to hear the sound again, pressing against the sensitive bud at the same time his fingers thrummed against your inner palette. You were swollen and ready. You just needed a little bit more. He sucked on your clit again, and you ripped yourself off of him, sprawling next to him on the bed.

He turned quickly. "Don't get excited," you said, eyes squeezed closed. "I'm just overstimulated."

Ruhn couldn't help it. Disappointment flooded over him.

“I’m sorry.”

“No. Stop,” he said, his hand on your cheek as he kissed your forehead.

You were nearly too soft to hear. “I tried to hold on.”

"I know you did," he reassured. "And you were incredible. We'll get there." His eyes locked onto yours.

You weren’t so sure, but he was. And the taste of yourself on his lips was enough.

[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.

[hypersonic04]

Can you write something about when Ross introduces the reader to his friends? Or vice versa? I know they kinda meet at the bar but maybe Ross talking about how much he likes her the day after or something 🤭

I love the idea of this!

I think maybe it's post-bar situation, and as you said, he's been talking about how much he likes her to all of his friends. He was sat round at one of theirs watching the football and one of them asked about you, and he went so blushy and coy! They all really liked you too, and it was visibly obvious how into each other you were that night! They're encouraging him to ask you out, and I think rather than just point-blank asking you on a date, he kind of skirts around it a little bit.

"Do you remember Tom, my mate from the other night? It's his birthday on Friday, we're going out for some drinks. He said you're more than welcome to come and bring some friends, if you fancy it." He's driving you home when he says this, craftily timing it so that there's not much left of the car journey in case you say no. Obviously you're very enthusiastic about it, smiling perhaps a bit too excitedly about an evening in the pub. He's chuffed with your response, telling you the details and everything.

I think it's that particular occasion when you properly get to meet his friends. You take his friend a card and a bottle of wine, which Ross finds really sweet ("you shouldn't have, that's so lovely of you."), and I think they kind of drop hints to the both of you to just get on with it lol. Maybe Ross has gone out for a smoke with some of his other mates, some of yours too, and it's just you and the birthday boy and his girlfriend. They're immediately like 'has he asked you out yet?' to which you flush bright pink.

"Sorry?" You question, taking a rather large gulp of beer.

"Has Ross asked you out yet? I mean, we've been on at him for ages, I don't know why it's taking him so long."

"Uh, no, I-"

He comes back in before the conversation can escalate (thank GOD), and he's all smiley and his hands are freezing when they rest on your bare shoulders. It makes you tingle a little bit, the contact on your skin, all kinds of thoughts making you avoid his attempted eye contact. The night is as lovely as ever, maybe you and Ross have a game of pool that he 'let you win!' (he did not let you win), and you cheer on his mates when they take the little stage in the corner and decide it's karaoke night, delivering a wonderful rendition of Wonderwall.

You're going around saying your goodbyes when one of his other mates makes a rather loud joke about him understanding what Ross sees in you. I reckon Ross is equal parts embarrassed and also a bit jealous? In his mind, no other man should be able to look at you, because you're his lol. I mean, obviously he sees the stares you get in public and the way men look at you, but it's different when it's one of his mates making a cheeky joke. He just rolls his eyes and takes a sip from his beer, raising his eyebrows at you when you get to him.

"I'll wait with you outside for your taxi." He kind of states matter-of-factly, not giving you much choice (not that you'd have said no).

You're both leaning against the wall outside the pub, your jacket pulled around you and your breath visible. The music in there is muffled, and there's not many people in the smoking area either - it's kind of just the two of you, and it's so nice after an evening of being surrounded by people.

"They like you, my mates, I mean." He gives you a small smile and it makes your heart flutter, because his face is in such close proximity and he looks all sleepy and you want nothing more than to bring him back to your flat and fall asleep together. Although you're yet to experience it, you're convinced there's no duvet quite like Ross' arms around you.

"Oh, yeah, they're lovely." You nod, kicking some stones from underneath your shoes. "They did mention about how they keep telling you to ask me out, though." You giggle. He groans, tipping his head back and squeezing his eyes shut as he cringes, making you laugh even more.

"I'm sorry about that, I..." his voice trails off and he sighs, a laugh escaping his lips. "What did you say to them when they said that?"

"I dunno, I just..." You swallow heavily when you notice him looking down at you, a fondness in his eyes. "'Wouldn't say no."

The corners of his mouth curve upwards, but your taxi arrives just before he can say anything. You both rise from leaning on the wall and, in some kind of unfamiliar spurt of bravery, you stand up on your tiptoes and kiss his cheek. His skin is cold against your warm lips and you can feel the bristle of his beard as you pull away, getting into the taxi. He's beaming, and when he goes back in after making sure you're alright and everything, his friends are definitely suspicious and are teasing him - "you did it, didn't you? mate, she's so cool. ask her out, for christ sake!"

[hannahssimblr]

I'm curious what the drama was about with part 2 of your story? What were people getting annoyed about?

Haha i'll put this under the cut for anyone who doesn't want to be spoiled

it was all about DEAN!!!

Some people clocked almost instantly that he was playing games with Evie and trying to mess with her head, and others thought he was a nice hard working man who didn't deserve skepticism from others.

It really kicked off on chapter 9 - it's the one where Evie waits outside his place of work to ask him why he's blocked her and he insists on walking her all the way home even though she's not totally cool with him knowing where she lives.

People were fighting in the comments because some felt he was right to accompany her because it's unsafe for a woman to walk alone at night, and others pointed out that it's unsafe because of men like him. Then it became a bit more like 'well if Dean is a creep then Evie is a creep for waiting outside his work for him'. It was a whole big thing where some of the women were saying 'well she said no! and he pushed her anyway!' (which is Dean's MO) and some confused men were saying 'but she's drunk! she doesn't know what's best for her - sometimes you have to act in a person's best interests even if they insist otherwise' it was really about a woman's right to choose for herself versus a man's perceived responsibility to take care of her. It was interesting but it was also a bit much for me hahaha - i just wanted people to read the story, not for them to make it controversial. It wasn't really supposed to be a commentary on women vs men, it was supposed to be Evie just doing what Evie would do, and Dean doing the same.

The other thing was that some people were annoyed because Evie was being a bitch - there were comments about her unkind thoughts about her college friends, and questions about why she hung out with them if she didn't like them, and I honestly felt the reasons for this were clear enough, but I guess if you don't get it and you'd never personally behave like that then it might seem a bit weird. I was surprised by the absence of empathy towards her, as though she should have somehow developed a rock steady sense of self and been able to resist peer pressure despite never showing signs of being able to do so before. Evie is mean about the other girls and Dean because she is rewarded socially by the others for doing so, and she does drugs in the final chapter despite being against them for the whole story because she's given up the last shreds of herself, she doesn't care anymore and nothing matters, so neither do her personal rules and boundaries. Everything has been bulldozed over already by these people, so what's one more thing?

Obviously Jude got flack too, because he always does hahaha. He's definitely not his most wonderful self in part 2, he's avoidant of the hurt he's caused, but he's also like, 20 years old. It always bothered me that very adult expectations were placed on him when all he ever did was act like a normal young man. In my opinion he's in the right in chapter 19 during the conversation at Jen's flat, but I remember commenters were annoyed by him coming in and trying to tell Evie what to do - interesting, seeing as the same people argued for Dean to be allowed to overrule Evie's explicit desires in the interest of her safety, but Jude was not. I just never really got why Jude should be held to a higher standard than Dean, but anyway, it was all interesting, if not slightly stressful to experience.

I don't really get any drama with part 3 - I think mainly people are reading silently, and if they hate it and they're fuming about what's happening they don't really let me know, which is fine with me hahaha I just wanted to write a little story at the end of the day.

[practically-an-x-man]

Ok so like I know Indie is edgy about it and stuff which understandable but I can't stop thinking about what could've been with her family 🥺

!Spoilers I guess for the fic!

But like it's sad! It's sad Satine was murdered and it's sad that Obi Wan and her obviously weren't able to get Indie when she was older. It's sad that they had to hide her alone on a planet in the first place! Or felt like they had to.. I wonder if their spirits(?) Or at least Obi Wan's force ghost self? I wonder if he forever feels that guilt of abandoning her...

Yeah... I thought a lot about that when I was writing the fic too

Spoilery things under the cut

So yeah, for one, it really does suck that they had to hide her on Corellia at all, even if the original plan was just for a few years until things died down enough to retrieve her. But think about it: if she grew up somewhere else, even if they were careful, eventually something would slip about who her parents were. And then she's a diplomatic bargaining chip or a youngling trained too early in the Force at best, flat-out ransom at worst. Her parents would've had a lot of enemies, and very powerful enemies at that, and the safest thing was just to not let those enemies realize Indigo existed at all.

And then... obviously that plan fell apart, but the initial idea was well-intentioned at least.

Second thing: fun fact, the original draft for this story DID have Indie interact with Obi-Wan's Force ghost at some point, in more detail than the one whisper she gets after the final battle. It was supposed to occur before the final battle, basically in place of having her captured on the Judgement. She was going to have a bit of an identity crisis after Maz broke the news to her, and fly off to where Obi-Wan's Force ghost was last spotted to have a conversation with him. I was going to have Hux there as well, since Indie doesn't know how to fly a ship and she'd want him there with her anyway.

In my head, it would've been a bit of tension in and of its own right, at first. Obi-Wan would try and apologize and explain (and yes, he feels incredibly guilty for what happened to her), but Indie would get overwhelmed by the emotion and lash out at him at first (and understandably, I mean, she was left on Corellia). It would end on a bit of an angsty note too, where she basically tells him that he was never her father before storming off. Once she leaves, Obi-Wan would stop Hux before he follows her, just long enough to tell him to look after her since Obi-Wan couldn't. It's basically a stamp of approval for Hux, or the closest thing. Meanwhile, Indigo was looking for closure and didn't find it.

(the idea here is that then, in the final battle, her reclaiming her name and ancestry is that much more impactful since she tried so hard to avoid it before)

In the end, I felt like that scene wouldn't really work for the main fic, for a few reasons.

I feel like it was accomplished well enough with the Maz scene, and having the Obi-Wan scene also might have felt redundant. Indigo's lingering trauma over her parents is a big part of her character, but there's a lot more to her than just whining about being left behind

Having them interact directly with Obi-Wan's Force ghost felt too easy. Usually the Force ghosts only appear to people when they need it and nobody else can help. Seeking them out is different, and Indigo has other people who help her get through that pain. As much as I love Ex Machina references in this fic, I try to avoid actual deus ex machinas like that. Obi-Wan is dead, there shouldn't be an easy way out.

I feel like it's more impactful not to have so much direct confrontation, closure or not. Indigo gets one whisper, and that's all she needs. Her parents have never been a figure in her life, and while she carries that trauma with her, she wouldn't get much out of seeing Obi-Wan in person as opposed to hearing the story from Maz

It took us away from the action, while the Judgement scene allowed them to keep things moving in a forward direction. The idea struck me, and I didn't think I could fit both ideas in whole maintaining the timeline of the movie decently well, so the Judgement scene won out

This answer got a lot longer than I meant it, I apologize. But you actually struck on something that was a big factor in weaving this fic together, so I wanted to talk about it! Thank you for the ask, I always love the chance to talk about my writing! I try to put a lot of nuance and detail into the characters and themes of my writing, so I will take any excuse to talk about it lol

[iron-hearts-ablaze]

Gortash had been rather easy on her the remainder of the day. Seemingly pleased she had managed to keep Gale's company amicable. She had been a good dog and as such, had earned a treat. So, she was permitted to go home an hour earlier than usual. An hour she spent pacing in her flat. As if rushing around doing chores - at least, that's what her monitor would cause Gortash to assume.

Did she make the situation clear enough to the Professor? Had she been too forward - too suspicious? He seemed to take it all in, but was he joking at her expense? He couldn't have said anything to Gortash - which was Karlach's biggest concern - since Gortash seemed content with her work. Or was this all a trap? Were the Steel Watch about to break down her door, take her in for 're-evaluation'? Again...

But nothing came of it. Karlach continued with her usual schedule. She couldn't bear to eat through her nerves, so she instead went over what she would say to Gale should he arrive at the meeting place. Soon enough, evening was upon the skies. Tying her laces, she headed out the door, jogging around the area for an hour before night full took hold. She had to keep things as normal as possible...

She slowed her jog down when she reached the park, panting slightly. At first, it seemed empty - cold. Her stomach squeezed slightly as she figured he wouldn't show, before she spotted him off to the edge, perched upon a bench. Taking another, calming breath, she walked over and took a seat beside him - leaving ample and respectful space but close enough that they could talk lowly without issue. A waft of strong deodorant and a strange metallic tinge was in her wake as her engine glowed more fervently than usual from her exercise.

"Hey..." She breathed as she got comfortable? She shook her head with a sigh, at disbelief of her own foolishness. "First things first, I'm sorry for landing all of that on you the way I did. Trust me when I say it was the safest way for me. And by the looks of things, it worked." With that out of the way, she curled one leg up onto the bench, half crossed.

"Right..." Another sigh, she had practised this, yet now her memory seemed to fail her. "There isn't many places where Gortash doesn't have his eyes and ears in this place. Me especially, I'm really restricted. People watch, they report back to him. I can't get away with shit - but this-!" She gestured to the park. "I knew this would be handy one day. Being monitored - literally - by Gortash, I need to be a creature of habit. I go for a run every night, the gym five times a week. He knows from watching all his little fucking screens that I stop here for a breather for a bit..."

She was rambling. Avoiding what she needed to tell him. "But you don't want to know about that," She gestured, as if shaking away the conversation. "I won't pretend I know a shit ton about your issue, Gale. But the benefit of being Gortash's pet, means I hear things just as much as he does. I know about the orb, how it's killing you." She took a moment to pull at her worn out crop top, rubbing at her chest. As if it ached... But she didn't comment on it. "I also know it's linked to something called the Crown of Karsus. I know fuck all about what that is, but maybe you do? All I know, is that Gortash has his hands on that crown - or is working on it at least. He's fucking drooling over it. Something about Godhood... Part of me thought it was just his complex but I dunno anymore...it may be real Godhood. But he needs a 'piece of Karsus'. You."

Karlach finally glanced over at him. "He doesn't care if you die in the process. I don't know what he told you, but I've overheard him talk to two others about how he tracked you down and 'planted the seed' but he needs the others to get a move on and find a way to tear that orb out of you without killing everyone."

"I'm telling you this for two reasons. One, I don't want him to kill anymore people. I'm tired of b-burying..." She choked a little, clearing her throat before steeling herself and carrying on. "I'm tired of him getting away with it. And I don't want him to get any more power. He's going to be bored with me and toss me aside. I don't want to die either... So figure something else out...please."

Gale was stunned by the sudden turn of events, but the serious look on Karlach’s face snapped him into focus. Forcing a smile, he tried to keep the pretence of normalcy.

"I see," was all he could manage at first, raising his glass to his lips and pretending to sniff the wine, as if appraising its quality. "How can I help you?"

Inside, his mind raced. His own condition—his fate—be damned. Gale had long considered himself a dead man walking, living on borrowed time, dangling from the false promise Gortash had dangled before him. What once seemed impossible, a fleeting hope, had revealed itself to be exactly that—too good to be true.

Of course it was. The whispers about the self-claimed duke had been easy enough to dismiss before, mere mutterings of unhappy politicians or rivals. But now, they weighed heavily on Gale’s mind, particularly one rumour that struck like a dagger: Gortash is a slaver.

Seeing the fear etched on Karlach’s face only solidified that truth. She barely moved, barely breathed. Gale indulged in the wine with a pretence of ease, even as the air between them grew suffocating. When she flinched at the sound of Gortash’s arrival, Gale maintained the act, raising his glass as if all were well, even while his heart pounded.

"You have immaculate taste in wine, and staff," Gale remarked smoothly, his voice steady. "I was more than happy to wait with such company."

He placed the glass back on the table, barely touched, not giving Karlach a second glance. For her sake, for her safety.

The meeting with Gortash proceeded similarly to their previous encounter. Gale continued to feign hesitancy regarding the supposed "procedure," offering just enough to keep the conversation alive, though the bile rose in his throat with every word exchanged.

By the time Gale returned home, his hands were trembling, the day's stress gnawing at him, and worse, at the orb in his chest. The cursed thing flared with pain, as if feeding off his distress, and Gale fumbled his way to the bathroom, nearly tripping in his haste. His hands shook as he popped a tablet from the blister pack, pressing it between his lips and pouring water into his palm from the tap, drinking it down in one quick gulp.

The medicine was one of the few things that still offered some relief, staving off the orb’s maddening effects. Parts of his body already bore the signs of the orb’s corruption: skin paling, veins darkening like creeping shadows, and the scar on his chest deepening, tendrils of the mark creeping towards his eye. His vision had already begun to blur in that eye, the edges of the world growing dimmer.

But with the tablet came relief, swift and welcome. Gale exhaled deeply, his body slumping to the bathroom floor as he buried his face in his hands.

Down there, in the quiet moments, his thoughts returned to Karlach, her admission that she was nothing more than a slave to Gortash. The pain and fear in her eyes haunted him. He glanced out the window, catching the sight of the sun beginning its slow descent from the noon sky. He had time still—time to prepare, time to think, and time to meet her.

By nightfall, Gale found himself sitting on a park bench, trying to appear relaxed. His posture casual, he gazed up at the night sky, though the stars were invisible against the backdrop of the city lights. It was a fool’s attempt at peace, but it was something to occupy his mind until she arrived. Something to mask the turmoil beneath the surface.

[valkerymillenia]

please make a post about bruce wayne being autistic

I already have, for several years now I've been saying that Bruce Wayne is neurodivergent and most likely autistic, but I don't think I've made a very detailed post specifically here on Tumblr so... Might as well?

With the arrival of "The Batman" and Pattison giving us a Bruce Wayne portrayal that most definitely reflects a neurodivergent Batman the way he should be, more and more people are starting to adhere to the autistic!Bruce headcanon and I'm all for it but many still argue that it's not canon to the comics, I beg to differ (and I'm hyper focused right now) so let's make a post about it, shall we?

Proof that canon Bruce is very likely in the autistic spectrum

For starters, Bruce canonically has PTSD (and anger issues that come with it) and OCD. He also suffers from acute anxiety and depression but none of this takes away from the fact that he's been autistic-coded for decades and not just in the comics, in fact, I'm going to be talking about the character across several types of media.

Also, remember that autism is a spectrum and every person is different.

Let's start with this actual panel from "Batman: The Imposter", it's a recent (2021-2022) black label comic but it's relevant since it features the point of view of a therapist/psychiatrist on young Bruce.

But now, let's get to the rest.

Brucie is excellent at mirroring, masking and generally BS-ing people!

As an adult he uses scripting a lot and his detective skills to pick up cues from people and act as they expect of him. Very good at playing pretend, not so good at real relationships. He reads people through factual data, analyzing micro-expressions, posture and words like a puzzle rather than naturally understanding social cues. (Additionally, he actually has fun playing different characters like Brucie or Matches.)

He's extremely empathetic (my god, so much hyper empathy) but also struggles with alexithymia.

He feels so much empathy that he literally cannot stop caring, he cares so much that he tries to protect the city with his bare hands, throws money at a million causes and will always go the extra mile for people (such as, for example, offering a Wayne Ent. job to an underage prostitute to get her off the streets).

He feels all this compassion but can't quite express it, he has a lot of trouble being emotionally demonstrative and picking up the right social cues, vulnerability does not come easy to him and neither does abstract expression.

He uses a flat tone, he's monotone and generally expressionless when he's not trying to fake a reaction or emotion, so he comes off as disconnected and disinterested and that causes friction with people like Dick and Clark.

He tends to express himself more in actions than words precisely because verbal expression is hard for him (unless he has time to plan out his speeches or is being very blunt).

Examples:

When Dick tells Bruce he's dating Babs and Bruce just grunts and shows no reaction, Dick misinterprets as lack of interest but Bruce actually just has no idea what reaction is expected of him.

He's incredibly blunt and to the point, he says exactly what he means and sometimes comes off as very confrontational, he doesn't go through the trouble of lying to make people feel better (I don't want to think about the Ric arc but... the Ric arc). If he has to lie to play a part or mask, he will often resort to sarcasm.

When he wanted to adopt Tim he was so bad at putting his intentions in words that Tim couldn't understand him and Bruce had to ask Alfred to explain/show him.

He hates small talk with a passion and goes out of his way to avoid it, he says what he has to say and leaves, if he wants to know how someone is doing he will go check/spy on them rather than simply ask (literally does this with the whole family). This also extends to Batman's habit of just disappearing mid-conversation once he feels he has as much info as he needs.

When Bruce gets engaged (and I'm referring to the almost-wedding with Selina in this case) he has trouble telling his kids and best friends about it because he doesn't understand why it would be important to them and doesn't know how to say it.

When Bruce is proud with Damian's efforts reigning in his violent tendencies early in their Batman and Robin partnership he had this interaction with Alfred- A: "Did you tell Damian you are proud of him?", B: "Of course.", A: "What exactly did you say?", B: "I said I found his efforts commendable.", A: *sigh* "Couldn't you just say you are proud of him?", B: *visibly confused* "Isn't that exactly what I did?"

When he and Dick have that rough patch where Dick leaves and stops being Robin (right before he becomes Nightwing), a lot of that bs is because Bruce can't properly express himself and pushes Dick away instead telling him that he's letting him go for his own good.

When Jason comes back as Red Hood and is so pissed at Bruce for not killing Joker to avenge him and for replacing him with Tim? Bruce could have told Jason that he did in fact try to kill Joker to avenge him but was stopped by Superman (and a whole lot of other bs) and he didn't replace him with Tim, he rejected Tim and Tim stalked him and made himself Robin against Bruce's wishes. Would this explanation had helped with Jason's anger? Probably not but Bruce didn't even think to try because he didn't know how to express himself and that bullshit spiraled out of control.

Clark: "I know you didn't bring me back because you like me." B: "I don't...not like you."

Another canon interaction- B: "Family is...good." Jason: "What are you trying to tell me?" B: "I just told you." Dick: "He's telling you he loves you." B: "Isn't that what I just said?"

Hyper empathy- he pays for the Graysons' funeral and takes Dick in literally out of empathy, he sees himself in this boy and he thinks the most rational reaction to this is to adopt the kid, and he does it again with Jason.

SO. MANY. ENGAGEMENTS. He's so bad at expressing or even understanding emotion that when he falls in love he does it HARD and is really bad at expressing it so he just jumps right to the ring. Granted, this is a product of writers re-hashing the same classic climax and drama tropes with love interests over 80 years of history but I went through the comics and counted, Bruce was engaged at least 9 times (11 if we don't nitpick too much).

(I have a hundred more examples but this is getting long as it is.)

Real emotional expressions are rare and that makes them stand out, they can also be extreme and/or inappropriate.

Some examples of his extreme emotion reactions could be adopting the kids so easily, or punching people as a first instinct when he gets mad or overwhelmed, even when it's unnecessary (I could give a dozen examples of this one but my favorite is during the Court of Owls nonsense when he discovers the Owls put an electrum implant in Dick's tooth and rather than explain this to Dick while they are having a calm conversation about the CoO, he just pauses to punch Dick in the middle of the conversation in order to knock the fake tooth out, talk about a drama king).

Lack of social skills.

He doesn't even try to be social as Batman (and we've established that Brucie is a mask), and often misses certain jokes or sarcasm and has a very skewed sense of humor (often finding things funny that others don't or saying amusing things totally unintentionally).

His grunts or just outright refusal to answer certain things. Vocal stims. He seems to actually go non-verbal from time to time.

He has a lot of complex feelings but often doesn't understand them or know how to show them. Canon Dick, Clark and Jason don't often 'get' Bruce and become very frustrated by his lack of communication and his avoidance of emotional topics.

One of the reasons he connected so well with Cassandra Cain before Rebirth is because he doesn't have to talk to her, she can understand his feelings purely through his body language and that is clearly a massive relief for him.

When he's alone with Selina he shows a very soft romantic side but even there he has trouble knowing the right thing say or what is expected.

As an example, the proposal comes to mind- B: "marry me." S:"no" [some time later] S:"ask me again, but this time ASK, don't say it at me." B:"will you marry me?" S:"yes".

(Also, literally all his repressed reactions to the break up after she left him at the altar.)

He has canonically had meltdowns as a child in the comics (and shutdows in the "Gotham" show). It can be argued that some of his extreme (often violent) reactions to certain things as an adult could also be called meltdowns.

Rejection sensitive dysphoria. I think this one is really obvious, the man would rather block out anything emotion-related than face rejection, it's often a big trigger for his depressive tendencies.

He has "special interests".

Batman started as a symbol (let's not forget he has a bat phobia) but he became obsessed with all things bat-related, obviously. But he also has more specific and personal interests- detective work (he will make up puzzles if there's nothing to solve or he will actively look for trouble if everything else has been handled), making gadgets, dinosaurs, Grey Ghost, Zorro comics, classic lit, etc.

He hyperfixates on his interests and hyperfocuses on specific tasks A LOT to the point of injury and forgoing basic needs. A good example of his hyperfocus is how he handles specific Batman cases.

He info dumps! Enough said.

He has told Gordon that he "doesn't change his routine" and there was a whole panel about the importance of routine for him, including doing the same rituals every night. When he has to take a break from patrolling due to injuries, more than once it's been shown how it's almost physically uncomfortable for him to have that routine interrupted even when there's no specific case to follow up on.

Sensory issues!!!

Bruce has shown to like quiet and darkness, he's shown in some forms of media to be sensitive to bright light, he prefers to avoid crowds when he can, he has a massively high pain tolerance, he has a specific type of clothes he feels comfortable in and doesn't deviate from them (not the bat-suit but rather his damn turtlenecks).

He is a picky eater and likes very spicy food and sweets (autistic people either prefer bland foods and certain textures to avoid overstimulation or they go for very strong intense flavors precisely because they need the stimulation, Bruce is the latter, Alfred often sways him with sweets and it's official that his favorite food is spicy mulligatawny soup). In fact, he's such a picky eater that he has stubborn eating habits (like forgetting to eat entirely) and doesn't see anything wrong with feeding young Dick nothing but chips because it's "what Dick likes".

The entire design of the bat-suit could be connected to sensory things: his cape is very heavy, which could be connected to pressure stimming (it's so heavy that when Dick becomes Batman he complained and had to have a lighter cape made), if you really think about it his cowl is designed in a way that can filter out excessive stimuli (lights and sounds) and help him focus on specific things, etc, etc.

As a kid he connects better with adults because of his intellectual level, but as an adult he connects a lot more easily with children and teens.

This is shown both with people he rescues and with the people around him, there's a reason he connects and works so well with the young Robins but starts having communication issues with them when they grow up. (It's not mentioned often but a typical trait of people in the spectrum is that they tend to have problems connecting with people in their own age group).

Outside of life-or-death situations he often avoids physical contact as much as possible, even with people he cares about, and sometimes even when he's clearly touch-starved he doesn't usually initiate contact.

It seems to depend a lot on the level of trust he has for people. If a person he trusts initiates it he gets awkward but enjoys it, Dick is a good example; if a person he's not close to initiates contact he often shows annoyance or discomfort. It requires a high level of intimacy for him to initiate contact but when he does he's extremely affectionate (scenes with Selina or any of the his kids come to mind).

He likes making lists, files and hoarding information.

There's a scene where someone apologizes because the info they gave wasn't helpful at all and Bruce's reply was "I know more than I did 10 minutes ago. I like information." He also keeps very extensive (and often invasive) files about people he knows and has his famous contingency plans for every superhero he knows.

He's very methodical and organized about these things (like his case files and reports) but...

...he's a naturally messy person as seen by the state the manor and cave fall into when Alfred is not around and has difficulty taking care of himself, not because he's some sort spoiled rich man-child but because he underestimates his own needs and limits. EDIT: this is executive dysfunction. Both Battison and comic Bruce seem to need prompting for basic things like taking a shower or cleaning up after themselves as they seem to forget their own needs.

When he's not masking, he has a very atypical body language, such as his skulking and looming, avoiding eye contact, his evasiveness, the way he can stay inhumanly still for long periods of time if he needs to but is also extremely impatient and often doesn't stay still (I remember a panel where the cave computer takes 8 seconds to process some data and Bruce still complains it's too slow and needs and update, much to Clark's confusion).

.

I have more but this list is so long already and I'm tired.

I also had some comic panels but I don't have the patience to find them and pick out them out (tumblr has a 10 picture per post limit anyway). Might edit this later if I find any. If anyone knows the different sources, comic issues or has the different panels and gifs, feel free to add them.

SMALL EDIT: Martian Manhunter also claimed that being in Bruce's mind is very unpleasant. This could easily be because of the amount of trauma or intrusive thoughts from OCD but it's also very possible he was talking about experiencing the world and likely sensory overload from Bruce's perspective.

[shawty-writes-a-little]

Someday then [Part 11]

Find part 1 here

Genre: Darkling x fem!Reader

Warnings: Angst, violence

Word count: 5k (y’all wanted a happy ending ok)

An: This has been so hard for me to write for some reason but Yeo here’s your final part-

—

After yesterday’s conversation, y/n didn’t pay much mind to it simply to avoid that happened in the first place. Some harsh words were exchanged on her part she believed. But she wanted to feel no remorse of that-no words that would’ve cut deeper than the years she spent waiting every time just to be discarded.

Soon y/n was going to be faced with a bigger problem than that, however much expected. She was strolling in the hallway when there was a different stomping of boots all around the palace. Troops going on about in a hurry-half aware she roamed through the hallway to her own duties to find Aleksander coming her way. In a mental struggle which side to turn aside to, to stay away from him. Just a few minutes ago she was debating if she hurt his feelings but couldn’t be bothered to think about the burden of conversation right now.

Before she could part ways, Aleksander seemed to walk in her direction in a rather approaching way. Good heavens. Just to make matters worse she thought.

He stopped in her way as she gave a slight nod without a word in the little span of time before he spoke “The sun summoner is missing.”

Y/n furrowed her brows with a realistic attempt over being stunned “Since when?”

“Since last night.” he replied.

“Do we know that for sure?” She inquired again with concern.

“We have had people look all a-“

“Might it be she is abducted? It’s not likely she would flee” y/n cut him off mid sentence sounding assertive.

“I didn’t tell you she’s missing out of the little palace.” He said with a flat tone shooting an arrow in the dark slightly not convinced wether she knew something?

“I just assumed that-apologies then”

“—For all we know she could still be here at the palace.”

“I’m not aware of anything go ask your troops.”There was a sudden change in her lean body language but she maintained a casual tone.

But now he knew she was probably hiding something. Aleksander wrapped his hand around her arm. Involuntary to her taking both of them to the nearest empty room while y/n struggled inside his grip in attempt to walk inside on her own. Reaching to a room unoccupied just maps all over the table Aleksander slammed the door behind them turning to her indignantly. “What do you know?”

“This is absurd! I told you I don’t. How would I?” Y/n replied with extremes.

“You don’t have the talent of dishonesty, I can tell you’re lying.” He said in a cold voice, still patient.

“I am not lying!” She said frustrated putting emphasis on ‘lying’

“What have you done with the sun summoner?” Aleksander asked again with the same venom in his flat voice sure she knew something. He was unaware that he was acting out on their conversation yesterday. He was upset, furious she had shut him off. Unknowingly he was showing that furiousness right now. Y/n having to do something with Alina was his half full-half empty way of looking at it right now. Deep down just looked for a reason to show how disquieted he was with her words.

“I—fine-” y/n sighed in exhaustion covering her face with her hands “I do have something to do with where the sun summoner is, what are you going to do? Beat it out of me?” She scoffed in disdain trying to move past him when Aleksander grabbed either of her biceps pinning her onto the shelf behind them forcefully with a loud thud.

“Now you stop playing games with me y/n and tell me what you did to her.” He said jaw clenched and gave her a tight pull to himself with his grip tightly around her biceps.

“Y-You do not speak to me this way.” She replied stammering, she could feel the bile rise up in her throat, she wanted to yell back at him with the same volume but she could only manage a sentence at a soft tone intimidated by his angry expressions; standing so close.

Aleksander got a hold of himself realising he can’t project his anger on her this way-it was entirely because he was agitated with the harsh words from the events of the earlier night but he could project it with how concerned he was for finding the sun summoner.

He left her sides slowly and y/n quickly walked out of his grip straightening her clothes. He regretted doing that. He did, truly. Somehow it was always too late for him before realising what he had done. But he didn’t let his remorse show-too smug for that.

“Tell me then” Aleksander said breaking the silence between them when y/n was staring at the wall, to evasive his gaze. He knew the act he just pulled had caused that-he was fighting really hard not to let that remorse sink in now.

“Alright” she sighed in defeat-giving up to put a fight against him he’s always had the upper hand. Sooner of later he always gets what he wants. “Alina came to meet me last night” her eyes flickered before she turned to face him “She knows. She knows what you are, wh-what you did. She just came to me to ask if it’s true” y/n casting her eyes lower.

“And what did you tell her?” Something had made him go cold, she could just tell the way he asked.

“-Only the truth.”

“Oh the truth now huh?” He huffed in reply nodding his head trying to process that “Was it before of after our conversation last light?”

“-Before”

Aleksander exhaled briefly and began “So you were stalling me for her last night till she could run away as you plotted?”

“I didn’t plot anything-” she faltered.

“Ah princess Y/n all so noble-always so keen to do the honourable thing! Obviously you didn’t plot anything you were doing her a favour no? Helping that poor girl out just like you when you first came here? An outsider-here amongst everyone, among me? Must’ve felt good to do the right thing? Well congratulations you just cost us Ravaka’s future.” Aleksander sneered at her as she stood stunned he’s yet again found someone else to blame for? It was odd enough to be haunted by someone who’s still alive all the days and nights she longed for him, the sadness of the words she didn’t say had built a home inside her. She had seen that evil and that good inside his eyes and chose to love him anyways yet he’d never wanted that. He never wanted that from her, he never wanted anyone to see him as that but she accepted and held onto that sunlight of a hope for love even after seeing his darkest secrets but he dissected and shattered that hope to its grave and the flowers never bloom again.

“Ravaka’s future should not be at the price of ruining someone’s life.” Y/n shot back as she could feel her throat closing up.

“There is a price for everything.” He said sternly correcting her.

“It’s not your price to pay!” She yelled as a teardrop rolled down her cheek. “But she’s far gone by now. You don’t get to decide what to do with her life now.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t even know where she is-where she is headed for, do you?” Aleksander raised a brow bending his head lower to assert power of his words.

“I-Are you trying to call my bluff?” She said brushing off her tears. She can’t cry in front of him-can’t give him that satisfaction.

“I just happen you know you that well ‘lady’y/n-you act more clever than you are sometimes” He snickered proceeding to leave the room, when y/n caught him from his side.

“We’re not done with this conversation-what are you going to do with her?” She asked in a shaky voice it was obvious she was trying to hold back tears.

“Only what it takes to change the world.”

“No-Aleksander” she crossed his way stepping in front of him from aside “Don’t-please don’t do this!”

Aleksander shut his eyes inhaling to be patient, “And who’s going to stop me?”

“Please I am begging you she has her whole life ahead of her—everyone is not your pawn!” Tears welled up her eyes and flowed in an unbroken stream.

“Am I going to have to go through you then?” He chuckled insultingly moving past her as she gave up standing in his way. Aleksander stomped out of the room and y/n felt cold, a dead silence that she could hear her own heartbeat. She knew he wasn’t going to stop-she couldn’t help Alina. She had failed her. She had failed yet again.

—

Aleksander who left little palace in the morning with a bundle emotions, an overextended welcome. He hadn’t yet left his tent walking around in that little space jotting down the information for the sun summoner, setting up plans to barricade which borders just then he could hear a different kind of hustle outside. Soldiers were conversing louder but he couldn’t exactly make out what was it. Ivan entered his tent panting before Aleksander could see for himself what the immense chatter was about.

“The-the drüskelle—they’ve attacked little palace” he announced as soon as entering the tent urgently without addressing other formalities, catching his breath.

Ivan’s words rang as a disbelief in Aleksander’s eras “What?” He asked unsure hoping he didn’t hear him right.

“Apparently they were on the watch right by our outskirts—they were waiting till we’d leave.” Ivan stated.

“They dare—“ Aleksander began furiously when Ivan interrupted his sentence mid way.

“General we might need to act soon.” Ivan stated pressing the urgency of matters.

“Right, Right-How many are hurt? Abducted?”

“-I don’t have the briefings but none abducted they attacked little palace just for…” Ivan hesitated to complete his sentence.

“For?”

“-Eric. But the letter mentioned he’s safe as ever, thank saints.”

Aleksander took a short sigh of relief before a wave of anger splashed over him again. The drüskelle attacked little palace? Their own home all for his own son in his absence.

Aleksander was lost in these thoughts and a plan before Ivan spoke again, “I could gather a team from everyone here and lead it back to little palace myself-“

“No I will be there. You gather that troop and we leave for little palace right now.” He said furiously, crafting up plans already.

Just as he was about to step out of his tent hurriedly Ivan stopped him “There’s something you should know—it’s about lady Kirigan.” Ivan had that low hesitant tone again.

By now Aleksander knew it wouldn’t be pleasant news, Ivan’s tone sensed it clearly he was regretting to have to be the one to break the news. “Lady Kirigan got hurt somehow between the attack” Ivan told him.

“Hurt? H-How what-How bad?“ Aleksander asked not wanting to know the answer.

“It wasn’t mentioned in the letter.” Ivan took a pause before continuing. “They came with spears and axe and we were outnumbered.”

Aleksander felt like he couldn’t move, his rage was one thing but this was his family. They came to butcher them. He nodded staring outside at the camp getting himself to think straight. “Alright-I am going to go ahead and leave this second you gather everyone and leave soon enough.”

“Moi soverenyi.” Ivan bowed before leaving.

—

It was the dead of the night by the time Aleksander reached the little palace. He didn’t stop anywhere from the camp and his horse sure ran faster than it had ever. Reaching there he walked through the sound entrance through the garden-ways and the corridors had never seemed so long and endless.

Finally he could see her chamber doors and paced over there. Genya and some maids standing there looked at him approaching with heavy footsteps.

“Where is she?” He asked impatiently.

“The healers are still seeing to her.” Genya replied for the rest of them.

“How long has It been?”. Aleksander inquired again.

“They’ve been in there since sundown.” Her tone was morose as she looked at the closed chamber doors.

Aleksander himself was faced with answers he wasn’t looking for the entire day. This wouldn’t have happened if he didn’t leave in the first place he thought to himself. “Eric? I want to see him.”

“He’s asleep, Nadia’s with him.” Their attention was averted quickly by the large door they were standing by opening from the inside.

The healer didn’t say a word but gestured them to come inside. Aleksander was the first one to step in. The other healer was still by y/n bedside seeing to a wound on her forehand as she laid unconscious. Aleksander felt uneasy just to walk further. He feared to take a proper look at her, her bloody clothes on the floor, one healer collecting all the blood dripping washcloths it didn’t bring him the slightest relief.

Gathering that gut he finally walked to her bedside. Y/n had a frown across her face and her eyes yet shut, she was struggling to breath he could hear her huffs to draw in air. She made little agitated sounds hence she wasn’t entirely unconscious.

He sank down slowly sitting on the edge of the bed and looked up facing the healers who everyone amongst genya were eagerly looking forward to what they had to say. “When do you think she’d wake up?” Aleksander asked in a hushed tone.

The healers passed an awkward troubled looked amongst themselves until one of the came forward to speak “Moi soverenyi.” She bowed and continued “Lady Kirigan lost a lot of blood-she was—stabbed, twice and we tried everything we could, to keep her stable but her condition weakened she’s alright for now and-" the healer casted her look lower trying hard to find words.

“There isn’t an easier way to say this but she might not survive if she doesn’t make it through the night.” The healer confronted. Hearing that Aleksander’s heart dropped to his feet. He couldn’t make sense what the healer said. It all was all feeling like one never ending nightmare while he was wide awake.

“We are going to be right down the hall just call us-it’s going to be one long night.” The healer said looking at y/n.

“No she’ll survive I know-she would. She would be alright.” Aleksander said nodding his head slightly he couldn’t look away from y/n. Genya observed his tone sounded more like he was trying to convince himself she would survive and honestly that is what everyone was telling themselves. But it was different since it came from the general they had never seen him like this, he had never been like this! In other circumstances he would be plotting a revenge right now. Strolling around in the war room but no, he was afraid. This time he was afraid. Afraid to loose her. He couldn’t, not just yet. Not another barbaric joke by the saints. “I’ll stay here, you could all go and see to the others arriving. I’m going to stay with her.” Aleksander spoke not even looking at anyone’s face.

Genya was just as aghast with what the healers said. There was no courtesy ever mentioned in any book that could explain what she could say right now. “Summon for me if anything happens.” She said out of words before turning to leave.

Aleksander was left alone with her in that large room his head for spiralling with guilt. He didn’t even want to picture what it would be like if she didn’t make it through the night. Would her last words to him would be where she begged him not to go, not to do it. She cried giving him another chance. Another chance the hundredth time yet he was blind enough to push it away.

He held the back of her hands gently in his, thinking he should’ve done this ages ago. The day when she walked down that aisle in a crowded room with a beautiful dress, he remembered being uninterested and casted glances that way but she looked beautiful, she looked content. She did gave everything to their marriage from the start, clutching her father’s hand tightly she seemed anxious but couldn’t stop smiling the entire time. Thinking back to it now he let out a dejected huff in a mocking to himself of how simply it was all handed to him and how simply he tore it apart.

He had this claimed unlikeness towards her because she wasn’t like him. Because she wasn’t like the rest of them there. He had been wrong, the entire time. She was more human than he had ever been or showed. She wasn’t some mortal life obliged to have the title of his wife whom he never seemed to notice she is the books by her nightstand, she is the songs she hums to their son, she is the laughs she shares with genya secretly at dinner parties and hopes no one heard them, tears she cried, the sharp tongue she has, poems she reads to Eric. Everything. Everything about her. She has always held such beauty which he forced himself not to look at because of the version he made of her in his mind. Fool.

Tears stung his eyes and he couldn’t stop them from flowing anymore. He took y/n’s hand in both his hands, kissing them softly he muttered an “I’m sorry” under his breath. He felt guilty for all of this, he thought about never forgiving himself if Eric were to grow up without her. Aleksander wanted to hug her tightly if only for once, he wanted to apologise he wanted to let her know he cared. He forced himself into thinking he didn’t. This was probably not the saints anymore maybe it was his turn to suffer the sorrow of unnamed longing?

Aleksander had never wanted it to stopper getting darker and darker before. It was like the time had stopped and every hour it felt it moved backwards. He would check y/n’s nerves again and again. Replace the cloth on her head, hold her rubbing her back whenever her temperature seemed to have differed.

He sat through it. He sat through the entire night next to her and her silent whimpers it pained him to see her suffering and his inability to do anything.

At last the endless night seemed to have been defeated. The bright sun rays entered their room partially and he could say it was the best sunrise he had ever seen. Soon after he called on the healers while they worked. It didn’t take them much to conclude, “Lady Kirigan’s doing better. She’s out of danger.” the healer let out a content sigh while the other smiled whispering a prayer.

Aleksander felt like weight had been lifted off of his shoulder. “She could wake up any time now” the healer replied before Aleksander could ask the same.

Genya joined the room a little later she looked at the healers for her response “She’s alright. She’s going to be safe.” Aleksander replied for them. He felt like announcing it to everyone himself.

“We need to change her binds if you could—” the healer turned to Aleksander. He nodded slightly planning to come back just the second they’d be done and inform Ivan and the rest about her condition.

Genya stayed with the healer and the maids helping them change her coverings. They sat her upright gently to change her into another silk robe when y/n’s eyes fluttered. A groan escaped her mouth reaching the pillow again.

“Lady Kirigan?” The healer asked her calmly to see if she could follow her voice waking up.

Genya went closer beside the healer as y/n opened her eyes much, much relief to everyone in the room. Y/n didn’t remember it being dawn, or being in her chambers, or covered in bandages she blinked her eyes gaining consciousness. “Eric. Eric? Where is he?” She asked worriedly looking around the room.

“He is fine. Nothing happened to him-he is alright I assure you, you need to rest.” Genya said immediately even before y/n attempted to sit up on her own.

“No. I want to see him-“ she said trying to sit up against what Genya just said.

“You were hurt badly I advice you not to do that.” The healer said placing her hands on y/n’s shoulders placing her on the bed gently.

“I’ll call General Kirigan.” The maid said to Genya before taking leave out of the room.

“General Kirigan?” Y/n asked Genya immensely confused.

“He arrived here last night.” Genya told her sitting to y/n’s side.

“Didn’t he leave just yesterday? What’s he doing here?” Y/n said slowly so the healer won’t hear her.

“We sent a letter to his camp about the attack yesterday-you got wounded really bad. He stayed here with you the entire night.”

Y/n was having a hard time comprehending that. She didn’t find it strange he came back, the drüskelle attacked his home. But he stayed with her? Why? Did he wanted to gloat the other day about how fragile mortal lives are? Did he want to vex her on how careless she had been? She already started imaging his taunts in his voice.

“My head hurts.” she said in a muffled way facepalming herself.

“Y/n?” Aleksander’s voice rang with his loud footsteps before he even appeared in front of the doorframe. Here he comes.

Y/n and Genya both turned to look at him at the same time and he stopped in his tracks by the entrance. He looked at her as though he saw her for the first time.

Aleksander walked inside as Genya stood up, much inconvenience to y/n, she greeted both of them an exit and left. She was left alone with Aleksander now. Only if she had any idea how hard last night was for him-for both of them but not much remembrance to her. Y/n didn’t have anything to say to him, she was past all the arguments and crying. She wanted to be past all that.

“Are you alright?” Not the tone and words she was expecting from Aleksander.

She joined her lips inwards and nodded in response.

“I am glad you are-glad you are better.” So many words he wanted to say, so many words he wanted to say this exact moment. Words just betrayed his feelings by being lost.

“Genya told me you stayed with me the entire night?” She asked curious, knowing anytime those taunts would start.

This time he sat by the side of her bed again where he was holding her hand last night. He nodded and began “We thought-we’d almost lost you last night.” I almost lost you last night. The first time he met her glance ever since she woke up.

Realisation struck y/n-he wasn’t there to provoke or irritate—no he was frightened. He seemed to be. He didn’t show it, he didn’t want y/n to see it but she did always catch the unsaid things. It felt unreal that he cared. That he would’ve wanted to stay.

“I assume it’s clever to say you’re not getting rid of me that easily.” Y/n joked as Aleksander huffed looking down. If only all dawns to come would bring just her jokes and her sound presence.

—

A few days went by with y/n’s new diet, bed rest and everything healer’s prescribed for her recovery. All quite the bore for her but Aleksander made sure she’d follow them strictly against how stubborn she was. He almost didn’t leave her alone, whenever he wasn’t around her he was looking after Eric. Not that he had let the answer for the attack go swayed away. He attended a few meetings and laid plans with grisha officials and later left Ivan to fill in for him.

He had to start somewhere to make amends and it wasn’t that hard. He had planned for defence and wars one after another for so long. But for once planning what they’re going to do with the fake culprit when he played pretend games with Eric felt nicer. It wasn’t buried or pushed away that he cares for y/n now. He knew it when it felt like all the stars had aligned to see her smile and to care for something other than just another battle or his own plans or the future. The time seemed perfect in now.

The sun had begun to sank below the horizon not gone altogether but the orange-yellow evening shade still lingered on. Y/n had Eric’s stuff moved into her room, she’d wanted him to be in the same radius as her. Paranoid with the attack. Aleksander too suggested the same for himself, he’d insisted on having another bed made for him but y/n shrugged it off, she didn’t mind him sharing a bed with her saying he was around the entire day either ways.

Y/n sat up in her bed reading one of her books while Aleksander sat across the room with Eric in his lap, he was reading something to him a while ago. Y/n looked up to see why the constant giggles had stopped. Eric had buried his head in his father’s arms and Aleksander’s hand had the book he was reading earlier swinging slightly. Eric seemed to be fast asleep snuggling in Aleksander’s arms. Aleksander too had his eyes shut but his brows were slightly joined together. He didn't seem to be entirely asleep but the sight was very pleasant y/n felt like stopping the time if only for a while. She caught herself thinking if it was really so bad to want this? Want him? It was in fact an awaited and welcomed presence every time Aleksander was around, even if only for the fact that she was wounded she believed. Probably some other reason she wanted to believe.

Y/n moved proceeding to get out of the bed as a groan escaped her lips feeling her stitches get pressed. Alarmed, Aleksander opened his eyes finding y/n struggling out of the bed. Instantly he placed Eric in his crib to the side gently and rushed to y/n.

“You’ve been told not to do that.” He scolded in a silent tone.

“I can stand up by myself.” Y/n shrugged off as she felt another sharp pain by her wound making an attempt to stand up.

“Clearly” he scoffed getting a proper hold of her hand, helping her stand up.

“I was just going to go for a walk in the gardens, I’ve been rotting in bed for quite a while now.” Y/n told him limping outside to the adjoining garden.

He walked beside her with one hand interlocking their fingers to help her walk and the other supporting her back.

They walked taking small and slow steps outside so that y/n could keep up. Neither spoke anything for a while until some wooden cross bows on the grass stopped them on their path.

Aleksander bent to move them aside still not letting go off her hand, “Is that pair yours?” She chuckled softly.

“Ah Eric and I were playing a little game this afternoon while you were asleep.” He admitted continuing to walk alongside her.

“Yes I did hear your ‘Archers Nock arrows!’ ‘Hold fast’.” Y/n said mocking his voice. Aleksander joined her laugher in response, looking at her as she continued “Back at home when I was younger I had a wooden playing sword and I would force my brothers to have a duel with me. Eventually I’d loose and later start to cry and throw a tantrum so we’d have another go at it where they would let me win intentionally.” She laughed amused by the end. There was something about whenever she mentioned her home that made her a different kind of happy he smiled looking at her let out a laugh that isn’t suppressed.

“Always had it in you for the dramatics I take it?” He bantered receiving narrowed eyes from y/n.

“Harsh.” She replied laughing despite herself.

“Do you miss it?”

“-Miss what?”

“Your home, your people?”

“I do all the time but you get used to it after a while.” She replied flashing a short smile.

“I get why you must hate me” Aleksander huffed in irony looking down and continued “I took all that away from you and I couldn’t give a home here, with me.”

Y/n felt silent hearing that. He acknowledged that? “I don’t-I don’t entirely hate you. I know what I said that day but I know you wanted to make this better, want to make this better” it was more of a hesitant sentence for y/n to say out loud “You are trying to be a good father for Eric I see it everyday and it’s nice actually-if you’re around—if he has you around.” She continued.

Inhaling sharply Aleksander turned to y/n taking both her hands in his he still didn’t bare to look up at her “It took me almost to have lost you to realise how much you mattered to me-that day when the attack happened the healers said if you couldn’t make it through the night you wouldn’t be alive and that night I thought of all the things I didn’t say to you, all the things I missed, all the things I should’ve been there for-and I knew I would have never forgiven myself if you had—if I had lost you forever.”

“Aleksander” she murmured wanting to get him to look at her.

“And I don’t want it-I don’t want any of it the sun summoner or any future that doesn’t have you in it-I don’t want a dawn to rise when you’re not there—none of it matters if not for you.” Aleksander cupped her face in both his hands “Y/n, I love you.”

Tears welled up in her eyes as she was overwhelmed by the feelings that took over with what he said, y/n placed her hands on top of his gently “I would like that-I would like that for the both of us. To wake up next to you each day but what you said it’s a lot for me to take in and-I can’t love you the way you want me to, the way I used to. But I want to! I want to love you-nothing would make me happier than that.” She replied to him smiling as their faces leaned closer finally her lips landing onto his, Aleksander kissed her back quickly and leaned back to watch her face before brushing his lips on hers again briefly. He felt like never wanting to let go until she broke the kiss gasping for air. They rested their forehead against each other, Aleksander holding her close by her waist as she looked at him for a short moment to say “We will be alright.”

—

An: HELLO I hope y’all enjoyed this it took the life out of me to finish this and I am NOT making this into a series—my thinking capacity ends here pls🧑‍🦯

Tags 🏷: @lazycherri @softieekayy @shitpostrandomness @itzzzzcookie @navs-bhat @ladyblablabla @lady-kirigan @bruxa0007 @s1xthirty @haileythenerd @moonlightstuffs @aleksandersshadow @misselsbells06 @millies0bsimp @prongsbxtch @skyfallingstartaylorsversion @sithapprentice @lollipop-feelings @chicken-fifi @gretavankleep37 @bluehydrangea-cherry @a--dedicated--fangirl Let me know if you want to be added or removed in my general Kirigan tag list and if you’re reading this go drink water xx

[mehbzz]

Does Billy love sid in your au? What's his

This has been sat in my inbox for a while. Please send the rest of the question if you want! But you can have this tiny fluffy snippet for now! Billy Loomis x F!Reader. Implied Poly!ghostface

----------------------------------------------

“Do you love Sid?”

You blurt the question before you can think it through. It's met with dead silence, Billy seemingly frozen, his eyes riveted on the TV screen. It stays quiet long enough for you to genuinely wonder if you had said it out loud. 

Stu recovers first, coughing around his mouthful of popcorn as he stands. “Wooo bunny, way to kill the mood. I am out.”

He pulls a face at you as he leaves, mouthing something at you that you can’t make out. It leaves you in the tense silence with Billy. His rigid posture making you uncomfortable enough that you try to sit up and give him some space. “Sorry. You don’t have to answer tha-,”

“I love you.” He interrupts, linking his fingers through yours to stop you moving further away but he still won't look at you. “I did love Sid. I think. Just-, not anymore."

"What happened?"

He shrugs. "I just don't feel that way about her anymore."

“You must care about her to not just leave her though.” You feel him flinch slightly at your question and you curse yourself for pushing it.

He shrugs again. “It’s complicated.” It’s not a very good answer, it’s just an obvious avoidance of one, and it leaves more questions in your head. Would he fall out of love with you too?

"You're different," he squeezes your hand. "I know what you're thinking, don't think that."

"Different how?” You want to drop this conversation, he’s obviously uncomfortable but at the same time you want to know. You suddenly want the reassurance, a little knot of petty jealousy fluttering to life in your chest. You want to hear him say you’re better than Sid.

"You're mine," he says it with such conviction that you're heart skips a beat. He finally turns to look at you, his expression so intense that for a second you forget how to breathe. "You're part of me. Like-," His cheeks are turning pink. "You and Stu are a part of my soul. I’d kill anyone who tried to take you away from me."  His grip tightens round your fingers and he breaks eye contact, his gaze dropping to your hands, and you feel too dumbfounded to respond. You don’t know how to react; something in his eyes had sent a small sliver of fear down your spine that you’re desperately trying to ignore. The both of you sitting in silence for a few minutes until he clears his throat awkwardly.

"If you tell Stu I said that I'll kill you too." His voice sounds strained, forced, his attempt at lightening the mood falling flat. He murmurs your name when you don’t respond, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I love you, not Sid."

You feel torn between teasing him or not. It felt too intense to make light of, despite his attempt to do so.

"I wasn't-," you sigh, stroking your fingers over the inside of his wrist, his pulse fast and erratic against the pad of your thumb. You rest your head on his shoulder, feeling his breath stutter as he relaxes against you. "I know you do. I love you too."

[alyswritings]

New People

Request: Hello!! I wanted to ask you if you wanted to do a fit where Anthony already has a child, like a toddler or young kid, mother died or left them, and I know it would have been scandalous in those times but whatever I don't know, anyways it could be like Kate finding out about them and then her meeting Kate and Edwina like at the beginning of s2, and its just cute?

Anthony Bridgerton x daughter!reader

Summary: Y/N meets the Sharma family.

Warnings: none

a/n: thank you for the request! kind of got carried away and made it longer with more stuff lol hope you all enjoy!

(gif not mine)

Five years ago is when Anthony Bridgerton's life changed forever. The woman he was courting ended up pregnant and gave birth to a baby girl -- his baby girl.

Anthony insisted that they must avoid the scandal and the mother to be should go into hiding or at the very least leave town -- but she did not. People quickly learned that the baby was Anthony's and everybody went crazy.

The Bridgerton family faced some backlash and Anthony and Allison had agreed to marry given the circumstances. Allison demanded a long engagement and Anthony respected that.

The week they were due to marry, Allison gave birth and Y/N was born. Anthony felt an overwhelming sense of happiness and protectiveness from the first moment he held his newborn child.

The wedding was pushed back a few days, but before it could commence, Allison had run out of town.

Leaving Anthony and Y/N on their own -- along with the rest of the Bridgertons, of course.

Anthony did his best and got as much help as he could from his mother and siblings who often offered to watch the baby for him, knowing of his busy work.

Whispers would go around the first two or so years of Y/N's life anytime she was around other people. Whispers that Anthony did his best to protect her from.

Eventually the talk finally stopped for the most part, leaving the Bridgerton family in peace. Even though there was still an occasional look or two.

- - -

The Sharmas and Lady Danbury arrive at the Bridgerton home, the large family exiting to come and greet them.

"Now, the only reason to endure such a journey is to see my great-godson." Lady Danbury states, taking Augie from Violet.

Y/N stays glued to her Aunt Eloise and two oldest uncles while Violet, Daphne, and the youngest two Bridgerton siblings greet Lady Danbury and two of the Sharmas and fawn over Daphne's baby. The third Sharma straying a bit, after curtsying to the family, and she observes the house.

Anthony goes over to Kate, the two sharing small conversation.

"Papa! Papa." Y/N rushes over to her dad and yanks on his waistcoat.

"Y/N, do not tug." Anthony reprimands, lightly grabbing her hands and making her let go.

"Sorry." Y/N says.

"Papa?" Kate questions.

"Yes. Um... Miss Sharma, this is my daughter, Y/N." Anthony introduces. "Y/N, this is Miss Sharma."

Y/N turns to the unfamiliar woman who seems shocked.

"Hi." Y/N smiles at her.

"Hello." Kate greets. "I was not aware you had a child." She says to Anthony.

"Yes, right. I... well, I had mentioned it to your sister at the horse races." Anthony says.

"It must've slipped her mind when we were reminiscing of the day." Kate says.

"Must have." Anthony says.

"Doggy." Y/N points to the animal.

"You may pet him if you like." Kate tells her.

Y/N looks at Anthony who nods. Y/N goes over to the dog and gently pets him, the dog gladly accepting the affection. Anthony frowns, slightly offended the dog likes her but not him.

"Ah, as I said. Excellent judge of character." Kate smirks.

"I'll give him that one, I suppose." Anthony mutters, forcing a smile.

"And you must be Miss Edwina." Daphne walks up.

"No." Anthony denies. "This is her sister. Miss Kate Sharma."

"Ah. Forgive me, Miss Sharma." Daphne says.

"I am entirely flatted, Your Grace." Kate smiles, curtsying. "Allow me to introduce my sister, Miss Edwina." Edwina walks over and she curtsies to Daphne.

"It is an honor, Your Grace." Edwina says. Daphne smiles.

"Miss Edwina, I am pleased to introduce you to Aubrey Hall." Anthony says.

"It is a beautiful home. Thank you for inviting us. I very much look forward to spending time with you and your family." Edwina says.

The four adults' gazes turn to the side after hearing a giggle, looking to find Newton licking Y/N's face. Anthony grimaces in disgust slightly, walking over and helping Y/N to her feet.

"Miss Edwina, I am even more pleased to introduce you to my daughter. Y/N." Anthony says, gently lying his hands on the young girl's shoulders, the child smiling up at Edwina. "Y/N, this is Miss Edwina Sharma."

"Hi." Y/N smiles at her.

"Hello, Y/N." Edwina crouches so she's at a more even level with the girl. "You are very beautiful."

"Thank you." Y/N shyly says, ducking her head as an attempt to hide her red cheeks.

"I look forward to getting to know you." Edwina tells her, kindly smiling at her. Y/N simply nods, not certain of how to respond.

- - -

The oldest five Bridgerton siblings and the two Sharma sisters are preparing to go outside with the mothers and Lady Danbury, the seven young adults ready to play pall mall.

"But I wanna play." Y/N whines.

"I know, dearest, but you are too young. Besides there are only seven mallets and there are already seven of us playing. And the mallets are heavy and taller than you." Anthony states making Y/N pout.

"So can I watch?" Y/N asks.

"Wouldn't you much rather stay in here with your Aunt Hyacinth and Uncle Gregory? Spend time with Cousin Augie?" Anthony asks and Y/N shakes her head.

"I wanna spend time with you." Y/N tells him.

"All right then." Anthony says, picking her up and holding her on his hip.

"I still want to play." Y/N says.

"Well, you can't right now. But how about you and I play it by ourselves later." Anthony suggests, a small smile gracing his face. Y/N grows an excited grin, vehemently nodding her head making Anthony chuckle.

Neither noticed the way that both Sharma sisters were watching the interaction with soft smiles.

- - -

After a while, Edwina had quit the pall mall game after her ball went out of bounds. She joined the mothers, Y/N, and Lady Danbury at the pavilion. Y/N went up to her, standing next to her chair.

"You're spending time with my papa, right?" Y/N asks.

"Yes. Yes, I am." Edwina answers, smiling gently at the girl.

"Do you like reading?" Y/N asks.

"I love to read." Edwina states.

"Papa tries to read to me, but he's too busy so Aunt Ellie does it a lot." Y/N says.

"Oh, well, I'm certain he tries his best." Edwina says and Y/N nods. "What books do you enjoy?"

The two continue to converse about books and then whatever comes to Y/N's mind, Edwina enjoying getting to know her possible future stepdaughter.

- - -

After the young adults finished their game and Anthony and Edwina spent some time together discussing their lives and Edwina telling him about books she's read, Anthony soon found Y/N.

"Love?" Anthony calls, getting the young girl's attention away from her Uncle Gregory. "There's some spare time before supper. If you would still like to play a game of pall--"

"Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Please. Yes." Y/N immediately jumps up, bouncing with excitement. Anthony chuckles at her reaction.

"Very well then." Anthony says, taking her hand, the two going outside.

Anthony grabs the black mallet.

"Which one would you like?" Anthony asks the girl.

Y/N points to the mint green one and Anthony picks it out.

"All right, now, you line the mallet up with the ball." Anthony puts his mallet down. He stands behind Y/N, helping her hold the mallet.

"It's heavy." Y/N says, looking at the mallet that goes a few inches above her head.

"I told you so." Anthony says. "Still want to play?" He asks and Y/N nods. "Okay. Line it up and aim for that hoop." He instructs, stepping back a few feet so she can do it herself. Y/N swings the mallet to the greatest of her ability, the ball rolling close to the hoop, but failing to reach it.

"That's all right, darling. There's more rounds." Anthony says.

He lines up his ball and goes to swing, but remembers he probably should not be his usual competitive self when playing against his five year old daughter -- who is not competitive unless she knows how to play the game.

Anthony swings the mallet, letting his ball roll, stopping a few inches away from Y/N's ball.

"See? Neither of us got it in." Anthony says.

"I thought you said you were the best at this game." Y/N says.

"Yes, well... it seems I am having an off day." Anthony says.

From the doors, Kate, Edwina, their mother, and Violet watch the father and daughter play the game.

"They're adorable." Edwina comments.

"Yes. Yes, Anthony is very good to her." Violet states.

"Well, I suppose being a good father counts for something." Kate says, still trying to dislike the man.

- - -

After supper, everybody is tending to their own things and Y/N goes up to Kate who is sitting by the fireplace.

"Do you like reading?" Y/N asks her.

"I suppose so, yes, I do." Kate answers.

"Can you read this?" Y/N asks.

"Oh. Well, wouldn't you much rather one of your aunts or uncles read it? Or your father or grandmother?" Kate asks.

"Papa is working and grandmother is with Lady Danbury. I can't find Aunt Ellie or Uncle Colin, Aunt Daphne is tending to Cousin Augie, Uncle Benny is drawing, and Aunt Hyacinth and Uncle Gregory are playing and arguing with each other."

"I suppose I could then." Kate relents, smiling at the young girl. Y/N holds the book out to her and Kate takes it. Y/N sits next to her, waiting patiently for Kate to begin reading which she soon does so.

- - -

"And now you are all settled." Anthony says, tucking Y/N into bed.

"Thank you." Y/N says.

"Of course, Y/N." Anthony smiles at her. "Good night, my love."

"Night, papa." Y/N yawns making Anthony softly smile. He kisses her on the temple as she closes her eyes, quickly falling asleep.

Anthony leaves the room, quietly shutting the door.

"You're very good with her." Edwina comments, smiling gently at the man.

"Thank you." Anthony smiles. "She is... well, she is my pride and joy."

"She's a lovely little girl." Edwina compliments.

"I will agree to that statement." Kate says.

"Thank you. She definitely gets that from one of her aunts." Anthony says.

"Oh, most definitely." Kate agrees making Anthony force a fake smile, Kate returning one.

"If I may ask... what happened to her mother?" Edwina asks.

"Oh. Well, um... she left. Shortly after Y/N was born." Anthony informs.

"Oh. I'm so sorry." Edwina says.

"No, no, it's quite alright. I understand the curiosity and you didn't know. It's just been me and her the entirety of her life. But hopefully I can find her a lovely new mother some day." Anthony says, smiling at Edwina who smiles back.

[mj-ackerman]

SxF Light Novel: Family Portrait Translation Mission 3: Franky's New Love!? (Part 3)

<<PART 2. DO NOT REPOST

That day, it was as sunny as it could have been. 

It was also the hospital where he worked, although it is ostensible. There was no need for him to be sneaky, but Loid hid himself behind a building to avoid being seen and lurked at the meeting place of Franky and the girl. The backyard, which he had considered as an escape route in case of emergency, was deserted as ever. The white rose bushes, which he did not know who had planted them and with what intention, made him feel a sense of loneliness. 

“Um… is that you, Franky….?”

Alessa, the girl who arrived late, timidly approached Franky, who was sitting on a bench next to a rose bush. 

“Hey.”

At that, Franky stood up. He looks like a completely different person. 

Franky’s soft, slightly quirky brown hair and slender, gentle baby face suited his small frame well. He was dressed in a simple gray turtleneck paired with bright denim and flat sneakers, a departure from his usual attire. 

Everything was newly arranged for today. He also has taken off his trademark black-butted glasses and the earring in his left ear. 

“I’m glad that the surgery went well.”

“Yes.”

Franky smiled through his fake face, and the girl giggled as well. Her face showed a clear admiration for Franky. 

Alessa was a lovely girl in everyone’s eyes. With her beauty and youth, Balzer’s name, and her passion for the songs she let Franky hear, she would surely become an opera actress to rival her mother. And she would get a lot of patrons. 

Whether she likes it or not, her source is a mixture of good and bad--- she will be bombarded with information. 

As a result, Alessa becomes an unwitting source of information at the hand of the man she admires.

Loid hasn't had a good conversation with Franky since then. Even this morning, when he applied the special make-up, they only talked about the bare minimum necessary. 

Are you really happy with this? 

Loid chuckled as he found himself asking the same question in his heart, unknowingly. 

He has always thought rationally and always carried things out as smoothly as possible. ----He should have lived his life thinking like that, but at some point, he started doing unnecessary things and worrying about it. 

As two faces popped into his head, Loid squinted his eyes at Franky and he heard him said, 

“Here, congratulations on your discharge.”

“Thank you….!”

Next to the rose bush, Alessa, who had been given a bouquet of flowers by Franky, blushed happily. 

“.....This is so pretty.”

She murmured as she nuzzled her face into the pure white dahlia flower. 

Franky calmly watched over her as she continued to talk happily about when she will be discharged from the hospital, how she would like him to come visit her at her house sometime, and how she would like him to meet her father, mother, and brother. 

“I want to go to an amusement park too. I’ve always wanted to ride on a ferris wheel even just once. I’ve been practicing and practicing, so I haven’t had the time to do that until now…..but, after my surgery, my father and mother told me to take a little rest and take it easy, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to go with you, Franky ....”

Alessa talked about her little wishes. 

Alessa, who had expected Franky to smile and respond with “Of course,” without disobeying her request, he instead muttered, “Listen,” in a calm voice. 

“I have something I really need to tell you today, Alessa.”

“What is it about?”

Alessa asked with a smile. She had the eyes of a young innocent child who believed in other people without doubting them. 

Franky’s eyes swim in the air for a moment. However, he quickly looked back at the girl in front of him and smiled softly. 

“I’m leaving this country on urgent business. So I won’t be able to see you anymore. I’m sorry.”

“Eh…..?”

Alessa’s toothy smile froze. Loid was also perplexed by Franky’s unexpected behavior and actions. 

Franky just smiled. 

He was smiling quietly with the face of another person that Loid made for him. Confused, Alessa squeezed the bouquet in her hands tightly. 

“Why….? I mean…. It’s just…..you promised me, didn’t you, Franky? That you will always be there for me..”

“I’m sorry.”

Franky’s voice was gentle, it couldn’t be gentler. However, there was also a strength and a soft refusal to accept what would never be reversed. 

Tears welled up in Alessa’s eyes. 

“You’re awful…”

When she began to cry uncontrollably, Franky said “I’m sorry,” again. 

And then he said, “Hey, Alessa, can you sing one last song for me?” he requested. 

To Loid, it sounded like a prayer.

Alessa sobbed for a while, but eventually she began to sing in a voice that was faint with tears. With her clear and beautiful voice, she sang a sad love song. Franky listens to the girl’s voice, as if her figure is burned into his heart. 

Loid kept his eyes down and left quietly, so as not to be noticed by the two. 

-------------

“Yo.”

“.........”

When Loid stopped by his usual bar, Franky, already red-faced, was tipping a glass at the counter. He wasn’t wearing the mask anymore. Loid sat in one of the vacant seats. 

When he asked the taciturn old master for a martini, Franky chided him, 

“As usual, you’re drinking something pompous.”

On top of that, he also ordered the same thing for himself saying,

“Master, I’ll have one of those, too.”

Soon after, the cocktails were served, and for a while both sipped the pungent, olive scented cocktail, before long, Franky announced with a blur,

“I’m sorry. I even tried tricking you.”

“.....it’s fine.”

Loid looked down at the cocktail in his glass and said,

“If anything, I would have despised you otherwise.”

“Hahaha…you’ve really changed huh.”

Franky laughed a little. 

“You’ll die young doing that, you know.”

Contrary to his words, there was no hint of ridicule, but rather a somewhat comforting, even hint of worrisome to his tone. 

After drinking in silence again for a while, Franky casted down his red-stained eyes and said, 

“You know, I….I want Alessa to live in something truly beautiful from here on out.”

“.....I see.”

Among them, he himself, who lives in darkness, should probably not be part of it. Maybe that’s the reason why he let go of her hand.

If it was that girl, I’m sure she wouldn’t have rejected this guy because of his looks, like all the other women he met until now. 

Loid was sure she would have accepted everything about Franky, including his looks. Or even his secret identity of being an informant….

No, it’s the opposite…..

Franky knew it. He knew the girl’s pure feelings for him, that’s why he played the role of a despicable man blinded by love, and with Loid’s help, he pretended to be someone else.

In the future, even if they were to pass each other on the street, Alessa would never recognize Franky. 

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

“Hn?”

“You should’ve told me honestly “I want to give up, so please lend me a hand”.”

If he had done so, Loid would have helped him in the usual way. There would have been no need for such a roundabout way. 

However, in response to Loid’s reasonable question, Franky said, “No way! I’d die saying those embarrassing lines if it was just all a misunderstanding, and what are you gonna do if it was huh!?!! I’d be sad to death! Stupid!” he sniffed. 

He was back to his usual self. 

Loid tipped the empty glass. The remaining olives inside shook a little. 

“I didn’t expect you to be mature.”

“Ahaha. Don’t you dare throw me away too.”

Franky laughed happily. 

“Damn it! I wanted to date her! I wanted to look cool even a little, I’m so stupid, stupid, stupid!”

Saying that, he then threw himself down the counter and cried deliberately. Loid ordered two more cocktails for himself and for his friend averting his eyes so as not to see Franky’s real tears behind his theatrical crying. 

-----------

“Congratulations on your discharge.”

“Continue to do your best from here out.”

“Someday, I will definitely watch you on an opera stage!”

“Please give my best regards to your father and mother.”

“Everyone, thank you so much for your help.”

The girl was handed a large bouquet of flowers and was seen off grandly by the director and other doctors and nurses in charge, and headed for the car waiting for her at the entrance of the hospital. 

They were very good to her in the time she was there. However, the person she wanted to be there more than anyone else, was not there. 

The girl regretted having blamed him for being “awful” when they parted. She was ashamed of herself for having said such a one-sided condemnatory remark to him, even though he probably had his own reasons for leaving. 

Franky, I’m sorry.

And thank you, she told him in her heart. She knows that under this sky, no matter where he was, Franky will support her. That’s all she could think of now. 

The girl looks back at the hospital where she has fond memories of him. Then she passed a young man walking down the street. The nostalgic smell of cigarettes tickles her nostrils. 

Franky….?

She almost smiled as soon as she saw him, but she immediately knew that she had mistaken him for someone else. The color of his hair, his hairstyle, his face, everything about him was different from the man she knew. 

The dejected girl got into the car to shake off such thoughts. 

The car carrying the girl starts to drive away. The girl has no way of knowing, of course, that the man has quietly said his goodbye. 

[violetarks]

stay away from toman?

anime: tokyo revengers

character: ryuguji 'draken' ken

summary: takemichi discovers why his older sister was so adamant on avoiding toman when he and y/n bump into mikey and draken on their way home from school.

warnings: afab! reader, she/her pronouns, first person pov

"Take', hurry up!" I whisper harshly, squatting down beside my brother, who is currently putting on his shoes to go home, "Why do you take so freaking long just to do some shoelaces?"

Takemichi glances up to me, making a face as he continues to tie his laces. "What're you rushing me for?" He grumbles out, furrowing his brows.

I retort, crossing my arms over my chest with my bag over my shoulder, "I wanna' go home, I got... like, homework 'n shit to do." I look away once he gives me a suspicious look.

Ever since the start Takemichi told me he was a part of Toman, I've either been rushing him home when he doesn't have plans, or flat out ignoring him in public when he mentions he has business to take care of.

Most of the time, he dismisses it but recently, Take' has taken up a new 'alter ego' or something. Now, he's more concerned with what I'm doing and where I am, as if he was the older sibling out of us two. Although, I've gotten used to the switching.

"Well, you could always go without me, Y/N." He says, standing up and checking his shoes. He grabs his bag from beside him. "I'd rather walk with Hina than my sister."

Faking a gasp, I slap his arm before we exit the building. "Wow, you're such an ass." I sigh, frowning at him as I hold onto my bag strap, "To make it up to me, you're gonna' have to buy me ice candy."

My brother groans, checking for his wallet in his bag, "Why the Hell do I have to always pay for things when you get annoyed?" Take' says, pulling out cash.

"Because you annoy me and have to pay for it." I respond, feeling excited to get the treat, "And plus, I always buy you stuff when I upset you."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

He goes to refute it but instead his eyes land on a few bikes parked across the street. Takemichi then looks over to me. "Hey, Y/N, you're cool with me being a part of a gang, right?" He questions.

I furrow my brows. "Um... We've had this conversation before, haven't we?" I say, tilting my head as we both cross the street, "I'm fine with it, Take', just as long as you don't do anything unnecessary. No fighting if not needed."

He nods his head at me, looking at the ground as we walk on the pavement. I blink at him. No snarky remark.

I elbow his side. "If you come home with another bleeding cheek, I will beat you the fuck up, okay?" I joke, giving a smile as Takemichi chuckles along with me.

"Then, if you're okay with it, do you want to meet everyone?" He questions, making me widen my eyes.

I stop, waving my hands at my brother frantically. "Uh, no, no, no, no!" I tell him, shaking my head as my brother looks back to me, "I don't wanna' meet anyone from the Manji gang! I'm—I'd rather just not be associated at all..."

Takemichi blinks at me for a second before awkwardly rubbing the back of his head. He giggles out, "Geez, are you that scared of them? They're really not as bad as you think."

I rub the back of my neck and mumble quietly, "I know that myself."

We enter the shop and Takemichi goes straight for the snack aisle. He says, looking to me over his shoulder, "You know? Well then it should be fine. I know that you being my sister would immediately cause problems if there were people after me... for whatever reason." I furrow my brows at him. "I just want to know you'd be safe if that ever happens. And the commander could do that."

I blink at my brother as I open the freezer. "Hey, I'm fine, Takemichi. You act like it wasn't me getting you out of trouble. You can only kinda' punch because of me." I laugh, grabbing the ice candy I wanted. I tap my bicep a few times. "And look, I've got muscle. I'm a unit."

Takemichi laughs at me before shrugging his shoulders. "Just want to make sure you're safe, is all." He tells me. I give a reassuring smile.

We head to the cashier and pay for our things. Takemichi takes care of my ice candy and I had bought him two boxes of chocolate. One for him and another for Hina, since they have a date scheduled for tomorrow. I'm sure my brother is really excited for that.

We exit the store, going back on our way home. I begin to eat my ice candy when Tachimichi bumps into someone in front of us.

"I'm sorry, I—" He begins with stiff shoulders. But then, he relaxes. "Mikey? What're you doing here?"

What? Fuck no.

I side step my brother, getting a view of the blonde with a half up, half down hairstyle. I bite my lip, seeing how Mikey hasn't noticed me yet. The said guy waves his hand with a smile. "Takemitchy! Me and Kenny are grabbing some food. I got kinda' hungry after this morning's riot."

'Takemitchy'? 'This morning's riot'?

What?

I furrow my brows at my brother retorts, "Oh, right. Well, we're just on our way home."

Then, Mikey looks to me. He lights up, a smirk on his lips as he speaks, "Oh? Takemitchy, going around with another girl? You devil." He's just playing around, I can tell by the way he says it. He gives me a knowing look.

Takemichi waves his hands frantically, shaking the bag of chocolates. "Oh, no, no, no, I'm still with Hina and Hina only!" He states, loudly at that fact, "This is Y/N, my sister. Y/N, this is Mikey, Toman's commander."

I try to act surprised, widening my eyes at the two of them. Mikey holds out a hand to me. "It's nice to finally meet you, Y/N." He says, closed eye smile.

Bowing, I retort, "It's nice to meet you too, Mikey." It's the nerves running through me that makes me act like that. Why did I have to bump into him now? With my brother?

I feel a gentle chop against the top of my head. "Wow, you really are Takemitchy's sister." He laughs out, tilting his head at me as I stand up straight. I give him a squinted eye look. "You're the same age as me, and if you're related to him, then you're cool with me. No need to bow to me if you aren't a part of my crew." The last part is accompanied by sarcasm.

I nod my head once before exhaling slowly. "I'm going to head home now." I tell my brother, giving a reassuring look when he furrows his brows, "You can hang out with Mikey." I give a pointed look to my friend.

Just as I pass Mikey, ice candy in my mouth and I turn to continue on my way, I bump into someone else. I step back, balancing myself and my food to look up to the pers—

Okay, no.

No.

I immediately walk around him, pulling my hoodie down over my head and walking a little faster.

"Y/N?" I hear him say, making me stop.

I groan internally, closing my eyes and pushing my hoodie off my head. Turning around, I give a sweet smile to the three of them, now looking to me. "Hi, Ryuguji. Um... how are you?" I mutter out, tilting my head.

Ken squints at me, looking a little annoyed. "The fuck are you calling me 'Ryuguji' for?" He asks, tilting his head at me.

I notice the way my brother looks confused, and how Mikey is smiling and having the time of his life at the moment. I huff, rubbing the back of my neck, "Well, uh, that's your name, isn't it?"

Ken deadpans, walking closer to me with a raised brow, "Yeah, it is, but you don't call me by my last name." The closer he gets, the faster my heart beats as I switch my gaze from Ken to Mikey and my brother, then back to Ken.

His hand gently takes hold of my chin, making me look to him. "You alright?" He asks, overlooking my face as I stare at him. He runs his fingers up to caress my cheek. "Did something happen?"

I hear Mikey giggle out, "Oh, Kenny, what are you doing with Takemitchy's sister?" He puts emphasis on 'sister', which makes Ken widen his eyes at me and look over to Mikey and my brother.

His hand drops from my cheek as he turns. "What the Hell are you talking about?" He scoffs to Mikey, eyes landing on Takemichi, "She's not your sister." He seems to get side tracked, grabbing my ice candy and eating it for himself.

Bitch?

Takemichi takes offense, tilting his head at me. He says, "I think I'd know who my sister is, Draken." He walks closer before Mikey stops him, "Uh—How do you even know her?"

Ken looks back at me, raised brow. I look away immediately, hand behind my back as I continue to eat my ice candy I was handed back. He then stands beside me, arm going around my shoulders and pulling me into his side. I'm about to say something when Ken turns me.

I give a small yelp, my face now in Ken's chest as he wraps his arms around my back. I hear Mikey whistle and Takemichi give a sound of surprise. He huffs, "Take a guess, Takemitchy. How do you think I know your sister?"

I feel my face burn. At this point, I know for a fact that Ken is just trying to prove a point here. But that doesn't stop my brother from saying, "D—Draken! You might wanna' let go of her, Y/N's boyfriend might see and get upset."

Jesus Christ.

I internally facepalm at my brother. Oh God.

Ken laughs at that, chest rumbling against my face, "Oh, really? Your boyfriend, huh, Y/N?" I look up from my spot, clenching my jaw and squinting at him. Ken was having fun. He smirks at me. "Should I be worried? Is he scary? Will he kick my ass if I kiss you?"

I pinch his side, making him roll his eyes and release me. I fix my shirt and skirt before turning to Mikey and Takemichi.

"How've you been, Y/N?" Mikey questions, walking closer to us with Take' following behind, "It's been a while since I've talked to you. Kenny steals all your attention nowadays."

I retort, "You expect me to prioritise you over Ken?"

Take' gasps when he hears me say Ken's name.

Mikey shrugs his shoulders before Takemichi takes hold of mine, shaking me frantically. "Y/N, what the Hell is going on? How do you know these guys? You said you wanted to stay away from Toman!"

"'Stay away from Toman'?" Mikey and Ken both say.

I hold onto Takemichi's arms, stopping him from moving me. "Listen to me carefully, little brother." I say, looking serious, "Remember how I told you that my boyfriend was intimidating, and I didn't want to introduce you two because of that?"

He slowly nods his head. I then point to Ken. "Do you think Draken is intimidating?" I ask, to which Takemichi nods his head slowly, "Then you know why I didn't want to meet Toman."

He squints at me for a second before I feel a tap on my shoulder. I look over to see Mikey. "Wanna' come with us now that it's sorted out?" He asks, pointing to the shop we were just in, "Have lunch with us! I wanna' see how this all plays out."

Mikey makes his way inside before I can answer. I look back to my brother. "I'm dating Draken... okay?" I mumble out.

Takemichi takes a deep breath in, looking between me and Ken behind me. He sighs out to himself, "I guess I messed something up and now you're dating Draken..."

I furrow my brows. He then sees me and shakes his head. "Uh! I mean, I—I think that's fine! Draken is... strong. He'll protect you. That's... That's great news, Y/N." He states, nodding to Ken. There's a genuine tone in his voice. Like he's incredibly happy.

"Oh... you're taking this better than I expected." I say, pulling away from my brother, "I kinda' thought you'd freak out and tell me that Ken gets into too many fights."

I hear Ken scoff from behind me, "Excuse me."

I brush it off, patting Takemichi on the top of his head. "Well, I guess we can do lunch." I say, seeing my brother nod, "Thanks, Takemichi."

He gives me a soft grin. "It's alright, Y/N." He tells me, following Mikey inside.

I turn around to see Ken crossing his arms over his chest, looking irritated once again. "What?" I hum, raising a brow.

He pinches my cheek, making me click my tongue. "Why didn't you tell you were Takemitchy's sister, huh?" He complains, tilting his head at me, "And why the Hell didn't you tell him who your boyfriend was when you found out he was a part of Toman?"

I hold onto his wrist as he lets go of me. "Because I didn't want you grilling my brother." I state, pouting at him a little, "Take' knows things about me that I'd be embarrassed to tell you. He might've told our parents if he found out I was dating one of Tokyo's strongest gang members."

He smirks at me. I can't help but smile back at him. Ken retorts, "I'll let it go. And because of this, you're gonna' have to meet Toman."

I widen my eyes at him before sighing, following him to the store, "Fine... I haven't spoken to Mitsuya in a while." I slip my hand into his, squeezing it a little. "Does that mean I'm a gang member now?"

"No." He says sternly, entering the shop.

"Aw, how come?" I chuckle, tugging him to the freezer, "Remember when I slapped Mikey for entering the room I was changing in? His cheek was swollen for like, hours. I'm practically a threat to your boss."

He rolls his eyes at that, grabbing the same ice candy Take' had bought me before, which he stole. "Not much of a threat, baby." He claims, handing me the treat, "Pretty sure it was from me punching him that his cheek was swollen for."

"You have no evidence." I huff, walking to the cashier as Ken follows behind.

"I have plenty of evidence. Just ask Mikey." He tells me, paying for it. We exit the store, Ken looking around. "Damn, what's taking them so long?" He sits down, impatient look on his face.

I stand in front of him, in between his legs and holding the ice candy in between my lips. "It's Mikey. When he wants food, he goes bulk." I say, putting my hand in his when he holds it out, "At least now, I can hang out with you in public. No more sneaking around."

He frowns a little, pulling me closer. "But that was fun." He sighs out, "You only got caught like, twice. I'm so proud of you."

My cheeks heat up at the last statement before Ken finishes his ice candy, putting it in the bin beside him. "Well, you better be. It wasn't that easy. Takemichi kept waking up randomly in the middle of the night." I inform Ken.

I eat my ice candy, swallowing the part I had before Ken tugs me closer. Before I can ask, he leans up from his spot on the bench and presses his lips against mine. I'm a little surprised by it, but I eventually close my eyes and use my free hand to caress his cheek.

I can tell he's sinking into this. We haven't actually seen each other in maybe a week more. He's been held up with Toman business and I didn't want to be in the way. I've missed him, since texting is a downgrade to actually talking to him.

Ken keeps his grip on my hand, not letting me go. He's probably just as reluctant to let go as I am. But alas, breathing.

I pull away first, Ken dragging himself closer before he opens his eyes. He scans my face for a second before leaning back, a gentle blush over his cheeks. "Hey... missed you." He told me.

Feeling a rush of excitement after hearing that, I lean forward and wrap my arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. "Aw, aren't you cute?" I giggle, his arm curling at my waist, "I missed you too, Ken."

"Euh..." I hear someone say, "Am I gonna' have to get used to that?"

"Yeah. It's alright, they don't do it in front of the rest of the guys. Just the close ones." Another person says.

I pull away from Ken, hands resting on his shoulders as we turn to see Mikey and Takemichi. The commander is seating a pork bun and Take' is holding three bags full of snacks.

A little embarrassed, I look away and continue to eat my ice candy. "Do you regret being so cool about it now, Take'?" I joke, smiling at myself.

He retort, "Maybe a little bit. But at least now, you'll be safer in the future with Draken."

I feel Ken stand up, hands in his pockets. "Alright, let's get going before Mikey falls asleep."