#she has no concept of face painting and make up beyond like

[sifutoph]

❝ katara and i got our faces painted once, ❞ she's referring to that time in ba sing se, when katara had successfully taken her to a spa, which was ... pretty nice. in gaoling, toph was often groomed as well. there shouldn't be a hair out of place, and her skin has to remain clean, soft. the staff would often wonder why the soles of her feet would be the only parts of her to have remained roughened, but toph had let them wonder, mouth closed tight, mum. she had thought she would hate the spa day for what it reminded her, but instead ...

well, it's one of her best memories with katara, fire to her feet.

whatever. point is – ❝ that the same as what you're doin' now ? ❞

@tessenwarrior — starter call.

[katakaluptastrophy]

It's weird church lady hours in my TLT fixated brain, and I want to know what a sacrament is in the religion of the Nine Houses.

Because the terms "sacrament" and "sacramental" pop up a lot in HTN.

Much of Harrow's look seems to be made up of things described as sacramental: her face is painted with a "sacramental skull", the paints requiring appropriate blessing or otherwise are replaceable with blood. She wears sacramental vestments, and even the shorn heads of Ninth House cavaliers are described as "sacramentally shorn".

Most of that sounds very much like the Catholic concept of "a sacramental" - something that's a sign of a spiritual effect, like a blessed rosary, or making the sign of the cross. The painted face, the veiled head of the necromancer, or the shorn head of the cavalier being a sign of divine protection or blessing. Or perhaps those things are understood to be sacraments in and of themselves - outward signs of an inward grace, the blessed paint imparting some kind of spiritual power or effect in and of themselves from Jod or the Tomb. (Longer thoughts about Ninth veiling here)

Harrow prays to the Tomb before replacing Ianthe's arm, and thinks that she is going to "sacramentally adore" Ianthe's bones. (Is that what the kids are calling it these days?).

But a Lyctor is in themself apparently "a walking sacrament".

And then, of course, there's this quote from Jod:

You said... “The cavaliers—”

“Have joined their Lyctors,” he said. “It’s not really a lie. It’s simply a flattening of an awesome��and sacramental…truth."

It was around this point that I realised that Lyctors are like vampires.

The Catholic Church has seven sacraments, but the biggie is the eucharist, which Catholics believe is the actual transformation of bread and wine into the flesh and blood of Jesus, which are consumed by the faithful, uniting them with Him. And the ultimate goal is of course eternal life with God in Heaven.

Vampires have been understood as a sort of inversion of eucharistic theology: a demonic perversion of consuming flesh and blood to gain eternal life.

You can probably work out where this one is going with the immortals who hang out with the guy they think is god and whose powers come from consuming another person both spiritually and physically...

What's interesting about this in universe is that Jod is consciously interacting with concepts from Catholic theology, or at least was when he first decided to start his own special brand of sad girl necromantic space Catholicism. Not that he's particularly consistent with it, since he tells Harrow that Lyctorhood is both sacramental and an indelible sin... But at some point a conscious choice has been made on Lyctors and the concept of sacramentality. And while clearly the metaphysical world that Tamsyn Muir is imagining is one where the spiritual reality is not going to align with either Catholicism or with Jod's long con, the resonance of the vampire mythos feels very apropos.

As far as in world use goes, I want to know if they're just throwing around these terms to mean something like "holy" or if they relate to more specific practices within the religion of the Nine Houses? Are there defined sacraments? What does the religion of the Nine Houses even look like, outside of the Ninth? The Eighth seem to have a holy book and a practice of confession, there seem to be priests and religious orders aplenty even beyond the heretical Ninth, and there seems to be a concept of blessing and of intercessory prayer (but as Abigail Pent points out, there is apparently also no theology of omnipotence, though the jury is still out on omniscience and omnibenevolence, I guess).

[d0llcuries]

I know it might be a little weird, but could you make a headcanon of what it would be like to have Tsu'tey as a father being a girl (like daddy's little princess, he's heart is softened by his daughter and his partner) and Trudy as a mother (she being a scientist and having an avatar like Grace instead of a military woman and fell in love with Tsu'tey like Jake for Neytiri) please? I don't know why but I think they would be such an amazing couple with a super cute dynamic and even better parents, Trudy is too good to be just a military woman.

Thanks so much and plis never stop writing, you are too talented for this 🥰💕

NOT ALOT, JUST FOREVER

pairing(s): tsuʼtey x fem!daughter! reader + trudy x fem!daughter! reader

summary: being tsu’tey and trudy’s daughter means living between two completely different worlds, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

author's note: beyond thrilled for this request!! it's not weird at all i think it's super creative and overall a really lovely request! i only hope i did the whole “trudy as a scientist and not an aviator” concept justice ദ്ദി ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ ).

TSU’TEY IS A WARRIOR. a warrior of few words and fewer indulgences. yet somehow, your existence has shifted the soil beneath his feet. he doesn't understand it—the way a creature so small can root him in ways no battlefield ever did, how his spirit trembles more at the sight of your scraped knee than it ever did facing his fiercest enemies. the jungle's dangers are tangible, something he can see and fight. but this? the vulnerability that sneaks up on him every time you reach for his hand? that is an enemy he never learned to face.

HE NEVER SAYS IT ALOUD, but you are his soft spot, his ache in the quiet moments. he lingers at the edge of your games, arms crossed and posture deceptively indifferent. only his fingers betray him, twitching whenever you teeter, always ready to reach out. he remembers the first time he held you—skin still flushed with warmth from your mother’s womb—and thought, how could something so small hold such power over him?

TRUDY NOTICES IT TOO. she watches, amused, as he paces along the clearing’s edge while you struggle with a flower crown, petals and stems slipping through your fingers. he catches her smirk and glares, but the edge dulls the moment you call, “daddy, help me!” his pride dissolves as he kneels, calloused hands surprisingly gentle as he threads the flowers, each petal treated like something precious, as if winning this small battle for you means everything.

HE’S NEVER LEARNED HOW TO SAY NO TO YOU. no one really believes it. tsu’tey, head warrior, with a daughter who can wrap him around her finger. it's almost comical. warriors have seen you perched on his shoulders, his hands steadying your ankles with fierce attention, as if the entire jungle’s weight depends on your safety. when the hunters tease him, it's always in whispers, for none would be foolish enough to say it to his face.

TRUDY ENCOURAGES THE MESS. she lets you dig through the dirt, muddying your fingers as you paint the bark of a tree. she’ll ruffle your hair with dusty hands, or press her nose against yours and whisper stories about the sky people, but never in a way that makes you afraid of them. she’ll hold some odd gadget in her lap, her fingers nimble and focused, but she always makes room for you, explaining her tinkering in a strange blend of science and dreams.

TSU’TEY DOESN’T UNDERSTAND IT, this fixation you and trudy have with the stars, tracing shapes and murmuring about worlds and distances that stretch too far to see. it feels impractical, frivolous, yet he cannot tear his gaze from your face, lit up by wonder. he doesn’t understand the science, no, but he understands that quiet, wide-eyed look of awe you wear when you turn toward the night sky.

SOMETIMES YOU CATCH THEM BEING WEIRD, your parents, in moments they don’t think you’re watching. trudy sidles up to tsu’tey, wrapping herself around him like ivy on a tree, grounding him in a way nothing else does. you, hidden behind a tree, watch the way his usual stoic lines soften around her, watch the way she coaxes out a gentleness he barely understands. he’s the rock, unyielding, and she’s the wind, wearing him down in soft waves. it’s strange, but even at your age, you know it’s love.

YOUR MOTHER’S LAUGH IS LOUD, STARTLING. it breaks through the quiet of the forest, raw and unchecked, and when tsu’tey looks at her, it’s with a mix of exasperation and awe, a slow smile tugging at his lips, as if he’s still in disbelief that she is his.

TSU’TEY TRIES TO TEACH YOU TO HUNT, but you’re far too much like her, curiosity spinning you in every direction but the target. you tug on his arm, asking why the plants glow, why the ikran call out at dawn, and though he sighs, there’s patience in his hands as he steadies your bow. his answers are clipped, bare—“because eywa made them that way”—and you frown, dissatisfied. HE’S A WARRIOR, NOT A POET, but he tries for you, tries to see the world through the lens of wonder you wear.

YOU’VE NEVER BEEN AFRAID OF HIM, not like others are. to them, he’s a force, quiet and commanding, silencing crowds with a single look. but to you, he’s dad. the one who lifts you to pick the highest fruit, who lets you clamber onto his shoulders despite the fact that you’re nearly too big now, who calls you his “little warrior,” though anyone can see you’re a reflection of your mother.

YOU MAKE HIM LAUGH. it’s a quiet sound, almost lost between the trees, a reserved chuckle he saves just for you. it’s there in those unguarded moments, like when you drift off mid-story, cheek pressed to his chest, breathing softly in a rhythm that seems to ground him.

WHEN THE DAY ENDS, your family is wrapped in twilight colors. tsu’tey holds you close, his arms anchoring you as you drift between sleep and wakefulness. trudy hums an off-key melody from a time long past, and beneath the canopy, the sounds of pandora settle around you, your father’s heartbeat a steady drum grounding you in his embrace.

you’ve inherited her stubbornness, MUCH TO TSU’TEY’S DISMAY. once your mind is set, little can change it, and trudy often encourages you with a grin, while tsu’tey tries to hold firm, though his resolve quickly falters under your gaze. eventually, he’ll sigh, muttering that you’re “just like your mother.”

WHEN YOU’RE SICK, tsu’tey never leaves your side, discomfort tight in his chest, unused to the helplessness it brings. trudy works calmly, hands sure as she mixes medicine from plants she’s studied, but tsu’tey watches with a taut, silent worry. only when you reach out, your small hand grasping his, does he finally relax, grounding himself in the strength of your presence.

TSU’TEY DOES NOT TRUST BOYS, least of all the sully brothers. when they come around, he watches them like a hawk, shoulders tense, eyes narrowing every time they get too close to you. even when they're just playing, tossing a ball or climbing trees, tsu’tey stands at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, every muscle on alert. neteyam is polite, respectful, but it’s lo’ak who makes tsu’tey’s jaw tighten—the boy is too reckless, too bold. he doesn’t care that they’re still young; boys grow into men, and tsu’tey has seen too much of the world to be naïve. but when you laugh, loud and carefree, chasing after them through the trees, he can’t quite bring himself to pull you away. still, his eyes never leave you, the protective weight of his gaze making sure they understand—they may play, but they’ll never cross a line.

TRUDY, OF COURSE, FINDS IT AMUSING. she’ll shake her head and laugh when she catches tsu’tey scowling from his post. “they’re just kids,” she says, tousling your hair as you sprint by, face flushed and beaming. trudy’s always been the more lenient one, the one who believes in letting you figure things out for yourself. when you ask if you can go with the sullys on one of their adventures, she’s quick to agree, despite tsu’tey’s gruff protests. “they’re good boys,” she tells him, nudging his side. but even as she says it, trudy watches you with that same quiet intensity tsu’tey has—her kind of protectiveness isn’t loud, but it’s always there, a constant force just beneath the surface.

IN THE END, YOU’VE CHANGED THEM BOTH, reshaping their edges, carving space for softness amidst the warrior’s strength and the explorer’s curiosity. in you, they find balance. and as the night settles, they hold you close, a quiet promise between them that, whatever the world brings, this—their family—is worth everything.

[saintsenara]

Seeing as all this excellent ink is being spilled on the concept of Snape and Tonks bonding through grief (and queerness), how about Snape and Tonks the elder, Andromeda? It must be lonely sometimes for Andromeda after the estrangement from her family, however necessary the break was and however impossible a reconciliation would be, with nobody in her new life who she can plausibly befriend having any understanding of her sisters beyond them being evil and hot. But Snape is fond of Narcissa and gets Bellatrix. Added bonus of Snape despising Dromeda’s son in law and rightly believing her daughter could do much much better!

thank you very much for the ask, anon!

and this is a pairing which has occurred to me too... so much so, that there's a little something in the wips folder on this very topic...

as i've said as part of the stonks manifesto, the interesting thing in fics in which snape survives is how authors approach the fact that he has been following a script which has now ended, and how he deals with - for the first time in his life - having no master and having the freedom to live on his own terms.

and i think it’s particularly interesting to mash this into andromeda’s own finished script - the fact that her war has ended so devastatingly, with her husband, daughter, and son-in-law all dead; that she has gone from being a grandmother to teddy’s primary caregiver [and the resentments that brings up - i’m wedded to the idea that she isn’t thrilled that harry is teddy’s godfather]; and, most thorny of all, that her sister is dead and there is now absolutely no chance of bellatrix seeing the error of her ways and trying to make amends [which, while i loathe the common trope that andromeda and her sisters would reconcile easily, is something i believe it’s entirely reasonable for her to have hoped could be possible.]

snape’s post-war relationship with the malfoys - presumably absolutely torpedoed by the reveal that he was a spy - also has parallels with andromeda’s post-war reckoning with narcissa.

would you like a snippet?

[from the very end, because i always write the endings of things first.]

And she looks up at the house, and - although it’s narrow - it’s straight and tall, and it stretches up to a clear sky. And she thinks about Ted, about what Ted used to say about things having good bones, and she knows that he’d chide her for defaulting so quickly to chucking the whole thing in the dustbin. A bit of repointing for the mortar, Dromeda, he’d say, and a new coat of paint, and this’ll be a cracker.

And she can picture the cant of his sandy head, and his wry smile, and his wink, as Snape shuffles down from the kitchen, holding a cup of tea out to her in a thin, cautious hand. The mug is chipped - a big chip right out of the rim, right over the place you’d put your mouth to take a sip - but the tea is perfect, like Snape has watched her carefully over the course of endless cups she’s made them both in her grief-filled living room in order to learn how she takes it. Good bones there, too, Dromeda.

Good bones. Good, marrow-filled bones holding him up, despite all the scar tissue. A thing worth restoring, worth maintaining.

She looks out across the little yard, with its high walls and the gate hanging on by its hinges. Someone has started to hammer through the concrete - Snape couldn’t have done it himself, surely? Snape has asked someone into his space, into his weakness, to do it - and to lay topsoil. She sips her tea and she breathes in and she can smell it, how it smells of earth, and she remembers what Snape told her about fertilisers, about how even the ground benefits from good bones.

He stands beside her, drinking his tea in solemn silence. He doesn’t have his stick - he couldn’t carry two mugs with it - and she can see the pain starting to stiffen him, the blood starting to drain from his face.

She conjures him a chair, settles him in it, and, for once, he doesn't complain. She lays a hand upon his shoulder which he doesn’t shrug off, feels him take it in his own, feels the touch of his lips against her fingers. The kiss is feather-light, but the bump of his nose against the back of her hand is emphatic. And that’s Snape, isn’t it? For all his subtlety, he’s an immovable object.

He’s got a nice nose, she thinks. She likes it, even though this would sound absurd to the person she was twelve months ago. It’s got good… well, cartilage, she supposes.

And perhaps it’s all futile. Perhaps Snape is past repair. Perhaps, if she stays, they will destroy each other, wearing each other thin with constant relitigation of the past, never letting the ghosts in the walls drift away.

Perhaps.

But she can picture Snape sitting in this chair again - the sunshine on his face, warming his paleness away and making the silver threading his temples glitter - chatting to her in a voice which has grown stronger while she potters around the garden.

While things grow.

[staybabblingbaby]

Soulmate Garden AU Ch.4 (Lewisia) a2d2

[Caution: These are not full fics, or even full parts of fics for some, these are part of my writing progress archive!]

Concept: Growing up, you knew Soulmates weren't all that they cracked up to be. So when, on your 18th birthday, your skin is painted with a garden of flower buds, you resolve to hide it from everyone. Who had ever heard of someone with 8 soulmates, anyway?

Or; Reader has 8 soulmates and no issue avoiding all of them. It's up to SKZ to show her that while every soulbond might not be made of fairy tales, theirs certainly could be.

Word Count: 1,558

TO THE UNAWARE: THIS IS A PROGRESS UPDATE OF A CHAPTER NOT REMOTELY CLOSE TO DONE! PLEASE DON'T EXPECT A FULL OR POLISHED PRODUCT HERE

Notes: I told y'all that I was being lazy. We gotta play catch up now :c This is... roughly 1/3 of Ch.4? maybe more? I'm hoping to have them have a decent conversation but that's beyond me sometimes ^^;;

Dividers by @saradika

Warnings: She/Her Reader, Flashback (yelling), pls lmk if this needs smthn more specific

Leave me comments or questions or anything! Love hearing from folks <3

Masterlist <3 | Main Part (Unfinished </3)

The next morning marks a return to routine.

You roll out of bed half awake, sleep-mused and ready for murder. Your mood isn’t improved by the way you’d gone to bed - still in your work clothes with day-after mascara gluing your eyelids together.

A quick stop by the restroom to strip and scrub your face is a necessity, or you’re liable to just crawl back into bed and exist there. You brush your teeth while you’re there, doing your best to ignore grey streaks down your cheeks where your eyeliner hadn’t been as water-proof as advertised.

You don’t even know why you’d cried. After all, it’s not like you were the one rejected by your soulmate for no reason.

You do your best to shake off the maudlin feeling of the morning and lumber your way into the kitchen. You spy your twenty on the counter where you’d left it. You press your lips together to stop the bottom one from trembling and open the fridge. There’s a plate of eggs, fruit, and toast inside.

Taylor, freak of nature that he is, has been up for hours already, you know. He’d probably been up and out the door before the run had even thought about rising. Weirdo.

your roommate is well aware of how non-functional you can be in the morning, so it’s not unusual of him to leave you leftovers when he makes breakfast. The little note on top isn’t new either, usually a reminder, grocery list, or a little encouragement for your day. The whole thing makes you smile, usually.

Today that little note makes your eyes prick with a new wave of tears.

‘Give yourself a chance. Bet’s still on <3’

You very deliberately do NOT cry, though it’s a near thing. You’d done enough crying last night. But if you sniffle a bit into your eggs, well. That’s for you to know, isn’t it?

It’s a Tuesday, so after breakfast you drag yourself back to your room to throw on your largest, rattiest, t-shirt and a pair of leggings to head to the gym.

You can’t help your eyes from catching on the newly-bloomed marks on your skin when you strip away your sleepwear, and you realize that you hadn’t had the opportunity to study your mark in days. Things have been... hectic, to say the least.

In the name of returning to your baseline, you figure you can’t ignore this part of your routine either.

You amble over to your closet, swinging open the door to reveal the full-length mirror hanging on the other side. You don’t bother with your usual rounds of self-depreciation or daily affirmations. Instead, you find your eyes glued to droopy purple petals and blankets of white stars across your abdomen.

The names of the flowers come to mind with ease as you trace gentle fingers over echoes of delicate petals. ‘Bellflowers’ You recite to yourself, drawing your finger up thin stalks and back down dipped heads. ‘Edelweiss’ you muse, lightly tapping each fuzzy white star.

The knowledge comes easily to you, not from any cosmic force, but because of course it does. Your sister hadn’t been wrong when she’d said that asking a person’s favorite flower had been basically an obsession of yours.

The habit had started well before you’d gotten your mark. Before you’d even properly known what soulmates were, really.

Gardening with your mother had started as a way for her to drag you out of the house to get some sun while keeping an easy eye on you. Before your sister was born you’d spent many a joyous afternoon learning to work the soil beside your mother.

After the advent of your favorite gremlin, you’d spent those afternoons tending to the family garden alone. You remember being grateful to the newborn back then. Those solitary afternoons were some of the most peaceful in your memory.

At some point the ‘family garden’ had become more ‘your garden’. Your mother wouldn’t even bother to plan it out with you by your sister’s toddler years. She’d drive you to the store, hand you a bit of cash, and leave it all in your tiny hands.

You’d spend hours researching the best ways to nurture your plants. How to have them thriving more brightly, more beautifully, for longer. If you weren’t in the garden you were in the library by your house, nose buried in a gardening book.

You vividly remember the day it all went wrong.

It hadn’t even been that dramatic, as you recall. At least, not in terms of your parent’s usual fights. It was heartbreak- despair- that marked the day, instead of fear.

You’d been digging up weeds, clawing up deep roots with your gloved hands and a trowel, when your father had come storming outside. You don’t even remember what he’d said. Something about you always taking your mother’s side because of your shared hobby, you think.

Never mind that the woman hadn’t put so much as a toenail to the dirt since your sister had been born.

He hadn’t let up for quite a while, if memory serves. Stood there yelling at you in your safe space for close to an hour. Maybe two, but your child-brain couldn’t be trusted with the time. It might have just been minutes, now that you think about it.

Nonetheless he’d yelled and yelled and yelled. He hadn’t trampled on or broken anything, hadn’t even made sense. And yet, when he’d finally left, everything was different.

The blooms you’d worked so hard to nurture were no longer beautiful, and the soil you’d once called home was no longer safe.

You hadn’t tended another garden after that season. You’d seen your plants to winter, and you’d let go. You’d turn away from the sun and soil and leaned into your books and silly questions to fill the hole left behind.

You’re sure you left claw marks in the dirt.

Something like a gentle humming fills your soul, and you notice how tightly you're clutching the garden around your waist. You gingerly pry your hands away and study the crescent moons you’ve left behind, soft skin indented where petals should have ripped.

You wonder if you’ll leave claw-marks in this garden too.

You tear your eyes away from the mirror, ignoring the gentle tingling up your side where your fingers had dug in. You quickly toss on a camisole, forgoing your usual privacy wraps, and your t-shirt over that.

There was nothing for emptying your mind quite like running yourself into the ground at the gym. With full awareness that you’re going to regret your gym session later, you flee your apartment.

Maybe jogging all the way to gym wasn’t such a great idea. It’d sounded fantastic at the time, a head start on your cardio and a way to remove yourself from your negative headspace before you tried to toss around weights you barely knew how to use.

It had sort of worked, but now you hadn’t even entered the building and you were already a sweaty, panting, mess.

After guzzling down half of your water bottle you enter the building, resignation in your heart. Cardio wasn’t even your focus today.

The automatic doors slide open with their usual swish, and you’re greeting by the familiar stale smell all gyms seem to share, no matter how clean. It’s comforting, even if you do wish you could go home already.

There’s a guy already at the receptionist’s desk when you approach, talking in slow and measured English. His back is broad and built, huge biceps on display in a tight fitting black t-shirt. You kinda wanna squish them.

You try to shake yourself from your admiration, reminding yourself that there were very many well-muscled men in this place and that you’d always endeavored to keep a polite line-of-sight, even when they don’t. It hadn’t even been a hard ask, until now.

You really can’t help the way your eyes trace up and down his form. It should be impossible, you think, to somehow bulk up in only the right places, but by Jove his man has done it. This time you physically shake your head to snap yourself out of it.

You’d be polite if it killed you. Even if neither the stranger or the scrawny receptionist had noticed your wandering gaze.

Especially then.

While you were.... distracted... the man’s conversation with the receptionist seemed to be going a whole lot of nowhere. From what you can gather he’s looking for a short-term membership, and the receptionist is trying to tell him they don’t do that.

You know this to be true, even the trial period was an entire month. You’d specifically chosen this gym for that reason. If you hadn’t been able to stick it out for a month, you know you’d have never used the place enough to justify a membership.

Your sympathies to this stranger, it seems he really just needs a little less than a week. You know there are some no-commitment type places not too far though, so you wonder why he’s stuck on this place.

Their back and forth goes a while longer, but it’s evident that the beautifully-built stranger can’t really argue his case properly.

Eventually he steps to the side to make a call, and you’re able to approach the counter.

[rainbowwyrm]

Meet Amy Wyrm! The Newest Face in Home!

All assets belong to Clown / partycoffin, except for the audio recording and text which were all done in Ibis Paint X.

“Like a rainbow after a stormy day, Amy Wyrm is here to chase your sorrows away! Hailing from the underwater city of Cambria, she seeks to bring joy to anyone down on their luck, whether by giving helpful advice or assisting them with various tasks around the neighborhood. As her friend Eddie Dear always says, ‘No problem is too big for Miss Wyrm!’ ”

According to recovered scripts and concept art, Amy Wyrm is a descendant of an ancient celestial dragon, although she looks more like a bristle worm than a renowned mythical creature. Of course, that isn’t to say she can’t act fearsome! Before moving in, Amy grew up in Cambria City, an underwater metropolis where many sea folks coexist in one area. However, despite having so many neighbors, she struggled to make friends due to being too “different”, so she would either play with her toys or make shapes out of clouds. She even created imaginary creatures who lived in her dreamscape and talked to her as if they were her real friends. Other than that, Amy spent many years alone until one day, a mysterious red envelope arrived at her doorstep. Inside was a colorful flyer for a newly vacant house, located in a small, quaint neighborhood on the surface. Believing this was a calling to finally cure her loneliness, she packed all of her belongings and headed toward her brand-new life.

Amy Wyrm supposedly made her debut in the episode titled “Amy’s First Day in Home”, estimated to be released in the middle of Welcome Home’s runtime. In the script, the first scene describes Amy arriving at the entrance to Home and being greeted by Wally Darling, who is more than eager to see a new face. As Wally was giving a tour around the neighborhood, Amy asked about the red house in the center, to which Wally responded with “Oh, that’s Home!”. Confused, Amy replied “Oh, you mean… your home?” Wally, shaking his head, responded “No, Home is my house.” Unfortunately, it’s unknown what happened after as the rest had been heavily damaged beyond recovery.

Amy continues to make several appearances throughout the show, mainly acting as the neighborhood’s “cheerer-upper” as Julie Joyful likes to put it. Aside from Frank Frankly, she is the most level-headed out of all the neighbors, always comforting them when they’re feeling down and providing a proper solution to their problems. Her vivid imagination allows her to manifest elaborate ideas in the form of clouds, varying in different shapes and sizes. Additionally, she wears her heart on her sleeve– or rather on her chest– that changes colors based on her emotions. But perhaps what makes Amy truly stand out from her neighbors is that she has two distinct puppets: the main hand-and-rod puppet and a large worm hand puppet, which we believe to be her true form. Unfortunately, much like with Wally Darling, we have yet to find official design sheets.

~Separate art below~

[creativenicocorner]

The Runaway's Gamble! (pomodori . .?)

Thank you so much for the ask @niemalsetwas ♡

Okay! So The Runaway's Gamble is a fic that is set post everything in Discworld, and centers around the concept of Young Sam feeling the need to runaway...he does this...in a not great way, right into on Moist von Lipwig's mail coach as he sets off to personally deliver an important letter to someone in the Sto Plains (take your bets now as to who the receiver might be hehe)

Since Moist is in his gray suit Young Sam doesn't recognize Moist as the Postmaster...meanwhile Moist is having a panic attack and is internally screaming cause "oh gods that's the commander of the watch's son!! I'm doomed!!"

To which Moist tries to subtly figure out why Young Sam has run away from home, and tries to just as subtly convince him to Not Do That.

Angua ends up joining them, as she was sent to track down Young Sam...and now Young Sam has two known runaways trying to subtly convince him to Not Be A Runaway and Go Home

Shenanigans ensue

The way the wip is going....it's probably going to be longer than three chapters lol Cause there's just so many delicious small nuances I'd love to explore

Especially, though not limited to: Moist and Angua friendship (I just think they'd have so much to talk about)

I don't entirely remember if I shared this on tumblr already... I'm pretty sure I shared it with Babblish at some point

ANYWHO a small rough snippet:

“I may have to update my message to her.” Angua shrugged. “So you’re just… going to continue tailing us until I convince the kid to return home?” “Obviously.” “Dressed like that?” Angua stared at him blankly.  “He’s a smart kid, and if he catches just a hair of you, everything can go kaput!” Angua volleyed with a smug smile, and pulled a little something from her back pocket. “Turn around.” Moist raised a brow, the sort of brow that suggested ‘you and I both know there’s a dirty joke in there somewhere’. “Just do it,” growled Angua. Moist raised his hands, and turned, wordlessly, eyebrow still arched. Once he realized what Angua was doing, he started whistling through her change process so not to hear any hairy details.  A snuffling huff caught Moist’s attention again. He turned.  It was Angua, with a bandana, a pretty one to be sure, a blue base color with cherry red and gold designs. But it didn’t change the fact that it was Angua, in wolf form, with a bandana. Moist clapped his hands together, and couldn’t hold the sarcasm back as he said, “inspired.”  Her upper muzzle curled. Angua swore she’d never mention this was Carrot’s idea. 

And then a newer one just a bit later, still rough. I'm trying to work on how to make the difference between them speaking Morkporkian and Überwaldian distinct beyond just saying 'they're speaking Überwaldian' unfortunately I'm not a linguist lol and am doing just that...for now, we'll see... perhaps I'll change the quotations to another kind perhaps to the guillemet («...») to indicate a language change hmm... ANYWAYS:

"I have insights I want to share with him too," whispered Angua, unprompted. She was speaking in Überwaldian once more, meaning she didn't want to be mistakenly overheard by the sleeping Young Sam. Moist looked up from the fire, and halted in his log poking. He spared a glance at Young Sam, to ensure he was still asleep before responding, likewise in Überwaldian, "I don't know how well the bandana trick can work in your human form. Your physique, if you don't mind me saying, isn't too forgettable." Angua sneered at him, a human faced equivalent of a warning growl. Moist raised his hands in airs of harmlessness, "I'm not saying anything that isn't known, Baroness." Angua rolled her eyes, and clicked her tongue. "You're right," she said, sneer turning into a smirk as her posture changed to a more confident position, "I do have an unforgettable body." Moist nodded his agreement in the airs of one concurring that 'yes the painting of Reclined Nude with Vase and Flowers is beautiful'. "So you see how it'd be difficult for you to talk to him like this, in uniform no less." "But not impossible," said Angua straightening. Moist sat up a bit more, attentive. The hairs on the back of his neck standing up a bit at the promise of Angua's mischievous tones. Moist could sniff mischief like a spider could sense the change of an air current over it's many little hairs. He leaned forward with a grin, mischief in persona. "Yeees?" It may have been the firelight, but for a moment Angua could have sworn his eyes glinted and shon. It was a little distracting. She shook her head, and powered on ahead, "Well, you're good at disguises..." "Yeees?" "Perhaps, uh...I could-" "Steal a set of clothes off a clothesline, and have your make up done in a certain way unrecognizable to yourself?" Moist said all in one breath. His grin grew toothier by the vowel. "Oh. Um, yes actually." "What are your thoughts on eyepatches?" "I'd probably hate it." "Excellent!"

As for imbottigliando pomodori (working title) that is a mp100 Reigen centric fic that came to me at the end of summer last year while helping my aunt harvest make and bottle tomatoes for tomato sauce.

The fic is one of many I enjoy exploring in which Reigen learns healthier ways to improve as a person instigated by himself. Cause I love it when Reigen decides to better himself, and doesn't want to get left behind while Serizawa and Mob and everyone else are doing their best to better theirselves.

In this fic Reigen deals with the after trauma of what happened at the end of the REIGEN spinoff manga...as I sort of love exploring the post REIGEN manga space and the lingering consequences Reigen had by not only accepting but fully Embracing Rusty-sama (even if it was briefly)

It's still a very vague vibe of an idea atm.

I'm playing with the idea that Reigen leaves Seasoning for a bit to join a group of enthusiastic gardeners to learn how to make their own tomato sauce...perhaps occasionally sending letters to Serizawa and Mob?

Currently the summary is: In which Reigen learns about matters of the heart, that self improvement does Not mean self isolation, and tomatoes. 

Again, right now it is just a vague jumble of vibes and feelings haha I don't think the rating will get higher than Teen and Up for this...

Thank you so much again for asking! ♡

Best wishes!

[havenotwillnotreadthebooks]

Finwe with PTSD from endorë tho? Finwe headcanon here we go-

Finwe and all the others from Endorë (no I’m not spelling culivian and u cant make me) having trauma from being in a Life or Death situation for Years.

But once they get to Valinor, it's all okay now that they’re safe, right?

Wrong.

The valar tells them You Gained These Scars, Now Live With Them.

And they do.

How would any of the elves know better? After scurrying around in the dark like rats under Melkor’s boots, were they really in a place to even question the valar to that extent? Would they even feel safe to ask the valar if maybe things could be better? When your in Survival Mode, you don’t think about these things, and especially don’t ask them of your saviors, however incompetent their methods may seem. You don’t ask. They didn’t ask. They, realistically, couldn’t ask.

So now there are traumatized elves, now what?

Life, and continuing as if Endorë never happened, or make it into a bedtime story with blunted edges and blurred character disappearances. Make the trauma a story, a history, a painting, something that’s over and meaningless now as anything beyond a story.

Then things happen, Feanor is born, and Finwe is Falling Apart until he shoves Stuff underneath a mental carpet, to the detriment of his future family members yet to be born.

More things happen; The Noldor leave. The Noldor die.

Then they live.

They’re coming out of Mandos, healed and regretful and still scarred in their new bodies but they’re alive.

Except; When Finwe comes out, having “healed” enough to pass the door and having broken both his marriage bonds, he is seen in a new light.

Suddenly, their dad, their grandfather, their great-granddad who always seemed so happy during the years of the trees-

He is terribly, horrifically familiar.

The Taken; who met Sauron face to face while bound, can see a familiar hesitance to break the peace, to make any move that would anger the waters and make things so very loud (Finwe smiles at them, and says he has never liked his family fighting, that’s all.) (Maedhros will wonder why he never noticed that grandfather never went swimming with them, or to the beach itself. He thinks he knows why. He doesn’t want to know. He knows anyway).

The Fighters and Hunters; who thinned out Morgoth’s beasts and fought Sauron face to face, can see a familiar paranoia. Finwe is always checking for exits, his eyes calm and his body tense, ready to fight or flee. Finwe identifies the sharp objects in the room immediately, hidden as just “checking out the decor”. (Celegorm, for maybe the first time, wonders what the beasts in Endorë were really like during Finwë’s time, worse or better than orcs. He’ll wonder how smoothed out his grandfather’s stories were when he told them to his young, safe grandchildren.) (Fingon thinks of fighting in the dark, with no light besides the stars and no fire as to not attract more beasts. He thinks of waking up to a new, dangerous world with Nothing. He thinks he would’ve become something terrible to survive it.) (Neither ask their grandfather anything. Celegorm isn’t ready to Know. Fingon isn’t ready to See).

The Survivors; They look at the grandfather who always seemed so old and wise and think Oh, because that’s not wisdom gained in peace, that's wisdom gained after war. (Galadriel wants to help, but how could she even speak of it to him? No, she will linger, and wait). (Maglor wouldn’t know what to say, he’s barely healed himself, he can’t imagine living like this for thousands of years with family none the wiser. He doesn’t think he could help his grandfather) (They both could; Neither will speak).

It’s a fun concept to think maybe Finwë isn’t okay, has never been okay, and can’t be okay until his family faces themselves first.

[luneemeritus]

My Christine Daaé AU✨

this is a Christine i created for myself, inspired in both the Leroux version and the musical (PS: this one is blonde and have blue eyes)

- she cooks very well (she always cooked for Erik and he loves it dearly)

- her favorite color is blue 💙

- she has freckles :3

- she is a weird monsterfucker girl (just like me fr) but she never admited it to anyone

- she was always excluded by the other kids because they considered her weird and not "feminine" enough ("femininity" in their conception would be submissive behaviour)

- as her mother died when she was 3yo, she barely has memories of her mother

- her father, Gustave, educated her with an open mind, without any gender-rule or religious bullshit, this is why Christine grew up to be a strong open minded woman without bias or prejudice

- the first time Christine met religious opression and sexism was when she met De Chagny family (Raoul's family), she was very young

- bisexual queen 💅 (everyone is queer to me unless you prove me opposite)

- she developed a shame of herself when everyone else considered her "weird", but when she met Erik – a much weirder person than her – she felt related to him and better with her own weirdness (and his as well)

- her father died when she was 13yo

- she is shy 🥺💙

- she absolutely LOVES Frankenstein and has a deep admire to Mary Shelley

- her favorite Opera is Don Giovanni (she was pleased to see Erik was inspired by it to make his own Don Juan Triumphant)

- she had a good memory of Raoul and how their friendship made her happy, but when they remeet and he acts like a shitty asshole with her, she was completely heartbroken by not recognizing him

- after meeting Erik, she befriended the Daroga and they both became silly Erik's babysitter and emotional support

- she admires the figure of Persephone, and her favorite version of the myth is the one where Persephone wasn't kidnapped, instead she married Hades willingly and moved to the underworld to escape Demeter's overprotective maternity

- she ADORES painting. Aside from singing, it's her favorite thing to do

- speaking of painting... she loves to draw Erik. It became nearly an addiction, she loves drawning his face, his golden eyes, and sometimes she asks to paint his whole body (yes she asks for nude poses, and he obeys 😌)

- she is a woman ahead of her time, she has no shame of her pleasure and knowledge, and she teaches other girls to stand up for themselfs in every oportunity she finds

- she has no religion and hardly believes in something else beyond what she sees and experience (but she respects other's faiths)

[shrinkthisviolet]

1, 2, 10, 12, 16, 21 for the roots asks for Morgan :)

1. How many living parents does your OC have? If they're alive, where are they now and what’s your OC’s relationship with them? If they’re dead, how did they die?

Ooh well right now, 1 with Tina. Though later it'll be 2, because of Henry (and probably later 3, when she comes to think of Harry as a father figure too).

Obviously, her relationship with Tina is very strong—naturally there’s tension at times, especially after Tina finds out about Eowells, but that’s bound to happen. Spoilers perhaps, but they come back from this tension stronger.

For Henry, it’ll be a bit of a bumpy ride given Morgan’s…difficult history with the concept of fatherhood. Calling Henry “Barry’s dad” is far easier than thinking of him as “stepdad”, but…she’ll get there. For Harry, she will probably never actually call him Dad, nor will he ever call her any form of “daughter” to her face, though they’ll probably refer to each other as such when talking to others. (More details about both of these relationships are TBD)

Harrison and Tess…well, Morgan’s relationship with them is ofc complicated. They’re her parents, but she doesn’t remember anything about them—she was too young when they died. Everything she knows about them is secondhand from Tina (or to a lesser extent Eowells*), or via what she can glean from Harry…though the latter is so E2-specific that it’s still lacking. So really, they’re her parents in a much more distant sense…and she barely even feels like she has the right to mourn them 🥺 more easily referring to them as “Aunt Tina/Mum’s friends” than “my parents”

*about this, btw…he does something quite underhanded that I can’t say too much about. You will hate him more than you thought possible when I reveal it.

2. What was your OC’s first job? Do they still work that job (or in that field), or do they do something else now?

Barista at Jitters! Then in s2, barista at Starbucks. Though once she transfers to CCU in s3 and sophomore year of college gets going, she decides to stay unemployed for a while 😅 juggling college and superhero duties (especially since Organic Chem is one of her classes during s3) is hard enough

10. What’s the first significant injury your OC remembers getting? Did it leave any scars?

Hmm maybe the time she fell off a Razor scooter when she was in kindergarten and got a scrape above her eyebrow. It was a pretty bad scrape, and she had to get stitches, though luckily it healed up fairly quickly.

One of the good memories she has of Eowells is him taking the day off work to spend with her in the hospital, and letting her curl up with him in bed. It was one of the few truly good days she had with him…and as with those good days, it was a rarity undone as soon as the next day

(He took her to the doctor that morning to make sure her stitches had dissolved and that her ill-effects were mild, then dropped her at school around noon before going off to work himself. And with that, they were right back to normal)

12. Does your OC’s family practice any faith or religion? Does your OC still practice? Why or why not?

She’s not really religious tbh, neither were her parents. She celebrates Christmas, but not in a super religious sense, more in a commercial sense (caveat: I do think Christmas is to a degree religious in nature, which is why I don’t celebrate it, but I do think people often do celebrate it secularly. Such is the case for Morgan)

Cut for length (16 and 21 are below):

16. What does your OC’s childhood bedroom look like?

Ooh well she has two: one in Tina's house for the most formative 6 years of her life (7-13, though she does also use it from ages 17-18 (and maybe beyond that)...possibly? Depends on if she dorms at CCU), and one at Eowells's mansion/house that she uses from 1-7 and then 13-16.

Her room at Eowells's house is fairly plain—Eowells had it painted a tactful pastel yellow, though when she was 13, in the early days of moving back in, she managed to convince him to paint it pastel blue instead (her superhero costume may be dark green, but blue is her favorite color). She doesn't have much decoration on her walls, no posters or anything of the like, though she did convince him to let her hang a whiteboard calendar on her wall. She still uses it. She also always keeps her room very neat, because Eowells gets tetchy when even a hair of it is out of place. He also doesn't see much point in knick-knacks or books that he seems "frivolous", so she learns quickly to keep those hidden

That aforementioned calendar was actually a gift from Tina, when she was 12. And her room at Tina's is much more lived-in, much more of "organized chaos"—knicknacks littering her dressing table, her clothes not always neatly folded, books scattered on every surface...though she always remembers to make her bed. And her four walls are alternating dark blue and dark green, the way she likes it 💞

21. If your OC could speak to their childhood self, what would they say?

“You are enough. You are more than enough, just as you are. And you don’t have to settle for him, you deserve better. One day, you will have so much better, I promise.”

oc ask game!

Taglist (send an ask or DM to be added or removed):

@arrthurpendragon @ocappreciationtag @raith-way @vexic929 @ironverseocs

@thechaoticfanartist @goldheartedchaoticdisaster @negative-speedforce @starstruckpurpledragon @angst-is-love-angst-is-life

[originemesis]

@kugel-bitch cont. from xxx

The increasingly harmonic symphony of sounds does not escape her notice. So many years studying and bending the nature of music to her will has attuned her senses to even the most unassuming of rhythms in her environment. Anything. Anything at all can be the substructure of a song. Even ugly things. And how often had they verified this truth, when they'd crooned their derisive requiems over the anguished howling of the wicked and damned. They, with their canorous chemistry, could make any cacophony of dissonant noise into a beautiful hymn. Not that they would have to exert themselves here to achieve such ends; by the nature of earth's first safe haven, everything in this place seems to be in perfect harmony with itself. It might be blasphemous to consider, but she'd argue that even certain corners of heaven itself paled in comparison.

But what is this really about? That is what she's still trying decipher. Though certain clues in his increasingly solicitous demeanor are starting to paint a heart-fluttering first draft of an idea, but it almost seems too grand of a concept to chalk up as factual. After all these years, for him to suddenly decide he wants to become interlaced into something so eternally binding with her? It's...not impossible to believe. Not necessarily. But if those are the facts of the matter, does he comprehend the intricacies of such an arrangement? Does he understand the implications? Yes, he has taken to her people's customs like a shark to water, so much so that it is very easy to forget that he had ever been human at all, but he's also exceptionally impulsive. Has he considered that dropping anchor with somebody of her unremarkable social standing—a direct subordinate no less, might rub some people the wrong way?

I mean, all of that would be entirely irrelevant if it turns out he's actually just yanking her chain, which he has long since gotten into a pretty consistent habit of doing. Something like this, though? This would be a new low for him for certain. Something she's not entirely sure she could so readily forgive. It is no secret, after all, that her devotion stretches well beyond the bounds of an ordinary boss and attendant affiliation. For him to use something like that against her—

She feels his fingers curl snugly about the circumference of her hand which rouses a mirrored reaction from hers and she quickly decides that, no, she knows him better than that. For all the mischief and trouble he's prone to stirring up he has never been that cruel to her. So where does that leave them?

Teetering on the brink of a new chapter in this co-authored, political tragicomedy, she supposes.

When he decides to unearth the topic of V-day (if only in a passing remark), which she had made the executive decision of burying six feet deep In her psyche with every other regrettable affair her vicious temper has inadvertently landed her in, she all but shrivels like a popped balloon poodle, aptly adjoined by a truly miserable whimper of a chirp.

"...that was...I was just in a mood...it didn't mean anything...i—"

But he's not angling for apologies—she understands that when he captures the cherubic curves of her face in the tapered tines of gloved claws. Gentle. So gentle for something capable of the sort of horrifying destruction that could drive even the rat-gobbling, feather-clad bureaucrats of hell into hiding. Sometimes she wishes she had that sort of power, if only for the sole purpose of evicerating anything and everything that has, does and hopes to bring him any measure of harm. Every light in every eye that looks at him with anything but pure, unadulterated adulation; she would snuff them all out. She can't help the way she angles her face to catch the pad of his thumb under her lips. She feels vulnerable. Autopsied. Scalpeled open and splayed out with all her soft parts on naked display. Somehow she doesn't mind. Let him reach beneath the bird-cage of her ribs and feel how her heart flutters for him if he so pleases. This close, he might even hear how it rattles at the bars, like it's trying to break out and crawl up under his. Close isn't close enough.

She hates that fucking helmet.

But she reckons it serves a purpose here, so she won't kick up a fuss, settling for preening at the edges of the display instead, cooing her ardor so that it condenses against the sleek obsidian.

"I'm listening."

She's all too happy to spend the prelude to his performance tangled up in his wings, because she knows that once he takes off it could be days, if not weeks before she's granted another opportunity to hold him. People who don't know Adam might call him lazy and unmotivated but she knows exactly how hot the fire within him burns when he gets himself good and worked up. He isn't going to make this short and sweet. There isn't a doubt in her mind that he's going to give it everything that he's got. And so, she spends every last second of that first day priming him for the arduous endeavor he is about to undertake; preening feathers, kneading the intricate system of muscles responsible for maneuvering him through the air, chirping sweet nothings against the shell of his headgear.

Suddenly, when he breathes that first word, the garden of Eden might as well be any ordinary community park in the golden city. Enraptured is the only verb that comes anywhere close to being an apt descriptor for the flurry of emotions which overtake the "picture perfect porcelain" beneath Adam's knuckles. She chases the touch like a street mongrel who's only recently learned of the warmth and kindliness stored inside a human hand, swallowing thickly when he inevitably begins his ascent. Letting go of him is the hardest thing she's had to do in a hot minute—but she does all the same, granting him the space he needs to carry on with his performance.

Day bleeds into night bleeds into day. Every time she thinks he's left her thoroughly dazzled with the range of his croons or the intricacies of his tonal structure he outdoes himself. Again and again, until she's so helplessly enveloped inside the emotional turbulence rattling inside her mind that she can do little more than dazedly meander about the meadow, trying to keep track of him wherever he flutters.

And when his axe materializes in a brilliant flash of holy light, like she knew it eventually would, the resonant waves of sound which rattle through every atom in a radius which undoubtedly stretches far beyond the parameters of the garden shake loose the beady tears which had been performing a strenuous balancing act on her waterlines for a good long while now. Rolling, falling and landing on the verdant foliage below like shimmering morning dew.

[follows up from 3:12-5:24 ~]

The guitar's thundering addition to the intricacies of the little world he was building up with all manner of the garden's sounds would prove her right about his impulsiveness. It was not something so easily shaken from humanity quite like fruit from the tree of knowledge- even after the sort of transformation that heaven expected would fix. In truth, it was simply a Band-Aid that could get wet and peel off at the oddest times like the feathers he molted. If he had any second thoughts, there was simply no stopping him now that he had something to prove. And how he wanted to prove his worth to someone...amongst the shadows of the sanctimonious that looked more on him like a beloved family pet too novel to impound once his temperament took a turn for the worse.

He wouldn't wait for sunrise- he let there be light with every sparking shred of the double-edged weapon until the night around them bled gold. The divine energy that erupted from each fall of his arm sent bursts of thunder booming all around the clearing, rattling the boughs of trees and knocking their leaves loose into the swirling tornado forming around the launch pad of garden he'd picked- causing the firmly rooted flowers to bend over themselves as if they bowed to the source that would shred them just easily as it did sinners in the exterminations. Through the night, he devoted the collection of the mounting pressure born of his own special sound that even his own helmet couldn't fully replicate if it should ever fall into the possession of an imposter. She ought to know him by the sound alone, and he took enough time to allow her to feel every pulse of his being and all its twanging fibers.

"I could be your per~fect disaster-" He finally flung down a sentiment to reach her on the ground unshredded by the waves he wrought. There was a simultaneous desire to keep building their own little world, and to see her. No- he had to see her. Seriously, what if she'd already wandered off and he'd been doing all this for nothing (again-)? When he spotted her below, his crooning commenced.

"You could be...my-...!?"

Voice skipping a beat when he spotted the golden wet hue streaked down her cheek and welling, he drifted upside down into the tornado's swirl, allowing it to pull him to her as he continued strumming and feeding the sky with the axe pointed above them. With his face close to hers, he'd quietly arch a wing over to gently dust off gathered tears and flick them away as he murmured a "got you, babe" before starting the verse back up again with a light flap of his wings to help carry him back into the pull of the gathering storm's edges. "-I got you ~ a perfect disaster. You could bring my ever after! Yeah. You could... be my ever after- after all." After all they'd been through, if there were any lingering doubts, he let the storm shred them while it whipped and worked at splicing their soul sounds into the perfect mashup.

"We could be a perfect disaster....we could have an ever after!"

And on the fourth day, he would make the climb. He'd take their storm to heaven the way humans had tried many a time before- a mission doomed to fail, he knew. Symbolic and needed for the ritual of her kind. As he quieted the guitar to the demand of heaven's violins that he press on and not look back again if they were not to succeed, he used each elegant demand as stepping stones up the side of his summoned disaster until he reached the top of the tempest. Perched there there, he fed the beastly force a blast of drums collected in his sound files from all the exorcists - the beating of their weapons on the ground when they sought to synchronize their flight to hell before take off.

"Nobody told ya-" Mask flipped back to offer one challenging squint at the sky as the force behind him cupped him from beneath like the palm of a great hand lowering him back towards the ground. "-this was gonna fold ya?" With the axe at the ready just in case he needed a strum two or more up on high, he grinned as the pressure reached its limit against him holding it back beneath his angelic weight. "We'll go marching in-" with all the power preened from his and Lute's melodies, and the fluttering sounds of their flock stitched in for additional support. "Like toy SOLDIERS-!"

And with that, the storm of the godly fist flung him into the air with his wings tucked tight at his side to aid him in the first most perilous period of the ascent. And though his music was temporarily muted while he grit his teeth and relied on the storm's enduring power to push further into the atmosphere and past it, heaven's violins would follow his progress as he crooned to himself. She would hear it down below- irreparably bound if only for this moment should she not be there when he returned. "... to have and hold ya. Over sold ya..." He'd taken her for granted so many times, and he still did. But she convinced him cradled against his chest in the dark after a miserable night not knowing if she was really serious about returning that time or not. She would always be there bound as much to his soul as his axe was- why he hadn't realized that sooner when he even playfully held and used her as a makeshift guitar for his impromptu air solos, he didn't want to think about the farther he stretched the length of their bond tethering him down to her on Earth as if he worried such a thought might cause it to snap and leave him stranded amongst the stars. Stars... he could see them now - just nearly there when he felt the dwindled force beginning to pull back on him. Teeth grit, he willed a heavy step up and climbed the last few rungs of the divine violins' challenge before he hit the pocket of space that put the stop to his ascent once and for all.

And on the fifth day, he drifted amongst the vast emptiness of space, his way lit by stars, the moon and Earth at his back swirled blue and streaked white like a favorite marble in a collection amongst the rest. In the slowness of it all, he searched with softened reprieve. "Somehow don't ...you dare fail. Fail me now?" His talons grazed bits of space rock along his path as he approached the blinding brilliance of the moon. Pieces of it were left floating far out from every meteor that grazed it passing through, and he shifted his fingers through them like sand, searching for shards. "Ever After - somehow." Once he found two appropriately sized pieces, he pressed them against his chest which opened up a golden portal inside himself, sealing them away for safe keeping shortly before he drifted back to the drop off point.

"Don't - you dare fail. Fail me now, Ever After. Somehow...?"

He held the note in an uneasy warble caught in his throat with the apple, floating back upside down as he had to her earlier until he was lined back up with the Earth and Eden below him. Could she see him all the way up there - his golden light refusing yet to extinguish until he'd made it back to her? At the impatience of the violins that sang to him 'face the music when it's dire', he huffed. It would take the sixth day to fall. Though the first half of the descent was powered by more thundering slams of his guitar to help launch him back out of orbit and cut through the forces of the atmosphere seeking to catch him like a kite. He forced his way through it with each strum guiding a swirling nose dive down. As the ground eventually made its way into his perioherals- and the unmistakable glint of the gold in her eyes his eagle ones caught even up so high, he smiled. "Somehow don't- you dare fail. Fail me now, Ever After...?" And with a forceful strum to knock his dive speed back a notch, he grimaced hard as his wings helped to catch the brunt force of the original descent. He wouldn't be flapping any time soon now...throbbing and struggling at the currents as he used the last bit of his song's strength to float head first over Eden and crooned.

"Once upon a time...this place was beautiful and mine. But now it's just...a bottom line." The sentiment stung. He'd referred to the place in bitter contempt in the past as if convincing himself it wasn't as precious as memory could paint it. "Barely comes to mind..." But when he saw her amongst it...waiting for him- he knew that he was right. The beauty of Eden need not exist in his head because it was no longer there, but found in the stalwart gaze held below.

"Ever After, what is mine?" The First Man wondered to the sky, a hand outstretched as if an arm might reach down to save him from himself.

At the peak of the seventh day, he dropped- his energy spent and his wings too weak to beat, but outstretched in a hope of catching a current as the wind's edges beat the bruises into every feather and flung him to his fate.

[nobuverse]

@burdenedreverence From here

"I do not have, such a luxury." His words come out calm, his eyes closed. He is currently gripping a metal rail which protects those from following off the top of this particular building. On the horizon the Soul Society is bleeding, flames lick at ruined buildings. Those on the ground look like ants with the way they move about, tending to the wounded or collecting the dead. His shoulders are tensed and raised as he puts his weight onto the metal, it groans beneath his hands. He looks over the ledge, and a part of him wishes to leap. He does not have the luxury to determine when his war might be over, even once the swords enter their sheaths, he knows that his watch does not end. It is immortal, and immaterial, until fate deems his time up. A hundred a years ago, he was just a man. Now he is a monster. Slitting throats in the night, murdering men for peace, and any number of crimes which have stained his soul black. Blacker than midnight, blacker than the robes he wears, light cannot exist within him anymore. And yet as he draws a shaky breath, his eyes sting. Salty tears form on the edge of his vision, his eyes close tightly. His mouth hangs open slightly while his throat clenches. His anger is his grief. And it pours from in, spilling into the world like an overturned paint can. The container, which is body empties itself, in this moment of supreme privacy. His rage is not that of clenched fists and gnashing teeth, it is that of tears and choked words. "God… be damned…" The words slip out as fingers crush metal as if it was nothing more than tissue paper, gripping the torn metal he throws it over the edge of the building. He screams. It rises from his stomach, it bellows from his throat. The metal is flung an impossible distance, a reminder he is more than a man. He has become a monster. She asks him to forgive himself. He cannot. He will not. This world has need for its monsters, it has need for him. He falls to his knees; his palms face upwards with his knuckles pressed against the stone floor. He cannot begin to forgive himself for everything he has done, and everything he will do.

The scene is as horrifying as it is mesmerizing to her, in some strange way. It is a horrifying marvel compared to everything the agent of the counterforce has seen in - months? Years? She'd lost track of time completely in the amount of time she'd spent in the great beyond.

Everything there had been veiled in a bright shade of white. All that existed was light. No concept of space, beginnings or ends. An endless void which only held things that should not exist. Monsters and abominations she was tasked to cut down, one after another.

It was so beautiful to anything else but that. Even if the colors of flames do assault her eyes the first time she looks at them. How wonderful it was to see humans again - looking at them helping each other in these times of great danger. How wonderful that was.

Wielder, don't you think we should see what's happening?

Rengokuken's voice rings clearly in her mind.

"Mm. Can't. Too loud. Need to wait. Very overwhelming." she speaks in simple phrases, mind eroded by the passage of time. It'd take her some to get back to her usual self.

Understood. Take your time.

When she sees a lone person sometime later - she begins to get excited again, thinking of it as the perfect opportunity to help integrate herself among humans again. But something's wrong. She feels a certain - loneliness about him.

"You. You are sad. What is wrong?"

She's not really able to follow what comes next. Maybe because he's speaking too fast, or her thoughts are too slow to keep up. She only seems to understand that he's angry at someone for something.

Ah. She knew the answer to this one: Let your anger out, then let it go. Forgive him.

....Maybe not, though. It really only seems to make things worse.

"....sir?" her fingers girp nervously on her blade's hilt for reassurance, like a child clinging onto a mother's hand. "I see- that was...the wrong answer? Um, please don't be upset...I'll get it right next time...!"

She briefly panics at just how responsible she is for this, her tense body giving a jump back as the railing is torn from the rooftop. That display of strength was rather, shocking to say the least. He's probably not a normal human then...and he's not a monster - since the counterforce wasn't asking her to kill him. So..

Oh! He must be a hero, then! A grieving and heartbroken hero...

"Well, um - if we could find this - 'luxury' would you be able to? I could help you."

She can't remember the details, but she seems to remember that sometime, a long time again, she used to help someone find very important things too. And seeing him like this - it pains her. She wanted to help.

"...Maybe I should find that railing first, though. For safety reasons. I don't want someone to fall off. You threw it over...uh...there right?"

[thelextheluthor]

Sometimes I find it scary how much I love.

How much beauty I can find in things.

Like- I love people so much.

I love so much it hurts.

I love how one of my friends has braces that show whenever she smiles.

I love how she has acne and its scars all over her face as if they're painted onto her.

I love how another has a big, hooked nose and curly hair and she always squints when she laughs.

And I love how she laughs like there's nothing wrong in the world.

I love how one of my other friends has a button nose and the most expressive eyes.

I love his curly hair and the way he shows his creativity.

I love how yet another has long, straight hair, and a rounder face and body and the softest voice.

She's the gentlest person I know; a picture of serenity.

I love how my best friend is the greatest person to be around and how we have so much in common.

I love how we never have dull days and how he's never failed to make me laugh.

This love for people isn't sexual or romantic and I doubt it ever will be.

If I'm attracted to them, it's like being attracted to an airborne melody in a busy, crowded place.

There is so much going on around you, you should have more important things-

but you find yourself wanting to chase that blissful song.

Where it goes, you follow.

It can be scary for me sometimes.

How much I can love people.

So I think it is easier sometimes to express my love for other things.

I love colors and nature and all sorts of things that are okay to love- a concept I've never gotten, because why on Earth would you only ever care for some things? - and I love them all so deeply .

I love how I can express myself.

Through letters that make sentences and sentences that make paragraphs and paragraphs that make stories.

Stories of love and loss and people and places and fictional fantasies that I think of and share.

And they are real, because I feel them.

I love how art is everywhere and how people can show others how they feel.

I listen to music in languages I don't know and look at paintings from countries I've never heard of.

It's beautiful how emotion has no borders.

I love simple things too.

But how can anything be truly simple?

Everything has a bit more to it.

I love the sound of rain and the smell of candles and the way both feel like home.

I love how I hold my pencil when I write and how my hand cramps up when I do it for too long.

But for some reason, love- deep and unconditional love- is seen as foolish and gullible.

It's for teenagers who believe in soulmates and children who believe in fairytales.

I know how this world works. I've been hurt by it more times than I can count.

I will keep loving it anyway.

I will love the world until my heart stops beating.

I'm not religious- but I'll love it from beyond the grave if I can.

This is a broken, hurt world. It needs tenderness, compassion.

I don't care if others think it doesn't deserve it.

So, yes. It hurts me to love people.

But it hurts me more to see them unloved. People are my world.

So I'm writing this, hoping that maybe someone can see their world through my heart.

And if you are seeing this, I love you too. No matter what. Don't forget that.

[expanding-infinity]

"Is this a new piece?"

The titan was more than enamoured with the work of the chaos god on the regular. While they may be at odds in terms of the moral spectrum, he respected her. In her thinking and her choices, and the dedication and will she took in acting on those choices. Even as her 'handler', he still wished this relationship to be a pleasant one. Deity to deity. Man to woman. Simple as it may be to say, of course...

Relationships between gods are always complicated.

His glowing gaze fixated on the canvas momentarily before the realization crossed him. A familiar sea, a familiar beach. The illuminated web that filled the otherwise black sky. "That's..."

"The Veil." Khaos then stated, clearing her throat. "...I don't know how I painted it." That thought alone seemed to bring a tone of unease to the goddess, and she wasn't one to be so easily unnerved, for obvious reasons. However this, the not knowing of seeing something so beyond herself, truly, it brought a tremble to her voice and a shake to her hands as she tried to pour herself a stiff drink.

"How do you not know? You painted it. You must've seen it somehow, though I can't see how that's possible-"

Khaos dropped that glass as she let out an annoyed huff, reaching up to rub the bridge of her nose. "I know, i know. I just don't fucking know." Tense. Too much noise. "I can't make any sense of it. I can't exist outside of what's been created, so I don't know how I can see that. That's...not me. That's not my concept! That's a still space, outside of this bullshit!" She was making a fuss about what could easily be equated to nothing. "I just...I just..." Her shoulders sunk, practically slumping into her chair as Artic turned to face her.

"Things have been set for a long, long time...the Veil has been a constant. Outside of my sight, outside of everyone but you, and yet here I am. With it on a canvas. Is it something from the Matriarch? The Empress? I don't dream, I don't have visions, I just see. Does this mean I'm...healing? Can I even call it that?" Babbling nonsense. That's all she hears from herself. Was this even Khaos speaking? So much worry and unease, which was almost comical coming from someone like her. Unstable, confident, slamming back and forth from manic depression to a god complex every other day..."If I'm healing, why don't I feel any different?"

Artic took in a slow breath, reaching up to remove his mask so he could be seated across from her. With a wave of his hand, burning a bit of his energy, he used that telekinetic power of his to cover the painting with a nearby cloth. As he watched that canvas vanish from tight, he sat himself down across from her.

"You're thinking too hard on nothing. Making noise out of a whisper." He murmured. "This could be nothing, or it could be everything. But you can't make a fuss over it now, when all you have is a glimpse of what could possibly be something." Artic wasn't all knowing, nor could he see the future. Not clearly. All he could do is wade through the haze and make sound predictions, but that's all they were. Predictions. He didn't know where this would lead, and the two Majesties knew better than to disclose that information to anyone. Even omnipotence had consequences.

Khaos had to give pause, once again reaching to pour a glass. This time, she was successful. "You sound like him..." She murmured in reply before taking a slow, shaky sip. "Always telling me to level out. Relax. Take things as they come."

"Something you took to heart." Came his hummed reply.

"Of course. It's one thing I wanted to keep from him..." She chuckled. "...maybe that's why I'm paranoid about this. I fractured with his death. If I'm healing, and this is a sign of that...I don't know how to feel."

"And that's fine." He murmured. "Not everything needs to be defined immediately. Let it sit with you and mull it over. How it feels in your head and heart. You're allowed to name your feelings later. I would think you of all people would know that."

Khaos let out a soft chuckle. "Fuck you." She sighed, a small, rare smile creeping to her features. "I'm not sure what to do with that painting though."

"Hang it. Somewhere you always look, so that way you'll remember it. If it's a good step, then keep it. If it's something terrible, you can always burn it later. After all, this is the first time in a long while I've heard you sound like your old self." He chuckled before rising to his feet to circle around the table to her. He hesitated for a brief instance, before reaching out to gently grab and rub her shoulder. "Keep your head on straight. Eternity's a long time and there's no point in losing it so soon."

'Keep your head on straight, Dahlia.'

A soft, pleased hum left the goddess, reaching up to rest her hand on his. A welcome touch and a fond memory. She had to catch herself, clearing her throat. "I'll think about it...I'm not planning to rampage from this, so you're welcome to leave." The voices stilled, her energy settled. No killing for her. No madness to lock in a cosmic box.

Of course he could take her at her word, however he didn't want to leave that up to chance. More than that however, this did sound like progress in a way. For her. Closer perhaps. Maybe even the day where she wouldn't need those cosmic chains. "I think I'll stay a while longer. How does dinner sound?" He stepped away, Khaos glancing up in mild surprise. "Don't give me that look. Good food is always the easiest way to cut tension. Finish your drink and come help me after."

Khaos took in a slow breath, looking to the covered easel before nodding. "Alright..."

[tobirama-seppuku]

Okay I finished hxh. Final thoughts under the cut. Tw for lots of blood and anime death gifs

I'm not fully satisfied w the ending. I think they meant to continue the series for much longer.

I mean, Gon and Killua's stories were wrapped up beautifully--I fucking love Alluka actually she has an adorable relationship with her brother, glad she's no longer a Fucking Prisoner--they don't need anything else, they were wrapped up perfectly. Even if I still think Gon should've punched the shit out of Ging that boy needs to APOLOGIZE for abandoning his son actually. But. I feel like. They could've done more with Kurapika and Leorio, you know? Especially Leorio. Comic relief character aside I think they could've given him an actual arc rather than him being stuck as a really good conman who knows his way around financial roadblocks with a heartwarming backstory. I think Kurapika's story could've been continued as well, with the Phantom Troupe still very much alive and wreaking havoc and his ultimate goal of collecting his clan's remains being continued offscreen, his friends unable to contact him because of his tunnel vision. They set up so much right before the ending that I think they truly had the potential to keep it going naturally for longer! Like, it hadn't reached the point of series burnout, I don't think. Yes, it REALLY FUCKING DRAGGED at parts, god I never want to binge this again purely because of the chimera ant arc being so fucking extended, but there are some really good parts of this series that I'd love to recommend people watch for if it weren't for the times where it lost its speed. You want to tell me that like 20 episodes in the ant arc were condensed into 3 in-universe minutes? Fuck offffff. But like. Ugh. Maybe it's just because I watched the remaster instead of the original 144p version made forever ago but there was still things I believe they could have done

Its biggest strength to me was that it made psychology actually work with the story. They understand the concept of mental fortitude and the human being's mental limits. There were several very real and very visceral breakdowns onscreen, human anguish and terror beautifully conveyed in a way a lot of series can't replicate while having a fucking magic system like this one. There were some scenes that were so gut-wrenching I really broke out in a sweat. It's captivating. I mean, the effect really isn't there if you haven't watched the series itself but it REALLY squeezes your heart because this is a fucking 12yo kid who doesn't know what to fucking do to help his friend in such a deep pit of despair and vitriol he doesn't even resemble the same person anymore. It's awful, it's hard to watch, and it's so well done it's incredible

One thing I didn't get is how it got so morbid and serious at parts but came across as a feel-good family-friendly anime the rest of the time. There were parts that got so fucking real and horrific-- IT'S LIKE

NOT TO MENTION child neglect and abandonment, selling human parts on the black market, cannibalism, mass human consumption, extreme poverty & capitalism, mafias & gangs, and the main character going so far beyond his physical limits that he turns into a burnt, mummified corpse on LIFE SUPPORT AT AGE 12

There are onscreen deaths the likes of which are so disgusting it's impossible to imagine the pain of. The sound design makes you sick sometimes. People are turned into meatballs,

they're wrung to death with blood painting the walls,

they're shot like 10 times and eaten piece by piece by inhuman creatures to where all that's left is a puddle of blood on the ground,

their heads are crushed with this sick, disgusting crunching sound that makes you flinch,

heads are removed every other fight scene,

necks are snapped faster and more often than you can humanly process,

and one character got punched in the face until their skull was so caved in it was actually literally just a puddle of blood splattered on the ground which I can't even FIND A GIF OF because it's such a low point for Gon that the community doesn't want to acknowledge it happened. He attributed to one of the most gruesome deaths in the series because he was so blinded by rage that he verged on inhuman. It was awful.

Maybe I'm just bitching because my binge is over idk but I really feel like there was meant to be more content or that the writers were throttled in what they could show and say. I feel like they were held back from going all of the way in either direction, maybe because the main characters were such young kids that they would inevitably attract a young audience, and didn't want backlash from parents. It's hard to pinpoint but someone decided not to go all-out and it caused this effect where it gets so close to rated R but just barely skims by because the dialogue is simple due to it being that of tweens and teens. It's almost fascinating. Idk but that concludes my thoughts on the whole thing

[saturnsorbits]

Drop Dead

Fandom: My Hero Academia, Warnings: Dub-Con(ish), Implied Murder, Sero is a little Mean, Degradation, Praise, Panty Theft, Panty Sniffing, Choking, Face Fucking, Boot Humping (For like a millisecond), Spanking, Ass Play, Breeding, Spit, Sero has a Jacob's Ladder. Word Count: 7.8k.

Summary: When you forget about your imaginary friend, he's forced to take matters into his own hands to make you come back to him.

-> Part of the 'Bump in the Night' Collab.

Make sure to check out the other incredibly talented authors through the link above and don't forget to leave a nice comment and reblog if you liked their work!

A/N: Full disclosure I kind of suck at writing horror/DC and this concept is super underdeveloped, but this was so much fun to play around with as part of my first, ever collab!

You're seven when you first meet Sero Hanta.

He appears over next doors fence, his fingers clinging to the edge of the wood as he searches the garden with curious eyes. The boy smiles. Scrambling on top of the fence, he balances precariously, feet barely fitting onto the broad top of the post. He's tall for his age, with a mop of black hair that is cut into an awkward bowl around his head and a crooked smile he'll never grow into. 'Psst.'

Your eyes snap up instantly. 'You've got something in your hair.'

His eyes cross, black iris' trained on the tip of his nose. 'Where?'

You giggle at his antics, apple cheeks glowing in the low light that streams through the branches of the near-by blossom tree. Standing, you creep towards the fence and reach up, tip-toeing with all your might with an outstretched hand.

The boy bends, perching awkwardly to lower himself enough for you to pluck a small slither of a petal from his fringe and offer it back out for him to take. Your fingers brush.

There's sunshine in your stomach as you retreat back towards the tree and tilt your head, watching as the newcomer tips forward and lands, softly, in your garden.

Shyness is the most forefront things on his face, beside his too-large smile, but he manages to summon the confidence to puff up his chest and declare: 'I'm Sero Hanta.'

You giggle.

'And...' He takes your hand and grins, lopsided and sweet. 'We're gonna be together forever.'

Returning his smile, you squeeze your fingers around his palm. That, you think, doesn't sound like a bad idea.

From the window of your house, a few yards away your mother wrings her hands until her knuckles crack.

'What'cha looking at?' Your father wraps his arms around her waist and presses a soft kiss to the turn of her neck, but despite his touch, she doesn't relax.

The hairs on the back of her neck stand up and tug as she watches you beyond the glass. Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth, voice shaking as she mumbles: 'Who's she talking to?'

Coming home has been strange.

The walls are bare, but still painted the colour of your youth. The carpets too, are just how you remember, but there's no sign of the furniture dents that should be littering them. There are no pictures hung, no cups left in the cupboards, no shoes littering the porch or trinkets left on the mantelpiece. This might be the home that you grew up in, but standing in it now: it's little more than just a house.

No wonder your parents upped and left – moving away while you where left with the cold, empty shell of a family home with no-one to share it with.

Stood at the back door, the smell of smoke almost makes your eyes water as you turn your attention to the small fire pit built up by the side of the house. Dark grey plumes float lazily from the flames, but soften by the second as they are carried away by the soft autumn breeze. Ignoring the weight settling in your stomach, you sigh and step out into the darkness.

At least the garden still looks the same.

The large blossom tree still stands, although now it's a few feet taller with twisted branches that stretch out and reach almost from fence to fence. At the base ivy has sprouted, twisting around the trunk and mapping out delicate patterns on its surface. Memories bubble in your mind, although one is far more notable than the others.

A boy: A friend.

You smile.

Something soft touches your knee. It's gentle, the kind of barely there touch you'd attribute to a bug or a passing flower seed, but it's gone too quick for you to tell. You shift, shivering, despite the warmth of the air, as you make your way over to the fire pit to douse the last of the flames.

Smoke leaps into the air. The hiss of sizzling water filling your ears as you step back and out of the way of the writhing ribbon. There's a burn in your lungs as you take your first breath, a hand coming up to covering your nose and mouth as you squint through the dim. Through the smoke, something moves. It's a subtle shift, a barely-there warping of the distance as a shadow lingers just beside the blossom tree. Narrowing your eyes, you can just make out the faint shape of a figure; but you're old enough now to know a trick of the light when you see one. Wetting your lips, you swallow the dryness from your mouth and return your attention to the dying fire.

A new something brushes your thigh, scratching at your skin enough to make you place your hand to the sensation to dull it's ache. There's a pressure, a tight – something – digging into you. Hissing, you swear you can feel the bitter dull crescents of short fingernails biting into your flesh. Your teeth stand on end, eyebrows furrowing as you stumble backwards and quickly tug down your jeans, searching your skin for a bruise, a mark, anything. There's no such thing there, the flesh from the joint of your hip to your knee perfectly clear and unmarked; despite the burning that refuses to relinquish its grip.

Over the fence, the neighbors outdoor light clicks on scattering fluorescence across the branches of the blossom tree. You look up, half expecting to see the shadow again, larger or more imposing, but the new light highlights the trunk, effectively exposing the emptiness that lingers behind.

Chuckling to yourself, you huff hot air into the night. Exhaling the breath until your lungs burn, you watch the cloud that drifts from your mouth join with the dying slithers of smoke. It takes another ten minutes before the fire has died out enough for you to venture back inside. There are no more glowing embers, just the reminence of blackened wood by the time you're slipping through the French doors back into the house. Tiredness seeps into your bones, even with only one foot over the threshold, the warm night air slowly loosening its grip on you as you glance over your shoulder to give the garden one final look.

The darkness behind the blossom tree shifts again. The unmistakable outline of a person sharpening by the second, no longer banished by the glow of the neighbours light.

You must be more stressed than you thought. Ignoring the shivers that break out along the track of your spine, pulling each small hair there to attention, you click shut the door and close your eyes.

When you open them again, the shadow is still there.

Only now, you swear you can see it smiling.

It takes longer than you'd like to admit for you to finally stop staring at the shadow and make your way upstairs. You'll check in the morning, sooth yourself by discovering whatever is casting the odd silhouette. It's just your mind after all. Some odd concoction of stress and change has mixed inside of you and made you jumpy, conjuring things out of nothingness.

The stairs creek as you totter up them, clinging to the bannister as you go. With the edges of your vision fuzzy from fatigue, it's easier not to focus on the thought of the shadow in the garden as you cross the landing and slip into your bedroom. Stripping, you leave each item of clothing piled where it falls. Your jeans are abandoned just inside the door, your underwear close behind as you toss your shirt off somewhere near your wardrobe.

Landing on all fours, your crawl, naked, over your mattress and tuck yourself in, hauling the duvet up and around your neck. Your limbs begin to unlock as you start to calm. Your body relaxes, sinking, until finally, you're lost to the darkness.

Black eyes.

They're like coal, or the shiny backs of lawn beetles – blinking slow in the recesses of your unconsciousness.

He looks familiar.

Like someone you've forgotten.

A face you should know and yet...

His hand wraps around your throat, lithe fingers pressing as his rings clink. Each metal band taps against it's neighbour, anxiously announcing each of his movements as he opens his palm and squeezes.

There's a whimper in your throat, one he silences will dull pressure. You can't breathe, but you don't struggle – you're not sure you want to.

The lilt of his voice brings a shiver out in your skin, your nerves singing a song you'd thought they'd forgotten as you scramble, desperately in search of a memory that evades you.

'Shh, sweetheart.' He whispers, leaning in close, his tongue peaking out from behind his lips as if he's dying to taste you, but not quite able to indulge the temptation, not just yet. 'Just wait a little longer... You'll remember me again soon.'

You wake up wet.

There's a stickiness between your thighs, tacking your skin as you shift your hips. Reaching down, you brush your fingers through the damp and shiver. Your cunt pulses, clit twitching – sensitive through lack of attention. It makes you restless, illicits an itch under your skin you know you won't be able to satiate on your own.

Huffing, you toss yourself back to the mattress.

The thought of getting up makes your bones ache, the dull throbbing in your cunt only cementing the idea that you should stay in bed; but the soft tapping of branches at your window denies you such luxury. The memory of the shadow looms in the back of your mind, refusing to let you rest.

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you set about collecting your clothes from the floor. The cold of the room bites at you, viciously nipping at the exposed skin of your hips and thighs – the warmth of yesterdays autumn sun long since gone. You slip back into your bra and bend, snatching your jeans up. The material is rough when you turn it inside out, reaching into the crotch to find the underwear that should still be nestled inside of it. You pull back your hand, empty. Grabbing one of the legs, you shake them out, but nothing falls to the floor.

Something stirs in your stomach.

Outside the sun shines in through the window, but it's warmth doesn't reach your back as you dress. You roll your shoulders, stretching out the weariness that had made a home for itself inside of your stomach and sigh.

At first, you don't register the soft pants as anything more than the wind. It's a distant noise, soft as it manages to float up from outside and permeate through the glass, sinking into your ears.

You pause.

'Fuck... S'good.'

Swallowing, you try and steady yourself before slowly creeping over to your bedroom window.

Sat at the base of the tree, his legs splayed out in front of him, is a man.

You gasp.

The bowl cut has gone, replaced with inky locks that are tied up into a messy bun revealing the freshly shaved undercut at the back of his neck. Thin wisps have slipped the bobble, falling to frame his face.

Your mind spins, careening helplessly out of control. Knuckles whitening as you grip at the edge of the windowsill, you try and ground yourself; but all attempts prove fruitless when you look down onto your childhood imaginary friend. Your reality tilts on its axis, tipping as you try desperately to cling to any semblance of normalcy.

The contents of your stomach churns as you deliberately keep your eyes trained on the ivy that seems to have clambered higher during the night. 'I – This... This isn't real.' You squeeze your eyes shut.

His head rocks back to rest against the bark of the blossom tree, exposing the plain of his throat and the bob of his Adams apple as he gulps. There's movement from his lips, a slight twitch that betrays him as the source of the noise as it builds louder at the back of his tongue. The bulk of his jeans are pooled at his hips, exposing the milkiness of his skin and the thick nest of black hair that trails down from his stomach to the heft of his cock.

The organ twitches as he runs a thumb over it's head, coating tan skin in sticky translucence. He's not so thick that his fingers can't encompass the girth, but his palm is wide and his fingers long, leaving any notable comparison impossible as he thrusts soft into his fist.

Shock roots you to the spot, but it's the inescapable pulse of your cunt that catches you off guard and refuses to let you look away. Your jaw tenses, your mind refusing the way your body reacts as you ripen so easily in the presence of his pleasure.

He's moaning now, openly and loud as his hand moves faster down his shaft. He makes three solid passes before you see it. There's a brightness between his fingers that stands out against the skin of his cock, but it isn't until he readjusts his grip that you catch sight of the intricate lace pattern and thin elastic band that can't be anything except your underwear. Another droplet of pre-cum rolls lazily over the material, soaking it.

'Oh, shit...'

It's his voice that finally unlocks your limbs, that quells the terror building in your stomach from his reappearance and replaces it with fury, even with arousal threatening to weaken your knees.

This can't be real?

Can it?

He isn't real, so surely...

Lifting his free hand, he releases himself for just long enough to peel the soaking lace away from his cock and ball it into his fist. For a moment, he just breathes, readjusting to the new slickness as his hand wraps around his shaft and squeezes. The rings on his fingers clink together in anticipation as he starts a new pace, taking care to sooth across the three thick piercings that run down his length. Covering his mouth with a palm, he presses your underwear to his face and inhales. His eyes roll, the musk of your slick and his pre-cum mixing as he slips his tongue from behind his lips to taste.

You rock on your feet, trying to ignore the way your cunt pulses. Still, you don't move, not even as you see his chest stutter, his hips thrusting harsher into his fist as he nears an obvious end.

His cock kicks, his head thumbing hard against the tree and ivy behind him, but as soon as he begins to cum, spilling thick and white over his hand – he locks eyes with you through the window. A lazy smile tugs at his lip as something dark and pleased swims in the depths of his eyes.

It makes you wetter.

Stepping back from the window, you try and shake yourself, but the warmth that had deposited itself in your stomach remains. There's a tangle of panic lodging inside your chest, twisting your organs up until you think you might throw up.

Nothing makes sense.

He's not.

He can't be.

Steadying your breathing, you press a hand to your chest to feel the violent hammering of your heart as you make for the bathroom. The walk feels like miles, despite barely being a few feet as the image of your once imaginary friend cumming with your stolen underwear pressed to his face repeats on you. You walk faster and all, but collapse against the sink when you reach the bathroom, bracing yourself against it with shaking arms.

You don't look in the mirror.

You should have.

'Look who's all grown up, huh?'

The fondness in his voice tickles your skin, bringing goosebumps out across the surface of your forearms. You bite hard on your lip and lock your jaw, scared you might scream as you slowly summon the courage to lift your head and peer into the mirror above the sink.

'Sero?'

He's older now, with a rakish air that does funny things to your stomach and thin limbs that as still a touch too long. There's a gauntness to his features like he's not been eating too well and a gentle purpling to the skin of his cheekbones that makes him look achingly tired, but his smile is the same and so are his eyes. You could never forget those eyes. 'You – you're, but you're -.'

A chuckle escapes his throat as he leans lazily against the door frame to your bedroom. He looks remarkably put together, considering his earlier occupation in the garden, with his arms folded across his chest and his signature crooked grin fixed to his lips. 'Yeah.'

Your underwear is still in his pocket.

You can see it peaking out from his jacket, soiled and glistening. The pressure inside your head reaches a peak, pressing painfully against your skull and making your head spin. 'You – You.' You swallow, scared to speak the words. 'You're not real – you're...'

Sero pouts, straightening up from the door frame. 'Did that make it easier?'

Your eyebrows furrow, mouth dropping open as you scramble to pick up the pieces of your sanity. 'W-what?'

'… Did it make it easier?' He steps forward, huffing air out of his nose. The dark of his iris' shine, even in the dim of the hallway making it impossible to tell where he's looking as he all but devours you with a stare. 'You abandoned me, remember? Threw me away and forgot about me...'

'I -.'

He's not finished. Snorting, Sero blinks slowly and shakes his head – almost like he's already decided that whatever you have to say isn't worth hearing. 'Do you know what happens when people like me are forgotten? How painful it is to slowly waste away knowing every day, the person you thought was your world remembers you a little less?'

Guilt kicks up in your stomach, forcing you to swallow around the new emotion. The idea of him having waited for you to return makes your chest tighten. It feels like you're a child again, sitting underneath the blossom tree all those years ago. 'But -.'

'S'why I had to get rid of them...'

His voice is low, so low you almost don't hear it.

'Had to get you back somehow.'

You're shaking, your nails digging into the fleshy parts of your elbows to keep yourself from shattering. You feel like a stuck record, but you can't digest the presence of him in your hallway – the boy you'd grown up with, the one you'd thought into existence... The one you'd abandoned and never bothered to return for. Vomit claws its way up your throat. 'You're imaginary.'

'Oh, sweetheart...' He purrs. 'If I was imaginary, would I be able to do this?' He steps closer and wraps a palm around your throat. His fingers test your skin, reposition and squeeze as if he's trying to prove just how real he is. ‘Would an imaginary friend be able to choke you? Huh?’ Dipping his head he noses at your neck.

There's a heat in your cheeks when you feel his breath ghost over your skin. It makes you shiver, refusing your attempts at denial as you feel a heat bubbling in your stomach. His hand around your throat is firm and yet, delicate – the rings you'd heard clink as he fisted himself rattling together, proucing metallic music that makes you drip helplessly into your underwear.

He breathes again you and grins. 'Would an imaginary friend be able to fuck you senseless?’

It's like he reads your mind, making you whimper as an odd mix of terror and arousal combine in your stomach. It makes you tremble.

'I think I've just decided how you can make it up to me.' Sero licks at his lips, running his tongue across his teeth. 'Think you owe me that much, don't you, sweetheart?'

Your head spins as you reach for an explanation, but come up empty. There is no way that the man in front of you with his hand wrapped around your throat is real, but there is no way to deny the way your entire body seems to melt into him. Whimpering, you lift a hand to wrap around his wrist and squeeze. You don't trust yourself to speak, unsure of what will come trickling out of your mouth with your body so readily betraying you.

He laughs, the noise burning the back of his throat. Moving his other hand from his side, he cups your jaw and presses a thumb to your bottom lip. 'What do you say? It's the least you could do after everything you've done.'

You want to pull away, want to wrench yourself from his grip and sink to the floor, screaming until the world begins to make sense again. You inhale, sucking air through your teeth, but the word that slips through your lips comes as a surprise. 'Please...' You don't know how you mean it. If it's a plea or a beg, but it trips off of your tongue almost too easily, making your eyes widen.

'That's it.' Sero leans in close and knocks his nose against yours. 'Gonna fuck you until the only thing you can remember is me... Never gonna forget me again when I'm finished.'

You shiver at the insinuation, but are powerless as your jaw drops and his lips press to yours. The first kiss is soft, a gentle pressing as if he's testing out just how corporeal he is. He tilts your head, his hand still curled around your throat as the other wraps around the back of your neck and guides you exactly how he wants you.

Your hands fall to his chest, small palms resting over his pecs as you're given no choice but to kiss him back. He kisses you breathless, devouring you in a way that promises more. Heat pools in your stomach, the confusion and panic melting, drifting to the back of your mind as you become lost to Sero's touch as his hands begin to wonder.

His grip loosens from your throat, moving until two large palms are resting on your shoulders. The tips of his fingers dig in, pressing enough for your to gasp into his mouth, allowing him to slip in his tongue and taste you. The kissing makes you dizzy, steals your oxygen and has you helpless, a mere puppet in his hands as the pressure on your shoulders increases and you're sent sinking to your knees.

'There...' Reaching for you, Sero curls a hand around your chin. 'Look at you.' His other hand fiddles with his belt, the metal clicking against his fingers as he unbuckles it and sets about slipping his jeans down his thighs. Underneath, the black of his boxers is already stained. A large wet patch clear on the material, marking out the tip of his cock.

You blink and bite your lip. From this distance you can smell him. It makes your mouth water and your eyes widen, iris's swelling as you peer up through your eyelashes at him.

'Take it out then.' He mumbles, thumb running over your lip. Reaching out, your fingers slip under the elastic of his boxers and pull.

He hisses when his cock finally springs free. It bobs in the air, supporting it's own weight as it weeps sticky translucence from the tip. The skin is dark, tanned and almost purpling at the head that peaks from his foreskin. A thick vein runs along the underside, pulsing softly as it weaves through the set of three bar-bells buried into his flesh. Wrapping a palm around it's base, he gives himself a singular tug to smooth his shaft before he's cocking an eyebrow and biting at his lip. 'S'not for staring at, Sweetheart.'

You swallow, but lurch forward to catch yourself with a hand against his thigh. The other curls around his cock as you lean in and press the softest of kisses to his tip.

'That ain't gonna do, Sweetheart. C'mon...' Covering your hand with his, he smears his cock against your lips making them sheen. His jaw jumps, the feel of your lips against his skin already sending sparks down his spine as he juts his hips back to tap cock against your cheek.

You flinch at the first impact, but it just makes him chuckle as you try to stop your eyes from fluttering shut with each, harder tap. The third is hard enough to make your jaw drop, a gasp leaping from your lungs as you reach for him for stability and dig your nails into his thigh.

'Good girl, open up...' His thumb presses to the flat of your tongue, encouraging it out of your mouth until he can press down and let spit gather. The way you look now, all glossy eyed and pretty on your knees for him makes something violent swirl in his stomach. He smirks, moving his thumb just enough to rest his cock on your tongue.

The first thing that hits you is his taste. A mixture of salty sweetness slips down the back of your throat making you swallow, but you're barely given time to adjust before his hips are pressing forward and pushing his cock further into your mouth. You suck instinctively, hollowing out your cheeks as best you can as he sinks into you.

'Shit.' Hissing through his teeth, he smooths a hand over your cheek to feel the way it bulges before you swallow around him and send his head rolling back onto his shoulders. 'Look at what a little guilt can do, huh?' His hands move, both of them lacing together at the back of your neck as his words stutter. 'Let's see how much you can take...'

You're about to protest, about to tell him to slow down and not give you so much, but whatever complaint you were about to lodge is shoved to the back of his throat as he begins to fuck your face viciously. The bars of his jacob's ladder run over your tongue tasting metallic and making the muscle dip under them as you struggle to breathe through your nose.

A groan rumbles in his chest as your throat opens for him. He's stopped paying attention to the small wretches that bubble up from you as he uses your mouth, there's no point after all. It's not like it's going to stop him. He deserves this after everything you've done.

There's a thin stream of spit leaking from your mouth from were his cock is forcing your mouth open and the edges of your eyes have grown wet with unshed tears as you hold on, keeping your throat open for him – desperate to please. You don't know what's keeping the terror that still swirls in your chest at bay, but as his cock threatens to choke you, you find yourself unable to focus on it.

'Fuck, sweetheart. S'like your throat was made for me...'

The grip he has on your neck lets him move you to his pace, pulling you down onto him as much as he thrusts up into you. The movement makes you nauseous, but there's no denying the way your stomach churns as his moans grow louder and louder. His balls hit your chin, slapping heavily against your chin as you release one of this thighs to drop your hand to your own pants, frantically trying to wiggle your fingers underneath the waistband.

'Ah, ah, ah.' Sero's voice is laced with malice as he pulls back until just the tip of his cock is nestled on your tongue. He lifts his foot, placing the sole of a heavy combat boot on top of your hand making you yelp. 'You don't deserve to touch yourself, do you?'

There's something disappointed in Sero's tone, something that makes your chest stutter as you peer up at him and whine soft in lieu of an apology. Pulling your hand back, you place it back against his thigh and tangle your fingers in the rolls of his jeans, tugging his hips closer again.

'Who would have thought you'd turn into such a needy little whore, huh? So desperate for my cock, aren't you baby. S'pathetic, really.' Chuckling, he presses down harder with the toe of his boot and grinds it against your cunt.

Desperation simmers in your stomach. Something that had started out as terror is transforming, laced with the fondness and a new sense of guilt. Rolling your hips, you almost cry when your clit presses just right to the seam of your jeans and the pressure of his boot sending shock waves of violent pleasure down your spine.

'Dirty bitch, humping my fucking boot.'

You shouldn't like it. You shouldn't. Shame reaches for you, tries to wrestle back your control, but you're already too lost. You have to make it up to him after all. Already his skin looks brighter, more tanned and clear – the bags under his eyes non-existent as you devote all your attention to him just like he wants. Like he's always wanted. Rolling your hips, you catch yourself against his boot again and again, climbing towards your high before his cock is pulled from your mouth.

'Shit.' Sero's hand wraps tight around the base of his cock, squeezing tight as it kicks and twitches in his palm. His skin drips with a mixture of your spit and his pre-cum, making him shine and glitter as he tries to stop the rising pleasure that is threatening to be his end.

You stay sat on your knees, chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath again. Every nerve in your body is on fire, burning with anticipation as he meets your gaze again. His eyes are black holes, causing faint memories to prick at your skin of a too tight pressure and an impromptu end, but before anything has chance to take hold you're being hauled to your feet.

'Gotta fuck you... Shit – gotta have you now. Okay.' Dragging you in for a kiss, his cock presses between your bodies as his hands fall to your hips. There's something new in his touch now, something dangerous as he messily shucks himself out of clothes and drags you into the bedroom.

Tossing you back against the bed, you barely bounce twice before two large hands are grabbing at your waist and flipping you over onto your stomach. Slipping his palms around your hips, he brushes his thumbs over your curves before hauling you up onto your knees. Your jeans are all, but torn from your body and tossed aside, but his patients runs out at your underwear, causing him to tear the seat to allow him access to his prize.

He takes your ass in his hands and spreads you open, his thumbs catching either side of your lips to allow him to see the way your hole quivers around nothing. Your skin is shiny, the evidence of your wetness startling as he drags a finger through your folds. 'Liked me using you, did you, Sweetheart?'

The moan that floats from your mouth is muffled by the bedding, your cheek pressing to the mattress as you arc high for him. He hums. Placing a soft kiss to the round of your ass, he dips his head low enough to bite.

'Sero.' You flinch, the sensation of his teeth raking across your flesh causing you to writhe, but the two large hands on your hips stop you from getting very far. It dawns on you then, just how powerless you are. Once upon a time, you'd be able to dispel him with nothing more than a wave of your hand, but it's more than obvious that nothing like that is going to work now. Now... You're nothing more than his toy.

The next thing he places on your skin is a kiss. A the base of your tail bone, his lips part, leaving a stickiness behind as his tongue peaks from his mouth to lick a long stripe right up your spine. He moans as the taste of your skin explodes on his tongue. The sensation is overwhelming, making his hips twitch as he imagines all the other beautiful touches he'll be able to steal from you.

You feel the wetness gather in your cunt. It's a flood, an uneasy heat that makes your clit itch and has you begging for his touch. Your mind swims. The longer he touches you for, the more you're convinced you owe it to him – that it's your fault he's here now, taking what he's owed and you, you moan when he teeth latch onto your ear gently... You're more than willing to give him it.

'Such a pretty whore... You're gonna make me feel good, aren't you? You aren't good for anything, but making me feel good.' He sits up on his haunches, stripping the rest of your clothes from your body, before returning his attention to your ass. He spanks you once. 'I asked you a question, pretty girl. You think after forgetting me for all these years, you can just go back to ignoring me?'

'No...' You wiggle your hips and earn yourself another slap, this one hard enough to sting. It makes you moan, your spine arcing somehow further as your cunt drips slick onto the sheets below. Need bubbles inside of you, but you're determined to be good, to let him use you like he wants and take what is owed. Swallowing spit, you breathe slow. 'No, don't – don't want to ignore you any more. Want -.'

'Yeah?'

Another smack.

'What do you want, Sweetheart?'

'Want you to use me.'

'And what do you say? Or does my pretty whore need reminding of her manners?'

'P -.' The next smack takes the air from your lungs. Your ass is raw, the skin tingling where his palm still rubs at your flesh. 'Please.'

'Good girl...' There's a smile in his voice as he leans down to press a series of soft kisses onto your neck before ducking to speak into your ear. 'Gonna make sure you don't forget, make sure you can never forget again.'

His weight vanishes from your back, allowing you to turn and crane your neck. Behind you, he kneels, his hands once again spreading you wide as he slowly strokes his fingers through your folds. He deliberately avoids your clit, giving you enough sensation to make your stomach tighten, but not enough to stoke the embers already crackling inside of you.

The moment his thumb taps against your clit, you gift him with the prettiest of noises. It makes his cock bob, desperate to be buried inside of you and yet, he refuses himself, continuing instead to stroke and pet your soaking folds.

'Sero... Sero, please.' Reaching behind you, you try and grab at him. Try and force him to give you more, give you anything that will quell the burning of your nerves, but he avoids you easily.

Wrapping a hand around your arm, he pins it behind you back, holding your wrist tight to stop your squirming as a dark chuckle is released from his throat. 'Desperate sluts don't get what they want.'

The stretch of your shoulder isn't so much painful as it is debilitating. Without your arm, you're forced to crush yourself to the mattress, unable to hold yourself up at all as Sero begins to add pressure and pin you down. Panic and pleasure blend in your stomach, your cunt pulsing as your heart hammers, sending confused signals to your brain. 'S – sorry. Sorry, I – Just....'

'Shush, sweetheart.' He coo's, condescending as he slowly sinks a single finger into your cunt. 'I know, I know you want to be good, don't you, baby?'

'Yeah. Wanna be good for you.' You're babbling. Babbling with a single finger pumping slowly in and out of your cunt. Your eyes roll in the back of your head as anticipation overflows making you nothing more than something for Sero to reclaim.

The noises that spill from your lips earn you another finger as he feels his own patience wear thin. He's been dreaming about your cunt since the day he decided to lure you back home, the day he decided that he was done sitting around, starving without your belief to feed him. Now, he thinks as he adds a third finger, stretching you wide as you pulse and flutter helplessly around him, he'll make sure he'll never be forgotten again. As soon as he feels you relax he pulls his fingers back and lands another loud smack against your ass when you whine with his absence.

'Please...' You're strung so high you think you might snap at any moment. He had been diligent with his fingers, thorough in his stretching while deliberately missing the sponginess of your G-spot. 'I need – Need you, Han – Hanta.'

'Oh... So you do remember my first name, huh?' He kisses your ass, letting his teeth scratch again at the flesh. Already there's a dull bruise forming from his last bite. He rubs a thumb across it. Then, wrapping a hand around his cock, he lines himself up with your fluttering entrance and taps his cock against your clit.

'Oh, fuck...' Your body writhes despite him still pinning you to the bed. His cock carves you out, forcing your body to submit to his as he sinks into you and bottoms out in one go. It's electrifying to be so helpless, to be held still and used while knowing that the man behind you needs you to survive. It's your belief after all, isn't it. It's you that gives him his existence and yet, here and now... It's more than obvious that you hold little of the power.

'So tight...' Sero moans. He fucks you quick and hard, his balls slapping against your clit as the bar-bells in his cock massage your walls. His hand kneads at your hips and ass, administering the odd slap to make you clench around him. 'So good for me, sweetheart. You're – fuck, it's like you made me to fuck you, huh?'

It's not enough and too much all at once. Your cunt pulses, gripping him as he hammers into you. The tension in your stomach is already taught, making your skin feel alight. You're not sure you can take much more, your orgasm already quickly approaching and yet, as if sensing your nearing end, Sero's pace slows. The blunt head of his cock begins to fall short, missing the spot inside of you that makes you see static.

Lifting his spare hand, he pulls at your ass cheek, exposing your puckered hole. The pad of his thumb brushes against it, poking just enough for you to feel, but not enough to sink into your entrance. He tuts.

'No.' You wriggle. 'Please, no, that's dirty – don't -.'

He ignores you. Instead, the he lifts his thumb and sucks it into his mouth before replacing it back on your hole and pressing in. He sinks to the first knuckle before chuckling. 'Told you – you're not gonna forget me.'

You hear it before you feel it, the sound of him hollowing his cheeks before he spits on your asshole and uses the excess liquid to slip further inside. Having you stretched around his thumb makes you tighter, forces your cunt to cling to his cock in a way that has his thighs shaking.

It's like nothing you've ever felt before. The stretch of his thumb burns, but not enough that the pleasure of his cock still carving you out doesn't mask it. Your body is wired, forced still and yet, vibrating with energy as he bares down on your arm to keep you still.

'So good – fuck...' Losing himself, he fucks you harder. His hips feel ready to bruise, his body calling for him to stop, but each burning muscle spurns him on. It reminds him he's real, more real than he's been in too many years and he'll be damned if he's going to lose that feeling any time soon. Forcing his hips flush with yours, he angles himself and sinks his thumb a little deeper into your ass until he begins to feel the tell tale tension of your cunt increase. He feels crazed. A mad-man chasing his prize as he feels your body slowly, slowly begin to give.

'Hanta.' You're panting. Pleasure rises through you and makes you burn as your entire body begins to tense. Your eyes flutter shut, cunt pulsing and milking him as you're tossed head first into the most intense orgasm of your life. The air in your lung turns stale, your thighs shaking uncontrollably as he fucks you through it, not content with the series of babbled moans that slip from your lips.

'Shit.' Pulling his thumb from your ass, he falls over you, pressing his chest to your back as he takes hold of your neck. His fingers press, cutting off at either side of your throat as he mindlessly chases his own release. 'Gonna – fuck – gonna -'

You whine and wriggle, reality coming back to you as the pressure in your stomach begins to build again. 'Not – not inside.'

He chuckles, but it's breathless. The hand on the back of your neck presses harder, keeping you pushed into the mattress as he rails you. 'Not inside...' He mocks. 'Sweetheart, I'mma breed you. Make sure you can never forget again, I promised, didn't I?'

You should struggle, but you don't have time. You whine, but before any words leave your tongue you feel it.

His cum is hot as he spills inside of you. His hips twitch, his balls pulling up and pulsing as sticky white fills you in thick lashes. 'Good girl...' Pulling out, his cock jumps still spilling across your ass and the back of your thighs marking you as his. 'Such a good girl for me.'

'Hanta.' Your voice is weak when you speak, raw from the moans that have torn from your chest. You twist, feeling your muscles complain, but it's worth it when you see him come down on his elbow beside you. 'H – Hanta.'

He looks good now: healthy. His hair is sweat-slicked, sticking to his head in places and there's a thin beading of sweat across the plain of his chest, but despite the exertion – he looks more like your Sero than he did before.

Tiredness pulls at you, making the edges of your vision blur as you let yourself wriggle closer to the warmth he offers.

Everything else feels cold.

You're so cold.

He reaches for you and wraps you up in his arms, pressing soft kisses to your temple. 'S'okay, Sweetheart. We've got each other now, yeah? You're not gonna forget again. Never gonna let you forget me.'

You awake to the tapping of the blossom tree on your window. Rolling over, you stretch, feeling the pleasant burn in your muscles as your reach out and search the bed beside you. Your palm pats at the mattress, searching for any signs of warmth as you seek out an arm, or the plain of Sero's chest... Only to come up with nothing. Peeling open your eyes, your glance around the room with panic rising in your throat.

He's gone.

The bed is made.

There's no stray clothes strewn across your floor.

You bite your lip, eyebrows furrowing as you climb out of bed and slip into a housecoat. Each step brings with it a twinge, the subtle pull of over-used muscle that stops you from losing your mind as you tip-toe steadily down the stirs.

The last few days feel like a nightmare, one that you're not sure you've awoken from as reality and something else blend inside of your head. Wondering into the kitchen, you bury your hands in your pocket, fingers crossed, in the hopes that you'll see him, a shadow – anything to prove that he was real. Yet, when you look... There's nothing.

Standing tall, the blossom tree sways in the wind. It's petals are pale, withered against the blue of the sky. The ivy that had twisted around the trunk now covers it, squeezing and choking, wrapping itself around the trees limbs.

You lift your hand to your throat.

The doorbell rings.

Jumping, you turn staring headlong at the door as it rings...

… And rings.

There's knocking now, too. A loud fist banging against the wood.

'For fucks sake...' Bakugo's voice growls on the other side. There's the sound of rustling and the jingling of keys before one is shoved into the lock and the door swings open.

You tut and roll your eyes, tension suddenly evaporating from your body at the sight of your friend. You'd forgotten you'd given Bakugo and Kirishima a spare set of keys when you moved back, in case of emergencies you'd said. Although, you're not quite sure what makes this an emergency. 'Is everything okay?'

Bakugo ignores you, instead he dips into the living room before coming back out and striding into the kitchen straight past you.

'Hey.' You shout after him, following close on his heels as he stands in the middle of the tiled floor mumbling to himself. As you close in, you can see the redness around his eyes and hear the dull panic in his tone as he whispers: 'Where the fuck are you... Not you, fuck.'

'Bakugo, I'm -.'

He reaches for his phone and pins it to his ear. 'She's not here. I don't know if she even knows what happened to her mum and dad yet... Fuck, Kiri. I don't know what to do.' His voice cracks, fraying at the edges. 'What if she's done something stupid?'

'Bakugo!' You shout. Panic itches at your skin making you want to tear it off. You step forward, reaching to shake him, to shout, to so something to make him realise that you're there. 'Bakugo what happened to mum and dad – Bakugo!'

A hand touches your shoulder, the tell tale clink of metal rings settling into your ears as you turn to see Sero stood beside you. He wraps a hand around your waist and smiles, content for the first time in what feels like forever. 'Oh, sweetheart.' He coos pressing a kiss to your temple. 'He can't see you. You're imaginary.'

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