#there is a sad child living beneath their skin

[impossible-rat-babies]

the desire to explain how eyrie’s echo works v. how the fuck do you explain that. like funny guy feels love like god feels love is not even scratching the surface. like how do you say that

[yikes-ajax-thats-sad]

♥️ If you knew why the last one left me you would have passed me by ♥️

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

What if instead of threatening to take Ford's eyes, Bill just took Fiddleford's?

Tate still remembered the night his father's sight was taken from him.

"What have you done to me, Stanford?"

He felt the storm coming even before the first lightning struck. From the very moment he opened his eyes that morning until the very moment he lay back down to bed, he could feel a vicious tension brewing in the otherwise serene household.

Storms were very uncommon at Tate's house, and on the rare occasions they did arrive, they never stayed for long.

Yet, after a quiet breakfast full of anxious, unmet glances and clattering cutlery that rang far too loudly in the silence of the table, he knew that this storm was going to be unlike any other storm he'd witnessed before.

A prickling, disquieting static seemed to have made itself at home underneath his skin, that day. It had made every hair on his body stand on end, and an odd stinging sensation to dance across his spine and tongue; an uncomfortable urge to duck and take cover low on the ground nearly overwhelming his every sense. It was like waiting for the shattering thunderclap to sound after the sky turned white with a blinding flash of light. He knew what was coming, and the anticipation was unbearable.

His mother and father had acted as though nothing was wrong; as though they didn't feel the looming presence of the darkening clouds growing like a murky gray forest on the ceiling.

He hadn't been able to fathom at the time how adults could seem so all-knowing, and yet simultaneously be so utterly clueless about the very obvious happenings that surrounded them. Now, though, he just found it strange how adults often tend to assume children don't feel the stifling weight that they hung around themselves; as if children didn't breathe the same bitter choked air as their parents did. It wasn't even as though they did a very good job at pretending; his parents always were terrible liars.

When the lightning finally struck, it set the house ablaze.

He heard the thunder from his room, and felt the crackling heat crawl up the stairs and seep through the gap beneath his door. He'd laid in his bed, hand clasped nervously across his chest and looking up at his room's cloudy, weeping ceiling as a cacophonic explosion of noises came bursting from the living room downstairs. The fight had erupted with such unprecedented force that in Tate's young mind, he'd felt genuine fear of the house collapsing atop them all from the sheer force of the yelling.

The smell of burnt tongues gently wafted through the air, and Tate briefly wondered if it hurt his parents when they scorched their mouths with such scalding words just as much as it hurt for him to hear it.

It was a big fight; a terrible, big fight; so loud, and so very angry, and helpless, and desperate, and betrayed, and sad.

The back and forth screeching seemed endless, and eventually the screaming words began to muddle and merge into one another until they hardly even sounded human anymore. Suddenly there were animals wailing in the living room downstairs, and Tate could do nothing but listen helplessly and grip his interlocked fingers tighter; hoping that if he stayed still enough, then the growling beasts that were shattering plates downstairs wouldn't come upstairs.

But then,

then,

something changed.

The shift was all too sudden; too abrupt; too quick even for the usually sharp witted child to catch on, and before he knew it, the screams of anger suddenly shifted into one of pure, unadulterated horror.

"Fiddleford, your eyes- good lord, your eyes! Let me look at them!" "Don't touch me! I- I must call Stanford, he's done something to me. Him and that demon, they've cursed me." "For Heaven's sake! Please, forget about that damned Stanford of yours for one moment and listen to yourself! My husband's gone mad, mad!"

And suddenly his parents were human again.

Tate was restless in his bed as his heart seemed to beat bruises against his ribs, his sweaty fingers digging crescent shaped grooves into his skin as fear enclosed its frigid claws around his throat in a vice-like grip. He couldn't breathe.

The storm was over, and it should have reassured him, and yet he was anything but.

Curiosity and fear had been what forced him to kick the sheets off himself and creep his way down the rickety wooden steps. He had to know what happened, he had to know what damage the storm had caused, he had to know.

His steps were far from quiet, and the creaking of the floorboards beneath his feet hardly did him any favors, but no one answered the calls of the squeaking wood. No one came peeking out from the living room to stop the obviously sneaking presence that was tip toeing through the halls; No one called out to check on their little child; all was silent, and calm, except for his mother's soft sobbing coming from the kitchen.

When Tate eventually found his father, he saw

devastation.

The storm had been merciless. It had left nothing behind but a shuddering husk of a man. His father was shaking like a leaf, shoulders tense and back hunched over as though bowed by an incredible burden. The telephone receiver was held in his hand like a lifeline; as if it was the only thing in the world that was keeping him tethered to sanity, and somehow, Tate didn't doubt that it was.

Curled up on the floor in the dark, muttering and trembling, he dared say his father looked... small.

It almost felt surreal to see his father in such a state, like witnessing a God collapse, or a star's light dim to nothingness. His father had always been a solid, permanent pillar sho seemed able to hold up the whole world on his shoulders, and still stand tall and proud despite the weight.

And yet, the crumbling remains of a once impermeable monolith now lay scattered across the hallway floor and splattered across the walls.

The sight had scared him.

At the time, Tate hadn't known what had happened. Even to this day, he still wasn't too sure he understood what exactly had taken place in that living room for his father to have so sudddenly gone from seeing to blind in the matter of seconds.

His mother had tried, in vain, to explain it to him later, to try and make him understand when he was eventually old enough to hear the gruesome tale; but still, he struggled to fully wrap his head around it.

"It was as though his eyes just sunk into his skull," his mother had recounted to him with a haunted look in her eyes. "They suddenly just vanished into the empty sockets of his face, like someone pulled them out from inside his head. There was no blood, no resistance, no tearing. It was as if his eyes were simply plucked out of sight by some invisible hand."

There had been blood on the walls when he had found father back then, a long trail of gorey wet red smeared all across the lovely yellow wallpaper. He realized only now, recalling the memory, that the blood back then had not been from his father's eyes, but from the deep gouges he had dug into his face with his nails, his searching fingers desperately looking for eyes that weren't there beneath his empty eyelids.

"What have you done to me, Stanford?"

Tate had never heard his father's voice sound so raw, so afraid. It was so unlike the familiar comforting drawl he'd grown to love and recognize, it almost sounded alien, coming from his father.

"I can't see, Stanford, I can't- my eyes, they're gone. Why are they gone? What have you done?" "Answer me, damnit, what have you done?"

His father never got his answer, because whoever was on the other side of the line soon hung up, and his father was suddenly left blind and alone.

[lucyrose191]

BROKEN DECISIONS: HEALING| T.WOLFF

Pairing; Toto Wolff x fem!Schumacher!reader

Summary; You had learned to channel the pain from Toto’s actions into the need to protect and love your child. You were healing but will that be affected by Toto finding out the reason you suddenly disappeared?

Warnings; Age gap mentioned but not specified. Fluff.

Author’s Note; I know I said I’d post a Seb fic before this but this was so much easier to write and I had a lot more motivation for this. Possibly a part 3 if you want.

F1 Master List, Part 1

September 2024

The pain that had consumed you so overwhelmingly all those months ago had seemingly disappeared as you stared down at your daughter who lay in your lap, eyes closed as she slept peacefully, subtle puffs of air released as her chest raised every few seconds.

The thick tufts of bright white hair that sprouted from her head marked that little Alina Elisabeth was most certainly a Schumacher.

Maybe you should feel guilty for the relief that settled in you at the lack of resemblance she shared with her father but the love you felt in your heart as you stared down at the person you cared the most for in this world shrouded any negative emotion you could possibly feel.

The loneliness you had felt was also no longer lingering in your chest, your family had been your rock since the moment you arrived in Switzerland, your mother especially. Mick ensured her was there for you too, even though he was busy with the world endurance racing, he made sure he called frequently and tried to visit when he could.

You sent him a photo of his new niece as soon as you could after giving birth to her and he was already besotted and excited to meet her.

The pain from birthing her had also long been forgotten, unlike the memory of holding her for the first time.

It was hard to describe the rush of emotions that were bursting beneath your skin. You would go to hell and back again if just to experience this for the rest of your life, to continue living in this bubble of warmth and completion.

There was the slightest bit of lingering sadness towards the knowledge that Toto hadn’t been by your side yesterday and witnessing his daughter being brought into the world, maybe it was even unfair that he had been robbed of that opportunity but then you remembered how you had tried to tell him the news of your pregnancy before you left and how he refused to listen.

You weren’t going to beg and plead for him to listen to what you had to say, no matter what there news was.

You had a lot more respect for yourself than that.

It didn’t matter anyways, you didn’t need him and you’d ensure that Alina didn’t need him either. You have full confidence in your ability to raise her alone and give her the best life she could possibly have, a life that would provide her with opportunities others could only imagine having.

November 2024

Alina Elisabeth Schumacher was now two months old and each day it felt as though your love for her multiplied.

Even through the rough patches where you seemed lost in knowing what she needed or what was wrong, it didn’t deter you in the slightest. You had smiled more in the last two months than you had in the last ten years and it felt riveting.

Never would you have thought that a child could fill a gap in your life that you didn’t even know existed but here she is and your heart is full.

Your life felt whole and complete and you owed everything to her, to your little girl who had fixed your healing heart without even trying, just by simply existing.

Today was an important day, Mick was coming home after finishing the world endurance season, which he had performed amazingly in, and it was going to be his first time meeting his niece in person.

You had FaceTimed so much in the last few months, Mick hadn’t wanted to miss any part of his niece growing and so every night at around six he’d ring so that he could say goodnight to her, no matter what time is was where he was at.

Alina loved her uncle already.

It was around 2pm when you heard the front door open followed by the sound of bags dropping to the floor and Mick walking into the kitchen.

You didn’t waste any time in wrapping him into a hug. "Hey, how are you?"

Mick tucked his head into the crook of your neck and tightened his arms around you. "I’m great, it was amazing but how are you, are you okay?" He asked, pulling away and holding onto your shoulders as he looked you up and down.

You smiled at him in pure happiness. "I’m amazing, she’s amazing. Come and see her," you told him and grabbed his hand, pulling him upstairs to your room.

Alina was napping which is all she ever did at her young age but you didn’t care if she woke up because the look of awe on Mick’s face as he set his eyes upon her would make it worth it.

"She’s tiny," he whispered, reaching a finger inside the cot and smiling as she wrapped her fist around it. "She looked so much bigger over the phone, she’s beautiful, Y/N, really." He looked up at you and smiled.

"That’s because she takes after me," you smirked and he rolled his eyes, slowly pulling his hand away before turning to you.

"Do Mum and Gina know?" He asked.

You didn’t need him to emphasise, you both knew what he meant, the unspoken topic that neither of you brought up throughout your entire pregnancy and even after.

"No," you replied honestly, swallowing uncomfortably.

"Y/N-" he sighed.

"Don’t," you cut him off. "He didn’t want to know, Mick. He didn’t care and I’m not going to beg him to."

The sympathetic look he gave you in response to the defeated words you spoke filled you with the need to cry but you didn’t.

You simply stood there for a moment before sighing. "I think I’m going to quit."

Mick gave you a look of horror. "What!?" He whisper shouted. "You can’t, you’ve been with Mercedes for nearly a decade!"

You shrugged. "I don’t want to work for him anymore, not when he is adamant on acting as though he didn’t give me the wrong impression, as though I don’t have his daughter at home who he doesn’t know about because he didn’t care enough for me to tell him."

He didn’t say anything, knowing that your point was completely reasonable. He just hoped this didn’t ruin everything you had worked for.

December 2024

You walked side by side with Mick through the pits of the Yas Marina circuit in Abu Dhabi, drawing quite a bit of attention to yourselves, not only because this is the first glimpse anyone has seen of you all year but because of the three month old you held in your arms.

You walked into the Mercedes garage as though you weren’t about to reveal why you hadn’t participated in this season, pretending you didn’t notice how everyone paused what they were doing to stare as soon as you crossed the threshold.

Their stares burned into your skin but none more than Toto’s, you felt the trail his eyes left across your entire body and the way they settled on the sleeping baby in your arms.

You ignored the burning sensation he was leaving on your skin, instead focusing on the mechanics and other team members that were approaching to speak to you and introduce themselves to Alina.

It was around twenty minutes later before you were left alone, Mick took this opportunity to take Alina to go and show her off to anyone who would give him the time of day, you loved how much of a proud uncle he was.

"Can we talk?" His voice was low and gravelly in your ear as he spoke in a hushed whisper, startling you momentarily.

You scoffed and shook your head. "You weren’t up for talking in January, I’m not up for talking now."

"It’s important," he tried to reason and you laughed.

"What I wanted to say was important but you didn’t care, what was important to me wasn’t important to you. It’s not nice being on the receiving end of that, is it?"

You had hit the nail on the head with that one and by the stunned silence Toto was confined into, he knew that as well.

"Please, I know I don’t deserve it but can you please just come and have a civil conversation with me in my office," he pleaded, knowing that he really had no leg to stand on because he was the one that was completely in the wrong.

You wanted to make a comment about how poetic it was that he wanted to go and talk in his office, just how you did all those months ago and yet you had no luck but you didn’t.

You relented and agreed but that did not mean you were going to be easy on him.

You sighed and stood up from your seat, following him to his office.

You refused to speak first as he shut the door which resulted in a thick, heavy silence for a couple of minutes as you both stood there, Toto staring at you whilst your eyes strained on the ground.

"What happened in Abu Dhabi last year-" he started causing you to look up at him, not expecting him to even bring that up considering how certain he was to avoid it before.

"It wasn’t a mistake, I just- I spent two years fighting my feelings for you because you deserve so much more than I am. The baggage I come with- I’m divorced twice and I have kids and I’m so much older than you and you deserve so much more than to be with a man that comes with all that and can’t give you everything."

You stared at him blankly though you were surprised that he had supposedly felt something for you for an entire year before you noticed anything.

"I never thought of you as anything but my boss and a friend but then last year, the way you looked at me and the way you acted, I thought you liked me and it confused me, my mind was baffled the entire season but no matter what you caused me to feel, I fought against it but then with his forward you were in Abu Dhabi, you made me think you actually wanted me and even if you didn’t then that’s fine but what isn’t fine is leading me on with your stares and your touches and then leaving me alone in a hotel the moment I gave in and even after that when I tried to speak with you, you ignored me and dismissed me. Do you know how used and disgusted I felt?"

You knew the look of guilt on his face wasn’t fake but that didn’t change anything, his guilt was nothing compared to what he had put you through.

"I thought I was doing what was best for you," he replied defeated, knowing how pathetic he sounded and how weak his response was.

"I couldn’t look at myself without feeling the urge to throw up after the way you left me there and it was all down to your insecurities which are ridiculous by the way. I can’t believe you think I’d care about how many times you’ve been married or how many kids you have or how old you are, I only ever wanted someone who loved me and treated me right, you could’ve done that but the man that spoke to me in January, I’ve never seen you like that and that man is not someone I would ever be with."

"You didn’t deserve that," he replied in agreement. "I was overwhelmed by the guilt I felt for leaving you there and trying to ignore my feelings for you which I thought were wrong to be feeling but it is not an excuse for the way I spoke or dismissed you, it was wrong of me. I’m sorry."

"I know," you shrugged. "But I don’t forgive you, not right now at least."

Toto shook his head. "I’ll earn your forgiveness." He said confidently.

"Okay." You whispered.

The air between the two of you shifted as Toto looked at you apprehensively, shifting on his feet. "Your baby-" your heart thumped loudly in your chest. "Is she?" He asked, not needing to continue.

You weren’t going to deny the truth and so you replied honestly. "Yes, it’s what I tried telling you in January."

The look of anguish that appeared on his face was heartbreaking to see because you could tell he truly regretted his actions but it was simply the consequences of his decisions, he was still able to make up for it.

"What did you name her?" He asked quietly.

"Alina Elisabeth Schumacher, Elisabeth after my grandmother."

"You chose well…. Could I meet her?" He asked carefully, not wanting to overstep with you but of course you would allow him to see her, not only because your daughter deserved a chance to have a father but because you knew he was a good father and he would’ve been there had you been given the chance to tell him of her.

"I’ll go and get her." You told him, swiftly walking passed him and out of the door.

It was George that happening to be holding her as you re-entered the garage, the man looking up at you with a pleased smile. "Y/N! I’m happy your back, am I getting my beginner back next year?" He asked as he handed her over to you.

You smiled weakly and shrugged your shoulders. "I’m honestly not too sure yet, George but I’ll let you know."

"No worries," he waved you off. "She’s beautiful by the way."

You thanked him before turning away and heading back to Toto’s office.

Alina was wide awake now and her dark eyes were looking around curiously as you walked through the small corridor.

As soon as Toto’s eyes laid upon her you practically saw how he immediately fell in love with her, his eyes softened as they took in her features, probably trying to find anything that resembled himself.

"I think she has your eyes, but that’s about it," you commented lightly causing him to laugh.

He stepped forward and held his hand out for her, smiling and laughing as she reached out and grabbed his finger before shoving it into her mouth.

He looked at her in awe, as if he couldn’t believe she was a part of him. He reached out with his other hand and tickled her cheek with his finger causing her to gurgle around his hand.

"You can hold her," you told him, lifting her out towards him. He looked at you unsurely but you encouraged him with a nod and that was everything he needed to take her into his arms.

Alina threw away her grip on his hand as he held her and instead pressed both of her hands into his cheeks and pressed her face up against his causing you both to burst out into laughter which resulted in her copying you.

"She’s so small," he muttered almost to himself but you heard him.

"She didn’t feel it when I was pushing her out but she does look it," you joked but also serious, it had hurt like hell.

The mention of her birth spiked a sudden interest. "When was she born?" He asked.

"September 3rd, she was two weeks late, didn’t want to leave I suppose so I had to get induced."

He looked at you worried. "You didn’t do it alone, did you?"

You shook your head, "No, don’t worry, my mum was there with me."

"That’s good," he replied, pulling away from Alina’s grabby hands and instead brought her into a hug, resting the side of his head against hers.

God did he look good holding her.

Alina cooed and babbled as she lied her head on his shoulder and reached her hand up to grab his ear and pull on it.

The immediate connection between the two was impossible to miss and it was sad they had both missed out on this but you refused to let yourself feel guilty about it.

"Thank you for this," Toto’s voice broke you out of your thoughts. "I know I don’t deserve it."

You shook your head. "You deserve a relationship with her, no matter what I wouldn’t have kept her from you."

He smiled and tightened his hold on Alina, still struggling to believe she was really his.

He had four kids. Wow.

He did not want to think about how he was going to explain this one to them.

"We should probably go back out there, there’s still a race that’s about to start." You mentioned, hating to break him out of his bubble but he had priorities.

After much coercing, you managed to get him out of his office but he kept his hold on Alina, he didn’t think the team would suspect anything, they probably just thought he wanted to hold her but even if they did have suspicions, he didn’t care.

Everything felt right as he held her, now he just needed to make it up to you and he would do everything needed for you to forgive him because he wanted this, he wanted you and this family you had created, no matter how long it took.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

People who asked to be tagged or asked for a part 2:

@pear-1206 @luckyladycreator2 @urmotheris @lightdragonrayne @viennakarma @woozarts @carolloliveerr @nuggetvirgo @myescapefromthislife @minkyungseokie @oatmealandsugar @hc-dutch @arieltwvdtohamflash @grayxiu @bigsimperika @emilyval1 @eternalharry @msbyjackal

[rooksamoris]

💞 — 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐘 𝐌𝐄.

💞 — in which you teach malleus a new phrase and he grows somber about your inevitable death.

💞 — malleus draconia x reader

💞 — warnings: hurt/comfort type fic. some descriptions of gore to emphasize heartache. reader does catch a cold. malleus is sad </3 mentions of death and mortality/fragility.

💞 — 1.2k words. various arab groups tell their loved ones 'taqburouni' meaning 'may you bury me' affectionately. i thought of malleus when i heard it again recently, since he very well would be stuck burying his loved ones. eid mubarak my lovelies!!

Taq-bu-rou-ni.

Malleus’s brows knitted in a bit of interest as he replayed your word in his mind, splitting each of the syllables to pronounce it the way you did. It was a foreign word, and for someone who knew bygone languages, this was a word he had not heard. You said it with a look of affection in your eyes. It was your way of being romantic, well, with the way you drawled the final vowel, that much was obvious.

“And what does that mean?” he asked, his bright green eyes following the shape of your silhouette as you walked. Those slitted pupils of his dilated. 

“Taqburouni? Ah, it means ‘may you bury me,’” you said, innocently. The words spilled from your lips like sugared blades, so sweet yet so painful. It clung to his skin and when he tried to pull away, it tore his skin.

He paused his walking for a moment, stopping you with him. Those words reminded him that he could spend a century dwelling on that term, while you could not even spare a minute. 

Taqburouni.

That phrase you had taught Malleus planted itself into his lungs and wrapped around his esophagus. He knew you meant it affectionately. It was your way of wishing him a long life, one long enough that he would get the chance to bury you. You had known all sorts of romantic sayings that bordered on being eerie and strange. The vines you were growing wrapped around his lungs and sunk their thorns into them greedily, causing sweet blood to splatter onto his ribcage.

He knew he would get the chance to bury you. His child of man was too frail to live as long as he.

His pause caused you some worry and you squeezed his hand, pulling it closer to you so that his knuckles hovered near your chest, “It’s weird, isn’t it?” you joked, your brows furrowed in concern, “It’s an affectionate way of wishing that someone you love has a long life… I get if it’s not your thing—I just—I—”

Malleus silenced you by placing his free hand on your head. He let it slide over your hair and behind your head. His long fingers threaded their way through some of the strands as he gripped the back of your head. They were like stubborn blossoms in a valley of wilting roses, desperate to keep you close and alive, “It is lovely, a fine way of showing affection,” he told you. 

The future king decided against telling you just how uncomfortable that term made him. It infiltrated his body like a strong virus, poisoning his body and eating away at his flesh from the inside. Just like the vines that you planted in his lungs, tearing him apart beneath the layer of flesh, muscle, and bone.

A smile came to your face at his reassurance and you kissed his knuckles, “I’m glad you think so, Malleus,” you told him. 

Taqburouni. He found it anything but lovely. Malleus understood the purpose of such a term, and he knew you were just being lovelorn, but Sevens. Each vowel was like a threat, each one getting closer to him losing you. Taq—and you were cut, bu—you were sick, rou—bedridden, ni—and suddenly he was back in the Briar Valley, standing before another tombstone. To him, it was purely unromantic. 

It was violent and it was cruel.

You shivered due to the cold breeze and his gaze hardened, “Let us return you to the dorm, beastie. You’ll freeze if you’re out any longer,” he said, taking his uniform blazer off to drape over your shoulders. This body of yours was so delicate. Too delicate.

“Oh, Malleus… but you’ll get cold,”

He laughed, “I think you forget who you’re speaking to,” he said, his eyes watching your body tense up slightly. That delicious blush covered your cheeks and he was tempted to freeze time right here. Surely there was a spell for that, that way he could keep you forever and your words, your plea that he buries you, would never come true.

Bashfully, you averted your gaze and kept walking beside him. Oh, how he wanted to pounce.

Days later, that poisonous word was still on his mind. 

It came up in particular when you caught a cold. The illness had been traveling around the school, your favorite duo from Heartslabyul had gotten it, but not nearly as bad as you. People had been coughing in class, sniffling as they walked through the halls—Malleus blamed himself for worsening it due to all the nights he dragged you away on romantic walks where he showed you the secrets of the campus.

Now he was sitting at your bedside in Ramshackle dorm. It was not nearly as dilapidated as it used to be. You had cleaned up a lot, bleaching whatever you could to kill sickness, and it still managed to sneak in. There were cracks in the windows… it probably made the nights even colder for you.

One of these beams could fall and kill you.

“Taqburouni.”

The blasted word repeated itself in his mind as he watched you squirm in your bed. Your breathing was shallow, you were sweating—he could end you with a raise of his finger, “Too fragile. Like a bird’s eggshell. All it would take is to push you out of a nest and then…” His brows furrowed as the back of his hand trailed down the side of your sickly face.

Your skin looked much less vibrant in this state.

This moment and thousands of others would pass him like a dream. One day he would bury you and then take the throne. Your bought of romance would end up being a dream. He would wake up with a crown on his head, black robes draping every inch of him, and the flickering memories you made here.

His fingers trailed down to your throat for a moment and he tapped the dainty skin with his sharp nails. Just the tiniest bit of pressure and you would bleed. Not even the strongest swords would break through his scales.

“Malleus,” you muttered, breathlessly as you tried to open your eyes. The light was too bright so all you could do was blearily squint at him before shutting your eyes again, “I feel so weak…”

“You look it too,”

“Huh?”

He stared at your face for a moment, taking in the way your eyes drifted back shut. Your brows knitted softly, and it made him want to kiss that space between your eyes, “Rest,” he whispered, his hand turning to cup your face. A bit of his magic traveled from the tips of his fingers to your skin, forcing you to inhale a green mist that would temporarily put you to sleep.

Malleus felt the urge to keep you in this state of sleep for one hundred years. Instead, he settled for leaning in and kissing your forehead, “May you bury me,” he whispered. He promised to find a way to keep you alive with him for good. He would find a way to keep everyone and everything he loved alive with him till he breathed his last flame.

[b14augrana]

Kiss of Strife

Football has always been your safe haven, but your home life gradually starts to manifest in different ways away from home, which doesn’t go unnoticed by your captain

Alexia Putellas x teen!reader

masterlist

Warnings: this story contains depictions of family issues associated with emotional unavailability and forms of abuse. read at your own discretion

A/N: an alexia x teen!reader angst fic was requested so here it is!! i decided this will be multiple parts as well so i hope you enjoy this chapter and the rest of this little series

(i wrote this pretty late at night and it isnt proofread so please excuse any mistakes regarding the tense, grammar etcetc)

Everything is perfect.

You’re scoring goals for your club and bagging assists. Your name is no longer a strange string of consonants and vowels but a recognisable word within the community of Cataluña, and it is only because of an ambition you dedicated the rest of your life to pursuing.

That’s just in the face of football though.

At home, there is a drought. The four walls of a family house are meant to behave like a dam which stores love and affection in the place of water, but your house is devoid of that.

Your house fosters a bitterness that doesn’t go hand in hand with anything along the lines of love and affection. The drawings on the fridge, created by a 5-year-old you, have faded over time, the ink being nothing more than splotches in some areas — a testament to the lack of care and attention your efforts received.

Relationships are barely surviving on simple greetings and empty ‘I love yous’. You crave something that is dangerous to want, but in your heart burns a desire to get the hell out.

Your lullaby is the faint yelling from the living room as you shut your eyes and focus on the gradually increasing volume of both voices, contradicting each other and trying to stab each other with no blade.

Your little sister crawls into your bed, her body flush against yours, another little arm wrapped around hers. Beneath your covers, there is warmth. Beneath your grip, there is safety.

During the school holidays, a child is supposed to savour every waking moment they spend at home and appreciate every day of it. You find yourself asking God why that isn’t the case, as you walk to practise with your sister’s hand in yours.

She sits on the sidelines picking grass as you train with your teammates, dreading the inevitable passing of minutes as you practise skill after skill. When you retreat to the bench for a quick water break, she runs up to you, bunches of chamomiles clutched in her hands that she begs to insert between the weaving of your braid.

From the day of your first training with the team, Alexia was drawn to you. She blamed it on her captain instincts, seeing as you’re the youngest on the team and therefore has the most potential, but now it’s gone beyond her captaincy. She’s known you for months, almost a full year now. She isn’t just your captain anymore.

She isn’t aware of the reality of your home life beyond the telltale signs such as the slightly sunken skin below your eyes or the bruises that taint your skin and are allegedly caused by your ‘clumsiness’. She knows there is something more to the extra effort you constantly put into training and games — she doesn’t know yet that it’s the pent up anger, sadness and fear manifesting in more productive forms.

You pour your heart and soul into the movement of the ball, in hopes that you can pursue your dreams of running away from what is restricting you from pursuing even greater dreams, an actual dream.

School starts back up for your sister. Things have been looking up for you, a huge burden off your shoulders. The house hasn’t shaken with another argument for a while and for once you get to know what silence is while you sleep, really sleep.

With every passing day, you find your memories with your father to resemble a garden; you can’t have a garden without flowers, just like how you can’t have memories of him without doing anything with him. When you were young, your garden was comparable to a rainforest, a new species in every corner, a kaleidoscope of beauty..

Until there was no more new species to plant and nurture, and the ones that already existed were getting neglected because all that you receive when you look at them are sour memories of what once was — the gardener you used to be, how rich the soil was, how steadily the flowers grew and how proud you were of your garden.

Your garden is dead now. It has gotten to the point where he doesn’t care about planting new flowers or watering the plants that already exist, leaving them to die of thirst. He’s absent and his emotional unavailability killed your flowers.

The little girl in you that wanted nothing else but love from her parents, loved that garden with her whole heart. She would’ve done anything she could to plant one more flower, she would’ve used the last drop of water in a drought to water her plants.

Alexia noticed something different about you today. The way you bounced around rather than the usual trudge… you had actual, sleep-induced energy.

Your sister also isn't with you. Alexia later asks you about it while you two are getting water and she learns that your sister is at school, and there is a smile on your face that she didn’t even realise had been absent for days until she saw it again.

Alexia has always been nice to you. The others treat you like a teammate, but she treats you like a friend. It feels like a special privilege, knowing ‘La Reina’ personally. She’s obviously a pillar in women’s football but to you, she’s much more.

She harbours a soft spot for you in her heart that becomes evident when she asks you if you need a ride home, and who are you to turn down such an offer when the ache in your legs is close to becoming unbearable?

“You’re talented, chica,” the woman says as you slink into the passenger seat of her car. “I haven’t had the chance to say it, but there hasn’t been a player like you for quite a bit.”

Her praise is so much more than just a couple of words from your captain. Though you smile and say a shy thank you, your heart races because you’ve just been called talented by one of the best players in the world, and there is no feeling greater than that. It gives you a tiny sliver of hope for a brighter future than what you’re already living, and for a moment, escaping your four walls seems possible.

The joy you experienced during the whole car ride is short lived once her car pulls into your driveway. Perhaps she can see the way your expression drops and your demeanour falls, because her hand finds your shoulder and squeezes it in a way that comforts you. “Do you want me to walk you to the door?” she asks, and though you really wish she could, you shake your head for the better.

There’s a slight frown on her face before she nods and drops her hand. You think about the possibility of her knowing that there’s something going on behind the closed doors of your home, and a big part of you hopes so, but no words besides a ‘gracías’ and ‘adios’ manage to find their way out of your mouth despite the pleas for help and support bubbling in your throat as you shut the door of her car.

When you reach the patio, the door opens to bombard you with the raucous of an argument happening around the corner of the hallway.

Your limbs are barely functioning and your eyes are struggling to stay open which is an obvious sign of the exhaustion soaring through your body, hence why you skip right past seeing your parents and beeline towards your sister’s room.

For as long as you can remember, arguments have been a consistent part of evenings spent in your household. Sometimes violence finds itself becoming the last resort, leaving you stuck to bear the brunt of a heavy hand. It’s what happens when two sides of the same coin try to work out — two negatives can’t make a positive, it’s impossible for them to get along and there is never a last word. That’s the unfortunate reality of your parents’ relationship.

You sink into the soft mattress of your sister’s bed and beckon her from the desk to lay beside you. She flips her paper over and abandons the seat to run over to you, her little body falling into your embrace. When she asks you what they’re talking about this time, you tell your sister that they’re just having a little disagreement, and if she sleeps it off, it’ll go away. It’s a promise, you say, before you proceed to tell her all about your training and your teammates. It’s her favourite thing, and she says it’s better than a bedtime story.

In no time, little exhales slip past her mouth as her eyes flutter shut, and you roll her off your body, tucking her into the butterfly printed duvet. With tentative steps across the hardwood, you find yourself at her desk and your fingers ghost over the piece of paper as you squint to read it in the dimness of her nightlight.

‘Mi papá hermana guapa

My sister is strong. She plays fútbol and she is good at it. My sister takes care of me and takes me to her pracktise, I like going with my sister. She helps me sleep and when I am with my sister, I am not scared. I am proud of m–…’

And the rest trails off. The body remains incomplete, but there’s one last sentence at the bottom of the page.

‘Amo a mi hermana.’

You place it back on her desk as you fail to combat the tears flooding your waterline. ‘She must’ve been instructed to write a poem by her teacher… for Father’s Day’, you think to yourself. Turning away so you don’t ruin her writing with your tears, you wiped them with the back of your Barça jacket sleeve and flipped the page around before making a dead silent exit. The house was completely still beside the low noise of talking from the TV and light snoring.

Your tears are not because of happiness. No, they stream down your face because it’s then that you realise something, and it opens up a whole new portal of questions.

As the streak of silence is broken and you’re forced to fall asleep to the low humming noise from the living room and a restless mind, you wonder what twisted realm of anger and bitterness your father lives in that forbids him from showing the smallest signs of love to his kids.

But, you already know the answer to that question, deep down. Instead, you wonder if you’ll see Alexia tomorrow, stretching in her usual spot, and you wonder if she’ll look up and smile at you again and invite you over.

You hope that’s what will happen. You pray for it.

[boom-bada-boom]

of the old religion

there are consequences to being a creature of magic, of the old religion, of power and energy given form.

merlin is not human, no matter what he thinks. the body he has is just a second skin, a coat over the tumultuous magic beneath, so that it had shape, form. he looks human, he thinks human, he feels human. but he is not truly human.

it’s why shapeshifting spells work so well upon him. he’s not changing himself, just the look of the skin he’s wearing. the magic beneath has no true form, and thus cannot be changed when it is everything everywhere all at once.

(the magic that makes merlin is the magic that makes the world, so it has no shape and to look upon it with mortal eyes would be a headache inducing, nauseating ever-shifting thing, that moves through different features of different magical beings like the water of a lake rippling.)

OR

someone with a deep connection to the old religion can see that emrys is no true human. just a creature of magic wearing a human skin, a shapeshifter that refuses to show its true form. (because people say emrys is magic, but no one truly understands the roiling thing living and breathing inside his skin. so obviously there has to be a true form of emrys underneath the image of merlin.)

so they decide to rip that human skin off. force the shape beneath to show itself. tear away the visage of merlin to leave behind only emrys, the creature that will bring magic back to the land or so help them.

it takes a lot of energy and power, and the use of ancient artifacts of the old religion that have been slowly gathering magic for centuries. but they manage it, they bind the human skin to an object, and tear the object away, to leave behind only emrys.

…

except emrys is not made for mortal eyes. especially not the eyes of someone who had hurt them and tore away their shape, their form. (because emrys, as a creature of magic, is still heartbreakingly young. a child, really. maybe that’s why merlin is still so wide-eyed all the time. still young at heart, even as his body looks older.)

so they look upon emrys and burn.

and emrys, lost and confused and hurt and not understanding— where is their body why do they hurt what is wrong with them they are constantly changing shapes and cannot control it and theyre so scared— flees to the only thing they know for sure. and behind them, amongst the mess of ash and scorched earth that once was alive, the object holding their skin lies abandoned, forgotten.

OR

arthur finds the embodiment of magic huddled up against his bedroom window. he doesn’t recognize it immediately as such, but it glows golden and cannot seem to stop subtlety changing shape and growing features that were not there before while losing others. and really, he picks up on the fact eventually.

to reiterate, arthur pendragon, son of the magic-hating king, a young man who had not yet decided if he would hate it the same, has the embodiment of magic hiding outside his window.

he shouldn’t open it. shouldn’t let the pathetic, forcing-itself-to-be-small thing inside.

it howls and cries without words, a sad and fearful air pressing down on him, begging begging helphelphelphelpsomethingswrongsomethingswrongtheytookawaymybodyarthurarthurarthurhelphelphelphelphe—

arthur opens the window.

as the magic flies in, it takes a more solid, in the loosest form of the word, form, dragon-like and small. young. it hides in the crook of his neck, tucks its head in close and shivers.

arthur feels almost like he has let in a frightened bird, it is so small and fluttery.

merlin’s gone missing and there is something small and magical and highly illegal hiding against the small hollow between his neck and shoulders.

he leaves it there.

OR

arthur holds a power he does not quite understand in his hands. he knows it is greater than its form, can feel the pressing weight of something that belies the tiny body.

he knows it is magic. perhaps that is all he really needs to know.

and then he does something that feels exceedingly foolish.

“i’m looking for merlin, my… manservant,” he begins, and the golden thing ripples like a lake in the wind, “can you find where he was taken?”

at least seven eyes blink into existence upon the roiling magical creature, all of them looking up at arthur. another blink, and then they vanish. in their place, wings sprout, some of them draconian in shape, others more bird-like and feathery.

a tail, tiny and yet impossibly strong, wraps around his wrist, and the thing takes flight, pulling him along.

the knights startle, when arthur appears, being seemingly dragged behind a creature no bigger than a songbird, and so breathtakingly magical in spite of it.

“well?” arthur asks, acerbic. “prepare your steeds. we’ve finally gotten a lead on merlin.”

OR

they find a wasteland.

there is nothing left alive in a large circle, all of it surrounding an ancient building now nothing but rubble. the life is not burned away, or diseased into nothing, or anything that could be argued as natural.

instead, it is a wasteland that magic had abandoned. that intrinsic thing within all things, alive and not, had fled this place, ushered out by a fearful and terrified little godling ripped away from the only skin-home it had ever known.

nothing lives here and nothing will ever live here.

it is an ill omen indeed.

and then they discover the sorcerer’s bones, and the fact that said sorcerer was not in fact working alone.

“you,” the only other living being in about a mile spits out like a curse, upon sighting the king, “what have you done with them? where is the being below the skin?”

none of the knights nor the king understand. the little creature of magic had hidden itself in the folds of arthur’s cape, another golden draconian insignia among the rest.

“the what?” arthur asks.

“where is emrys?” the sorcerer spits, summoning a stream of fire heading directly for the king.

magic itself, given form, bursts from the camelot red cape, all golden edges and vengeful anger, the tiny thing no larger than an arm suddenly expanding rapidly. it forms a gigantic serpent, or something like it, lithe and long, but with the beak of a bird of prey, eyes like a feline, a unicorn’s horn on its head. it eats the fire whole, and the giant form bears down on the suddenly cowering sorcerer.

“but—but we freed you,” they mutter, afraid, “we released you from the human shell containing you. how else… how else could you bring back magic…?”

the thing cannot speak, it has no way to do so. what it can do is press feeling into your head. whatever this is, it is so powerful everyone there can feel it, and perhaps even some that are much further away.

G I V E I T B A C K.

it feels nothing like the helpless pained crying that arthur had heard from outside his window, like a yowling alley cat. this monster is nothing like the little bird-like afraid thing that had hidden in his collar, tucked against his throat. this beast of dripping fangs and deadly edges is almost completely separate from the creature of fluttery wings and wide eyes.

and yet he can hear something distinctly afraid in the wailing howl.

it is still desperate and afraid. it’s just angry enough now to cover it up.

[suguwu]

WRAP YOUR TEETH AROUND THE WORLD I PART ONE

A child of the harvest, your life is forfeit when you're chosen for the Hunt's Rite.

You don't expect the god to take an interest in you instead.

minors and ageless blogs do not interact.

pairing: gn!reader x millions knives

notes: if you've followed me for a bit, you know that i've been thinking about this concept for a long while. it's such a delight to be able to finally share it. with massive apologies to my beta, who has not read this because i am too impatient.

the title is, of course, from hozier.

content: god of the hunt nai au, reader is specifically a vegetarian, slow burn, human sacrifice, implied murder, predator/prey aspects.

wc: 5.2k

The sun is setting when they come for you.

Light is still pouring golden over the horizon, dripping along the edge of the sky like honey, sweet and thick despite the teeth of the encroaching night. It casts the High Priest’s face into shadow, blurs the edges of her until she is something else, something more. God-touched.

You watch her disappear into the temple, absentmindedly holding the lantern-lighter to the wick. The flame catches quickly, a kiss of light, flaring like a shooting star. The bright flash makes you blink. It makes you refocus on your task. The next lantern is lit just as quickly, and you make your way around the courtyard, until a constellation bathes the courtyard in soft, flickering orange. 

You’re lighting the final wick when you hear your name. It rings out like the toll of a dour bell, deep and sad. Frost spirals down your spine, winter come early. You take a moment to blow out the lantern-lighter before you turn around. 

The High Priest of the Hunt flashes her teeth. The forest lives in the sharpened edges of them, each carefully filed to a knife’s deadly point, smooth and sharp. You shudder.

“Child,” your High Priest says. “You have been chosen for the Hunt’s Rite.”

Your next breath hurts. It shears through you, drags up between your ribs to split you apart, carves its way out of your throat. You choke on it.

“But—” you gasp out. “I’m a child of the harvest.” 

“You are not claimed,” the High Priest of the Hunt says, her voice billowing out like smoke. It fills the cracks in you with char, with something you cannot name. “And you have been chosen.” 

You have no words; they slip away from you like mist rising from the lake’s surface, wispy and intangible. The harvest god does not claim. It is not his way, but you had thought it would be different for you. 

(The man smiles at you, soft and sweet and edged with something like sorrow. “Eat,” he says, holding his hands out, his palms suddenly overflowing with plump fruit. The berries gleam in the dappled sunlight, little multi-colored gems. 

Your stomach aches at the sight. 

“You’re—” you breathe. 

“Eat,” the man—the god—repeats. “It will do you well.”

The berries burst beneath your teeth. They’re salt-kissed, a remnant of his touch. You devour them, ravenous with months of famine settled into your weakened bones, and only taste devotion.)

You had thought it would be different for you, you who had supped from his palms. 

“Please,” you say softly. “Please.”

Your High Priest looks away. His mouth twists, going sour at the edges, and his eyes are glassy in the low light, shining brightly with unshed tears.

The High Priest of the Hunt’s eyes glimmer too and you think of a predator peering out from the depths of the woods, eyes flickering beneath moonlight. 

“It is an honor to be chosen,” she tells you. “The hunt has always provided.” 

You stay quiet. 

She hums low in her throat, the sound like the distant baying of the dogs, and reaches out. You bite your tongue to keep from flinching. The pain shatters beneath your skin, a lightning strike sting, and you concentrate on that as she traces her thumb over the apple of your cheek.  Her touch is reverent, skimming over your skin like silk.

“Come,” she breathes. “We must ready you.”

Your High Priest protests, but the sound of his reedy voice is lost under the pulsing thrum of your blood as it echoes through you. It’s loud, like the purr of the pebbles that tumble over themselves each time a wave draws back from the shore. You stumble back a step.

There’s a ribbon woven around your chest, you think, and it’s growing tighter, compressing the bones until they start to creak. You suck in a sharp breath; it burns.

The High Priest of the Hunt studies you. In the lantern light, her features are stark, flickering shadows dancing over her face. She tilts her head and her blonde hair spills over her shoulder like starlight. It illuminates her, a galaxy spread sparkling in the sky, and again, she seems like something more. Something bigger. She flashes her sharpened teeth in a mockery of a smile.

“Come,” she says again. “There is nothing for you here.”

“Elendira,” your High Priest says. “Please.”

Her eyes harden. “The child is ours. The rite must be prepared.”

“They are to be given one night—”

“That is for those with family.”

You cast your eyes to the ground. The guttering flames of the lanterns send undulating patterns over the packed-down dirt of the courtyard; they writhe like snakes. The two High Priests continue to go back and forth, but they sound distant, as if they’re just echoes of themselves.

“Child.”

You look up. Your High Priest gives you a ghost of a smile; there’s a deep sorrow tucked up in the corner of his lips. He takes your hand in his. His fingers are bird-boned, delicate things. They’re trembling.

“You must go,” he says.

“Must I?”

He squeezes your hand. “Yes.” 

You blink back the tears. Just behind him, Elendira watches the two of you, her eyes gleaming in the lantern-light. There’s a triumphant curl to the crimson slant of her mouth, a brutal slash of victory. You squeeze your High Priest’s hand and draw in a ragged breath. 

“I would bring some of my things with me,” you tell them. It will help, you think, to have them with you. 

Elendira scoffs. “There is no need,” she says. “You are in the care of the hunt now. We will provide all that you want.”

“Then the hunt can provide me with my things.”

She eyes you, her lip curling up into a fierce little smile. “You have bite after all,” she says. “The hunt lives in you yet.”

You resist the urge to bare your teeth. “The harvest lives in me.”

She arches a perfect brow. “We shall see.”

Still, she relents. Two of her acolytes silently accompany you to your room at the temple; you pack in a daze, plucking up a few keepsakes, though you’re not sure why. You know the fate you are heading towards. You let your fingers play over the spirals of seaglass that line your dresser, the deep blues and the soft greens misted over by the ocean’s touch, years of gifts from the woodcarver.

You pick up one of the pieces, rubbing your thumb over the rounded edge of it. It’s the gentle blue of a mid-morning sky, of a speckled robin’s egg tucked carefully into the mess of a nest. You bring it to your lips and think that you can still taste salt. 

The acolytes urge you from your room, their hands reverent against you. One of them has callused fingers, a bow’s lingering kiss, and you shrink back from the abrasive feel of them.

Elendira is waiting for you in the temple’s courtyard. She hums, low and resonant, as you approach, eyeing the few things you’ve gathered, but she says nothing. You bite at your lip as you take in your own High Priest beside her; he’s stooped over, heavily slumped, an eroded rock. He can’t meet your eyes.

You look away and into Elendira’s keen gaze. She smiles, a crimson slash that shows off her sharpened teeth, and beckons you close.

“Come here, little one,” she says. 

You follow her command, coming to a halt in front of her. She slips a finger under your chin to make you look her in the eye. Her sharp nail digs into the softness there, just shy of breaking the skin. She examines you again. Her eyes—blue as the nearby lake, glittering like the water beneath the sun—are keen. You set your jaw and meet her gaze.

She laughs. She pushes your chin up higher for a brief breath before she withdraws, her nail dragging against your delicate skin like the tip of a knife. You draw in a sharp breath, but it doesn’t hurt. 

“We leave now,” she says.

“Let me say goodbye.”

She considers you again. “Is that a demand, child?”

“You said the hunt would provide.”

“You’ve already used that once,” she says, but she sounds amused. “This is the last time I’ll allow it.” 

She turns around and strides away before you can reply, her hair rippling behind her, a comet’s blazing trail. One of the acolytes trails behind her; the other remains in the courtyard, stepping back into the shadows cast by the lantern light. 

“Child,” your High Priest says softly. He still can’t look you in the eye. “I am sorry.”

“I know.”

“There is nothing I can do for you.”

“I know,” you say, and the tears beading crystalline on your lashes finally spill over, running hot down your cheeks. He reaches out and cups your cheek. He hushes you quietly, his thumb running softly beneath your eye, brushing away the falling tears. His own eyes are shimmering. 

“The woodcarver,” you say. “Will you—”

“I will go to her as soon as you’re gone.”

“Thank you.” 

“Is there anything you wish for me to say?”

You shake your head. “She’ll know.”

“As you wish,” he says. 

The acolyte shifts. “It is time,” they say, stepping forward into the light. “Come.” 

Your High Priest’s hand tightens against your cheek before he lets it fall. You miss his warmth; the cool night air erases the ghost of his touch in an instant. “Goodbye, child,” he says softly. 

“Goodbye,” you whisper.

The acolyte steps up beside you and gestures you forward. They lead you to where Elendira lingers in the shadows at the temple’s entrance. She steps forward and raises the hood of your well-worn cloak, her long fingers careful. The smile on her lips is sharp. It sinks down into your marrow, a well-placed knife. You shiver, frost spiraling down your spine. 

The acolyte chivvies you into a carriage. Elendira slips gracefully in across from you, her cloak flowing around her like a gentle river. You turn your gaze outwards, unwilling to face her.

She laughs, the sound billowing out from her like smoke. But she doesn’t try to engage you; you watch the darkened countryside roll by, blurring like a mirage. You mark things familiar to you to try and ground yourself: the half-bent oak, the overgrown path to the long-dried lake, the curl of smoke rising from the temple.

It doesn’t work. You feel wool-headed, as if it’s stuffed between your ears. The world is a watercolor, smearing across your vision in flickers of color. You close your eyes against it, stomach roiling, and concentrate on breathing from your mouth, low and slow. 

You only open them when the carriage creaks to a halt. 

Elendira gives you no commands; she merely flashes her sharpened teeth at you in a mockery of a smile before sliding from the carriage. You have no choice but to follow. 

There are two acolytes waiting for you, their curious eyes tracing over every inch of you. Elendira beckons one of them close.

“Ready them,” she orders. “They need to be prepared for the coming days before the rite.” 

The acolyte bows and ushers you forward. You don’t bother to fight it. You barely look at your surroundings, too focused on each heavy step towards your fate. They guide you through the temple carefully. People bow as you go by; you catch the shadows of them out of the corner of your eyes, each one wispy as they yield to you and the acolytes. A shiver trickles down your spine like icemelt. 

The air changes as you step into another hallway. There’s a dampness to it now, like the humid touch of a midsummer’s afternoon, when there is a promise of a storm in the air. The baths, then, you think. You’ll be scrubbed clean of the remnants of your temple, stripped of the very last of it, the scent of your soap. 

For a moment, you consider running, but there’s no point. Instead, you let them herd you through a door and into the baths.

Once you’re in the steamy room, they strip you of your clothing with reverent fingers. You sink into the bath without a word, barely taking in the magnificent stretch of it, the bath so large it could almost be a pool, lined with tiles as blue as the sky. 

You don’t fight it when they begin to wash you. Their touch is gentle, as sweet as a spring lamb. The soap smells of clover, of the meadows that edge the village, and it’s almost enough to mask the rusty tinge of blood that lingers in the air. The acolytes murmur to you as they bathe you, but their voices are distant, burbling like the river current. 

They rinse you by pouring ladles of cool water over your head. It’s a balm against your heated body; you turn your face into it despite the gasps it brings. The water cradles you like a lover. Their murmurs meld into something songlike, rising and falling like the wind, fluting high and rasping low. Prayer, you think. You don’t bother to listen.

They dry you with towels scented like the forest, like the deep woods, all moss and loam. You do not receive your clothing back; instead, they dress you in fine silks that stick to your skin, that cling to your body like a gossamer spider’s web. You shiver as they sweep against your skin, as cool as a river. 

The bath starts to darken as they blow the candles out. They chivvy you forward, back into the halls. Your cheeks heat as you go, aware that the silk sticks to each inch of you, a second skin, and that all eyes are upon you. The murmurs echo off the walls, rolling across you like waves against the shore. 

The room they bring you to is a lavish one. There are luxurious pelts spread on the large bed, ready to keep the chill air of the encroaching fall at bay. They nudge you through the door. You stumble through it, your foot catching on the draping silk, and catch yourself against an ornate chair.

By the time you turn around, the acolytes are gone, the door scraping closed behind them. The click of the lock rings through the air. You cannot help yourself; you try the door. It does not budge.

The tears start to sting your eyes. You sniffle, willing them back, and make your way to the bed. It’s soft as you sink down upon it. You stare up at the ceiling until it starts to blur, and then you finally close your eyes.

You do not fall asleep for a very long time.

—

Dawn comes too early. 

You’ve barely stirred in the bed when the door opens; an acolyte sweeps in. She’s keen-eyed, almost vulpine, with the sharpened teeth to match. You sit up as she draws near, huddling under one of the pelts. 

“Come,” she says, her voice rolling like summer thunder. “You must eat.” 

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ll find your appetite once there is food in front of you.”

You shake your head.

Her expression doesn’t change, but suddenly, there’s something cold to her, the slow creep of the first frost. “It wasn’t a request,” she says. “Now come.” 

You grit your teeth, your fingers tightening in the thick fur of the pelt you’re under. Then you let go and slide out from under it. 

“Good,” the acolyte says.

She dresses you in silence, brushing your hands away when you try to smooth out the silken clothing they’ve brought you. It’s finely made, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever owned, and it makes your stomach twist.

She takes you through the winding temple halls, your bare feet quiet against the cool stone floors. The other acolytes stare as you go by, just as they did last night, and you shrink into yourself, make yourself small. It does little to alleviate the weight of their gazes. 

The room she takes you into is a small one, but it seems cavernous, with its high ceilings and sparse decor. Elendira is there, her long blonde hair gleaming in the light, a falling star. She turns as you enter. She beckons you forward; you slink towards her, a cowed dog. 

“Sit,” she tells you, gesturing to the chair across from her. “You must eat.”

You hesitate for a breath before you sink into the chair. She smiles, clearly pleased, and when she nods, another acolyte places a plate in front of you. 

You pause. The plate is laden with seasonal vegetables, cooked and raw. For a moment, you almost feel like you’re home. “There’s no meat,” you say. Your own voice startles you, small as it is. 

Elendira hums. “No,” she says. “It would make you sick.”

It would, considering how long you’ve gone without it, but you hadn’t expected to be accommodated. Perhaps you should have; it’s easy to forget that you’re important to them now. That you are something bigger than yourself. You gaze down at the plate and your stomach churns.

You think you might be sick anyway. 

Under Elendira’s gaze, you pick away at the food, mostly pushing it around on the plate. When you finally lean back, unable to take even a second more, she purses her lips but says nothing. Instead, she beckons to you, a silent command.

You follow her out into the courtyard in the middle of the temple. You’re surprised to see the garden that fills it, the scent of wet loam rising to your nose as an acolyte waters a patch of summer roses, their petals the color of the dawn, a sweet, pearly pink. There’s a basket of them on the ground, their cut stems still oozing sap. You pause.

“Go on,” Elendira says, sounding amused. 

You pick one up, twirling it between your fingers before hissing out a breath as a thorn catches the pad of your thumb. The blood wells up, a crimson seed, and you press your thumb between your lips to suck it away. Iron spreads on your tongue. 

There’s a drop of blood clinging to the thorn; it trickles down the stem a bit. You wipe it away as Elendira watches, something like a smile blooming on her lips, but she says nothing. 

Instead, she takes you through the garden to a set of rooms on the other side. There are acolytes waiting inside.

“Take care of them,” Elendira says. Before you can protest, she turns on her heel and glides from the room, her blonde hair flowing behind her like a comet’s tail. 

“Come,” one of the acolytes says, holding out a hand. 

You almost shrink away, but you take a deep breath and straighten your spine instead. You do not take their hand, but you follow them anyway. They bring you deeper into the chambers, into a room that smells of incense. It’s heavier than what your temple uses, but there is comfort in it nonetheless. 

You spend the day in that little room, retreating deep into your mind as they prepare you, engaging in little rituals that are beyond your knowledge. Normally, you would ask, always curious, but you cannot bring yourself to do so. 

By the time they lead you from the room, night has fallen. The scent of incense lingers on your skin as you walk through the courtyard, your face lifted towards the sky to better see the rising moon. It shines silver on the garden, painting petals with its soft touch. 

A different acolyte chivvies you along. He’d joined the group later, taking over from faces that had just started to grow familiar. Part of you thinks that is exactly the intent—that you gain no true companionship with anyone. It is utterly lonely, like living amongst shadows. 

He leads you to your room; once inside, you again hear the click of the lock. This time, you don’t bother to try the door. Instead, you shimmy out of the silken clothing and into the bed, closing your eyes.

When you open them again, you know that you are dreaming. 

You are small again; you barely come up to the woodcarver’s hip. She presses your face against her skirts, her hand gentle but firm. The words are lost to the dream, but you remember them well enough—the elders discussing your fate after your father was lost to winter’s teeth, claimed by  a cliff disguised by drifting snow. 

The gods are not kind. That much is clear.

The elders say your father’s name like a funeral knell. You think it will haunt you forever. 

When you look up from the woodcarver’s skirts, she is older, time smearing together as it only can in a dream. The edges of her eyes crinkle like parchment, laugh lines etched into her skin. They do not show now her face is solemn, her lips pinched together. She is thinner, her cheekbones sharp, and you realize it is the famine years.

The world swirls and suddenly, you are in the town square, desperate cries echoing around you. The woodcarver is next to you, her face grim, and she pulls you close as the crowd—the mob—pushes forward. 

You know what happens next. It’s already written, a history you can’t change. But you turn away anyway, hiding your face back in the woodcarver’s skirts, as if it can block out the cries of the harvest god’s acolytes as they fall. 

You wake with a cry, char and blood lingering in your nose, a phantom of the past. You sob once, twice, and bury your face in the furs of your fine bed. 

The gods are not kind, but neither are men.

—

The morning dawns red.

It streaks through the sky, crimson fingers of light smearing against the horizon, the sun bleeding it like a cracked egg. It spills into your room through the high window, pooling on the stone floor. 

The ruby sky fades into something softer as the sun continues its rise, but the damage is done. The burning spectacle haunts you as you dress for the day, unaccompanied by any acolyte. You can hear them in the hallway, the temple stirring to life, but no one comes through your door. Something in you burns cold.

When the door finally opens, you know. 

The acolytes take you to the bath through deserted halls. The water is warm and sweetly scented with a perfume that you don’t know. It winds around you, soft and soothing. You drift as they bathe you. 

Your skin prickles with gooseflesh when they rinse you, the air dragging its cool fingertips over the length of your body. The acolytes dry you with soft towels before they wrap you in clinging silks yet again. You trail your hand over the material, take in the icy slip of it. 

You look up as one of the acolytes approaches with a piece of fabric in his hands. You dip your head at his gesture; he ties it over your eyes, leaving you in darkness, with just the tiniest hint of light seeping in at the edges, like the sun peeking over the horizon. 

Blinded, you’re entirely reliant on the acolytes to lead you. You take deep breaths, trying to loosen the knot that’s wound itself around your ribs. You drift in the darkness, your mind fleeing.

The light hurts when the blindfold comes off. You wince, blinking away the sting, and find yourself in a grove at the forest’s edge, surrounded by the temple’s acolytes. They cry out at the sight of you, and you shrink into yourself, feeling your heart fluttering between your ribs, a trapped bird. Your hands are shaking.

Smoke billows around you, the scent of char settling over your skin as the acolytes disrobe you. Elendira watches from her place by the altar. Her blonde hair glints in the light, haloed by the sun, and her gaze is heavy upon your form. 

The silk you were wearing puddles at your feet, iridescent, an icy lake reflecting the moon’s glow. They dab oil behind your ears and in the hollow of your throat. You choke on a sob.

It was not meant to be like this. 

(Eat, the god of the harvest says, his smile sad. So that you may live as you are meant to.)

You let the acolytes wind pelts around you, the heat of them settling into your bones, a stoked fire caught up in fur. They’re for the deepest parts of the forest, you think, where the trees still murmur to each other. Where it stays chilled even in the height of summer.

It’s kind of them to think you’ll get that far. 

“Please,” you say quietly, as one of them dips near to smear crimson juice on your lips. 

She ignores you. 

Elendira raises her arms at the altar. The others turn their attention her way; you glance to it and see a pearly pink rose laid out against the stone. You turn away and stare at the ground, at the forest loam full of moss. There is a spider skittering across a leaf. You watch it run. 

Elendira is speaking, her cool voice filling the meadow. You cannot hear her. The acolytes move with her, at her command. You glance up and cannot make sense of what they’re doing. They whirl around you, snapping their sharpened teeth into the air with sharp clicks of their jaws, the muscles working beneath their skin. It’s too different from your own temple, all vicious, violent movement. 

You only know the rite is complete when you feel him.

He blazes into being behind you, his presence oppressive, the weight of his gaze dragging at you like an anchor and its heavy chain. It sinks into you. Crawls beneath your skin. Flays you open and touches the deepest parts of you. 

It’s almost familiar, like a dream within a dream. 

Elendira cries out, her voice fluting like a bird’s before it grows rougher, crueler, until you hear the hunting dogs in her voice, nipping at your heels. Behind you, his presence grows, a stoked fire. 

You don’t flinch when he touches you. His touch blazes like cold fire, a frostbitten thing. His thumb—thick and callused—dips into the oil that’s gathered on your neck.

He smears it up the soft underside of your throat to the tender skin just beneath your jaw. He presses there, just against your fluttering pulse. 

Please, you almost say, but you know better.

The god of the hunt is not known for his mercy. 

(Knives is just one of his many names, but it’s the one that rings truest. A blade is a blade is a blade. It cares little who it nicks.)

“Acceptable,” he says, and there is the forest in his voice, something ancient. It echoes around you. Thunders through your bones. 

He leans in close, his breath warming the nape of your neck. Your chest goes tight.

He murmurs, almost fond, into your ear:

“Run, little rabbit.”

You do. 

You know better than to look behind you; you bound off towards the forest, where the saplings rise like ribs, their shadows long against the ground. You feel the grass beneath your feet give way to the loam of the woods, dirt cushioned with moss. 

The forest blurs by as you dash through it, nimble-footed as you dodge around the massive oaks that soar to the sky, their canopies darkening the woods around you. You gasp in a breath, your chest tightening more, anxiety spooling around your ribs like thread. 

The woods have gone quiet. There are no birds calling; even the rustle of the trees is gone, as if fall has already consumed them, given them over to winter’s slumber. You only hear the pounding of your heart as it flutters against your ribs, a hummingbird's frantic beating of wings. You duck beneath a branch but not far enough. It scores your cheek, a whip crack of pain that fades quickly.

You have no time for it; you hurtle over an old, old root system, the tangle of them gone mossy with age. You barely clear it, your toes brushing against the mushrooms blooming from the bark. 

You land hard.

It knocks the breath from you, rattles up through your bones, the earth's admonishment. Air rushes from you in a great, gasping breath and you cannot pull it back in. Your chest aches with it, a bruise freshly pressed. 

Still, you don't dare stop.

You can feel Knives behind you, pacing like a wolf behind its prey. He keeps his distance, but never too far, nipping at your heels each time you slow with his massive presence, something too big to name. You hadn't known how divinity devours.

There is a maw at your heels and you can only go forward.

You dance between the saplings, breath caught in your throat. The woods are hungry around you; everywhere you look there are only trees.

Your feet pound against the dirt. They ache, a bone-deep bruise. You're slowing, you know, but you cannot help it. Your legs feel encased in resin, the slow drip of exhaustion trickling down them.

"Please," you pant. "Please."

(“Slowly,” the god says, brushing a knuckle against your cheekbone. “I will be here to give you more.”) 

The blackberry bush to your left blooms into being, berries pouring from it, ripened to a plumpness that's beyond anything you've ever seen.

You change directions instantly, veering towards it. 

Another one blooms, and then a raspberry bush, the berries little blood-red rubies, thick and juicy. You follow the verdant path coming to life, something bright starting to burn in your chest, something that you barely dare think of as hope. 

You choke on your next breath.

Knives' presence has roared to life behind you, a freshly stoked fire. It drapes over you like the nighttime, deep and oppressive. Ozone crackles in the air. It's stark on your tongue. Suffocating. 

Then there's an arm around your waist.

It stops you in your tracks, so sudden that it hurts. It shakes the sense from you. You gasp, the air forced from your lungs in a long, low hiss, a rattlesnake’s vibrating tail. Only the arm—thickly muscled, unyielding as iron—keeps you upright.

When your breath returns, it only catches in your throat once more.

There's heat against you; air stirs the fine hairs at your nape. You can feel the slow, steady rise of Knives’ chest against your back. His arm tightens around you. His fingers dig divots into the flesh of your hip. 

His voice—full of the forest, of the hunt, of fur and fang and blood—rumbles through you.

“Not this one, little brother.”

The berry bush that had just burst into life withers, its verdant leaves curling up into brittle skeletons. You draw in a sharp, ragged breath. Your chest aches, a bruise of a thing, bone deep. You shift and those fingers flex, sinking even deeper into the curve of your hip.

You go still. There’s little point in struggling; this close, you can feel the divinity radiating off of him, a falling star, cold and bright. It’s overwhelming, burning through your very bones. It devours you. His arm tightens around you as your knees start to give, your chest heaving. Your vision spots, going black at the edges, and you feel more than hear him speak. It cracks like thunder and your body gives up. 

The last thing you see before the world fades is a flash of blue hair.

[kurikive]

💽 vinyl pressed | part one | word count: 4.2k

you like gloomy days. there’s not a lot of people out, the sun does not blind you nor burn your skin and the weather isn’t usually that bad before the remains of the sun start setting.

the best part is getting home right before it starts raining, and just in time to cozy up with a cup of tea, a book, and music playing in the background (but you’re not that sophisticated, so you usually just end up falling asleep on the couch).

your body automatically relaxes at the memories of being a young girl, laughing and dancing with your mom in the kitchen and around the living room, one of her vinyl records playing just beneath the sound of your giggles and laughter. just the thought of it sends you into slumber, and your subconscious makes a wish to dream about it.

after you had moved into your new apartment, you tried your best to simulate the liveliness and essence of the home you grew up in. you turned the whole place upside down, from a dull box of concrete walls, to a cozy abode full of life.

the only thing missing, however, was the music. the melodies you hummed along to, the rhythms you made up dances for.

you could easily just listen to music through your phone and headphones like any other person, but the feeling of being surrounded by sound as a small child is an experience like no other. an experience that you know you can never replicate, but are willing to go through countless methods to get the closest feeling.

you had recently bought a record player specifically for this situation, but you only now realize you had forgotten to bring the most important thing from your mom’s house. the damn records.

although you had moved to a different city, your hometown wasn't too far away. it was around an hour and a half by car, and if it wasn't too late you could always make a quick trip back and forth to just borrow a few records, surprise your mom too.

and just when you start getting excited it hits you. you don't even own a car. and you also can’t afford one.

defeated, you slump down on your newly bought couch. a sad groan leaves your lips as you take out your phone to check out the nearest record store in your area.

the last thing you wanted to do was buy the records, especially since your mom had what could be considered a library of them. not to mention, they got more expensive with each passing day.

but you had no choice. the time was too perfect. if you wasted any more time, the moment would pass on by, and who knows if you'll even live to see the rain again (you probably will, and probably tomorrow according to the weather forecast).

so you grab your wallet and a bag and head outside. it was a twenty minute walk from your apartment, thankfully.

you could see yourself heading there whenever you found yourself in the mood for something more recent, or in need of something you couldn't find back home.

ah, the privileges of the big city.

as you embark on your journey, you recall the events of the past few days. your trip to ikea and getting lost with 5 candles in your hands. seeing your university in person for the first time and getting lost in the massive campus grounds. making new friends, who you bonded with over being lost, and getting even more lost with them.

hopefully you don't get lost on your way to the store.

and thanks to the grace of god, you were standing right before it. “ditto records”. your reflex is a giggle when you read the name and think of the pokémon.

you look through the windows of the place and you can't see a soul inside. it's either going to be a nice experience or your hands are going to start sweating by minute two. it all depends on how the worker interacts with you.

considering you've been on a rampage of nice interactions with people in public (you asked for help with directions at ikea), a little bit of small talk with a middle aged man won't be so bad.

the soundtrack of your entrance is the jingle of a bell played by the door opening. the sound catches the attention of a girl at the register, who had her head pillowed by her own arms in the register counter.

she looks up to see you walking into the store and greets you with a small, tired smile. “welcome to ditto records. is there anything in particular you're looking for?”

her voice is soft and sweet, and it sounds like she's said that greeting five thousand times in the (assumed) short span of her life.

she's also extremely pretty, you notice. her face is small and round, her eyes are shiny yet tired, her lips are plump and the perfect shade of pink, and there's a red mark on her forehead possibly caused by having her face pushed up against her arm for a long period of time.

you smile, half of it out of manners and the other half because of the big red circle plastered on the girl's forehead, “hi! just gonna take a look around, thanks.”

the girl nods, “alright. let me know if you need anything.” with that, her smile fades and she goes back to her original position, only this time it's her chin that rests on her arms.

when your eyes track back to the absolute feast of records in front of you, you realize it's time to get to work.

you're not gonna leave this place empty handed, but also not planning to pack your bag full and spend what's left of your money (although it's really tempting).

you've made up your mind on the things to find. something jazzy and nostalgic, something recent that you can brag about owning, and something older that your mom doesn't own.

you look through the shelves of your favorite genres, smiling when an album you recognize falls on your hands, memories of listening to it in your childhood home replaying in your mind.

while searching through piles and piles of vinyl and cardboard, a question falls on your mind that you had never really bothered to look up.

you look back to face the employee, she's in the same position you last saw her in with her eyes now closed. hopefully she's not asleep, you think a few seconds before calling out.

“hey,” her sparkly eyes open, looking for you as she sits up straight, you pause for a millisecond longer than expected, “how do they even get the music in these?” you ask, record in hand.

it's a dumb question, yes. but how were you expected to know the answer to it? when you were born it was already the CD era, and you're also not a musician by any means.

your mom would probably know the answer, and you could probably just ask her. instead you've made a fool of yourself in front of the pretty record store worker girl.

at least your hands started sweating by minute seven.

she raises an eyebrow, slightly, but you notice. she's clearly dumbfounded by your question, probably thinking ‘let me know if you need anything’ was only a figure of speech. before you can assume and overthink more about this poor girl's life, she speaks.

“you can't be serious…” she scoffs as quietly as she can, but you hear it anyway. you're strangely not offended. “i- do you know how they put the music in CDs?” she answers with another question.

truth is, she doesn't know either, but she knows what burning a CD is, and vinyl LPs are the same shape but bigger, so she assumes it's a similar process. can't say the same for yourself.

“now that you mention it, no, i don't. wow.” this is a big moment for you. an existential realization about the things that bring you most joy, and you don't even know how they're made. something to reflect on later, or now, i guess. “do you know how that works?” you ask her again, as if she gets paid for it.

more than dumbfounded, the girl now just looks concerned, “i… don't know ma'am. it's not like i make the records. i just work here.” and with the tone in which she speaks it sounds like she's tired of it. or maybe she's just tired this particular day. maybe it's the weather.

you could stop terrorizing the girl with your questions, but one particular word has you rewinding the last 5 seconds.

the girl looks about your age, maybe younger, maybe older, you can't really tell from far away. but there's an obvious non-age-gap in between you two.

what the fuck is ma’am about.

more than offended, you're horrified. “ma’am?” you exclaim, heartbroken, “i am not that old…” you speak with exaggerated pain in your voice.

the girl is visibly not amused, if anything she just looks scared, but on the inside she's so happy she has something interesting to tell her roommate when she gets back home.

“i'm sorry! i just- i don't know what else to call you.” she says with a little bit of guilt and a big bit of confusion. it's not everyday you get customers this dramatic and, well, interesting.

“y/n’s fine!” you smile. it's so over for everyone. you successfully introduced yourself to a complete and also very cute stranger. the demon of social anxiety has been defeated. you're on top of the fucking world.

“okay, y/n. do you have another question i probably can't answer?” the girl behind the counter hates to admit it, but you have a contagious smile, and she's mildly interested in this conversation and where it's going.

she's probably never going to see you again, and you're introducing yourself like you're her new coworker. she wonders if you're going to tell her your social security number next.

“nope.” you calmly answer as you turn around. conversation over. you came here to do one thing, buy records, and small talk was turning into grande talk, which could only turn into venti talk.

you hear the girl behind you go “oh, okay.” and you fight your instinct to turn back and find out whether she went back to her previous position, chin resting on her arms, or changed it once again.

but you give in anyway, and you see her, this time the side of her face rests against her arms. her cheek molded to the shape of her arm as she looked out the window. the soft music in the background and the soft lighting of the gloomy weather remind you of the softness of her voice.

you look out at where she's looking, and realize the weather has only gotten worse, and you need to hurry the fuck up if you don't want to return to your apartment completely soaked.

you run your hands through the hip-hop shelves and find your last target. holding three records in your hands, you make your way back to the register. the girl sits back up for the third time since you entered the store when she hears your footsteps coming closer.

you hand her the albums one by one. etta james’ ‘at last’, dijon’s ‘absolutely’, and slum village’s ‘vintage’.

you were subconsciously looking for clairo’s most recent album. you'd thought it'd give you bragging rights, and the songs were perfect for the weather in your mind, but you couldn't find it anywhere, so you assume it's out of stock. wouldn't hurt to ask the one person who works here, though.

“clairo is like, gone, right?”

the girl looks at you and turns her head in confusion. you avert her gaze and look anywhere else, eyes landing on her nametag. oh, cool! great timing!

hanni.

cool.

“oh, the new album? yeah, it's all gone. every single record got bought.” hanni says as she recalls the first day it was in stock. lots of gay girls and twinks came in that day.

this is horrible news for you, though. you're only a few days late to the party, and every copy is gone? since when was clairo so mainstream? is this clairo shade?

you pout your lips in disappointment and frown, “are you gonna have it restocked?” you ask as your last resort of hope.

“uh, yeah! i think so.” she says, and it reassures you a bit, but her “thinking so” isn't gonna cut it. you need to be sure.

“you think so?” your eyes twinkle like a puppy that's been left without food.

hanni doesn't really get what you want from her. it's really not the end of the world, the new copies are gonna come in a few days and the earth will keep turning. so why are you looking at her like you've been punched three thousand times in the face? “...yeah.” she can only wonder.

this isn't it, you think. this can't be it. you need that record, and you need it bad. you're not taking any chances. so you swallow your pride and ignore the way hanni is looking at you and speak up.

“do you- um. can you like… like tell me… when it gets here?” social anxiety has gotten back on the ring, and it's swinging. “please?”

hanni is seriously contemplating if you're a new local stand-up comedian who's practicing her characters on her without her consent, because the y/n that was asking dumbass questions cannot be the same y/n stuttering her way through a sentence.

and then it clicks.

“are you asking for my number?” hanni is so sure she's caught you red handed. and she's so proud of herself, until she sees you frown.

“well, no.” what. if you ask her, hanni really isn't disappointed, she's just, well, disappointed. and also confused when she sees you start scribbling on a piece of paper you found god-knows-where.

“i was gonna give you mine. but that's honestly a really smart way to do that. i didn't even think of that.” hanni’s even more confused when you sound honest. she was expecting to be flirted with, and not even that she can expect from you.

but that doesn't mean it's not fun to tease.

she snickers as you write, “you're still giving me your number, though.” you look up at her with a raised eyebrow when you slide the paper across her side of the register. “are you sure you're not flirting with me?”

enough!

“please, i just really want that clairo album! please!” you say almost begging, slamming your hand on the counter and resting your head beside it, knees going weak in desperation.

amused at the reaction, hanni laughs and takes the piece of paper, giving one look before stuffing it in a pocket of her jeans. “i’m joking.” she says in between giggles, “i’ll call you when it gets here.”

you get up from your position almost immediately with the happiest smile you've ever given a stranger. contagious, hanni thinks again. “yay! thank you, hanni!”

“how do you-” confused, she hands you your records.

“nametag.” you simply say as you stuff them into you bag. “gotta get going now, it's raining soon.” your words end with a zip!

hanni can barely get her words out from the smile that's plastered on her face, “yeah- i- okay.”

“see you when those copies get here!” your words end again with a ding! and you wave at the girl before the door closes on you. your next mission? making those twenty minutes back home at least fifteen.

“sure… bye…” hanni mutters to herself. this has been her most interesting shift in the 2 years she's been working at ditto records. danielle is going sit through the whole retelling of it.

it's been about 5 days since your first visit to ditto records. you had already told your new friends all about the situation. in fact, you had told them almost everything about you in just a few days. you had even invited them over a few days back, gaining many compliments at the state of your home.

(“no wonder you chose interior design. i never wanna leave this place!” jinsol had said, boosting your ego.)

you sat at a café near your university with your friends kaede and jiwon. ricky and jinsol had already left due to their schedules but the conversation never got dull.

“no, i swear i’m really good at bowling. it all just depends on the ball itself.” jiwon desperately defends, but neither you nor kaede were convinced, the latter even more so.

“unnie, you're making excuses. the ball is not at fault, it's your skill. you just need to admit it.” the younger squeezes jiwon’s shoulder in reassurance, and it only makes her even more defensive.

“i have thick fingers, kaede!” her voice comes out louder than expected, and only a second goes by before jiwon hides her face in her hands.

you take a good look at her hands since she was already holding them up to her face, “you literally don't but okay.” for some reason it offends the girl even more.

“we're going to have to go bowling together to prove myself to you.” she says, you laugh but welcome the idea.

“sure, miss ‘man-hands’.” kaede laughs loudly at the nickname, and you realize she probably won't let it go for a good two weeks. sorry, jiwon.

you let the girls argue a bit more and take out your phone that you only now realize had vibrated at least two times in the past 3 minutes. when you turn it on you see two text messages from an unknown number.

confused, you open your messages to find out who had contacted you.

you’re getting up from your seat before you can begin to say “guys, i have to go.”, leaving your two friends, who had been just watching you panic, dumbfounded. you quickly take out a bill from your wallet and slam it on the table before running out of the café. “see you guys tomorrow!”

“girl, bye.” kaede mumbles. jiwon just stares and waves, but you're already on the other side of the windows when you see her from your peripheral vision.

you've never ran this fast in your life, not even 5 days ago when you were racing with the rain. you pass through buildings and people like a racecar, careful not to bump into anyone.

you start seeing streets you recognize and know it's a good sign. the smell of bread of a nearby bakery tells you you're only a few blocks away. this has to break some record.

you start running out of stamina about a block away from your destination, and you start regretting giving up on track in high school. nonetheless, you push through and use your last turbo power-up. zooming through people until you can see the “ditto records” light-up sign.

when you get to the door you can barely catch your breath, you can't even touch the door to at least get inside before your hands are on your knees and you head lowers. on the other side of the window, hanni watches as you struggle to catch your breath and she struggles to not chuckle.

you swallow down the last breath you take before opening the door to the store, and hanni greets you from the register with a brighter smile than last time, “welcome to di-”

“where's clairo?” you cut her off. you're gonna get the closest you can get to those vinyls before you pass out. at least your unconscious body will serve to ward off anyone who tries to touch those copies before you.

“over there.” she points to the ‘new releases’ shelf a few steps away, or at least that's what your blurry vision lets you see, and you march your way over. you do your best to catch your breath one last time when you get there, somehow you're still struggling to breathe and hanni notices.

“how long did you run for?” she asks, now slightly concerned.

“i don't know, but i need a medal for it.” you finally find a stable breathing rhythm and stand up straight, “usain bolt, you're so over.”

hanni giggles quietly as you take a copy from the stack, “my sweet baby.” you say to the piece of cardboard, yet refrain from kissing it as you've still not paid for it, so it's technically not yet yours.

you're about to make your way towards the register, but as you take a look around you realize some records have been changed. and well, you're already here, might as well leave with something extra.

you rummage through every shelf you hadn't paid attention to last time you were here, from punk rock to classical. it's quiet apart from the sounds of the background music. neither you nor hanni talk, even though you feel her eyes on your back.

you usually wouldn't care too much, but for some reason her gaze made the back of your neck a little itchy.

as you make your way through every hall and corner, you find yourself a hidden gem in the japanese music section.

“no way you guys have this!” you turn around to face hanni with the most excited smile she's ever seen from you (she's seen you two times) as you hold up 1986 omega tribe’s ‘navigation’ vinyl.

“i guess we do!” hanni shrugs. she doesn't recognize the album, but the fact that you do and it makes you this happy makes it hard for her not to smile.

“i couldn't find this anywhere! not even online!” you do a double take the album to check if it's real and search for a clock near you to check if you're dreaming. “this is insane.”

“glad we could be of service.”

when you make your way to the register, you hold three records in your arms, just like last time. the aforementioned two records and the 1975’s ‘i like it when you sleep, long-ass-rest-of-the-title’ which you recognize can be quite controversial, but you only do so when you're about to hand it to the girl.

“just so you know, i do not like matty healy.” you feel the need to announce. “like, at all.”

hanni gives you a look, raised eyebrow and a smirk, “yet you're putting money in his pockets?” she got you there. but you can't be the only one at fault here.

“you’re the one selling the record.” you try and shift the blame onto her, or well, the store.

and hanni’s convinced, “yeah, i guess that checks out.” success. but you don't feel too good at this success. so you think it over quickly before the scanner can get anywhere close to the plastic wrapper around the vinyl, and you suddenly snatch the record from her hands.

no words said, you walk back to the section where you found it and put it back in place, only speaking when you're back in front of the girl. “i reflected on it.” you say, “i am a pirate before i am a consumer.”

you felt like a social rights activist hero, a leader in the moral and ethical high ground, and you're quickly shut down by hanni's confused expression. it says it all, really.

i guess your words weren't clear enough, because hanni’s brain is running a montage of images of you with an eye patch and peg leg with a parrot on your shoulder.

“like. pirating music.” you explain and her expression softens slightly, “i'm gonna pirate his music.”

“i got it.” she holds back a laugh as you scratch your head awkwardly, “so just two then?”

“yeah, that's it.” you made the calculations in your head and take out some bills that'll leave you with a bit of change. you slide them across the counter just as the girl speaks.

“okay, that'll be $56.20” hanni says as she puts the scanner down. you must've heard that wrong.

“what? that's way too cheap!” you argue, yet the girl seems unfazed. she's either playing or she forgot to check out one of the two records, which is weird to say the least.

“you got the funny discount.”

“what the hell are you talking about, hanni.”

“make me laugh and i’ll cut down the price!” the way she says it so casually makes you debate whether she's telling the truth, but you quickly realize that cannot be a real deal. and if it is, what the hell?

“that's not real.”

“well it is now. here's your change!” right. that's what you get for getting ahead of yourself. you take the change she gives you reluctantly and stuff it in your wallet, then similarly stuff the two records in your bag.

“you're messed up hanni. you're real messed up…” you say as you walk away.

“come again soon!” she waves at you with a bright smile, which you immediately return as you open the door to step outside.

part two. [soon]

🗒️ you can barely tell i started writing this in october 🤣sorry abt that

[nightlyrequiem]

The Canary Cage

Chapter 1. Inertia

Masterlist AO3 Next

w/c- 3,436

One meeting in a dingy bar on the cheap side of town. One sighting of you. The raw sadness in your eyes drew Valeria in. A parasite attracted to the taste of your tears. She'll chew you up and spit you out, but what she doesn't realise is you bite back.

A/N: Tags will be updated as chapters progress. Original plan was to outline each chapter but I think if I do that I'll never actually start writing the fic. So I'll just wing it. Also, I rewrote this like four times. Also also, listened to a bunch of Massive Attack - specifically songs from Mezzanine. Teardrop is my personal favourite. Also merry Christmas

Tags/Warnings: Tags Will Be Updated as Story Progresses, WLW, Mental Illness, Unhealthy Relationships, Angst, Violence, Referenced Self-Harm, A Healthy Amount of Self-Hatred

༺☆༻༺☆༻༺☆༻༺☆༻

Manicured nails pick at the delicate, sensitive skin on your lips. Grabbing ahold of a small sliver of it and peeling it away to reveal the rawness beneath. The voice of a siren carries through the smokey bar. Tauntingly caressing your ear drums. In the shadows of the hall leading to the stage you stare up at the woman singing. Harlow. Unblinkingly and jealously. Low bass reverberates through the wood-paneled walls.

In the dim yellow lights Harlow still manages to look angelic. Impossibly soft yellow hair brushed over her dainty shoulders. You tear your gaze away from her to survey the crowd tonight.  It's smaller than usual. Not by a lot, maybe five or so people less than usual. A majority of the patrons are men. Eyes flash in the corner and you meet them momentarily before quickly looking elsewhere. Those eyes aren't for you anymore.

On stage, Harlow bows and blows a kiss.

"Thanks for coming tonight." She calls out in her stupidly soft voice. It grates on your nerves. Subdued applause rings out as she turns heel and walks towards the hall - towards you. You don't look at her as she passes, bumping your shoulder as she does. You straighten out your dress and gloves and walk forward, stepping onto the stage and taking your place Infront of the microphone.

The Fireflower, like most of the older businesses in Las Almas, is old and in desperate need of a new coat of paint. It's had the same owner since you were a child. It's on the west side of town and it's frequented by people that live there too. People who lack much money and choose to spend what they do have on illegally homemade beer that is guaranteed to fry their livers faster than regular alcohol. It is cheaper to produce, however. And when you live in a 'protected' neighborhood where the cartel demands a 'security fee', you have to find ways to get creative with money.

You flash your teeth in a smile at the crowd. Pretending that they're more interested than they really are. One of them is. Peter. He's also been here since you were a child. Often seen slumped over in front of the doors next to a puddle of his own vomit. He whistles and raises his drink in support. Your smile is a little more genuine when it reaches him. You don't bother with introductions. None of the faces here are new anyway. Three songs. Get through three songs then you're free to leave. Go back to your dingy, one bedroom apartment and cry yourself to sleep under the obnoxiously loud AC unit.

It's not that you don't enjoy your job. You like to sing, like being on stage and admired. It's just doing it here sucks out any possible joy that could be found in it. The bar is grimy and falling apart and its loyal patrons match that. You glance over at the corner. Where the eyes were. They aren't on you anymore. Their owner, a tall dark-haired woman, are gazing deeply into Harlow's eyes. Your grip on the microphone tightens, your voice weakening at the sight so you look away. Object impermanence.

Halfway through your second song the doors open and a woman walks in. She's notable because there aren't many women in the bar as it is. She's also openly carrying. She looks around, eyes briefly settling on you before shifting to a man in a far corner. You don't pay much attention to her as she strides over to him. He and the woman begin to engage in what looks to be a very serious conversation. It's not one that lasts long, she jerks her head to the side and he reluctantly rises to a stand. One few too many beers making him unsteady on his feet. He walks out, leaving the woman alone.

She finally turns her attention on you. You're used to being stared at, that's just what happens when you sing on a stage. People have looked at you in all manner of ways. Lustful, indifferent, judgmental. Some people have really intense stares. Ones that you can feel like a hand firmly planted on your shoulder shaking you. Demanding your attention. Demanding that you stare back.

You finish your second song and begin your third and final of your set. You sing it with a little more conviction. More passion. Because a face comes to mind whenever you hear or sing it. Downturned eyes and arched brows. Your eyes shift to the corner where the tall woman is. You don't know how many times you've traced the slope of her nose or brushed her unruly mane of hair away from her face.

You finish the song. Glad to have it over and done with. You bid the audience a farewell before walking off stage. Into the dark hallway. One of the lightbulbs along the wall has burnt out, leaving a dark patch of vague ominousness. You walk back to the dressing rooms. Passing a few of the girls smoking. They don't speak to you, something you're fine with. In the group dressing room, you grab your coat and purse from your locker. Slipping your arms into the cheap, water damaged leather.

You walk back out into the bar.  Weaving around the tables.

"Hey!" A slurred voice calls out your name. A heavy hand claps you on the back and you grimace.

"Hi Peter, enjoy the show?" You ask.

He smiles at you, sun-damaged cheeks dimpling. "I did, come have a drink. Come." He ushers you towards the bar. Reluctantly, you follow. Peter doesn't have many friends.

He pulls out your stool for you and you take a seat. Having to shift to get comfortable. The padding has worn away over the years. Leaving barely any protection between your ass and the hard wood.

"What will you have?" He asks. Scratching his unkempt beard. "My treat."

"Um... just coke." You say. Smiling nervously.

"Coke? C'mon sweetheart this is a bar, you have to drink!"

You shake your head. "Not tonight." You say. You don't like drinking. It doesn't make you fun or sociable. Just angrier and more bitter than you already are.

Peter shakes his head back at you like a disappointed father.

"Alright." He concedes. "I remember when your father used to bring you around here." He sighs.

"Hm. Yeah." You nod. The Fireflower was your father's main haunt and maybe that's part of why you hate it so much.

"He was a good man." 

"He was." You reply. Good, if you weren't his daughter or his girlfriend. Peter claps you on the back again.

"He and your mother would be proud, you've grown into a fine young woman. Too good for this town."

You smile but it doesn't reach your eyes. Your mother couldn't find the time to be proud of anything you did, and your father was incapable of being proud of anyone but himself. Peter lifts his drink in a toast, you lift yours back although you aren't sure what you're toasting to. While drinking, your spine tingles with the feeling of eyes watching you. Discretely you turn to see who it is but can't notice anyone outwardly staring.

The bartender comes back around with a whiskey lemonade and sets it in front of you. He goes to leave but you stop him with a hand, concerned about being charged for a drink you didn't order.

"I didn't order this." You tell him. He nods understandingly. 

"I know, it's from the woman over there." He nods his chin over at the back corner. You tilt your head to see. It's the woman who walked in earlier. She's not looking at you, instead her eyes are on the stage, focused on the other girl singing.

Turning down drinks always makes you feel guilty but it's a necessary evil. Not only do you try not to drink, but you've come to learn that accepting them from strangers leads to expectations. The bartender leaves before you can give it back so you slide it over to Peter.

"If I were given free drinks, you best believe I'd never turn them down." He says, happily taking the glass.

You smile lightly. "They usually come with a price, Peter. Just not one that's monetary."

Peter replies with a low hum.

You stick around for a while longer. Keeping Peter company. You finish your coke and set down your empty glass on the counter.

"I should be getting home now, goodnight, Peter." You say. Your farewell is lost on him as he has already passed out. Head resting on the rough wooden counter. You get up and head towards the exit.

It's cold out. As cold as it can get in Las Almas. You walk to your bus stop and check the app, hoping you didn't just miss the bus. You didn't. A small win for you. You put your phone back in your pocket and wait. Watching a piece of litter drift by aimlessly in the wind. Something glass shatters in the alley across the street and a drunken yell rings out. Somewhere else a girl laughs at something. Down the street Dolly stands. Dark purple dress and extravagant fur coat on display. You watch discreetly as a truck pulls up to her. Watch her walk up to his window and chat. After a couple of seconds, she gets in and they drive off.

It gets to a point where you begin to shiver. Wishing you brought pants to wear over your dress when your bus finally pulls up. 'El Sin Nombre' has been spray painted over its side. Ominously red, the paint having dripped before it dried. You step on and pay the 13.95 peso fee. There aren't that many people on board. One of the few pros of working the night shift is not having to deal with crowded transport. You walk past a slumped over man and take a seat at the back.

It's only a five-minute drive, a fifteen-minute walk if you're fast, home. However, it's not safe to be out past dark. You had a colleague a few years ago, a sweet girl who lived in your building used to walk home. Her weathered missing person poster hangs up on the front of the worn brick apartment complex. You fish out your key and open the door, walking inside and slamming it shut because if you don't it won't close.

You almost trip over a little girl on your way up to your floor.

"Jesus. Maria, what are you doing pout here?" You ask, frowning. What is she still doing up is another question. Maria simply shrugs. As usual she doesn't speak or look you in the eye. You sigh and reach for her hand, which she promptly gives you. The two of you walk down the hall to her door. You brace yourself for what you're going to have to deal with next.

You knock on room 20 and one of the sickly green-blue lights flicker. There are a few seconds of cherished silence before muffled stomping draws closer. Maria tightens her hold on your hand. The door swings open, revealing a very short woman.

"What?" She barks. Glaring up at you.

"I found your kid." You reply, gently ushering Maria towards her mother. She scowls and pulls Maria inside. 

"¿Qué te conté sobre tocar en la sala?" She hisses. There's no idle chit-chat or thanks. The woman slams the door in your face.

When you finally make it back to your apartment, you're exhausted. You've done what you could with the place. Paintings you made yourself to hide the holes, cracks, and stains in the wall. Saved up to purchase fluffy pink rugs to cover the water-stained floors. Fake plants to decorate the counters and shelves because the real things seem to die regardless of how much care you provide them. Still, despite the pink and colorful nature of your living space, it somehow still seems sad and dull. 

You drop your bag down by the door, soon followed by your coat. You promise yourself that you're going to pick them up later, but you know you probably won't until you need them for tomorrow. Tomorrow. You shove the thought of tomorrow out of your head. Shove the fact that you're going to have to wake up, do your hair and makeup, put on a cute but uncomfortable outfit and go back to that sad little bar on 8th Street.

You wander into the kitchen and look around your cupboards for something easy to eat. You find a dubious bag of nuts that you forgot about. The milk has gone bad and you're out of eggs. Looks like grocery shopping is on your to-do list for tomorrow.

You peel off your dress and let it fall to the tiled floor. The water is cold as it sprays your nude form. You hurry your shower. Using up the last of your favourite body wash. You feel like you'll never get warm when you step out. Forcing yourself through your usual routine. Brush your teeth, wash your face, moisturize your body. Finally, you get to stumble into your room and crash into bed. Enveloped by soft pink pillows and sheets, watched over by your childhood stuffed animals. You reach into your nightstand for your pills. The bottle is almost empty. One refill left.

The cycle repeats. You stare out at the crowd blankly before over correcting yourself with a large smile.

"How's everyone's nights going?" You ask. "Good I hope, I know mine is." You broke down into tears ten minutes before this. "This next song is Valerie, one of my personal favourites, always a good time when I get to sing this." You begin the song. Voice far more enthusiastic than you feel. Each note burns your throat and the smell of smoke is worsening your headache. "Won't you come on over stop makin' a fool out of me. Why don't you come over Valerie? Valerie, Valerie, Valerie."

You're on closing shift. Helping the bartender wipe down sticky tables. There's a puddle of vomit in the corner. You pretend not to notice.

"Hey, can you go to the back and get a couple bottles of Smirnoff?" He asks. Lazily wiping glasses behind the bar.

"Sure, Tony." You reply. You set down your rag and walk past him into the back. You watch your step as you head down to the cellar. The wooden stairs are rotted.

Grabbing two bottles you go back upstairs, setting them on the counter for him. You turn away but he stops you.

"Oh, hey, someone left these for you." He says, placing down a vibrant bouquet of roses. You raise your brows. 

"For me? Are you sure?" You ask carefully. Even Harlow, with her angelic vocal cords and appearance to match doesn't receive flowers. Tony pushes them towards you. 

"No other girls here with your name." He replies.

You grab the bouquet with care. Inspecting it. The roses are real and look expensive. You gently trace your fingers over their petals, feeling the smooth velvety surface.

The bus is running late. You shift on your feet impatiently. You really need to get your license. However, you don't make enough to afford a car. Or the car insurance. The distinct tapping of heels approaches you and look over, seeing Dolly approaching you, diamonds glittering around her throat.

"Public transport is so unreliable." She rasps. She reaches into her bra and pulls out a cigarette carton, offering you one.

"No thanks, I'm trying to quit." You say. Dolly shrugs and lights her own. Taking a deep inhale and coughing roughly.

"That's a beautiful thing of roses you got, sweet girl." She says, eyeing the bouquet clutched in your hands.

You smile timidly.

"Thanks, got them from work." You reply, feeling a little proud.

"Wish my customers would give me flowers." She sighs, shaking her head. "Who're they from?"

You shrug. "Not sure. Tony said someone left them for me."

Dolly gives you a knowing smile. "Maybe Tony is the one who gave them to you. He's always been a shy boy."

"Ah, maybe." You say. Looking away. It wasn't Tony. He doesn't play for your team.

Dolly blows out smoke rings.

"Did you hear about the man found in the canal this morning?" She asks.

You frown, feeling heavy. "No. Cartel?"

"That's what the police think." Dolly says. "The man had twelve pounds of coke in his apartment, my guess is that he stole it from them."

An engine rumbles as the same truck from last night creeps towards the two of you. It stops and the window rolls down, revealing the man inside.

He's older than you, younger than Peter and Dolly.

"Thirty minutes with you and your friend." He says gruffly. Before you can even respond Dolly storms up to his window.

"Get the fuck out of here you good for nothing trout." She snaps. "Don't show your face around this corner again. Or I'll have my boys cut off your balls."

"Your boys?" He laughs.

"Eric and Thomas."

His laughter stops abruptly. He narrows his eyes at Dolly, expression dark and cruel. However, the threat that Eric and Thomas must pose seem to mean more than his pride. He rolls up his window and speeds off.

Dolly curls her lip in disgust.

"You have lipstick on your teeth." You murmur.

Dolly swipes a finger over her teeth. "He didn't pay me the agreed amount last time." She says angrily. "His excuse was that I'm old."

You frown. "What a pig."

Dolly sighs, turning to you. "My advice, Sweet girl," She says as your bus pulls up. "don't ever do this line of work."

The next night is the same. As it always it. As it always will be. Walking back to the dressing room you bump into someone.

"Oh, sorry." You mumble.

"Hey."

you look up, downturned eyes, arched brows. "... Erin." You greet stiffly. Erin's gaze lingers on you for a few seconds before she brushes her hand through her dark hair. She nods once and moves past you.

Something venomous coils around your heart as you put on your jacket and pull on some sweatpants. Speaking to Erin has ruined your night completely. Why was she even back here? Probably for Harlow. You scowl and storm out of the dressing room, purposefully knocking into another girl.

"Hey-" She exclaims angrily at you.

You clench your fists as you leave the bar. You lean against the foreclosed building in front of your bus stop. Avoiding the trash littered along its side. You check the app, seeing that you just missed the bus. You feel like crying. You feel angry. You punch the brick building and immediately regret it. Hissing in pain and cradling your throbbing hand to your chest.

"I'd hate to be that building." A smooth voice says. Your head whips up. The woman it belongs to looks vaguely familiar. Dark hair cut into a layered bob, severe brows. She's wearing a dark turtleneck and coat, hands tucked into her pockets.

Your face heats with embarrassment.

"I was just, like, I slipped." You mutter.

Her lips twitch up in amusement. "I broke my hand once by punching a wall." She tells you, leaning beside you.

You flex your hand, worried that it may be broken. It's stiff and sore. "Oh."

"You have a lovely voice." She complements. "Shame you're wasting it on the Fireflower."

You feel slightly defensive at her jab. The Fireflower is rundown, and you hate working there but it's where you've made most of your childhood memories, good and bad.

"It's not that bad." You reply.

"Sure." Valeria nods. "But you're still only making 7,500 pesos, no?"

You don't reply to that. It's not like minimum wage is exclusive to the Fireflower.

"I didn't mean to be rude." The woman says. "Valeria." she raises her hand. You look at it. Tempted not to shake it. You grab it gently, surprised when she lifts it to her mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to your knuckles.

You stare, caught off guard. You're not sure if you're flattered or weirded out. You give her your name and she repeats it, then nods her approval.

"I'll be seeing you around, chula." 

Valeria walks off into the night. Disappearing into an alley. The interaction leaves you feeling disrupted. It was weird. She was weird. But that doesn't stop a butterfly from emerging from it's cocoon within your stomach. 

[saeslove]

2PM LOVE

synopsis in which you had a crush on yuta okkotsu since young.

note: # mentions of divorce. angst to comfort fluff! wc 1k +

Love. 

An intense feeling of deep affection for someone. As a child, you didn’t understand the meaning of love. Back then to you, love was books and books were your love. Sure, you received ample love from your parents and loved ones. The sneaky glances your parents throw at each other during family gatherings, the way your father opens the door for your mother like a gentleman, the way he soothed the goosebumps on your mother’s delicate skin with his calloused hands whenever she got cold. It’s the way their hips sway to their ‘anniversary song’ that echoes your humble abode across your living room, looking at each other with so much love. 

That, to you, was love; your parents' love for each other. Not that you’d say it out loud, of course. But someday, you will find love like your parents.

Growing up on the outskirts of Tokyo, you had a lovely childhood and you couldn’t ask for more. But it was all in vain. After 20 years of a blissful marriage, along with 3 children, your parents had a divorce. You weren’t quite sure what happened because they felt really in love. It also hit you when your father had to move out alongside your two siblings, leaving you and your mother alone on the outskirts of Tokyo. 

You wanted to be mad when you found out that just after 2 months of being divorced, your father had found himself a newer and younger lover. Never had you felt so betrayed. You felt angry and sad, for your mother who hides her pain with a sweet smile, assuring you that she’s not affected by it. But in reality, you know it’s a facade when you can hear her muffled sobs every night. 

From then on, you didn’t believe in love and promised to never fall in love. Thus, you grew up finding solace and comfort deep inside your books.

After 2 years of your parent’s divorce, you met a boy.

In front of your mother, you pretended that falling in love was a sin, you confidently vowed to never fall in love but why does your heart skip a beat whenever you see the boy with disheveled black hair and dark blue eyes? Why does your hand get so sweaty whenever your fingers brush his? When you told your mother about the situation you were in with your big doe eyes, she couldn’t help but laugh saying you have developed a crush. 

A crush on a boy named Yuta Okkotsu? 

You first met Yuta at a local bookstore not too far away from your neighbourhood. Every day, at 2pm, without fail you’ll catch him reading in the corner of the store, giggling to himself. What a weird boy. Perhaps he was reading a comedy series? You didn’t know what came to you that day, the ground beneath your feet swept you towards that young boy’s direction. He slowly shifted his gaze from the book to you. 

Embarrassed, you struck up a conversation “uhhh hi! what book are you reading?”. 

You have been friends ever since. He’d meet you outside your door, waving your mom goodbye before racing each other to the bookstore. You visit there so often that the owner recognizes you two. Once, you fell asleep on Yuta’s shoulder while his cheeks were on top of your head with a book in hand. The owner, Ms Belle, cooed at the adorable sight.   

He spent so much time with you that he’s grown attuned to you and your little habits. The way you stomp your feet when something exciting happens – like when the main character decides to finally confess to his crush. He knows you like to run your fingers along the shelves. He knows how you hate folding the edges of your paper so for your 8th birthday, he got you a bookmark with your name engraved.

One word to describe you and Yuta would be inseparable. You’d do things together. You’d have a sleepover at his house on some nights, and some at yours. He knows how much you hate crowds, so he would hold onto your pinky while he leads you both to a more quiet, and safe place. 

You were 9 years old when you finally realised that you had a crush on Yuta Okkotsu. However, you were also 9 years old when you had your heart broken, by a boy besides your father. He had to move to the other side of the world, far from Tokyo, Japan. His absence left you all alone again. The worst part of all, you didn’t have a chance to tell him that you liked him.

Perhaps you were right. You won’t believe in love and promise to never fall in love. Although deep down behind closed doors, love –your parents once shared, was all you craved for.

10 years later. Everything has changed. You grew taller, no longer the shortest in class. Your voice matured. Everything changed, even the the childhood bookstore closed down when you were 11. You no longer have a crush on Yuta Okkotsu. Lies. You’ll remember him forever.

Glancing at your Apple Watch, it read 2pm. You had to meet your friends at 2.30pm at the train station but since you were already early, you decided to stop by the newly opened bookstore.

The distinct aroma of earthy with a hint of vanilla from the pages of books that were stacked neatly on a wooden shelf instantly made you relaxed, like you were at home. Like a muscle memory, you run your fingers along the shelves, a habit of yours while trying to find a book that catches your attention. Abruptly, your fingers came to a stop. Your eyes lingered on a certain book. You were so deep in the thought you didn’t realise someone coming up to you. 

“The Love Hypothesis, huh?” 

That voice. His voice was honeyed yet soft spoken.

You shifted your gaze to your right where the stranger is. He’s taller than you, but not that tall, his hair no longer disheveled. Black hair and dark blue eyes carrying a radiant gentle smile that could probably light up the sky. —the same smile he carried in the past.

Your eyes lit up. “Yuta Okkotsu?”

fml i really really dont like how this turns out but i just had to clear from my drafts. i love yuta sm.. and i m so sleepy rn happy 2024 my loves 🩷

likes and reblogs appreciated! 💕💕 pls be kind to me

my other works <3

@ satoluv do not plagiarize, translate, or rewrite my writings without my permission !

[hughiecampbelle]

Unornamented (Hughie Campbell Oneshot)

Character/s: Hughie

Word Count: 1,691

Requested: Not requested, but here are the prompts I used :) 13.) Hum, 36.) Scraped Knees 34.) “Still awake?”

Inspired By: Foxglove by Haley Heynderickx

A/N: I love him, I love him, I love him!!!! Anyways, just an appreciation fic for your patience!!! Thank you my loves!! I actually kinda love how this turned out. I think it's very soft and sweet, even a little sad. Heavily inspired by the song/album. Slowly working through my writers block so that once I start posting again, my work will be what you deserve!!! Feedback is always appreciated!! 💜💜💜

The cicada's sharp pitch moves with the wind, seeping through the open window screens. You never knew what that peculiar sound was, the screaming, bleating, wailing, only that it swept through you each night on your long, humid walks home. A kind of begging. A performance. A tongue you have not yet mastered. Shakespearean tragedies, you imagine, wars between families, between forbidden lovers and bitter marriages. Feuds. They step out into costumes covered in ruffles, pearls, thick collars and high stockings. The children dress as fauna and flora, roaring like cubs, nipping at one another playfully. On stage, they are someone else. Largely unseen as the sun sets, they intend to make their presence known. The rest of them, the crowds for miles and miles, sing their songs in appreciation. A hum that vibrates through the leaves, the open air, their roaring praise and applause settles goosebumps across your flesh. They’ve grown accustomed to sweet summer shows and they will be forever grateful. Harmless, they went about their time as you wished to do. No biting, nor stinging. Without violence. They draw out these shows, afraid they will be left alone to bear their lives, their thoughts, mundane and overpowering respectively. 

Beneath you, the springs of the mattress puncture the thin fabric, poking at the spokes of your spine the way a mother would her child. It tickles, her bony knuckles, the sharpness of the spring. Interchangeable. A comfort you have forgotten of, one that fills the cavity of your chest with dread. What else have you forgotten? What else have you given up for a life like this? The sheer curtains blow with the breeze. Thoughtlessly, they move and dance and grab at one another, like sisters. They must be laughing, you think, for they are warm underneath the butter yellow street lights and safe and together. They must be laughing, because they are together and that is who they’ll only ever need: their twin. Leaves rustle underneath the insect melodies. A bass, low and of the earth, the tone of an old man telling stories of his youth. You can hear him smiling. 

The sheets are soft, newly washed, and sticking to you. Wrapped around your torso, your legs free to breathe, kissed by the thick air. Lying like this, with your knees tented, you can see the scrapes across them. Earth scorched. What was once torn open, alive and mouthy, had healed only slightly. The skin is pale and thick and chewy. Shiny. They don’t hurt as much as they did. You’re not sure how it happened, only that it must’ve been recent. There are other aches and pains. Healed and unhealed, bruised and not. Old wounds stitched together. Deep purples, cobalt blues, sickly greens. They’ll yellow soon enough. You were always getting hurt. You were always in some sort of danger. Unwise, you knew, and yet there was something about the thrill. The taste of blood in your mouth. Last time – the last time – you’d almost been sliced in half. Not yet a scar, the settled skin inching its way across your belly remained snakelike. Sensitive, you were careful to wash and dry, to dress and dress again. Your fingertips brush where it rests beneath your shirt. You don’t like looking at it. It remains too much of a reminder. On that day. Of what you were attempting to leave behind. Too soon to joke, to laugh, the both of you still a little rattled. 

It’s how you ended up here. 

There is a body beside you. Not unfamiliar. His skin is warm, and though forgiveness was never one of summer's virtues, you find yourself curling into him, all his nooks and crannies, despite the humidity in the air. His chest rises and falls evenly. His lip is split and there is a scab at his temple. How many times have you kissed that very spot? How many times had you checked on it, to make sure it was healing properly. Free of infection. His shirt is worn and thin and it smells of him: soap and sky and the dinner he burned earlier. One arm rests beneath you, your head, the other thrown behind the pillow, perching it up further. His rest is not easy, not without effort, but there is a certain softness to his features. Maybe it’s the light, the setting sun, the deep, bright blue of the night sky. Maybe not. Either way your eyes follow the slope of his nose, the curve of his cheek, the furrow of his brow. His hair is wild, some of it slicked back. It is his best effort not to overheat. His dreams are still water, not yet broken by growing, gruesome waves. Not yet entering the heart of the storm. It will, of course. And when it does, he will startle awake. Panting. Gasping for air. Clinging to you. 

For now, though, he is quiet. 

The bedroom is cozy. Cozy, you think, is a nice way of saying it’s small. No matter. You had little with you anyways. A lamp. A mattress. You have yet to get a frame, a bedside table. Frivolities. A single dresser you split down the middle, neck to groin. Autopsy-esque. Photos of friends. Notes and doodles. Passports, fake IDs. Enough clothes to get you through the season. You know, when the snow threatens to fall and the cicadas are long gone, you will need more than what you’ve got. The drawers stick and, embarrassed, as quiet as he can, he’ll shake it open. He has done this since you got here. Untethered himself from you, from the bed, gentle enough not to startle you. He’ll dress, and kiss your head, and leave a note: Be back soon. XO Hughie. He’ll disappear in the early morning. Wandering, you suppose. It is the only way he can breathe easily, if he knows where you are. If he understands the layout of the land. You weren’t in the city anymore. The crowds you’d slipped into, becoming just another strange face, were no longer an option here. The hiding places were minimal. Open roads, nothing for miles. The underbelly you could run to for safety, the trains you could crouch into, your hoods up, your faces low, were unavailable. Nonexistent. You’d traded one anonymity for another. You’d pretend to be asleep, watching him, wide eyed, as the morning sun enveloped him. The rays are subtle, not yet full, and they stretch out towards him. Sometimes you’ll fall back to sleep. Sometimes you’ll lie there, soaking in every inch of the room, wondering what became of everyone you’d ever cared about. Wondering if you could make a life like this. When he comes back, he will make you coffee. The only two mugs you brought with you. Chipped and worn. He’ll place his on the dresser, careful with yours, as if it were something precious. He doesn’t voice what he’s seen, what he’s taken into account, but his features are quick to give him away. You will reassure him: he could never find you here. You are both safe. Everyone is safe. The words are hollow, You know this. As long as Homelander is alive, you are in danger. There is only so much of you you can give to him anymore. There is only so much of your mind, your body, your fears, that you can dole out to him. Hughie nods, the steam from his cup bringing color to his face. You will find something else to talk about. The strangers you met on your long walks. The pets you wave to through fences, through windows. The long summer you’ve been granted. How lucky you’ll be when the weather chills and the leaves begin to turn. Anything but Vought. Anything but him. 

That isn’t for many hours, of course.

Your thoughts spread like fog through the apartment. The kitchen (tiny) and the bathroom (even littler). Enough utensils for two. A spongy bath mat. Anything that would fit in the backseat, really. Silly things you grabbed without thinking. The kitschy salt and pepper shakers. A dozen mismatched socks. Only the case of Hughie’s mouth guard. Half a set of slippers. A handful of books. The rest? You would never be sure what happened to them, to anything. You had what the old tenants left behind. The dresser, the lamp, a table for four with three chairs, a shower curtain. There are other things here as well. Spiders in the corners, weaving their webs. Occasionally, you might find one on the bar of soap by the sink, crawling across the counter tops, making its way through the length of the apartment. A mouse or two. If you’re quiet enough, you might hear them scurrying in the walls. Worse, you suspect, though that’s as far as you can name definitively. The first thing he did was get you a mattress. Paid in cash under another name, beaming with pride, he pushed it up the stairs and through each doorway. It was perfect.  The cicadas sing their songs, harmonizing with one another. The sky has darkened. There are so many stars here. That was the first thing you noticed. Driving for days on end, you watched the inky black glitter, thousands and thousands of holes opening up, letting the twinkling light through. It wasn’t like this in the city. It had never been this clear. Perhaps it was the running, the escaping, the tiresome ways you’d been living since you left. Perhaps it was the first beautiful thing you’d been allowed to take in in a long time. There were wildflowers and small towns and houses built long before you, but the time to look in awe, to appreciate, had been so fleeting. Mere moments, that’s all you were allowed. This would go on forever. The scars embedded in your skin ache just a little. You readjust, placing your head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. Hughie, coming to, wraps his arm around you, pulling you even closer. “Still awake?” He asks in his sleepy voice, and you know he is smiling.

[amomentsescape]

Slashers Creating a Personal Carnival for Reader

Background: Reader becomes overstimulated from loud noises, but still wants to experience what it's like to go to the carnival and have fun. The Slashers want to help make this dream a reality for them.

A/N: This was a personal request I received through my messages. They asked to remain anonymous for this, but I hope they and everyone else enjoys!

Freddy Krueger

This man can literally turn the world into whatever he wants

So the night before, when you expressed how disappointed you were that you couldn't go to the town carnival, Freddy knew what to do

He always wants to make you smile, so seeing that frown was a big no in his book

He took time to plan out what he wanted to do while you were awake during the day

But that night when you went to sleep, you were shocked to find yourself in your very own carnival

There was no one else around, but you could smell the cotton candy in the air and feel the grass beneath your feet

Freddy popped up beside you with a wide smile

"Surprise!"

He then took you through everything you wanted to do

The games had every plushie you adored in multiple sizes and colors

Every ball you threw and every pin you knocked down barely made a sound

He even took you on a rollercoaster and sat beside you

There was a little wind on your skin, but the coaster remained quiet and didn't jostle you around like a normal one would

It was like he knew exactly what you needed in that moment

The night ended with you sharing some fair food together on a bench, the bright lights still dazzling around you

Michael Myers

He didn't quite understand why you were so upset at first

He thought carnivals were overrated and never had a desire to go to one himself

But he could see that sad look in your eye when you expressed your disappointment

You were the only person he actually cared about, so he knew he needed to do something to help you

The next morning, you went downstairs to the smell of popcorn

You could see that things had been changed around in the living room once you were there

There was an old fashioned popcorn maker in the corner

And next to it was an even older skee ball machine

Michael was standing beside them, just looking at your reaction

A huge smile grew on your face at the sight

Michael wasn't one to be sentimental, so the fact that he went out of his way to get these things for you meant a lot

He watched you play skee ball a couple of times before you dragged him over to play with you

He was surprisingly good for having not played before

After a couple more rounds, he pulled out a plushie of your favorite animal

It was a little dirty, but you can tell he probably looked high and low for it

He then sat you down on the chair in front of the TV and put on one of those roller coaster videos from online

You laughed at the video, enjoying hearing all the sounds and seeing the sky

But then the chair started to move in unison to the video, Michael squatting down and shifting it back and forth beside you

You ended the day off sharing popcorn together on the couch, listening to fair music from the TV

Jason Voorhees

The child in him can understand where you are coming from

He also used to want to go to carnivals, but he never felt comfortable doing so because of everyone teasing him

So now knowing that also want to experience what a fair is like, Jason felt motivated to make it a reality

You and him spending time together alone? Perfection, in his eyes

Plus, the woods are the perfect place to do this

Later that afternoon, Jason came inside and ushered you out the door to your confusion

But once outside, you saw an old roller coaster seat, a couple bags of cotton candy, a few small plushies, and an old basketball hoop

You looked at Jason confused before he handed you a basketball, watching you intently

You took a few moments to think about what to do before throwing the ball at the hoop, making it in right away

Jason walked over quickly and picked up one of the plushies, handing it to you

You began to laugh when you realized what he was doing

He quickly sat you in the roller coaster seat and began to move it around, imitating turns and bumps

This made you laugh even harder as he worked so hard to make it feel like an actual ride

You eventually had him sit beside you as you ate some cotton candy, telling Jason how much fun you had and how much you loved what he did for you

Thomas Hewitt

Thomas has also never been to a carnival before

But you explaining what they're supposed to be like and everything made him want to go with you

But he understands how they can become sensory overload

They'd probably be too much for him to handle too

So why not bring the carnival to you instead?

You woke up in the morning to the backyard being all decked out

There were bags on candy and plushies on a table next to a balloon "popping" game

Thomas was super proud of himself for building the game just for you

He took your hand and led you over to everything

He watched you bounce a small ball on a few balloons, handing you a plushie afterwards

(Having the ball bounce was his way of popping the balloons without the loud sound)

He even managed to bounce a couple himself

He also shared some candy with you in between rounds of playing

Thomas eventually took you back inside to the living room where he had a basket and a fan hooked up

He sat you down inside and turned on the fan, letting it blow on you

He then began to push the basket around on the floor, leading you all over the place in the living room

All that could be heard were your giggles throughout the house

Bubba Sawyer

As fun as carnivals sounded, Bubba never really got to go to one either

But all he knew was that you wanted to go but was upset that you couldn't because of the sensory stimulation

So Bubba decided to stay up all night, building what he could out of scrap metal and wood he had around the house

He managed to rig up a game where you tried to knock glass bottles over

He also built a little wooden stand where you could "purchase" snacks and drinks

He even dug a small path in the ground for a small basket to follow

When he excitedly dragged you outside the next morning, you were shocked to see everything

He hurriedly gave you a ball and motioned for you to knock down the pins

He then rewarded you with a plushie even if you didn't get them all down

He offered you candy, gave you big hugs, and even tried to "win" you extra plushies

The day ended with him pushing you in the basket along the dug out path, winding around the yard and making you smile in delight

Brahms Heelshire

Brahms had been to his share of carnivals in the past, but he hates seeing that frown on your face since you haven't done the same

He doesn't like leaving the house of course, but he does the best that he can

He makes each piece of furniture in the house a different ride for you

He even raids the pantries for extra snacks and foods that he thinks you'll like

And his old stuffed animals? The perfect prizes for winning some games!

He waits until the night, waking you up from your sleep to take you downstairs

He adjusted the lighting so it was a little darker, but this made everything else stand out

He put on some music on the record player as he took you on all the rides, giving you hugs from behind

And although they weren't quite traditional fair games, he did the best he could with his parent's old pool table, setting up different plastic cups to knock down

And every plushie you won was a memory for Brahms, which made it even more special

Although a little selfish, he can be quite romantic when he wants to be

Norman Bates

He can't bear to see you cry like this

He'd love to go to the carnival with you, but he also wants to see you comfortable and happy

He decides to close the motel for the day- anything for you was worth it

And after breakfast, you were surprised to see that each motel room had been turned into something different

Some had different games in them

Others had sweets and fair food

And one even had your own little rollercoaster, the TV playing a ride POV for you

You about jumped in his arms when you saw everything

You excitedly grabbed his hand and pulled him along to each room, making sure that he played and ate alongside you the whole time

It wouldn't have been the same if he wasn't at the carnival with you

Your favorite was the rollercoaster though, loving how he stayed close to your side as he moved the "ride" around in unison to the TV

Everything was perfect

And Norman reserved the last room as a little resting area, cuddling up next to you on the bed and asking how you liked everything

He thinks that maybe he should do this again in the future

Billy Loomis

With the carnival coming to town, Billy could immediately tell that something was wrong

When you told him about your disappointment, he wiped away your tears and told you it would be okay

A couple days later, you were at the empty town fair with Billy

All it took were a couple threats from "Ghostface" to the police station for the residents to not show up that day to the carnival

He toured you around for a bit, showing you all the food and rides

And when you were ready, you guys ended up trying out some of the games

He let you pick out whatever plushie you wanted and he got it down for you

He also sat in the rollercoaster cart with you, letting you experience what it was like to be in one with him without all the loud noises and craziness that usually come with the ride

And he happily hopped into a couple different food trucks, pretending to be a worker and asking for your order

It was probably the best date you've had with Billy so far

Stu Macher

Stu despises seeing you upset about anything

He'd go to the lengths of the earth to keep you smiling

So when he told you to come over to his place for date night, you were shocked to see your own mini carnival inside his living room

All of your favorite foods and drink were set out on the table

And he even made his own version of the pin game you'd normally see at carnivals

He may have stolen some of the "winnable" plushies however

But it's the thought that counts in his book

The fact that he did all of this for you was enough to make you cry

He happily took your hand and led you over to everything, explaining what he did and how you both were going to have so much fun

He even made a couple cut outs in a large box he had, allowing both of you to fit in the "rollercoaster" ride

He tried mimicking the actual ride by making funny noises and putting his hands in the air, shaking the box around with you in it

He may have knocked you both over a couple of times, but it was still fun either way

Eric Draven

You're sad about not being able to go to the carnival?

Well lucky for you, Eric has access to his share of empty rooftops, giving you plenty of room to have fun

He spent a couple of nights piecing together different games and foods that he thought you would like

He even bought a few different strings lights to give off that colorful experience you'd see at an actual fair

He waited until the middle of the night once the city was asleep to take you onto the rooftop with him

It was honestly so pretty

The lights, the gentle music, and the cool feeling of the night air was perfect

Your carnival visit was very relaxing too

You played some games together, Eric insisting that he had to play a few rounds in order to win you a plushie

And to your surprise, he "won" you the stuffed animal you had been eyeing in the store a week ago

And any fair food you've wanted to try? Eric somehow has it for you

You both ended the night sharing cotton candy and looking out over the quiet city together, your head resting on his shoulder

[tempe-brennans]

i simply love you (more than i love life itself)

author's note: look what i did! i wrote! everyone clap! gif has nothing to do with this story except for the vibes

summary: a brush with death brings you back to joel

He thinks of you as the blade pierces his side.

The wound is not of much consequence to him, if he’s being honest. Before, he had always imagined he would die on a battlefield.

Before you, that is. Again, no matter, now.

And, anyway, some soldier he could not hope to remember the name of, strikes down the assailant almost as quickly as Joel himself falls to the ground. He's avenged before he can begin to die. A death any warrior would be proud of. He doesn’t feel much of a warrior these days, though, so none of it really matters to him, at this moment.

People huddle around him, anxious fingers prodding him in ways he hardly feels. As he lays, lifeblood oozing from him and staining the white snow beneath, he really only wants you.

He feels like a child, as the sadness grips his heart. He could whine, if he was alone, at the sting of loneliness he feels knowing he gets only memories of you now, if he’s lucky.

Heaven isn’t likely to be the place he ends up, with the life he’s lived, but he holds out hope for a place where he can see you, can be with you, once more.

He knows your touch would ease the ache in his side, in his very being. It always did. He knows he could let you hold him, let tears roll down his cheeks in your presence, and let you put him back together.

As his eyes flutter closed, it’s you that’s on his mind. You, and your easy touch, your soft heart, and how much he wishes he could see you one last time.

x

Soft chatter wakes him. He’s never imagined much of the afterlife, too caught up in his own problems to pay it any mind, but such a gentle welcome had not been his image.

He opens his eyes, finds familiar furnishings surrounding him–his room at the castle. A sick joke, maybe. In the corner, a fire roars and footsteps thump gently as someone paces across his floor. He turns his head, though every muscle in his body protests to wakefulness, and finds your figure, hunched with nerves and wringing your hands.

Perhaps this is heaven after all, then.

“You can sit, you know,” he rasps. “Wearing a hole in the floor won’t heal me. If I’m still here to heal, that is.”

He tries for humor, but it seems silly, with you. His words should mean something, mean more. Something should come to mind at the sight of you that could express how he has missed you, how much he aches for you in his life.

Instead, you stop cold, glare at him.

“Oh, you’re very funny, Joel Miller.” You cross the room, take the chair that’s entirely too close to his bedside to be comfortable, and grab his hand. “Yes, you’re alive. Just barely.” You shake your head. “Through pure stubbornness, I would imagine.”

He tries to ignore the sparks that dance across his skin at the contact, but it has been much too long since you touched him. His eyes fall to the spot before he can help himself.

You don’t seem to notice.

“You don’t have to try and get yourself killed to speak to me, you realize.”

“I did not, actually,” Joel whispers, too stunned to muster his full voice. Eyes still focused on the place where your hands meet, he adds, “I didn’t imagine you’d come, if you would like honesty.”

“There has always been truth between us.”

Your words are easy, simple, and true, Joel knows.

“Of course, I would come,” you add, softly. “To know you were hurt, and not see you?” You trail off, head shaking gently.

His eyes move to your face as his hand flips in your grasp, circles around your own fingers and squeezes–a gesture he hopes gives you the comfort it had him.

“I did not think you still held affection for me,” he murmurs. “Forgive the assumption, my lady.”

The endearment is easy, familiar, even if it is no longer true. You don’t call him on it.

Instead, you nod. “I can see why you would make it.”

You look at him, meet his eyes with the full force of your gaze, and for a moment Joel almost shivers. There’s a look there, something old and soft, that Joel hasn’t seen in far too long. It would ignite something like hope in his gut, if he was not so calloused.

“I would like to tell you something,” you start, softly. “I would like to tell you the truth, now, while there’s still time to tell it.”

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Anything. Always, you know that.”

You nod, soft smile spreading across your face. “I do.” You take a breath, steel yourself for whatever it is you want to say. “I love you. I’ve loved you all this time.” Joel can hear it when the tears find their way into your voice, and rubs his thumb back and forth against your hand. “I allowed fear,” you hiss, voice a whisper, “and panic, to keep us apart–to break our love, and our hearts, to pieces–and I am sorry.”

Joel interjects, unable not to. If he let his heart truly respond to the pain in your voice, it would jump out of his chest.

“No,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “No, baby, that’s not it at all.”

Your other hand raises like you mean to shush him, but he pushes through.

“It was me, honey. It was me.” He smiles, a gentle thing, though his heart aches in his chest. “I wanted more. I wanted accolades and violence. I was too naïve,” he whispers.

Knowing there’s truth what both of you have said, you seem to settle.

“And, now?”

“Hm?”

“Now,” you hum. “What do you want now?”

“You,” he murmurs. “Just you.”

“Truly?” You smile.

He grins, tries to sit up in bed, but decides against it when he feels the pull of pain in his side.

Instead, you bend to meet him where he lays.

“Truly.” He nods. “I’ve wanted nothing more in all my life.”

In an instant, you close the distance between you, press your lips to his. It’s a feeling he thought he would never feel again, your kiss, and one he’s missed more than he could say.

He pulls away, just a fraction, to murmur against your mouth, “I love you, too, you know.”

“I do.” You kiss him once more, a quick press of a thing. “It is nice to hear it, though.”

Joel laughs. “I’d tell you forever, my love. I’d tell you forever.”

Your hand, gentle on the side of his face, runs along his cheek. “Promise?” It’s a whisper of a word, something soft and silly shared between those in love.

“I promise.”

It’s a promise he has no intention of breaking.

[introvertllux]

Chrono Heart (Future Trunks X Black!OC)

*I DO NOT OWN/CLAIM TO OWN ANYTHING IN RELATION TO DBZ. I ONLY CLAIM THE ORIGINAL STORY IDEA AND BLACK!OC IN THIS STORY!*

Chapter 1: The Relic and the Reawakening

The remnants of Dr. Gero’s lab were a graveyard of twisted metal and shattered dreams, a monument to the hubris of a man who played god with circuits and steel. Hidden beneath this forsaken ruin, a capsule hissed open, and from its depths, a figure emerged—Axa. With skin like polished ebony, eyes that shimmered with the golden light of a thousand captured stars, and hair that cascaded down in an untamed torrent, she was a sight to behold—beauty crafted by ambition, innocence shaped by design.

:readmore:

She stood, hesitantly, in the dim light of her metallic tomb, a stark contrast to the vividness of her form. Her limbs moved with an elegance that was almost haunting, yet her expression held the innocence of a child looking out upon the world for the first time.

Unbidden, Axa's body propelled her through the labyrinth of the city, every calculation in her head leading her to an encounter she did not understand. It was as if an invisible hand guided her to a serene park, where the familiar silhouette of Android 18 stood, lost in the simplicity of feeding ducks at the pond—a moment of peace in a life so often marked by conflict.

Axa’s presence cast a shadow over the tranquility, and 18 turned, her eyes widening in shock and recognition. "Axa? Is it really you?" she gasped, the breadcrumbs slipping from her fingers.

Their reunion was explosive—a symphony of fists and flashes of shared history. As they sparred, 18, amidst parries and takedowns, called out to the essence of the girl she once knew.

"Remember when we sparred with 16 in the orchard, the cherry blossoms falling around us like snow?" she grunted, dodging a swift punch. "Or the time we snuck into the city, 17 dared us to ride the rollercoaster and you laughed until you cried?"

Each word struck Axa deeper than any physical blow could, unlocking the sealed doors of her memory. "And that night, the four of us lay in the grass, making shapes out of stars, dreaming of freedom," 18 continued, her voice laced with nostalgia, even as she blocked a kick. "But then you were gone. Gero said you were defective, but you were just... you were just Axa. You were just a little girl, and I... we, I should have done something."

Tears spilled from Axa's eyes, liquid diamonds trailing down her face, an alien sensation that stopped her cold. Her hands came up to her face, fingers trembling as she touched the moisture with wonder. "What... what is this?" she whispered, her voice breaking.

"It's crying, Axa," 18 replied with a bittersweet chuckle, the fight draining from her. "It happens when you're sad... or happy... or even when you laugh so hard, you can't stop. It means you're alive."

Axa's golden gaze, now dulled by confusion and sorrow, met 18's. "I don't... I don't understand," she said, a lost child wrapped in the shell of a machine.

"I know," 18 said, stepping forward to wrap an arm around her. "I forgot to search for you when I found my own life. But now I’m here, and I'll help you. Let me show you the life I've built. You’ll fit right in. Krillin, my husband, Marron, our daughter—they'll love you."

The promise of a family warmed something inside Axa, a spark of belonging that she didn't know she needed.

_____________________________________________________________

The scene shifted to the familial home, where the spark was met with a torrent of fear and misunderstanding.

The home that once held warmth and laughter was now a battlefield of words and emotions. The cozy living room, with its family photos and children's drawings, became the arena. Krillin's face was flushed with a mix of protective fear and incandescent rage. "18, how in the world could you think this was okay? Bringing her into our home without even a word to me?" His voice shook the very foundations of their sanctuary, a volume reserved for life-and-death battles, not familial disputes.

"You're not getting it, Krillin!" 18 shot back, her own voice a force to be reckoned with. "You think I can't see danger? I know danger. I've been danger. But she—" 18 jabbed a finger towards Axa, "—is just lost. We owe her this!"

Marron, with the blissful ignorance of childhood, had wandered over to Axa, offering a small stuffed dinosaur with a smile. "Do you wanna play with Mr. Dino?" she had asked, her voice a sing-song note in the dissonant symphony of the adults' conflict.

Krillin's eyes darted from Marron to Axa, and with a speed that betrayed his martial prowess, he scooped Marron into his arms. "Marron, sweetie, why don't you go play in your room, okay?" His words were gentle with his daughter, but when his gaze swung back to Axa, they were steel blades. "Stay away from her," he snapped at Axa. "We don't know you, what you're capable of—what if you're programmed to…to…"

His words trailed off, but the accusation hung heavily in the air, an invisible smog choking the room. Axa, who stood like a statue wrought from onyx, felt each word strike her. Her hands, which moments ago had explored the texture of the child's toy, now hung limply at her sides. The shine in her golden eyes dulled, a gloss of pain over the brightness.

"Krillin," 18's voice cracked like a whip, her anger transforming into something fierce and protective. "Listen to yourself! She’s not a threat! How can you judge her like this?"

The silence that followed was suffocating. Axa's soft, disbelieving sobs were the only sound, a heartbreaking melody that seemed to wrap around the room. She blinked rapidly, her human-like innocence clashing with her android perfection as she attempted to process the whirlwind of rejection and anger.

"I… I don't want to be a problem," Axa stammered out, her voice a mere whisper but slicing through the tension. "I didn't mean to cause trouble. I'm sorry."

Krillin, his face softening for a moment at Axa's words, struggled with the turmoil inside him. His duty to protect his family warring with the empathy he had learned from his wife. "18, I…," he started, but the words tangled, a mess of emotion and duty.

"No," 18 interrupted, her eyes glistening with unshed tears of frustration. "No, Krillin. She's not just some android. She's Axa. Remember that. She's not the past; she’s someone who needs us now."

In the quiet that followed, the trio stood, the balance of their world shifted, as they each considered the weight of what it meant to be family, to be human, or something akin to it. Axa, still caught in the eye of the storm, dared to hope for a harbor in this tempest—a place where she could anchor her heart.

The turmoil in the room reached a crescendo, a tidal wave of emotion that crashed over Axa with overwhelming force. As Krillin and Android 18's argument continued, Axa's mind began to fracture under the strain. She clutched at her temples, her golden eyes flickering erratically as memories—long suppressed—surged to the surface.

She was small again, diminutive and human, watching through the bars of a crib as giants in white coats and stern faces argued loudly above her. The cacophony of their voices was terrifying, a discordant symphony that crescendoed into an unbearable din. Words like "potential" and "failure" were thrown back and forth, volleying over her head like some high-stakes game she could not comprehend.

Her breath hitched, a robotic mimicry of a panic attack, and her body began to seize up. Her limbs locked in place, and the glow in her eyes sputtered like a dying star. "System… overload…" she managed to gasp out before collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut, her form going limp and unresponsive on the floor.

"18, we need to do something!" Krillin's voice was now tinged with fear for Axa, the protective instinct he felt for all living beings—especially those under his roof—kicking in.

18 knelt beside Axa, her fingers hovering over the android's inert body. Her heart, though not flesh and blood, ached with a mix of fear and protectiveness. "Dammit," she cursed softly, her usual composure fraying at the edges.

Krillin ran a hand through his hair, his eyes darting from his wife to the still figure on the floor. "Maybe… we should take her to see Bulma. She's dealt with… this kind of thing before."

Android 18's eyes narrowed at the suggestion. "Bulma has a good heart, but she's got that scientist's curiosity. She'll want to dissect every part of Axa's programming," she said, her voice a growl of resistance. "And Vegeta…" she trailed off, a scowl creasing her features at the thought of the Saiyan prince's unpredictable nature.

Krillin nodded slowly, understanding his wife's concerns. "We don't have to tell everyone, just Bulma. She'll know what to do," he insisted, his tone imploring. "Vegeta won't lay a finger on her—I'll deal with him if I have to."

The two locked eyes, a silent conversation passing between them. It was a gamble, but Axa needed help that they couldn't give. With a heavy heart, 18 agreed. "Fine. But we're not leaving her side. Not for a second."

Carefully, they gathered Axa's motionless form, her weight a testament to the gravity of their situation. Together, they stepped into the cool evening air, the weight of Axa's fate a heavy shroud upon their shoulders as they made their way to Capsule Corporation, and into the uncertain future that awaited them.

______________________________________________________________

More on Axa (Pronounced: Axe-e-ah or Ahh-x-ah)

*Apologies for inconsistent art styles. I utilized Art breeder. Unfortunately I don't see many resources to help create black!Ocs in consistent styles and diverse poses out there. If you know of any please let me know! As you continue reading the story imagine her in the DBZ art style. Thank you!*

____________________________________________________________

Taglist!

@thejadetrios @shytothemaxx @variousfandom @konekomews @physicallyherementallysomewhere @ikittybakugou345 @jasxnoamii @enderempresss16 @elliethewitch @carzychameleon @feitanii @hollownight @dragonloverdrawer @moonlight445sblog @yelan-butterpeatea @ringsofpersonti @weeb-boy261 @jkr820 @somehowexist @scrumptiouss007 @emajohn40 @justicetheghost @thirstyhoebutbetteryehsjsg @rasaberrygray @etherialblackrose @random-insomnia15 @deviousmunchkin @galaxys-stuff @bluehibiscusgarden @kunoichis-world @x-bakudeku-x @spectoralstrudel @i-wanna-fuck-monsters @interobanginyourmom @twdhtgawm @kkeidawrites

[jisokai]

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

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

part 5: but yours is my guide.

sero hanta x reader ch 5/6 | 22.3k words | masterlist | ao3 cw: more smut but it's very mild and also emotional, depictions of racism & microaggressions notes: meteor shower by owl city, walking in the wind by one direction

sero fell first; sero fell harder.

(my long overdue character study)

✰.

“Perhaps we know each other in the future and you’re only remembering backward.”

- Heartless, by Marissa Meyer

Sero is occasionally struck by a feeling he can’t describe. 

At first it occurs because he is a child, not yet able to translate his experiences into words: discomfort, elation, anger, sadness, amusement—they all strike him in various ways, pulling at his chest or his stomach or his skin. He reacts as anyone without a proper vocabulary would, with cries and frowns or grins and laughs. As he grows he learns their labels, remembers how they feel, accepts them and moves on. He learns how to share them with others. He knows that some will never be named, existing only as a cluster of sensations in his body—but that’s okay; he doesn’t always need to know.

However, there’s one in particular that he can never move on from.

It’s a recurring feeling—a special intensity that festers in his chest and radiates through his entire body, all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes—and yet with each visit he finds himself still baffled, still incapable of explaining it to anyone else. He thinks perhaps it’s too special to share, meant for him only, to chase and understand on his own terms.

The first time it strikes him is after he’s gifted a book from his oldest tío for his fifth birthday. Mamá suggests they read it together, since it’s targeted for a couple grades above. For the next few weeks they sit in the evenings and take turns sounding out the paragraphs, mamá helping him through the big words he learns on the spot. Those nights are warm, tender in her lap as they sway in a hammock through the late summer air—cradled by the buzzing of insects and distant howling of monkeys.

There in mamá’s arms is where Hanta meets Santi, Marco, and something burrowing deep deep inside his heart. It’s too much, like something standing over him that he can’t comprehend the size of, making him feel impossibly small, nearly nothing. Nearly dissolved from existence, and therefore everything.

It scares him, sends panic through his chest that he’s never felt before. All he can do is burst into tears. His mother stops reading, closing the book to ask Hanta what’s wrong.

He cries harder.

The second time he meets this terrifying emotion, is when his eyes first land on you.

“Hanta!” 

Early December in Ecuador is warm. The sky is clear in Quito, bright blue looming above with a light breeze rolling in, pushing fluffy clouds out of view. They disappear behind the buildings lining the streets, tall and towering over hot pavement, heat that seeps through the soles of Hanta’s thin sandals. He runs towards the street from the sidewalk, into the crowd of bodies, a smattering of colors from umbrellas raised to block the glare of the sun.

He’s suddenly yanked back, shirt bunched in the tight fist of his father. When he’s turned around, back towards the sidewalk, mamá’s hand slips into his.

“Don’t run off like that,” his father says gruffly, every syllable of Japanese roughly punctuated. Hanta nods beneath his gaze, grin not discouraged in the slightest.

The three of them shuffle along, trailing one of his tíos—mamá’s brother—who encouraged them to come spend the weekend at his place to catch parades and markets. It’s Hanta’s first time walking through the capital on his own legs, only knowing the jungle and ocean in the east for the first years of his life. He’s exhilarated to be surrounded by so many people, to see characters strutting through the streets beating drums or twirling in skirts. He gravitates towards it, wants to be part of it too.

But Hanta is five, and after two hours and four llapingachos, he’s on the verge of tears, head fuzzy from the noise and body slumped with exhaustion. He watches the performers with a pout and furrowed brow, admiration turned to jealousy the longer he’s forced to watch—only to watch. Mamá’s grip is stern over his hand, and his legs couldn’t carry him through the parade even if he managed to get there. Wetness pools under his irises, dancers smearing into blobs of white and red against the canvas of grey pavement.

He presses his face into the folds of mamá’s skirt, a soft yellow fabric that blots the water from his lashes. He grasps the cotton, almost ready to tug and whine for home. Then her leg shifts, hand landing against his back to press him close as she takes another step towards the street, and he calms for a second, her touch a balm to his irritation.

He leans with her as she cranes to get a better view, his small frame able to peek through the openings between people and see further down the road. The sight dams his emotions, walled by a newfound curiosity when he sees a group of feathered performers. His hands tighten, gripping the skirt as he waits for the figures to come closer. It’s a small group, only eight or so people in a practiced choreography. He’s able to make out some of the costumes—a parrot and a blue macaw, and what he assumes is a toucan.

The toucan grabs his attention: a small figure wrapped in black, the darkest of the birds. Another child, like him. You’re not the only kid—there’s an even smaller figure dressed in brown and red—but you’re the only dancer moving with nervous motions, or maybe half-hearted ones. You’re watching your abuela’s movements, as if copying them on the spot while you shuffle and wave your arms.

You’re nervous, but you’re out on the street, at the center of everyone’s—his—attention.

His stomach clenches in secondary nerves, rooting for you, hoping you can finish the performance cleanly. Suddenly you spin, arms circling above you and in sync with everyone else, and your gaze tears away from your grandmother. Instead you tilt your head back, face to the sun and fully exposed now that the beak is pulled away. You look excited, at ease.

When you complete the twirl, you’re a different person. A grin splits your face and you move with confident steps in tune with the pounding drums walking behind you. Hanta blinks, stomach unclenching while a new constriction grabs in his chest—one that reminds him of the feeling he has when he tells someone I miss you. His feet itch at the soles, begging to run forwards.

Your head turns, eyes meeting his. His breath catches, taken aback by your intensity. You’re both small in this crowd, less than half the height of everyone else, but under your gaze you’re the only two on this street—the only two in the entire world. 

Your hand drifts up to offer a small wave. Hanta inhales, pressing into mamá for just a second before he uncurls one fist and waves back. You smile, wide, and he—

He feels that intense, overwhelming feeling that still has no name. It floods his system without warning, seeping through his heart and stomach and limbs. It’s terrifying, shocking enough to freeze his body as he tries to figure out if he’s dissolving or expanding. It’s neither; it’s both.

And then you’re out of his view, passing further down the pavement to be obscured by the leg of a stranger. Hanta panics, jerking from his mother as he yearns to steal another look, and maybe your attention for one more second. He hears his mother’s voice, a confused call of his name as she reaches to stop him—for the second time that day. The restriction blooms a lump in his throat, heart galloping as he strains against her hold, face stinging with tears as that earlier overstimulation unpauses.

He cries, this time wailing with a face twisted in anger and pain and fear.

Hanta doesn’t see another Fiestas de Quito. The following December he’s in Japan, wrapping up the second term of first grade in Musutafu. Mamá agrees with otōsan that he should receive a Japanese education, where the schools are more competitive.

Hanta’s been to Japan before, on holiday to see his father’s side of the family. He knows festivals and shrines and how to wrap his own kimono just as well as any elementary schooler. Ojiisan and obāchan, his fathers parents, are always kind, their wrinkled hands spoiling him with sliced fruit and new linens. Sometimes his cousins visit, but they’re older than him—old enough that he has to crane his neck to make eye contact. Still, they’ll read with him sometimes, sounding the kanji he doesn’t know. One likes to do crafts, so they fold paper squares and string lanterns together when his parents leave for a nice dinner.

But school here is different. He’s no longer Hanta. In school he becomes Sero-san, an extension of his family—his father.

He’s different from most of the kids in his class, but only slightly. A girl compliments his eyes, the crease in the inner corner that makes them open wide, and the long lashes that frame them. A boy asks him why his parents let him go in the sun so much, pressing his arm against his to compare their skin tones, Hanta’s warmer and darker and speckled from days outside. The boy warns him about wrinkles and dark spots. At lunch the students ogle at his bento, asking about the beans next to his rice, and why his fish smells like that.

Hanta doesn’t mind the changes and the questions too much. He takes the comments in stride, not always able to read between the lines. He answers the best he can, and he moves on.

But sometimes the comments strike him. They hit a softness in his heart, bruises that he wants to curl inwards to shield.

“Sero-san, you shouldn’t ask things like that,” the class representative scolds.

Hanta frowns in confusion. “What? It’s just a question.” He probed about a classmate's mother—if she works at the conbini by his place. Mamá told him about it yesterday.

The girl—and alleged victim of his rudeness—watches him with a grimace. Is she embarrassed?

Another girl chimes in, with nicely curled hair. “Hey! He’s not from here, remember? Maybe he doesn’t know that it’s wrong yet.”

He frowns. What?

“Yeah, he’s just a foreigner.”

The comment is a punch to his stomach, leaving him breathless and nauseous. A foreigner? A gaijin: a word said with a particular tone, a connotation of annoyance. People who shouldn’t be here, inconveniences that clog the orderly busy cities.

“I’m Japanese,” he retorts. “My otōsan is from here. I—I’m speaking Japanese!”

Curly hair rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but you’re not really Japanese. You’re from Ecuador.”

Hanta has never had his identity pitted against itself like this before. In Sudamerica, the most he gets is a curious question, usually easily explained when he says his dad’s from Japan. Here it’s always side eyes, a whisper to a friend, never a confrontation, always something lingering around him unspoken. The questions and comments dancing around the topic of where he’s from, his eyes and his skin and his advantage in English class.

Hanta doesn’t know what to do.

So he does what he’s learned is failsafe for any situation. He turns to the first girl involved—his victim—and he bows at the hip, a flat apology on his tongue. It does the trick, like he knew it would, and he leaves to sit at his desk. 

That night in his room, under a brightly striped duvet, he frowns while staring at the ceiling. He longs for misty evenings and howling monkeys, and then he scowls at himself for his yearning—another reason his peers see him as different, not even as a hāfu—half japanese—but a gaijin. A foreigner entirely. An alien. He shifts, turning on his shoulder with sigh. Now he’s facing his bookshelf, the spine of his favorite book staring back at him. His face crumples, and he turns to lay on his opposite side.

He decides to bite his tongue moving forwards.

It only lasts a week.

The next time he gets scolded, it’s for speaking his mind unprompted, annoyed by another passing comment about his lunch. He can admit it was harsh, but the edge to his voice was compensation for the lack of reaction he gave comments earlier in the week. The boy across from him makes a face of surprise and then annoyance, and Hanta’s chest bubbles with an irritation he doesn’t feel often. In this moment he decides it’s even an Ecuadorian thing, this need to respond to people’s behavior when he doesn’t want to hear it. It’s a Sero-san thing. A Hanta thing.

Aside from the cultural tensions, he adjusts fairly easily, life pushed forwards by assignments and expectations. Sometimes he misses the ocean and the rainforest, but he sees them on holiday, and for most of summer break. In the meantime he searches for peace between his two worlds, split across the vastness of the Pacific. He finds it through that little black book tío gave him last year.

He doesn’t make it to another Fiestas de Quito, but you never leave his mind. On especially melancholy nights, when the cicadas buzz in sync through his window, he opens the spine under warm lamplight and whispers the story to himself. It takes him back, momentarily, to the warmth of Sudamerica and the starry sky of the remote coast. A faint brush of that overwhelming feeling sweeps over him in microdoses.

When he reads he thinks of you, wrapped in night-dark fabric that frames piercing eyes—only piercing for a moment between uncertainty and glee. He finds that when he reads, he reads from Santi’s view, Marco’s figure in the pond taking your eyes and smile. When Santi stretches the stars and weaves them together to pull himself through, Hanta feels that Marco’s touch is cool, like the water he lives in. He imagines Marco’s world is full of birds and bright colors, an adventure of flight and magic and memories.

He wonders if he’ll ever get to see you again.

That feeling carries him forwards, a compass through life. It leads him to the dancing club, where he starts to learn the boundaries of his own body. At the start of middle school he sees an advertisement for a circus show, flashing on the wall of the large department store his grandparents take him on weekends. His eyes turn to saucers, heart racing at the three figures on the screen—in sparkling bird costumes. He tugs at obāchan’s hand, begging to go, saying with his wide eyes that he doesn’t want any clothes or shoes or toys. He just wants to see that.

Grandparents cave in easily, discipline leaving them when the child isn’t their own. So they agree, buying the clothes and shoes and toys too. When a few weekends pass, he sits starry-eyed in his seat at the story before him, the closest thing to magic he’s ever seen. For a few minutes, long silks fall from the ceiling, a white fabric that turns purple under the darklight, and that gut wrenching, full force, overwhelming feeling slams straight into his chest.

Grandparents cave in easily, so when Hanta asks to start lessons and his dad coldly disagrees, they’re the ones to respond to his teary eyes and sniffles. Obāchan coos and turns to her son sternly, asking why he has to be so harsh to a child. They argue, above Hanta, as he sits sadly and quietly. Mamá takes him to the kitchen and peels a mandarin to help calm him down, placing the little slices in his palm. They’re tangy, flavor slightly different from the green-peeled oranges in Ecuador. He likes them a little more.

When ojiisan and obāchan say goodbye, warm hands cup Hanta’s cheeks. Obāchan leans to say goodbye with a cheeky smile that Hanta doesn’t feel like returning. 

The next weekend he’s still subdued, quiet when the grandparents drop by. They tell him to get in the car, but Hanta doesn’t want to go out today. He says he doesn’t want anything, that he’d rather stay at home and read or fold those little paper cranes. Ojiisan smiles, and says they’re going somewhere new—a surprise.

It’s a half hour drive, to a building that looks like a warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Hanta frowns in confusion, from the car to the bare, grey front. Ojiisan pulls him along by the hand, gently pushing the door so Hanta can enter first. There’s a person standing behind a counter, adjacent to a wall of square lockers and a wide doorway to the next room. Through the opening he can see unfinished walls, scaffolding stretching tall, a concrete floor.

Hanta runs forward when his eye catches a tall armature, long metal poles extended at an angle, a small bar at the top where a long length of silk is rigged. Ojiisan laughs at his reaction, a sweet and light sound, hand holding him back from making his way into the other room. Hanta turns to his grandfather, his sweet and wrinkled face, and grins happily. He turns around, small arms wrapping around one of the old man’s legs, face pressing into the outside of his thigh. Hanta feels warm, and small.

The Saturday visits with the grandparents become weekly aerial lessons, easily what Hanta looks forward to the most every week. His teacher—Saeko-sensei—says he’s tall for his age, normally a disadvantage in acrobatics, but he has a head start with his flexibility from the dancing club. She says he’s strong too, likely from his time in the ocean. 

Every Saturday at these lessons, that special feeling returns. He feels at home in the warehouse, surrounded by other acts and students—ranging from his age to mamá’s—but he rarely has the chance to talk to them. The most he gets is a passing hello, or an encouraging compliment from the older crowd. Regardless they liven the space, populate the other props: a spinning lyra, a set of springboards, the bars and blocks of a handstand table, trapeze bars with a net that spans the back of the room. Hanta has the chance to play around on the other acts, but his attention doesn’t hold, returning shortly to the wide strings hanging above the mat. The brush of silk against his fingers and wrists ignites a tingle across his skin. Every movement fans the flames in his chest, both in fear and awe, from suspending himself at heights he’s never known before.

He improves quickly according to Saeko-sensei. He learns how to hold himself securely while stalking up the fabric, and then to wrap himself and unravel. It’s a slow process, only once a week. But Hanta does what he can at home, taking his stretches seriously and practicing wraps with one of mamá’s forgotten scarves.

After a couple months, he exchanges his first words with the other kid his age: a quiet, very Japanese boy. His hair is two different colors, reminding Sero of a candy cane, and a scar marks his face, the deep red of only recent healing. He normally practices with a boy sporting similar features—just no scar and two blue eyes, and hair mixed red and white in a different way—on the springboards, timing their soaring jumps and falls so the other can twist and spin in the air from the momentum. Hanta watches them and wishes he had a partner sometimes, too. He looks up the length of silk and wonders who might be on the other end. If it’s Marco, or the Marco he imagines—who looks like you.It’s only a passing exchange, a sorry when Hanta accidentally bumps into him by the lockers. The boy only grunts in response. Hanta brims with questions, wanting to ask for his name, about his scar, if that other boy is his brother. He’s about to open his mouth, to ask the first question, when he walks away. Hanta deflates.

The boy talks to him eventually. It happens at the start of second year when Hanta’s at the gym for the first time in months, having been in Ecuador for the summer.

“You should quit,” are his first words.

Hanta frowns. “Why?”

“You’re not gonna get good fast enough if you can only come once a week,” he reasons bluntly. Sero blinks at the words, not used to this confrontation in Japan. “You should tell whoever’s making you do this that it’s a waste of time.”

He blinks and tilts his head as he takes in the words. Good? Hanta just wants to do it; there’s no question of whether he’s good or bad. “I like it,” is his only response.

The boy frowns. “You like it?”

Hanta nods happily. “Yeah. Do you not like it?”

Mismatched eyes—one a stormcloud and one the sky—avert from his, looking towards the springboards. “Not really.”

“Oh,” he doesn’t know what to say. “You should try another one, then.”

He shakes his head. “I already have. Springboards are on the weekend but I have to do staff on Monday and Wednesday, and balancing on—”

“You get to practice every day?” Hanta asks, bewildered. And extremely envious, a feeling that claws at his chest and stomach.

But the boy frowns, eyes sharpening into a glare. Hanta thinks he asked too much again. He quiets, jealousy pooling in the silence. No scolding comes his way.

He lets his gaze slip back to the half-colored boy, saying before he can stop himself, “I’m Sero.”

Blue and grey eyes stare intensely, almost piercing right through him. He’s reminded of a gaze shrouded in black, a parade in the clear blue sky on hot pavement. A tingle of that mysterious feeling buzzes in his chest. He thinks it means that he needs to hold onto this boy and keep him close.

“Todoroki.”

Sero grins.

Hanta learns that Todoroki is actually very sweet and a good friend. He just has trouble talking to kids his age, something about his dad never letting him have friends. But he and Hanta talk when they can at practice, small flurries of conversation on break—ones that bring a mutual twinkle to their eyes. Hanta learns that the other boy is Touya, that they’re brothers, and that Shouto wishes they could be normal brothers. Instead they train together, against each other, every day. Touya has more natural talent for the staff, an act Shouto hates. But the older eldest’s body is fragile, and especially can’t handle the other training their dad forces on them. At least, not as well as Shouto can.

Hanta wishes they could hang out after practice like other kids get to do. He wants to have a sleepover, the kind he hears snippets of when he tunes into his peers’ conversations. Instead he brings manga he thinks Shouto would like, for him to enjoy in secret. They talk about the books quietly and just for minutes each practice, but Hanta thinks it’s enough.

And when Shouto gives his volume back one day with a timid and unexpected, “Gracias,” Hanta grins so wide his vision blurs.

It’s enough.

Over a decade later, Hanta has trouble fathoming how his life came to be: here, with Hoshi no Sākasu and ‘Roki and Touya. It’s a commonly asked question—What brought you here?—an easy icebreaker, a way to give common ground to everyone in the show. When Hanta is probed, he doesn’t have an answer. All he can think is that he lived. He lived day to day doing what needed to get done, and then left the rest to that funny feeling in his heart.

“You’re kind of a strange one, huh?” the pink haired girl asks—Mina, he remembers.

The comment feels a little like being in grade school, questions about his eyes and his skin and his lunch. He doesn’t feel strange, he just feels like himself.

Mina trails on before he can say anything. “Good thing you ended up here!” It’s punctuated with a laugh, and that’s the end of it. 

He finds a home in the circus. It’s a place where people embrace making a spectacle of themselves—an outlet for their differences that are also their strengths—all the while charging admission. People are themselves here, not blanketed by social norms and the mainstream. There’s a guy with ashen blond hair who speaks more abrasive than Hanta ever has, yet most responses are laughs or teasing words. And when Sero sighs and makes a return comment before he can stop himself, another blond—bright blond, electric—cackles and slaps his back as if to say good one.

Hanta feels warm with these people, welcomed. 

The circus, however, is also sort of unusual—more magic than it isn’t. The acts people here can pull off are beyond anything he ever thought possible. He squints in disbelief when he hears about the sequences planned, that the main tent only needs a night to be assembled. But he believes in magic, or some principle parallel to it. He learns to trust himself and those around him and their shared vision to make something beautiful, together.

The first show he’s a part of is an adapted retelling of The Tale of Genji. It’s a dramatized, overtly mystified version where the silk aerialists are meant to mimic the swirling strokes of calligraphy, him and Tokoyami strung one in front of the other so when they move, the audience can catch brief moments where kanji is legible through their stacked bodies. Tokoyami asks if it’s actually possible. Hanta just hopes he doesn’t have to hold poses the whole time.

“Man, your style is really something.”

Sero blinks at the words as he untangles himself at the end of a practice session. He turns to Kirishima. “Huh?”

The redhead grins. “It’s like, so different from the typical performances, y’know? Usually it’s about speed or drops or poses, but—dude the way you move is insane.”

He wouldn’t know. There was only one rig at the gym, only one person performing at a time, so all he knew was his own practice sessions. Saeko pushed him when it came to technical skills, the speed and drops and poses he assumes Kirishima alludes to. But when he eventually wrangled rides with Shouto during the week, he would rent the rig without coaching. Most of his time was spent freestyle, learning the intricacies of how the silk and his body could improvise together rather than learning new skills. Shouto calls it a flow, the same thing Touya can achieve with his staff. Sero doesn’t understand the distinction.

Their next show is a story about birds.

When Hanta hears the news he freezes, body and mind on pause while he tries to digest the words. 

“Birds?” he finally croaks out carefully. 

Todoroki remains deadpan at his tone. “Yeah, the animals.”

Hanta splutters, “I know what birds are.”

Todoroki’s face doesn’t change.

He pouts. “I’m just… I guess I’m surprised.”

“It is different from our current show, but it makes sense; we have a lot of aerial acts.” Shouto continues when Hanta doesn’t reply, “They want to include a short opera performance. I think it’s going to be a European-focused tour. Kendou’s talking about commissioning a dress.”

Sero’s used to this, getting the details early from Shouto, since his dad is the lead executive of the company. 

“Kendou proposed commissioning someone else?” He can’t imagine it—she’s normally one of the most protective over the Hoshi no Sākasu identity. 

“No. It was suggested by the marketing team.”

Hanta hums. That makes more sense. Suggestions from the marketing team are orders.

“They plan to put Midoriya on the research team, since he keeps coming to training.”

“Sounds like him.” Their friend is supposed to be on break for the week, for his strained arms. Instead he’s come in extra to train on the springboards. Hanta can sympathize, his daily practices a necessary part of staying sane. “Do you think it’ll work?”

Shouto shakes his head. “He’s going to be tired on top of overtraining, from staying up all night.”

Hanta laughs. He can picture it easily, Midoriya furiously typing and scrolling through articles. It’s a common joke that his roommates on tour are the poor victims of relentless fanboying—whether it’s watching old shows, scrolling through acrobats’ social media, or endless muttering, whoever shares a room with him either has to be a deep sleeper or equally obsessive.

Sero bunked with him once, before understanding he should never do it again. He prefers a quiet space where he can read in silence. Shouto is his usual choice—sometimes they’ll bring the same manga and discuss it in low voices—but he also appreciates the unpredicted peace that comes with sharing a room with Bakugou, or the steady darkness of Tokoyami’s presence when they’re alone. It’s part of the profession—one that forces people closer than comfortable for extended lengths of time—to constantly be confronted by unexpected knowledge of the cast. He’s also sometimes met with surprising information about his already friends—Shouto who happily lays beside Midoriya as they watch performances through the night, adding his own remarks.

Hanta grins as he thinks about his friend—how he’s changed and grown throughout the years. He’s still blunt and honest Shouto, but one who leans easily into his friends, opens up when things are hard. He’s Shouto who pays attention to others, so he can take care of them. He’s Shouto, voice trailing on quietly with unwavering faith in Midoriya, to find a way to make it work in the end.

Hanta is stepping into an early iteration of his costume when Midoriya bursts in. Kendou pulls the zipper up the back as the curly haired boy exclaims, “I think I found someone!”

“Already?” she asks.

Midoriya sets his computer on one of the dressing tables, sifting through a window with endless tabs. 

“I found a designer! Someone who goes by Verde and specializes in opera gowns, but has a background in parade costumes. They’re from Latin America originally, but are now based in Milan—it’s too perfect! They say they’re a huge fan of the circus and take a lot of inspiration from Cirque du Soleil, so their style is suitable. I haven’t found many interviews, but it looks like most of their personal projects are birds. And they’re incredible. The way they use fabric is so interesting, and they’re an expert at sewing—their work is very detailed—”

He flicks through the tabs as he talks, showing works ranging from classy gowns to chaotic costumes. Hanta notices a lot of green. There’s an inexplicable feeling blooming in his chest, familiar.

“Wow Midoriya, you’re really good at this,” Kendou muses.

He grins sheepishly, lifting a hand to rub the back of his reddening neck. “Aha yeah, I got lost in the research. This artist just seems so cool! I think if we contact them soon we could definitely have a chance. They work independently at the moment, so we wouldn’t be fighting a company for their time.”

Midoriya steps aside as Kendou flickers through the tabs, eyes lingering on the costume images. Hanta’s follow, and he can’t help but note that they’re different from what he remembers seeing in Quito. These costumes focus on silhouette, shapes carving through the air in deliberate angles and curves. The details are more particular, and they have a grittiness when you look close, despite reading as regal and opulent from a distance.

When Kendou lands on a social media page, she drags her fingers against the mousepad to look through the posts. It’s primarily a mixture of long gowns and occasional feathered costumes. She clicks on the thumbnail of two birds—one red and one green. The sight causes that tingle in Hanta’s chest and arms to intensify. They look familiar somehow, not just because they’re clearly macaws, but their shapes—or maybe the details ring somewhere in his memory. The caption is in Spanish, and Kendou hits the translate button before he can intervene, roman letters becoming a mix of Hiragana and Kanji.

“Where in Latin America are they from?” he asks.

“Costa Rica.”

Hanta hums, ignoring the stroke of disappointment in his chest.

That disappointment is long gone when only an hour later he’s blinking at Shouto, in surprise and excitement. “You want to read Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda?” 

Shouto nods, a curt gesture. “I’d like to make more of an effort to practice my Spanish.” He pauses, mismatched eyes narrowing. “And I’d like to get to know that part of you, even if it’s quite delayed.”

Hanta could cry from the gesture. An earnest grin crosses his face. “‘Roki, that—I really appreciate that, thanks. I’d love to read it with you, I… I love reading that book out loud, with others.”

Shouto only nods in response.

Sero hums. “It’d probably help to practice some more first, so you have the vocabulary. I mean, I can explain as we read, but it’d probably be more enjoyable to not be interrupted so much.” He recalls sitting in mamá’s lap and sounding out the words as a child. “Well, it’ll be fun either way. But we should do it when we have the free time.”

Shouto hums, eyes darting in thought. “What if we waited until the start of the tour? We will have plenty of time while traveling.”

“Oh! That’s a good idea,” Hanta says, brightening. “Are you okay waiting that long? That’s more than half a year out. It’ll be more than enough time for you to practice, though.”

The edges of Shouto’s lips quirk upwards. “It would be most fitting, to read it on tour.”

Hanta recognizes this tone, a playful jab referencing the many late nights before a show flipping through a book he’s read dozens of times. He can’t help reaching for it, safely tucking it in his bag, when Hoshi no Sākasu leaves Japan. It gives him a similar feeling to the circus, of magic and impossibility.

Hanta smiles. His cousins and friends never understood his attachment, why he still clings to the book like a lifeline. Shouto won’t either, most likely, but he and Hanta have been trading books for years—enough to understand each other and how they think about their favorite media. Hanta trusts Shouto with this, to take it seriously and recognize what it means to him. To attempt to genuinely understand him.

For the first time in years, Hanta reads Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda aloud—in the Tokyo Haneda airport. He and Shouto sit against the wall, switching readers every few pages. Hanta gets to introduce the story and the setting of Colombia, while Shouto is the one who meets Santi’s family.

“Wait,” Sero stops him after reading the mother’s dialogue. “You aren’t gonna do a little voice for her?”

“Huh?” 

“You know, like make your voice high pitched or something, so we know it’s mamá.”

Red and white eyebrows furrow. “It says who spoke in the text afterwards. Why do I need to do a voice?”

Hanta hums, leaning his head against the wall. “Nevermind, it was just part of the fun when I was a kid.”

Shouto trains his eyes on Sero for another moment before picking up where he left off. The next line of quotes is Santi’s father. He clears his throat before speaking, attempting to lower his voice several pitches.

Hanta immediately bursts into laughter, mostly from surprise. He has to breathe deeply, to calm himself.

“Did I not do it right?”

“Wait no—” another fit of giggles rushes through him. “No, that was pretty good. I didn’t expect that.”

Shouto just nods, and continues with a stern face. Hanta bites down the next fit of laughs that threaten to surface. He relishes this bubbly feeling in his chest as he listens to Shouto read, raising and lowering his voice as he personifies Santi and his family. Hanta feels warm, on the floor of the Tokyo Haneda airport.

Milan is cold, similar to Japan at the beginning of the year. The city has an old, historic feeling, one that deeply contrasts the modern jungle of Tokyo. Half the streets are laid with black cobblestone, patterned in arches, or the scales of a fish. The buildings are ornate, beige and plastered with divots and curls, corinthian columns next to the spires of cathedrals. The language is reminiscent of home in Ecuador, with a slight shift in pronunciation and words that he nearly understands. When he tunes into the conversations of others he can intuit what they’re saying, but he has no idea how to construct his own response.

The show top stands tall the next day and no one bats an eye. The crew runs through the show in full, smoothing out the timing for transitions and props. Shinsou takes Aizawa’s place when he leaves to pick up the costume designer.

Near the end of their session, the producer passes through the curtain, Momo and Kendou trailing behind him. There are several rounds of reactions, cooing and praise as everyone takes in Momo’s appearance. Hanta blinks at the sight, deep red against pale skin, the array of feathers that line the shape of her head. She twirls to show off the mechanics of the dress, that dark fabric lifting to expose bright white beneath.

“Aw! You’re so pretty Momo!” Mina exclaims, running to give her an excited hug.

Hanta doesn’t register the conversation that follows, eyes trained on the ruffles and the beak and the beads sewn into the bust and torso. He hasn’t seen this style of costume before, one uniquely yours, but it makes him feel that special way, tingles all over his body. The way Santi and the parade and Shouto make him feel.

“Where’s the designer?” Shouto’s question jostles him from his thoughts.

“And Midoriya,” Kirishima adds.

Kendou grins. “Lunch! We sent them away.”

“Man, why does Midoriya get to skip all this stuff?” Denki whines, then darts nervous eyes to Aizawa.

“Midoriya deserves his fanboy moment after all his help. Besides, we’re willing to do anything to keep him from straining himself before the show.”

Sero has to reign himself in as he listens to them talk. A tightness clenches his chest and stomach, a mix of jealousy and urgency. Jealousy? He wonders, unsure why he would be envious. It’s a possessive jealousy, one focused on the fact that Midoriya’s with you—where Hanta should be instead. He frowns to himself; what gives him the justification to feel this way? He doesn’t even know you.

But that feeling doesn’t leave him. His eyes trail back to Momo’s dress. He wonders if it has to do with the earlier tingling in his being—at the sight of the gown.

“Fuck this. Why’s mine the most fuckin’ stupid?”

Kaminari laughs, a loud and bubbly sound. His shoulders shake as he wheezes and clutches his stomach. “Who did that? Kendou? God, I hope she gets a raise.”

The angry blond grunts, almost growls as he reaches for the other, hands aiming for Denki’s neck. The movement jostles the ends of his hat, lengths that stretch out around him in floppy cones topped with bells. The jingling probes more laughter, harder laughter, the blond swaying out the way just in time to miss Bakugou’s fists.

“Why’s it so… bright?” Kirishima adds, eyes trailing the saturated green and orange stripes along Bakugou’s hat, the purple on his ruffled collar, the patchwork of his shirt.

“Yeah, and why’d Hanta get an actual color palette?”

Sero frowns in confusion. “It’s just black?”

“Exactly!” Kaminari exclaims. “Kacchan looks like he’s auditioning for Beetlejuice and I look like I drew my clothes out of a hat.”

“I guess he does have a strange mix of clothing styles,” Kirishima muses, eyes trailing from Hanta’s pants to his shirt.

“Everyone shut the fuck up,” Bakugou interjects, pulling the hat from his head and tossing it on the ground. “I’m not fuckin’ wearin’ this. Tell ‘em extras someone else can ‘ave that shit.” He storms off.

“Katuski!” The redhead calls, following dutifully and leaving Kaminari and Sero behind.

The taller grins, watching the redhead try to stop the blond. Denki giggles again, recalling the sight and sound of Bakugou in costume. 

They leave as a pair, bumping into Shouto by the exit. He’s sporting a clown collar similar to Bakugou’s, swallowing his shoulders. It’s topped with a rounded woven hat for rice farming. Kaminari complains that he makes it work—even with the addition of Akado pants, flared at the thighs and wrapped around his calves. Sero invites him to join, but his friend declines in favor of waiting for Touya.

So Denki and Hanta roam the markets together, a pair of clowns in uniform. They mostly wave and smile at curious passersby, and occasionally take a photo or talk about the show starting tomorrow.

“Italians are nice,” Kaminari comments as they turn through another column of stalls. “But kind of intense… and loud.”

Hanta hums noncommittally, eyes trailing tables and shelves with products and food on display. His finger draws along a length of satin, lost in bright turquoise with swirls of yellow. The humming of strings waves through his ears, letting him phase out of the busyness of the festival for a brief moment. When he tunes back to his surroundings, Denki is gone. Hanta glances around unhurriedly, curious to where his friend wandered. Instead of looking for him, he continues down the line of vendors.

He turns through the next row, approaching the rattling of a tambourine, paired with fast notes on the accordion. They hum through the alley of tents, pulling him closer like a tug on his chest. He succumbs happily, gliding towards the open plaza. People walk by, holding street food and drinks and bags, and he weaves through their bodies as best he can. He's stopped for a picture that he happily accepts, crouching to match the height of the older woman. She holds her phone out to take a selfie, and the shake of the camera prompts Sero to take it instead. He holds it further away, steadily and smiling as his eyes return to the screen as he presses the button and—

You. You're standing in his periphery.

Hanta doesn't know how the picture turns out, distracted as he returns the phone and waves goodbye. Instead his eyes float to you: a smear of green in his vision, dancing merrily by the musicians. Your hand is holding a young girl—for a moment he wonders if she's yours—and you're stepping rhythmically from side to side, at a beat that doesn't match the music at all.

The scene lights something inside of his chest—something intense and overwhelming as it radiates down his torso and arms. The costume you're wearing… surely it’s you, the designer for Momo's dress. That bright chartreuse with feathers and swoops of fabric, they’re unmistakable even if he's only seen the glimpses from your social media. And your dancing—he knows that pattern, the forwards and backwards steps of salsa, obvious when paired with the sway of your hips. They only last a moment before you're matching the girl's movements, eventually coming to a still when the song ends. He watches as the kid scurries off, and suddenly he's stalking forwards, entering your path as you take a step and bump into him.

His heart constricts at the proximity, the brush of your bodies in contact, and then it squeezes again when you tell him, “Sorry.”

But that special, indescribable feeling is still there, growing stronger in his chest. He wants to dance with you, to see you move with someone who can match your steps. When he slides against you in the sensual glide of bachata, there are no nerves plaguing his heart—just glee.

Your skin has a chill, the breeze of winter air. But it warms him, ignites fire in the hand clutching yours, prickles of heat raining down his shoulder when you grasp it. He notices your fingers are calloused, a rough bump on your thumb and index finger. The detail makes you feel real. Hanta feels so light he thinks he’ll start floating to the stars. 

You move with him, fluid steps and rolls of your hips. It's perfectly timed, completely in sync despite the syncopation of the music. Your laughter is another instrument, another melody to guide him. Hanta’s warm, alive, in this moment. His hands trail to your shoulders experimentally to see if you’ll catch his signal.

You do.

When you drop into his touch, letting him hold your shoulders while you spin, a spark runs through his chest—a new feeling. This one is a pool in his stomach, a flaming heat that takes over his face. He wants to be closer, to pull you into his chest and run his hand down your spine, slotting your head against his heart and your legs entangled in his own. He wants to hold you there forever.

You laugh again, head tilted to the sky while your mouth splits your face beneath your beak and the black night, and Hanta thinks he’s six again, watching a show that expands the edges of everything he knew, making him feel so small and impossibly infinite all at once. Hanta is six again, watching you bring your head back down and twirl, this time with a hand in yours as it trails to press into your neck. He wants to cup his hand around it and pull you in, to press his face against yours—and maybe even your lips.

It’s you, right? Hanta is new to this desire running through him, but this other feeling… he knows this buzzing, knows it deeply and intimately even if he’ll never be able to name it. He wants to ask you, wants to indulge the many questions bubbling in his throat. Was it you in Quito? Surely—you as the toucan with your dancing and your smile. The words sit there, waiting against his tongue as his body lulls with the music. His heart hammers in his chest, face heating while he fishes for the words. What should he do? What should he say? What should—

“Yo! Hanta!!”

Sero grimaces, eyes begrudgingly tear from you to Denki. His heart skips a beat as it continues to race. You take a step back and he thinks no, no, no. An urgency floods his veins, one that finds himself clutching onto you as you try to part from him. Your face is twisted in confusion and he wants to let everything out somehow. There are no words he can muster, only a silent plea trying to communicate itself through his eyes trained on yours. Can you feel what he feels? Do you understand?

Denki waves him over. He has to go, but he doesn't want to let you go. Not when he feels like he's finally found something he's been unknowingly searching for. 

Not when you’re still looking at him like he’s a stranger.

He holds your hand for one more moment, between both of his as his mind wanders briefly. You’ll be back, he’s sure of it. There’s no need to rush. The night has only started; he can come back to you. His heart hurts when he finally releases your hand.

So he lets you go without asking anything—just a quiet thank you. His eyes bounce back to Denki, the blond waiting with a mirthful grin. Your hand falls to your side, eyes curiously trained on him. Good, he thinks. Please remember me.

When you barely whisper that you’ll see him around, that special feeling grows, blooms from deep within him, compounded by this aching desire. He knows that your paths will cross again.

Denki’s still grinning when Sero finally meets him. “Dude, I did not know you could dance. What the hell!?”

“What? I’ve invited you to social dancing at least ten times.”

The blond pouts. “I didn’t know you were working like that. Can I come next time? Please? Why do you never pull those moves when we go out?”

Sero rolls his eyes. “Because bars and clubs don’t play the right music? What’d you call me for?”

“Oh! We’re rounding up at Satou's stall. Kendou said it’d only be a minute, so you can go back to serenading your stranger.”

While Denki drags him by the wrist, Hanta takes a final look back. He only catches your back, the feathered shoulders and cape-like wings. You don’t turn to meet his gaze.

When the short debriefing with the staff is over and he hurries back to the cluster of musicians, you’ve disappeared.

“Illusion tents?” Momo asks the next morning.

Hanta nods, eyes wide with hope. He couldn’t sleep last night, mind racing with thoughts of you—thinking of ways to get your attention, to notice him. “Yeah like… a space where someone could walk in and experience a whole story laid out for them. Maybe something based on memories, something to try and trigger a connection.”

He wants to make something special—for you.

Dark eyebrows raise in confusion. “That’s… quite vague.”

He frowns. “I don’t have the full picture myself, but I have some ideas.”

“Sero… Who is this for?”

A long pause settles between them before he answers. “I think… I think I know the costume designer. But I’m not sure. I just—I want to see if they know me too. And… I want to do something for them. Something beautiful and meaningful, even if they aren’t who I think they are.”

Momo blinks, and then nods. “If you can come up with a clear design, I’ll do it.”

His face brightens. “Really? Thank you Momo, so much. I can come back in a couple hours with some ideas?”

She grins. “I should thank you—I’ve been wanting the chance to do something in return for them. Besides, we want them—for Hoshi no Sākasu. Maybe we can sway them with a personal show.”

Hanta’s eyes grow with surprise. He hadn’t heard about that. Was Shouto aware? “Wait—they’re joining us?” he asks, voice heavy with anticipation.

She grunts in denial. “Kendou asked yesterday; they seem interested but unsure. I haven’t heard the details, so I don’t know what their reservations are.”

You, traveling with them and working on the costumes back in Japan—the thought brings a twitch to Hanta’s lips. He presses his fist against them in an effort to contain his reaction. His chest is tight at the idea of seeing you almost daily, getting to work beside you. You and Shouto and the silks.

An hour before the show he stalks into Momo’s trailer. Kendou is there too, already filled in on the situation. She watches eagerly as Sero hurries through the door and approaches the table, pulling out a few pieces of paper folded in his pocket. They’re sketches, marked with crude and unsure strokes, but clear enough to get the main ideas across. Momo nods and hums as she listens to him explain his visions for the next few days.

“I can work with that, and the time we have,” she says. Sero exhales gently with relief. “They’ll be on the spot, and any gaps will be naturally filled in with my own imagination.”

“That’s fine, I’m sure anything you can execute will be perfect.”

Kendou hums in agreement. “These sound really interesting,” she adds. “There are still two more days of the festival, though.”

Hanta nods. “I have some ideas, but want to think about them a little longer.”

“It’s fine,” Momo interjects, waving dismissively. “As long as you tell me the day before and give me visuals like these, I can make it work.”

A lifesaver, Sero thinks. And a genius. “You’re the best,” he says. “Truly.”

She laughs. “I know, I know. Now put those away and leave unless you want to spoil the surprise.”

He glances at the time, realizing you must be coming any minute, and folds the papers back into his pocket. One final gratitude slips from him as he stands to leave.

There’s a knock on the door.

A matching knock thumps through his chest, heart racing at the assumption that you’re on the other end—Aoyama would have simply burst in. His wide eyes dart to Momo’s in surprise. She gives him a look, one that asks him what he’s waiting for. He steps forward slowly, hand hovering over the knob. 

Knowing that it’s you doesn’t prepare him for actually seeing you: you with a giant fluff of feathers wrapped around your neck—black and soft and breezing against your skin. Little clumps of snow stick to the edges, and against your hair. He wants to pluck them out and runs his hands through the strands, pulling your face close. He stands tall, a few steps above you, unable to withhold whatever embarrassing expressions are likely flashing across his face. You’re cute, and you look happy to be waiting there, clutching a paper bag against your chest. 

When you speak he has to reel himself back in. Yes, you’re seeing each other again—already. He wants to say something, anything, but the words don’t come out. Kendou intervenes for him, introducing you after you brush by to enter. He nearly shivers at the contact, you and cool air wafting in. His shoulder tingles, a familiar feeling overwhelming him. He grins at the sight of you, not fighting the joy as he finally says something.

“Nice to meet you properly.” Is that lame? Shouldn’t he say something… more?

“Sero was just about to get ready,” Momo interjects before you respond. 

His face falls, not wanting to go when you only just arrived. He pouts at the longing in his chest, a sinking weight, but Momo’s commanding expression is persistent—eyes not faltering as they glance from him to Kendou. He sighs.

“Yeah, I was on my way out,” he manages honestly. He doesn’t know what face he’s making as he leaves, too honest to contain it.

You send him off with a wave and an offering of one of your little sandwiches. It’s a small gesture, one he takes greedily. He pulls a tramezzini with prosciutto, lips tugging into a frown as the door closes behind him. He’s not a fan of cured meat. He eats it anyway.

He closes his eyes when he reaches the bottom of the steps, inhaling sharp cold air into his lungs. He holds the breath in his cheeks, palms cradling his own face. Enough time passes for Aoyama to appear, bumping Hanta aside to enter the trailer. He moves to let the holographic blond pass, shoving his hands into his pockets as he cranes his neck to the sky. 

Snowflakes dot his vision, slowly falling through muted blue. When they touch the skin of his face, feather-light, they’re akin to hesitant fingertips tracing curiously. He thinks of you and your cold skin, callused hand in his.

“Sero-kun?”

Midnight eyes fall to the horizon, then the freckled man before him. Hanta hums.

“Is everything okay? You’re… I’ve never seen you cry before.”

Hanta blinks in surprise, the wetness along his lashes not noticeable before. He gently wipes the skin, smearing the rapidly cooling tears against his cheeks.

“Yeah,” he manages, voice tinged with a rasp. “I’m just overwhelmed, I think. And a little confused.”

He grins at Midoriya, an earnest smile. His friend looks at him skeptically. Hanta laughs and walks toward the main tent, where Midoriya will be getting ready soon.

“You never get weird before a performance,” his friend persists. He follows Sero closely as they reach the entrance.

Hanta doesn’t have a response, settling for a shrug. He urges Midoriya to get on with his costume and makeup, assuring that he’s fine despite his unusual behavior. Curious green eyes don’t leave him, darting back to Sero even after the show starts and he begins his warm up.

Hanta doesn’t get nervous before a show, usually one of the most calm of the cast, all relaxed smiles. Going on stage is no different than entangling himself in practice—it’s just him and the silks, always.

Except for now, because you are in the audience. There’s a new tightness in his chest at the thought of you watching him, seeing him. But he’s learned to trust himself—himself and those around him and their shared vision. This is the first show for Gōyoku, but it will be beautiful and magical and everything Hanta’s ever chased.

Something in his stomach clenches when he sees Monoma strut backstage. His neck is wrapped in the fluff of black feathers, grin stretched wide as he proclaims he’s already stolen the show. Hanta’s mind races. Did Monoma touch you—take it without your permission? An ugliness burrows inside him, the one that first appeared when he heard of your lunch with Midoriya. His chest flares with the claim that he should be the one to with your boa, to have something from you.

Hanta speaks his mind, but he can also recognize that this is different from the honest nature within him. This is something irrational and possessive and ugly. The words don’t surface, a tamed righteousness. His fist tightens from the need to redirect his anger. He exhales.

When he finally enters the stage and sits under bright lights, he returns to confidence and ease. He scans through the crowd, meaning only to do a quick survey, but his eyes are drawn to you. Even without the boa he knows it’s you—it has to be. You’re a speck of white in the crowd, tinted purple from the blacklights. His heart tightens as your eyes stare back. Will you watch him? Will you see him?

Black silk falls—his blanket of safety—and he nearly smiles as he reaches for it.

This performance, he is entirely in his element. The silk wraps around him perfectly, smooth fabric that works as an extension of his body. He’s entirely unrushed, in euphoric focus as he wraps and unravels himself, gliding through his routine. He is nearly swimming through it—through air and threads and the darkness of the night, swimming through stars and dust and everything there ever was. He feels closer to you, held right against you, completely taken by that incredibly overwhelming sensation—that buzzing in his entire body. 

You watch him the whole time, really watch him. He knows without having to check, but everytime his eyes drift to yours, they are trained on him. A deep satisfaction roots into his chest at the end, at knowing he was able to show you something beautiful.

He nearly skips backstage when the act concludes, despite the fatigue.

“Midoriya told me that you cried earlier.”

He groans at Shouto’s voice, steps faltering. “Dude, at least let me sit first.”

Shouto’s eyes widen as he pauses and nods. Blue and grey watch closely as Sero grabs his water before sinking into one of the cushions.

“You cried earlier,” he repeats.

Hanta laughs this time, tilting his head against the seat. “Not really. I just got lost in thought.”

“Thoughts that make you cry?”

He smiles gently. “I’m okay. Sometimes it just happens.”

Shouto pauses. He stands quietly before saying, “You know you can talk to me, if you need.”

Hanta nods. “Of course I do.”

Shouto nods back, a curt gesture.

Hanta can’t withhold his grin, ever appreciative of his friend’s straightforward care. He catches the slight quirk of Shouto’s lips—and knows exactly what it means.

He excitedly debriefs with the others after the show—animated conversation with Mina and Monoma, Bakugou standing with a scowl to the side. Monoma is just beginning a monologue about the details of his enthralling performance, prompting Bakugou to leave, when Mina’s eyes light as she points excitedly.

“Oh, cutie spotted! With Deku!”

Hanta turns towards her gesture, eyes locking onto your form. His heart races with surprise, not realizing you would be coming backstage. But then that possession seeps back inside his chest, claws piercing right through it. You’re standing with Midoriya—closely, and talking with excited gestures. Your eyes are shining with delight and Midoriya matches your energy with his rapid speech. The envy catches him by surprise, layered with a twinge of doubt. Suddenly Hanta wishes he asked more questions, to Midoriya and Momo and Kendou—to have learned more about you in any capacity.

“Oh? Looks like my cue,” Monoma answers, reaching to untangle the boa from his neck.

Hanta moves before he can process his actions, slender fingers gently prying the garment from the blond.

“I’ll do it,” he says, uncharacteristically stern before starting forwards.

By the time he’s behind you, all tension in his body has evaporated, instead replaced by childlike giddiness. He catches you by surprise, draping the scarf over your neck. His grin is easy and lazy when you turn to him. The attention fills him with warmth.

And then you openly sing praise, shining eyes now locked on him.

“You were incredible,” you breathe. “I’ve never seen someone move that way—”

Oh.

This… this is unusual for Hanta. He’s never been the main character or even had a true solo for Hoshi no Sākasu, but you’re here noticing him, telling him he’s one of a kind. The attention is an embarrassing ambush, flooding head through his chest and face. It prompts him to be shy, to hide himself and hold this warmth carefully in his hands.

But it’s you, with excited eyes that are opened so wide, so focused—all on him. You want to know more about him, greedily soaking in his answers. More heat overtakes him until he feels like he’s buried in it. It’s a new type of feeling, a flush he’s never experienced before—something beyond nerves or self-consciousness. Maybe it’s the heat of being known; the heat of being seen. The heat of being special to someone.

He thinks you deserve to feel this way, too.

He feels a little betrayed then, when Midoriya butts in, pulling a laugh from some sort of inside joke you share. Momo shortly after steals your attention, the two of you trading special glances and tenderly touching hands. Hanta has the urge to pout as others join, continuously whisking away your attention.

His antsiness grows from the waiting. By the time he can have your attention again, he doesn’t have anything meaningful to say. In a moment of desperation, he makes a comment about the orecchiette—tiny and wobbly bowls pooling meaty sauce. He blinks in surprise when you answer defensively.

He finds himself grinning stupidly as he probes further. “What about fettuccine?” 

“With this sauce?” you ask aghast. His grin grows. He can tell it’s a crooked one, tugging to the side with delight. “I don’t even know much about Italian food, but that would be a six out of ten at best.”

It’s stupid, this conversation, but he can’t help beaming from your responses—at the way your presence alone fills him with a special feeling of intensity. He's seven years old again, talking to Shouto for the first time and knowing instantly that he should keep him close. He wants to reach for you, hold your hand or even just your sleeve.

A question rests in the back of the throat, something like is this you? You: the one at the parade, in Quito.

“Are… Do you—”

It makes him a stumbling, clumsy version of himself when he tries to ask. He can only say the beginning of the question, rephrased over and over again. Are you the one I'm thinking of? Do you remember me?

Can I be special to you even if you don't?—If you aren't who I think you are?

In his periphery he can see Shouto approaching. It’s either right now, in these mere seconds of privacy, that Hanta can ask. Can he stand to wait another moment, another day?

“Hey ‘Roki,” he says instead. In his imagination, another Hanta appears to grab him by the throat and shake him—for being a coward.

“I wanted to tell you that we’re about halfway through the book. We just finished the chapter where Santi is pulled into Marco’s world.”

Hanta’s heart drops.

You… you know about the book? His book. One he’s clutched to his heart since he was just a boy, taken everywhere and practically memorized. How does Shouto know you know? How does everyone seem to capture these stray details about you—everyone except for him? That ugliness in his chest returns, this time a harsh squeeze of spite. One that runs down his arms with the need to act.

It’s a squeeze that immediately releases when you grin, teeth on full display. Suddenly he’s light again, your excitement a source of peace. The change is like whiplash; he’s not used to his feelings being this volatile—rapidly changing, without warning, pitting him against his closest friends. All the while you’re standing and smiling as you say that you read his favorite book every night as a child. That you made a dress based on one of his favorite scenes.

“You know the book he’s reading?” He has to ask, to confirm this is real.

Suddenly you’re giving in easily, sharing tidbits of information while probing ones from him. You tell him you’re from the western shores of Costa Rica and he delights in this information, knowing that even on different continents you two shared an ocean, a connection through water and salt and currents and wind. Maybe there were times you were in the water at the same time. Did the water that held him hold you too? The thought sends a buzz through his body and the warmth of summer saltwater.

Even when Shouto interjects, Hanta happily soaks in the details. Despite your attention no longer focused on him alone, there’s a specialness in this moment—the sight of you and his best friend, trading thoughts about his most treasured book.

The idea comes to him during his second performance, nearly lasered directly into his brain. While he’s weaving through the lengths of silk from the ceiling, he suddenly imagines pulling them from the water himself, stardust strings that bridge his world to yours—a bridge you know—where he can hopefully translate that special feeling in his heart and stomach and entire being.

When his act finishes he rushes to scribble every detail that surfaces. He sits in one of the trailers, not risking you looking over his shoulder despite his yearning for your attention. The ideas pour out of him and through graphite, trailing along a stack of papers. It leaves lines of black and grey dust, glittering under the lamplight—like stars, or specks of dark sand.

Kendou grabs him when the show ends, pulling him aside to say, “We got your tent set up in the last row. Verde won’t be around long tonight, but Momo thinks they’ll find it in time. They’ll be here tomorrow during the first show, to talk about work.”

Hanta nods, thanking her. He’s not worried; he trusts that things will work out as they need, because he trusts himself and his friends to make something that will reel you in. And he trusts you, to gravitate towards his offering and to find it.

You do.

The next morning he has everything pictured perfectly in his mind. Momo can’t meet until close to showtime, leaving Hanta antsily waiting. It manifests as a weight in his stomach and a distracted mind. In the meantime, he and Shouto work through another chapter while eating breakfast. Or rather, Hanta continuously loses himself in thought while Shouto reads, receiving a nudge when they’re supposed to switch.

“You’re distracted today,” Shouto says bluntly.

Hanta sighs. “Sorry, we should probably call it after this chapter.”

He tilts the book to read the last couple pages, but Shouto interjects. “Does it have to do with why you cried yesterday?”

“‘Roki,” he huffs. “It’s really—” he stops. He was going to say nothing, that it’s really nothing. But it’s not nothing.

“It’s…?”

It’s you.

“It’s complicated,” Hanta decides.

Shouto’s eyes narrow, intense swathes of a storming sky that don’t budge when Hanta tries to dismiss himself. He caves.

“I think… I know them—” you. The admission is scary, to turn thoughts into words and tell them to someone else.

But Shouto is nothing if not serious. He takes everything Hanta has ever said with full consideration, even if he doesn’t understand. Because they’re friends, and they trust one another. “Verde?”

Hanta nods. “Well, not know them, or even of them. But I think we’ve… met before. Not formally—but I think we saw each other at a parade when I was little.”

“A parade?”

“Yeah.” He smiles while recounting the memory. “They were dressed as a bird, at the Fiestas de Quito. A toucan, I think.”

“Oh.” Shouto watches his friend carefully. Hanta recognizes that he’s thinking, gears shifting and spinning behind an intense stare. “Do you want to tell them?”

Hanta pauses. Does he want to tell you? When he thinks about it, he doesn’t think that part matters so much. “Not necessarily. I think it’s more that they make me feel a certain way… and I want to get to know them better because of it.”

“I see. I understand.”

Sero’s eyebrows lift in surprise. A smile tugs at his lips. “You do?”

His friend nods curtly. “Yes. You perplexed me when I first saw you. It always made me very irritated at practice, because I wanted to ask you questions.”

Hanta laughs, a bright sound. “Because I wasn’t very good? And I was wasting my time?”

“Yes.”

Another laugh rings, this one releasing the weight in his stomach. He smiles for himself, at Shouto’s presence grounding him in this moment.

“I think you should tell them you feel that way,” his friend continues.

“I have some ideas.”

“For what to say?”

Hanta shakes his head. “No. I want to show them my feelings, since they’re hard to explain.”

Shouto’s eyes linger on his friend’s face, searching dark irises. He glances at the book between them, lips twitching in a suppressed smile as he says, “I understand.”

After finishing his act, Hanta grabs the papers from his bag before rushing to the trailers. He’s eager to share with Momo, to finalize his plans for you. As soon as the door opens he’s announcing, “Momo, I have the rest of my ideas for the—”

tents, he almost finishes before he spots you.

His mouth shuts in an instant, with enough force to hear his teeth clack. You’re surprised to see him, eyes blown open. He swallows, not expecting to see you either—you with your curious gaze and unbroken attention. He could blush from the eye contact alone, if there wasn’t a thick fog of tension in the room; if you didn’t look so uncomfortable. Suddenly he wants to ask what’s going on. He wants to know about this conversation and everything you’re thinking.

“Next one over,” Kendou grits through her teeth.

It snaps him out of his thoughts, nodding on instinct as he fumbles backwards through the door. “Shit,” did he fuck something up by coming in? “Sorry. I—sorry, thanks.”

He chews on his lip while walking to the next trailer. Suddenly he’s nervous. He timidly knocks, waiting for Momo’s invitation before opening the door. He lacks his earlier confidence when he sets the papers down to start explaining his concepts for the remaining tents.

“Sero?” Momo interrupts. “Are you okay?”

His shoulders feel heavy, hunched over the desk. He’s not sure. “I accidently went in Kendou’s trailer.” 

Momo’s face morphs into one of understanding. “Don’t worry about that,” she reassures. “As long as you didn’t give anything away, we’re fine.”

He shakes his head. “No, I just… it was kind of tense in there.”

“Oh,” her face blanks. “You mean the conversation they’re having.”

He nods.

“It’ll be fine,” she repeats, then nearly scoffs. “Designers.”

He doesn’t know much about designers and their habits. Does the air around them normally feel like a storm approaching? But he nods, trusting her judgment.

Hanta is part of the working crew for the festival that evening. He keeps himself towards the back where he can spot the red-coated tent. You’re absent, he assumes inside already and sifting through the many memories of the circus. He’s curious about whose you open, what you see. He wants to peek inside for himself—to see how Momo executed his thoughts. He wonders if you’ll come to know the others better than he does.

It feels a little like being on patrol, wandering through the same paths and having the same conversations, occasionally smiling for a photo. His steps slow every time he passes the tent, waiting on edge throughout the night.

When he rounds the corner to the last row, walking towards the red stall once again, he catches a flutter of the entrance flaps. His heart races as your hand parts through them, slicing your way out and into the chilly air. He paces forwards, hoping to catch you, but then freezes when you stumble out in full.

There is no pause between your exit from the tent and your dash to leave the festival. Hanta watches with guilty curiosity as you sprint away. Your face is twisted, grimacing and tear-stained, while your hand is clenched by your heart. You dart the opposite way from him, not even spotting him, before suddenly you are gone. Vanished. Like a ghost, or the wind.

His stomach drops like he’s going to be sick. It aches—a painful guilt he’s never felt before. Did he try too much too fast? Did he ruin something that hasn’t even had the proper chance to start?

He’s not sure how long he stands there, when a clattering of jingles stomps up behind him.

“Oi! The hell r’ya standin’ around for? Yer in everyone’s fuckin’ way!”

Hanta doesn’t respond or react, still frozen and staring. A rough hand grabs his bicep. It yanks him from the center of the path and forces him to turn to Bakugou.

“Sero! Y’fuckin’ deaf?” Red eyes glare at him, but they’re focused—concentrated. Thoughtful, even. They stare at the bottom of Hanta’s eyes, the waterline where tears have unknowingly clumped in his lower lashes.

“I—” he can hardly get out. His voice is shaky, wavering.

Bakugou grunts, tugging Hanta’s arm down the row of markets, past the red tent. Sero swallows as the crimson blurs away. His feet follow obediently, stepping in time with his friend’s as the bells on his hat jingle in matching rhythm. He would laugh, if he had the mind for it.

The blond doesn’t speak when they’re finally out of the congested path. Instead he looks at Hanta expectantly. Impatiently, but still waiting nonetheless.

“Fuck,” is the first word he releases. It’s a breathy, broken sound. His face crumples, that guilt in stomach rolling upwards to his chest and his shoulders and pooling heat in his face.

“Fuck, I—did I mess things up?” What was he thinking? Projecting all those hopes onto you, as if you were some fated soulmate of his. Did he subject you to something awful? How could he think to use memories like that—as some sort of game to play with between you two. How could he leave something so delicate in the hands of something so unpredictable?

“The hell r’ya goin’ on about?” Bakugou’s quip pulls him from his spiraling. 

Hanta shakes his head. It’s too much to explain, something Bakugou wouldn’t understand. He should go find you, or Momo, to get a sense what you might’ve seen and to start on a way to repair—

“What’s this? Are we hiding from our responsibilities?” the bubbly voice of Kaminari chirps behind him. Hanta grimaces, not wanting to deal with more obstacles.

But Bakugou is already making it everyone’s problem, demanding, “Icyhot, the hell is wrong with yer extra?”

“Hanta?”

Shouto’s deep voice grabs his attention, turning to see him and Denki. They must have passed while doing rounds near the music together. To help Shouto socialize, Kaminari had explained before splitting up.

The firebreather steps forward quickly, breaking from Kaminari to assess his friend. The blond puffs his cheeks in a pout.

The conversation is a mess—Sero attempting to explain what happened and why he’s upset—but Shouto takes it in stride, nodding in understanding. The blonds stand to the side, watching with confusion and annoyance, respectively. 

“Do you want to talk to Momo?” Shouto asks. “We can go look for her.” Bakugou makes a face at the implied inclusion in ‘we’. Kaminari looks greedy for more drama.

Hanta shakes his head. “No, it’s—I’ll try to talk to her in the morning instead. I just assumed it would be harmless, I didn’t think about the potential stress this could cause.”

“It sounds like you were trying to show them something beautiful,” Shouto replies. His voice is strong, stern. “It will be okay.”

In the morning, Momo explains that the setup was a collection of tables with marbles scattered over their surfaces, strung to look like bottles in the contained space of the tent. They were labelled based on shape and color—for the type of memory, and whose. “Anything intense would be more of an abstract feeling or experience, and not a fully cohesive scene.”

Hanta purses his lips as he thinks. Is an abstract experience of something painful any better than the entire experience in full? Could it even be worse—to only know the fragments of trauma, lacking proper understanding to process the bits you’re given?

Momo watches carefully as his expression shifts in thought. She adds, “It’s comparable to reading a book—it allows you to experience something in a safe and controlled environment when you can end it at any time. If they experienced something unpleasant, it wouldn’t be traumatizing, just unpleasant.”

Hanta understands what she’s trying to say, but the words don’t properly infiltrate. Momo didn’t see the way you left, how sad and troubled your face was. But he thanks her for the information.

“Should we not go through with the rest?” he asks.

Momo hums in surprise. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t. They’re very well thought out, and none of them run the same risk as last night’s.”

He stays quiet, looking at her skeptically.

“I think the one you planned for tonight is good,” she asserts. “I think they would appreciate seeing it.”

Hanta’s gut is still uncertain, and his ability to differentiate his nerves from his gut is out of touch. But he trusts his friend.

He’s still troubled by the time the show starts, especially when you haven’t made an appearance, since Kendou assumed you would visit every day. Hanta hopes he didn’t push you away.

You still don’t appear when he dresses and begins his warm up. Bakugou is standing by the high bars when Hanta ambles over to stretch. The blond eyes him while he hangs, letting his shoulders loosen before he gently rocks them.

“Ya done tweakin’?”

Hanta laughs, already more relaxed with his body in the air. He stretches each shoulder individually, pulling one arm off the bar at a time to sink into the feeling. It feels familiar—good.

“Probably not,” he admits. “But I’m better than last night.”

He doesn’t get a response, just sharp red eyes that watch him closely. Bakugou doesn’t leave.

“Hanta!” He hears a voice call behind him. “I got your drink! And a special someone.”

He turns with a frown, confused by the cheeky edge of Denki’s words. Then he blinks in surprise. You’re there with him, eyes trained on ahead. You look fine—good, and he nearly flushes when the words register, the implication that Denki brought you for him. 

He paces over quickly, drawn to you even while nervous.

Should he ask about last night? To be upfront and apologize, even if it ruins the surprise? It might be overwhelming for you—

“Hanta,” you whisper. It’s quiet and breathy, like a prayer—or a plea. You say it like you meant it for yourself. A secret.

His body flares with tingles at the sound of you calling his name. They fester in his chest and through his shoulders and arms, prickles that migrate down to his stomach and his legs. His hands feel weak. His knees almost give out.

“Huh?” His voice is small, nearly choking on his breath. He presses his knuckles to his lips, knowing his face must be beet red.

You make a face, a cute face of confusion and then embarrassment. You’re quick to apologize, trying to explain your realization about the pronunciation. He nearly laughs, but bites his tongue. If he makes a sound right now, it’ll be a whine or something infinitely more embarrassing. He swallows and inhales before he answers: 

“I prefer it anyways.” From you. He wants to add. Always from you.

You’re still embarrassed even after he assures you of it. Meanwhile he’s still tingling—recovering from your initial ambush.

“Stop flirting in front of us,” Denki pouts in Japanese as he slides Hanta’s drink across the table.

Dark eyes point at his blond friend. A warning, or a plea, to stop. Even if you can’t understand what they’re saying, it makes him nervous. He lifts his drink, hand still tingling and weak, to uncap his order and breathe it in. The scent is dark and rich, a less volatile sort of warmth that soothes him from the inside out.

When the others join to collect their drinks, Hanta takes the opportunity to step away from you. He’s overwhelmed by your presence, trying to will away the buzz and heat radiating along his skin—but he still steals glances when you aren’t looking his way. You look happy and excited, but also tense. Is he imagining it? He frowns, frustrated at his inability to assess clearly.

Your eyes suddenly meet his. They’re piercing, and they make his heart jump. He looks away immediately, hand splaying across his face to hide his overwhelming fluster.

By the time you’re standing with Momo to send her on stage, he’s decided that he’ll talk to you. He’s Hanta: always honest and upfront, and he thinks it’s worth spoiling the surprises in exchange for knowing that you’re okay, that he didn’t hurt you somehow. After Momo disappears through the curtain he waits for you, even when it takes a moment for you to turn around, fiddling with something in your pocket. 

He feels a wave of guilt when you start backstage and he scares you, your body nearly flinching from his presence. There’s a sharp clink of something hitting the ground, barely audible over your noise of surprise.

He apologizes immediately, crouching for the little object you dropped. When his eyes land on it, he pauses. Something in his stomach tightens painfully, before releasing completely.

A marble.

It’s a small clump of glass, with a crescent of a glare against the dark floor. Hanta’s memory drifts back to Momo’s words this morning. Marbles, she said, scattered across the tables in the tent—elongated into bottles in the small space she can control.

“I found it yesterday,” you explain when he hands it back to you. Your palm is cool against his fingertips. “In the festival.”

“It’s pretty,” he manages, breathless. 

You took the marble from the tent—a bottle, a green one: one of your own. He recalls the fist you held to your chest as you rushed outside. Were you holding it there, against your heart? Was that something you wanted? 

He watches you tuck the marble back into your pocket, shoulders dropping in relief. That knot in his stomach, the guilt and the worry, unravels in an instant. You smile. It’s small and soft, but he can’t help beaming in response, grin widening across his face. It prompts yours to grow, brightening further.

He should’ve trusted himself, he thinks. Trusted himself, his friends, and you.

Sero is off duty with Shouto that evening. They wander through the nightlife of Milan, stepping into a bar Kaminari demands they must see where a robot arm prepares their drinks. After one cocktail, Hanta’s had enough. He slips away, leaving his friends to enjoy themselves.

The streets are busy as he strolls through chilly winter air. The sky is dark, but the ground is bright, illuminated by the orange glow of street lamps. He watches a flock of pigeons chirp and peck at the ground, where a to-go container was dropped. He sidesteps the congregation, toeing along the curb of the sidewalk before recentering. His phone buzzes after a couple more steps.

It’s a text from Momo that reads: Success! I don’t think you have anything to worry about :-)

He pauses, standing in the middle of the sidewalk as he tries to calm his heart now racing again. A man grumbles as he brushes by, pushing his shoulder into Sero’s. He falters, stumbling towards the edge and out of the way. He wants to ask questions, to probe for details. But he trusts Momo, so he sends an Okay, thanks in return.

When he lays in bed and drifts to sleep, his dreams take him to the sky as a green-feathered bird. His wings slice through the air like a malleable knife, giving him the mobility to spin and dip and glide. Beneath him is the vibrant blue of the sea, rapidly transitioning into lush green canopies. There’s another bird up ahead, below him. He chirps before swooping down to meet it.

When he wakes the next day he feels light. Soaring.

You don’t come backstage.

It puts him on edge, breeds nerves in his body. Not from the fear that he’s done something wrong, but with worry that you’ll miss the tent Momo has for you tonight. This one is special—they’re all special. He hopes that you’ll see it. He reminds himself to trust you.

He’s soaking in the music when you bump into him. He’s delighted by your appearance, simultaneously wrecked with nerves. 

“Hi Sero,” you say. It’s a quiet, private greeting. He warms immediately, then flushes when you correct yourself. “Hanta.”

His body threatens to shiver from the tingles in his shoulders and chest. He’s breathless when he responds. “Hi.”

You look calm next to him, peaceful. You’re enjoying your night, you say; it’s been really good. The affirmation puts Hanta at ease.

A reminder to trust you.

He stands with you in the quiet, your proximity enough. But with the lull of the musicians—acoustic guitar and violin and stand up bass—he also wants to move. After a moment of hesitation he asks you to dance. You tell him only if he has the courage to handle your shoes. The response has him beaming, heart warm as he takes your hand—a cool and callused thing—to guide you through an improvised waltz. You don’t know the steps, your clunky shoes stomping on his toes through the sweeping gestures. They’re hardly noticeable when he gets to hold you close, when he has your hand in his. Your face is nearly pressed into his chest, right at his rapidly beating heart. A tingling and yearning heart.

He cherishes this night and the ease you seem to have with him. He wishes it could be like this, always. 

Forever.

“They’ll be watching the last show,” Momo tells him.

He finds you immediately, partially because you’re conveniently seated in the same spot but also because you’re you. He’ll always find you. 

He is not prepared to see you in your dress.

In the crowd it’s not noticeable, covered by the people sitting in front of you. But when you step backstage wrapped in loose dark fabric, silken and sheer swathes draping elegantly across your arms and waist and legs, it’s all he can see. You, with stars smeared over your skirt, trailing light strings as you move, like meteors over a still pond in the night.

It takes time to compose himself before he speaks to you, taking a moment to face the wall with shaky breaths. It isn’t until you’re left alone by even your friend—Chia, you call her—that he has the composure to speak to you. You start complimenting him again, and he’s weak in the knees, unraveling under your attention. He presses his fist to his face again, hoping it can help transfer away the heat in his cheeks. You must know what you’re doing to him—you in your beautiful self-made gown, singing him praise.

“Smash. But without the shoes.”

Hanta’s swooning is halted at Touya’s sneering Japanese, immediately replaced by heated irritation. He knows Touya’s games, that the words are meant to rile him up in front of you. He luckily tampers his anger quickly, but not before shooting the elder Todoroki a glare. He only receives a wide smirk in response. 

Shouto intercepts, pulling a musical laugh from you. Before you can ask for a translation, Hanta’s asking questions about your dress again, redirecting your attention. 

You eventually introduce him to your friend, someone direct and sharp but who you scold easily and make faces of displeasure at. He hasn’t seen this side of you.

“Tucano?” she calls, and his stomach drops.

You hum in response, like it’s a name you’re called often. Hanta knows he’s making the most absurd face—eyes wide, jaw agape, cheeks probably flaming. He doesn’t catch your response, only able to hear the thumping of his heart and too focused on not throwing up right there.

It is you, after all. Right? 

He leaves. He can’t handle standing near you for another moment, no matter how much his heart yearns for it. He’ll know tonight. You’ll see for yourself and then he’ll know everything he needs.

“Dude, you aren’t working tonight,” Kirishima’s voice sounds from behind him.

Hanta turns around, jester’s hat in hand while his clothes are switched to his festival costume. He realizes he didn’t have to put the costume on. “Oh…” he doesn’t know what to say. “I guess muscle memory took over. I’m going to the festival tonight anyway.”

He doesn’t change.

When he steps into the tent, minutes after you, the first thing he thinks is that he owes Momo everything. The illusion is so real, a tangible, living story that brings to life everything he could have imagined. It’s immersive, it’s beautiful, it’s perfect. When he stares into the pond and sees your form on the other end, pulling you into his arms to fall through the galaxy and land on a beach made of stars, you on top of him in a gown that matches, he knows that he will forever be indebted to his friend.

Pulling you across the water is like a dream. Leading you through his childhood home is like a secret. Seeing you in the parade again, reliving his memory—this time entangled with yours—is something he can’t put words to, something too precious for metaphor.

This time, with your imagination working with his, he sees more details—new details—like the way you look to the woman beside you as a guide, how you reach for her. She’s a macaw, a mix of blue and gold, with a silhouette akin to the one you wore the night before the first show.

(That’s where he knows that shape from—what struck familiarity in him when he saw the costume for the first time.)

This time he can also see that you’re nervous. It’s an aching feeling, an apprehension clearly displayed across your face. The old woman calms you, encouraging and assuring that everything will be alright.

It feels like a gift, to have this moment one more time. And it is a gift, for it to be saturated with new colors, inks bleeding through a page and running together, swirling perspectives and memories. It’s beautiful, in its own messy, inexplicable—inseparable—way.

You meet his eyes and wave like the first time, watching as he grins with new recognition. Then in a flash the two of you are in the piazza, standing on opposite ends of a crowd. He watches you nervously. Was he able to reach you?

You run to him.

Everything will be okay.

He steps forward to meet you, revels in the way you cling to his shirt. Your eyes are teary and your voice is hoarse. He wants to kiss you, your eyes and your lips. He wants to tell you everything will be alright, that he's here for you.

It's more to reassure himself—that you're here. For him.

You're asking him broken questions and he's trying his best to answer, waiting with bated breath to hear what you think—if it all came together like he hoped. You say they were everything, everything you were missing, and he nearly floats from the relief, melting and then evaporating from the heat that flares inside him. All he can do is grip your waist and tell himself you’re here. All he can do is whisk you away, so he can finally have you to himself. 

“Gracias, Hanta. Para mostrarme,” you whisper under the canopies.

“It's you,” he tells you. It’s you. It’s always been you.

Even before it was you giving him that special feeling, it was the precious book that would lead him to you anyways. It was always you, only ever you, your essence infused in everything he ever reached for. It was you who guided him to Hoshi no Sākasu and it was you he was bound to cross again.

Here in the dark, in the quiet of the garden away from the noise of the festival, Hanta finally feels like he has you. He has your attention and your acknowledgment. You know who he is and what you mean to him. He feels unhurried, simply happy to hold your face in gentle hands and murmur sweet things back and forth. He wants to take his time with you. 

But then you call him beautiful, and he needs you now.

Kissing you shoots a buzz through his body, nearly vibrating from the intimacy. You’re close, so close, pressed into him at the hip where he can feel a heat stirring from within. You try to pull him closer and all he can think is that he wants that—whatever you want. He wants to be as close as you’ll let him. He takes everything you offer, and croons when you give into his every initiation.

You want him too.

The thought alone has him burning, aching, but then you start saying his name—chanting it with need—“Hanta, Hanta, Hanta—” and he whines into your skin: secrets that can’t find proper words. But he trusts that you receive them, that you can understand.

When you’re finally in his room he’s thrumming with want, fully guided by the tightness of his pants, the carnal desire to have you. He wants to feel everything—your warmth and your skin and the reassurance that you’re here. With him. You make choked sounds while he presses you against the wall, gasps and whines that ring as chiming bells. He wants more, so much more. He wants everything from you until you have nothing to give.

“Lo siento,” he tells you, because he truly is sorry to move at this pace. Only his heart means it.

But you groan, like you need him now too. It’s enough to shrink any hesitation into a sliver in his chest. He lifts you towards the bed, fingers working your dress to fall down your chest. It pools at your waist, sliding down your arms like liquid coals, a woven night sky. He nearly chokes, overwhelmed by the sight of you. His heart is stuttering, rapidly thumping against his sternum while he repeats this is real in his mind like a mantra.

When he leans to press his lips to your chest, kissing and biting and sucking at the skin your heart is buried beneath, he finally feels an inkling of relief. He feels close to you, pulling you closer with a hand on your ass as your hips stutter into him. His own hardness grinds against the mattress, shooting a buzz up his torso, burning his body from the inside. He groans into your neck as he encourages you to continue. He wants you to feel good, for him to make you feel good.

(To make you feel so good that the decision for whether to stay or go becomes obvious.)

Your hands bury in his hair when he brings you over the edge. It sends shivers through him, pulling him through another type of euphoria, one that originates in his chest and dissolves his body through the air. Maybe he can seep into you, into every part of your being—so you can hold him close forever. 

When your grip finally relents, releasing him back to earth and letting him prop above you, he watches attentively. Your eyes open slowly, blinking at him in disbelief. He can’t help grinning, even while cautious at your delicate state. His next touches are gentle, traces along your thigh to ask for permission, skimming further along when you don’t protest.

There’s an ache in his stomach and between his legs, his desire for you, for another level of closeness. But the thought of going further—to fulfill that—brings a hollowness in his chest.

He halts. It’s a this moment of clarity, realizing that he’s not dictating his own actions consciously. What is he being propelled by? What does he actually want? His firm cock pulses with an obvious desire, but his chest is heavy—with a conflict he’s never felt before.

This possession and this urgency—is this how he wants to be with you? Acting out of fear and panic, to have you now, as if there is no future to look forward to. This isn’t him; this isn’t the way he acts.

You’re watching curiously, expecting him to continue. He swallows the lump in his throat. 

“Hanta?”

Will it disappoint you, if he ended things here? If all he really wanted was to lay against your chest again. He felt closest to you there, where he could feel the drumming of your warm heart. There’s a knot in his stomach, an uncertainty. That apprehension earlier reduced to a sliver in his chest is now surrounding him.

He should trust you.

He’s honest when you ask if he’s okay, through both his shaking voice and his words as he confesses what he’s thinking. How he doesn’t want to rush.

You tell him it’s okay. He’s okay.

Estás bien.

At the sound of your assurance, your insistent, “Hanta, it’s okay,” he exhales a long breath and drops his forehead against your shoulder. You hold him, your hand threading through his hair in a delicate cradle. His eyes sting with fresh tears, though he’s not sure why: whether it’s guilt or fear or some third thing. You trace your fingers over him, down his neck and along his spine—a balm against his bruising.

“Lo siento,” he says, though he still doesn’t know why—if he’s sorry for rushing things, or for not following through. Maybe he’s sorry for not trusting you to begin with. Maybe he’s sorry for something to come later.

You don’t seem bothered, or even surprised. You simply whisper, “Yo también,” as you continue to hold him carefully.

Hanta can’t imagine what you would need to be sorry for.

Waking next to you is something like a dream. He returns to reality pressed against your chest, face buried in sleep-warmed skin. His own chest feels light while flush to your stomach. He exhales carefully against you, taking in the buzz that coats his skin.

It gets too overwhelming, so much that he has to untangle himself. He rolls carefully onto his back, welcoming the coolness of the morning air as it rushes against the dampness of his—and maybe your—sweat. He tears off the blankets and bunches them against you as a replacement for his form. A sliver of light runs down the length of his body from the curtains, bending as his chest raises from a deep inhale. He lays like that, collecting himself as the minutes pass. Eventually the buzzing in his heart becomes steady and familiar, enough that he feels normal again.

Reading distracts him from watching you sleep, worried he’ll fall apart if he looks at you for too long. He props himself on his elbows while his eyes glide through the chapter he lived last night. They pause when Santi begins pulling stars from the surface of the pond. He reminds himself that he needs to thank Momo, again. Forever.

He glances at you every few paragraphs, normally at the bottom of each page. After a few pages he finds that you’re awake. He tenses, as if he was caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to, until you grin sleepily, encouraging him to smile back.

You’re quiet in the morning, all whispers and low voices. Touchy too, the featherlight brush of fingertips and lips. You’re also more open, he thinks, a little easier to read when you’ve just woken in his bed. Or at least your face is: an honest display of curiosity that you won’t verbalize. Instead of asking for anything you say your thanks again. 

There’s a pang in Hanta’s chest. He tries to explain himself and how the tents worked, what he wanted from them. You look uncertain, like you can’t stomach real answers—or at least ask the questions to find them—so he speaks vaguely. You don’t respond and he finds himself apologizing, for last night, and for any of the previous ones that may have gone awry. You hold his face and tell him it’s okay.

You let him read to you, starting over from the beginning of the page in front of him. Reading to you is different from reading to Shouto. There’s something deep and familiar here, not the excitement of showing a friend his precious treasure for the first time. You know these words and this story by heart, rooted in your soul and in your life, its essence carried through your actions. He wonders if your copy has the same empty promise of a sequel buried in the back.

It doesn’t.

There’s a particular sort of excitement that overtakes him at your surprised face—something about having the privilege to be the one to tell you new information about a shared love. He watches carefully as you read the description, wonders what you’re thinking when you lay on your back. He’s curious if you see yourself as Santi, too. He wants to know if he’s worth wanting to be together, forever.

Things don’t change the way Hanta hoped they would, after his confession and your realization of how intertwined your lives have been. You let him come with you, to spend the day by your side while you work, but there’s a distance wedge in the gap between you. He marvels at your studio and all your old costumes, some known to him but most unseen. Watching you piece together fabric, running hands under a whirring needle, is sort of thrilling. Your fingers move quickly, expertly, as they transform big sheets of fabric into a beautifully layered skirt.

But he feels a little like he’s in grade school again, wanting to ask too many questions that others won’t answer—questions that will make the room tense, because he wasn’t supposed to ask. He wants to know about your sister you make dresses for, if she’s the one in your contact with a matching last name, whose calls you fervently dismissed. He wants to ask about the woman next to you in the parade, the blue and gold macaw that you looked to whenever you seemed uncertain. He wants to probe about the empanadas in the freezer, why they’re a month old, who made them. He wants to know why you respond to him in English, why you cried leaving the memory tent, what you saw in that little green marble.

He wants to learn about you, he wants to know the answers to these questions. He wants more.

He wants to reach for you and hold you like he did last night. He wants to wrap his arms around your waist, press his head into your neck, kiss your forehead. He wants to hold your hand or brush his leg against yours beneath the table.

But there’s a delicate dance the two of you are doing, skirting the edges of the conversations and touches he wants most. It’s still fun and fulfilling to be with you like this, and he wonders if maybe he should take his time getting to know you too. Maybe this is how these relationships develop, at their own pace.

You tell him that you’ll meet at the station after dinner, but he’s nearly pacing with anticipation. He doesn’t want to ask Momo or Kendou where they’re eating, disrupting their time with you, so he tries Bakugou—likely the one who gave them the recommendation if they didn’t ask you.

His phone pings only moments later, twice. The first response says Fuck should I know? and the second is a link to a map pin.

Knowing Momo and Kendou, he waits outside the restaurant an hour after your reservation. The host appears after a few minutes, asking if he has a table for tonight. 

Sero smiles with embarrassment, only understanding a few words. “I’m waiting for someone,” he tries in English. The host nods and goes back inside.

A quarter hour passes of him huddling by the door until Momo appears. He’s uncharacteristically nervous. Something about meeting you in the night, stripped of costumes to hide behind, frightens him. In an instant the two of you are alone and awkwardly trailing through responses to one another. You nod after his, “Yeah,” and he almost feels the urge to run away. But he stands persistently, even as your eyes trail him sharply, like you’re assessing him.

You laugh, and he’s reminded that everything will be okay.

He just has to be honest, and trust that you will be too.

The gelato gives him something to busy his hands so they don't yearn for yours. He picks the orange flavor, though its color is closer to red. It has a sour and floral taste—blood orange, he realizes after taking the first bite.

You eat yours much faster, and then rest your hands by your sides. He wants to scoot closer to you, so your arms might brush.

“I was trying to put off our serious conversation until tomorrow… But I get the sense that it’s making you nervous. So, sorry. For being selfish.”

He doesn’t know how to answer, spoon still in his mouth and sweet tang on his tongue. You tell him that you haven’t made a decision about joining the circus yet. You haven’t made a decision about him. You want it, you say, but it’s not the right time.

Your words are pangs in his chest, an ache from disappointment and raw hurt. Hanta would choose you in an instant; he’s been choosing you his whole life. For you to have any uncertainties or reservations… Does he not mean to you what you mean to him?

He’s forgotten, or maybe never acknowledged, that you didn’t know who he was until a week ago.

“The timing?” he encourages. 

You mention your abuela, the need to return home before you can go anywhere else. An image of the blue and gold macaw flashes through his mind, dancing next to you in the parade. He sees the dress on your costume rack that looks like the ocean. He sees your phone screen from over your shoulder, with missed calls from someone with your last name. Another pang strikes through him, this time his stomach, and with guilt. You have your own life you’ve been living, a life outside of him, without him. He should have considered that—not assumed you would leave everything behind for him.

But it still hurts. And he still wants you.

Your eyes are teary, tugging at his heart. His hand moves before he can stop himself, for the smallest touch. His heart jumps at the contact. He thinks he understands this talk about timing when he realizes he can’t stay for you either. He’s bound to Hoshi no Sākasu for the next two years. You call him insane, but he wants you to listen, to understand everything you mean to him—that he would choose you over and over again, because that’s all he’s ever done. You are the reason he’s here now. You are enough of a reason to stay.

You look at him like you’re going to bolt. Fuck, he’s not guilting you, right? He just wants to be understood, even if it hurts him that your decision will take time, that you might stay after all. It’s okay if it doesn’t work out the way he imagined, with you and him and endless time to get to know one another. The thought makes his eyes and heart sting, leaving the pains of flame on his skin. 

Is this his fault, always somehow getting what he wanted? Never learning how to accept when things don’t go his way, when it comes to this special unnamable feeling in his body?

“I’m sorry,” you say, and he feels defeated.

His chest hurts. It hurts so much, like a weight crushing through it. You shouldn’t be sorry for him and his disappointment. The fault is with him, for having expectations in the first place. It’s enough, in the end, if you two simply find space for each other in distant lives. You start blinking tearily and it’s like another stab to his chest.

Hugging you is a relief. He holds you tightly, body on edge as you cry into him. It makes him feel powerless, builds a sadness inside him that requires your closeness even after you finish crying. You don’t make him let go.

The conversation is painful, and there’s still a dull ache afterwards, but Hanta feels better after it happens. You let him come home with you, your hand wound in his as you guide him forwards this time. Your touch is chilly, like the night air. He rubs his thumb over the back of your hand, feeling as the skin slowly warms. 

You let him into your bed. You let him hold you close. You let him ask questions he was scared to ask earlier in the day.

“Mi abuela,” you answer, when he asks what you saw in the little green marble, who made the empanadas from lunch.

He gets explanations that, while short, broaden his understanding.

“I ghosted my family, after she died.” It’s a whisper of a confession. “Her ashes are in my living room.”

His heart drops as he sits up, nearly snapping his neck at the force. The movement pulls him over the edge of the bed but he flails his arms and legs in time to barely catch himself. “Que!?” he yells, hands lowering from the air to grasp the roots of his hair. He tugs harshly, an attempt to focus on something other than his heart about to explode. “You—you what? Ay Dios mío, asaste a tu abuela.” Is that… legal? No wonder you need to go home first, what else were you planning to do—take her to Japan with you? Hanta squeezes his eyes shut while he inhales. His face is burning. This can’t be real.

When he takes a nervous glance your way you’re still laying in the bed, watching him with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. Too calm.

“Cremation is common in Costa Rica,” you tell him. He pulls his lips tight, grimacing while wanting to believe you. “We’ve done it for other relatives and were planning it for her. But, you know, back home. She died here after getting surgery, and… I couldn’t bring myself to face everyone.”

Hanta thinks of his own abuela, the giant flowers spread over her coffin when they lowered her. She has a cross over her grave where he and his relatives stuff bouquets before spreading dinner out on the grass.

“Do they know?”

You nod, a small shake of your head. “I called my sister when she passed, but haven’t talked to her since.”

“Do your parents?”

You don’t nod. “My sister told mamá, I’m sure. But I haven’t spoken to her myself.”

His heart races with fear—for you. Just imagining being in your position floods his veins with ice. He nearly shivers, body tense and curled.

He's afraid to ask, “How… How long has it been?”

“A few months.”

He blows out a breath, not sure if that’s better or worse than what he assumed. He doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. You’re still watching him with a complicated expression, but too calm for his liking. He thinks you look sad.

Your lips purse before asking, “Did I ruin your fantasy?”

He frowns. “Huh?” The noise brings a twitch of a smile to your face.

“I guess… I wonder what kind of person you thought you were chasing,” you muse. “I wonder how good I was in your head.”

Oh… Hanta hadn’t thought about that before: neither the kind of person he would ultimately find, nor how knowing he was looking for you would make you feel. He never imagined beyond what he saw, had no assumptions of the kind of person you were, because it didn't matter to him. All that mattered was how he felt. All that mattered was that he wanted to meet you.

He leans forward carefully to lay beside you again. His hand reaches for your face, thumb gently running under your eye.

“I didn't imagine,” he says softly. “I just remembered.”

You hum and lean into his touch. He’s soft; his heart clenches and buzzes, a tingle that runs from his shoulder down his arm and to his palm against your cheek. He presses kisses over your eyes and you grab his wrist to press your own over his hand.

Even with his earlier resolve and understanding, he still wishes it could be like this. Forever.

Leaving in the morning is a painful process. After a final kiss to your forehead he’s out in the cool air and aching to run back into bed with you, but he returns to the hotel to get his things and friends for the parade. The piazza is crowded early, filled with costumes and floats scattered everywhere. Hanta is surprised to find himself overwhelmed, heart racing like he’s a child overstimulated from the sounds and the sun.

Hoshi no Sākasu’s preparations run smoothly—minus Kaminari’s disappearance after Hatsume checks the mechanics of his puppet, along with Bakugou who was supposed to keep an eye on him.

“Where are the blond goons?” Shinsou asks after a headcount. His lips are pursed tight.

Kirishima bites his lip, checking his phone with the shake of his head.

“How do you lose a giant mechanical bird?” Shigaraki asks plainly.

“My baby is missing!?” Hatsume yelps, looking up from the mass of wiring in Tetsutetsu’s costume.

“Not missing,” Shouto assures her. “Just distracted, probably.”

“Or lost,” Shinsou huffs. “It’s hard to get through the crowd. Ugh—this is why I needed everyone here. And to stay here.”

“That’s what Bakugou was for!” Kirishima whines.

Hanta’s eyes glaze between everyone speaking, not fully absorbing the conversation. He wonders where you are and when you’re supposed to arrive. He wishes he asked before he left this morning.

Luckily he soon hears the sigh of a relieved Kirishima.

“Oh thank god!”

Hanta turns to the sound, spotting the bright yellow bird above the sea of people. Bakugou appears a moment later with a twist of annoyance on his face.

“I got’im headin’ over,” he says gruffly. “That bird freak is with ‘im.”

Bird freak? Hanta’s eyes widen. You?

“You left them to get here on their own?” Hanta asks. There’s an edge of accusation he doesn’t mean. His face softens in surprise at his own tone.

Bakugou catches it, grunting. “No. ‘M gonna go back.”

Hanta swallows with a nod, eyes apologizing. Bakugou gives him a curt nod back before disappearing through the crowd again. The yellow bird lets him track your progress, a buoy on the sea. Kirishima is the first to greet Kaminari, immediately pointing him to check with Shinsou.

The blond grins cheekily, eyeing Hanta while saying, “Just had to pick up a delivery, is all!”

His breath catches.

His heart might explode at the sight of you wrapped in black and yellow, a matching beak in your hand. You don’t notice him until he calls your name, but you immediately smile, only indicated by the crescent slivers of your eyes uncovered by the fabric concealing your nose and mouth. He swallows at the sight.

A toucan, you confirm. Like the first time. All he can think is that it’s you, it’s you, it’s you. He knew this already, but now you’re here in front of him, for real. He’s no longer in the crowd, unknown to you except for that split second. This time he’ll be in the parade, with you. He wants to hold you at the waist and lift you above him to spin in circles.

“Please go make heart eyes somewhere else, I’m begging you.”

Hanta rolls his eyes at Denki’s whine, but abides his plea. He whisks to the edge of the piazza where the crowd thins. This time when his friends briefly stop you, momentarily stealing your attention, he’s unrushed—filled with ease. This time he is secure, sure of himself and the unique relationship you have together. 

Standing next to you, hand in yours, he feels like everything will work out—even if it costs more time, and it’s not the future he expected.

The parade is perfect.

The weather is cold, but the costumes are warm enough, especially under the shining sun in the blue of the sky. Hanta is giddy and warm from the excitement, from getting to stand next to you as everyone floats down Milan in costume. He can’t tear his eyes from you for more than a couple minutes, always glancing your way in hopes that you’re looking at him too. After a couple blocks you start to wave frantically, blowing kisses from your beak overdramatically towards the crowd.

He turns and squints, eyes landing on a pair your age waving back dramatically. One is the match to your green macaw, only red. He thinks it’s your friend Chia, noticing how she blows kisses back by waving both her arms at you. The other is a woman in a costume of its own theme—a giant Renaissance dress with shimmering pink fabric and swirls of white. There’s lace and layered sleeves and a dramatic mass of curls done up on her head, matching pink to the fabric and glitter along her eyes. She catches your kiss and pulls it to her heart, pretending to swoon. Hanta hears you laugh, a melody ringing beside him.

“Chia’s in the red macaw,” you say to him loudly, fighting the sound of the music and the crowd. “My friend next to her is Davide—the one in Renaissance drag.”

Hanta offers them a wave. Chiara smirks at him while raising her hands to make a heart while the man responds with a thumbs down. You yell in response—a string of enunciated Italian that he doesn’t understand, but based on your tone and the few recognizable words, he can infer it’s a scolding.

Everything goes smoothly—minus Denki accidentally brushing a powerline with his puppet at the end, almost collapsing from the shock. Touya grabs his arm to help him stand, only to scowl when the electricity buzzes through him too. He immediately runs to Keigo, slapping him on the back between his costume wings and pulling a yelp from the blond.

You offer to help them tear down, hovering around the puppets and float to lend your hands. Hanta smiles as he watches, eventually stalking over. He gently holds you by the waist, turning you to look at him. A necessary kiss is placed against your forehead before he grins and insists they’ll take care of things. You try to protest.

“Employees only,” he says while shaking his head. “How else will we keep the magic a secret?”

He wishes he could see the entirety of your face. Your eyebrows are furrowed, as if angry, but are you pouting? He brings one hand to your cheek, brushing his thumb over your lips. They are pouting, but soften from his touch. He feels tender holding you this way, an overwhelming rush of warmth through his chest. He can’t stop himself from leaning to kiss you through the cloth. It’s soft, his lips barely brushing over yours. He leaves his forehead pressed to yours when he pulls away, eyes trained on you as they slowly open.

“I’ll come see you when we’re done,” he promises. He doesn’t even know if you’re available.

Your eyes crinkle while you nod. “I’ll be home.”

An elbow juts into his side before he responds. He frowns from being torn from you, turning to glare at Monoma smirking beside him.

“Please—if you’re going to be unhelpful, at least get out of the way.”

Hanta huffs and rolls his eyes, reaching for you to step further away from the others. Your goodbye is a soft promise to see him again.

Hanta knocks on your door. There’s no click of a lock before the knob turns, revealing you in long, loose clothing. The room is dimmed by the approaching evening, none of the lights illuminating the space. He steps inside slowly, shrugging off his shoes while he lets the warmth run over him. It smells good, familiar, and his eyes dart to a paper bag on the counter. It’s printed with the name of the empanada place you mentioned the day before.

The scenario feels like coming home.

He kisses you by the entrance, hand against your neck and body slotted into yours. It’s long and slow and sweet. He takes in the press of your chests, the warmth that flows between you two. Your arms reach for his sides, igniting tingles down his spine. His hands slithers around your waist to hold you closer, longer. 

Your face buries into his neck when you part, his hand sliding to cradle your head. His eyes lift, taking in the room—your living room—and he remembers what you whispered to him last night.

Her ashes are in my living room.

“Can I meet your abuela?”

The words fall from his lips before he can think them through. His eyes widen when they register. It’s too soon, right? Of course it’s too soon. Your own family hasn’t seen her in this state. 

It’s quiet. A tension sits in the air. But he doesn’t retract the question.

You break from his arms slowly, nodding when you’re a full step back. He feels his breath catch.

It takes a while. You move slowly to the table and take your time opening the drawer to reveal the box where she rests. It takes even longer for you to open it.

When you do, you tell him it’s the first time you’ve looked inside for yourself.

Hanta gets two blissful days of Carnival with you. Two days of you in costume, leading him down the streets of Milan to watch performers and buy rounds of chiacchiere and tortelli di Milano—sugar-dusted and puffy treats. You pull him to your favorite attractions, to the squares where your favorite performers usually gather. He catched live storytelling and other circus acts from the Clown Festival. Your friend Chiara joins one morning, not so subtly asking Hanta of Shigaraki’s whereabouts. At some point you meet with Denki and Shouto and Midoriya, all graciously enjoying your expertise on what food trucks to stop by. Momo and Kendou and Aoyama follow along your favorite streets of market stalls.

The festivals and costumes remind him of Ecuador while the climate feels more akin to Japan. It’s weird, like being both connected and out of place—both home and homesick. But he’s beside you: a personified piece of home that keeps the discomfort at ease.

And you look happy to be that for him. You pull his arm the way he pulled mamá through the streets of Fiestas de Quito. You pull his arm the way he pulled you along the Pacific, from black sand beaches to the back porch of tío’s house.

Hanta gets two blissful days with you, where everything feels as it should be. They’re so blissful, so perfect, he nearly forgets that there are only two. That he has to leave.

He invites you to dinner with the cast on the last day. It’s routine, a group goodbye to the city. He wants you there, to see you for as long as he can. It’s a reality he’s ignored until the last minute, stomach tight on this final day when he realizes he won’t be waking up next to you tomorrow morning.

“How fancy is the dress code?” you mumble sleepily in the morning.

“Does that matter to you?”

You hum. “Just wanna know the energy.”

Hanta smooths his palm over your forehead, brushing away baby hairs. “There’s no dress code.”

You laugh sharply. He grins.

“What?”

You shake your head. “Where’s the dinner?”

He rolls over to grab his phone, scrolling through his messages with Shinsou to find the name and read it to you.

“Mmm… so classic Milanese…”

You look concentrated, like you’re thinking hard. But you won’t budge when he asks, curious to know what’s running through your mind. You just giggle to yourself when he pulls you close and buries his head into your neck. He watches you stand in front of your closet with an intense expression, demeanor much more serious than he’s used to seeing from you. He wants to know what you’re thinking as you skim through garments and costumes. You try to kick him out so you can piece a final outfit in peace, but he pouts.

“I haven’t seen you get ready before,” he nearly whines.

You pause, considering his point. It takes more coaxing, but you fold and let him sit on the bed and watch while you rummage through the options. He doesn’t bother containing his grin, happily staring at the focus on your face—the manifestation of your churning mind as you silently set aside a variety of pieces. Hanta thinks it’s fascinating, the same intensity you have while working. It’s a different side of you, one he wishes he had more chances to get to know.

The thought tightens his stomach. His grin falters.

He convinces you to let him stay while you assemble your outfit. You raise your eyebrows skeptically when he insists he doesn’t need to go back to his hotel, that he can wear his clothes from yesterday. You mutter something about letting him borrow something of yours. He just grins.

He leaves your home and enters the metro with a hand in yours. You’re dressed in several layers, a transparent dress over a suit and covered with a coat and scarf and hat and gloves and—

and Hanta walks happily beside you in his simple linens, swinging your hands while you step into the station. Nobody looks your way, heads down and absorbed in their own worlds.

When you two arrive, Aoyama is the first to greet you. “You look fabulous.”

“Thanks,” Hanta immediately responds with a grin. 

You huff a laugh while he tugs you inside, immediately pull off your hat and loosen your scarf. He guides through the crowded room, neck craning to assess the tables. Only half or so people are present, but he sees Kendou sitting with Ibara and steers you over.

Dinner with his team is energized as always, loud chatting flitting through the room and crossing tables. People switch seats on impulse, and once dessert makes its way around, clusters of standing conversations form. Hanta freely grabs your hand at random, right on top of the tablecloth. You blink at him questioningly the first time, blooming a warmth and an ache in his chest that makes him squeeze it tighter. He stays by your side when others come to talk to him, and he follows you when you point towards Momo.

Bakugou is standing nearby, swirling his drink. His eyes are narrow when he looks over your clothes as you speak animatedly with the singer.

“They know their brands,” he mumbles to Hanta, trailing the length of your dress.

Hanta lips twitch at the comment, responding to the strike of pride that goes through his heart. It happens again when Shouto strides over, talking easily with the two of you. Momo squeezes your hand with a promise to talk again before stepping aside to greet someone else.

You look comfortable, like you belong here. And the cast has already adopted you, ready to take you in—whenever you’re ready too.

His grin falters, again.

Watching you say goodbye is sweet. It’s all tender touches and sorry eyes between you and Momo and Kendou, whispers of wishes and maybe’s and apologies that you won’t accept from one another. You say a special thanks to Midoriya, for discovering you—this one a conversation of red cheeks and mumbling. You have awkward, incomplete farewells with Shouto and Uraraka and Kaminari. Bakugou hardly spares you a glance. Touya gives you a sneer that makes Hanta roll his eyes and Shigaraki couldn’t be less subtle in trying to ignore you.

Saying goodbye is painful.

It happens outside, away from the entrance in a quiet side street. He has to go with the others. Hoshi no Sākasu leaves tonight. Hanta gathers you knew this early on when Momo relayed the schedule. The look in your eyes—intense and faraway—tells him enough. 

Tonight is the coldest he’s experienced in Milan, a nipping chill that flushes your cheeks while you’re buried back in your scarf and hat. His heart stings at the sight, an ache that bites like ice against skin. He wants more time with you, more running through streets with hands full of desserts. He wishes things were different and you knew what you wanted, too. Will it end here? When will you know what you’ve chosen?

Maybe these questions are splayed on his face, one that can’t hide his feelings. You’re the first to break the silence, with a quiet, “I’m sorry.”

His heart tightens at that, already feeling the sting behind his eyes and nose—tears, pooling along his waterline. He breathes slowly, trying to calm himself while he shakes his head. It’s not your fault, he’s trying to say.

“Kendou’s giving me until June to decide.”

He exhales. June? June as in over three months from now? The deadline is a comfort, to know that things will be decided eventually. But he grimaces at the thought of waiting in that grey space for months. Usually he knows these things for himself. Easily, instantaneously. He’s not used to waiting for others.

“Okay,” he breathes.

“Okay.”

His hand reaches for yours, fingers sliding down the fabric of your glove. He wishes they were uncovered, so he could touch your skin instead. The other hand comes to your cheek, taking in the coolness of your face. You lean into it, eyes fluttering closed. Hanta wants to cry.

There are too many things he wants to say, wants to acknowledge. But how can he speak on everything that’s happened in the past couple weeks? The days were earth shattering. His time with you was everything. Should he talk about the costume? The show and the tents? Everything you shared with him, about home and your family?

“Thank you,” is all he manages to say in the end. “For letting me reach you.”

You swallow, lips pursing as your own eyes water. “Thank you,” you whisper back. “For reaching for me.”

Your lips are salty, covered in both of your tears as he kisses you in the quiet darkness of the alleyway. They’re cold against his, mumbling soft words of sweetness and gratitude and farewell. He chokes at the sounds, poetry spilling into the space between your bodies. Will it expand with the distance—making your separation more and more beautiful as you drift apart?

He can hear the faint sounds of his friends as they exit the restaurant and turn down another street, ignoring when he hears the murmur of Has anyone seen Hanta? He just wants one more minute with you—one more kiss and one more touch and one more promise.

Before he has to go with the others. Before he has to escape into the night to be carried over the mountains and across the border.

Before he’s gone, waking up in Switzerland in a bed without you.

oh my god pasting fics into this website it such a chore