#+ expressions and posture and color theory

[muzzlemouths]

wanted to try redrawing the very first fanart i made for this guy

[moonselune]

omg i need to see the eye color changing prompt with the boys!!!

awh helllllllls yeah

Gale:

Gale’s voice carried the rhythmic cadence of a practiced scholar — smooth, articulate, and rich with detail. He paced before the hearth of your shared study space in camp, gesturing animatedly with one hand while the other cradled a thick tome, opened to a page saturated with arcane runes and marginalia. He was speaking passionately — something about the unstable ley lines just outside Baldur’s Gate and how they might affect elemental casting in prolonged combat.

You sat across from him on a low bench, chin propped lazily in one hand, eyes locked on him with the veneer of attention.

“—so if the ambient weave reacts to a surge in primal energy, the spell will require more control, not less,” he was saying, glancing up from the book. “Which is why discipline is paramount. Concentration is—are you even listening, my dear?”

Your eyes — the telltale, ever-changing windows into your moods — had shifted from a neutral silver to a dull, uninspired grey. It was subtle at first, but Gale caught it immediately, narrowing his eyes in a mock-stern frown. The boredom radiating from your expression was almost theatrical.

“You’re bored,” he accused, exasperated but amused. “Honestly, I thought this was one of my more engaging lectures.”

“I am listening,” you defended, voice tinged with a smile. “I just happen to think your pacing is more hypnotic than the weave right now.”

Gale gave you a look. The kind that professors likely reserved for unruly apprentices. “Then concentrate. This is fundamental magical theory.”

The moment he said it — that particular tone of strictness in his voice — you felt the flutter. A warmth in your chest, a faint quiver in your throat. And Gale saw it too: the faint flicker of pink flaring behind your irises, brief but unmistakable against the grey.

He paused.

“Oh,” he said slowly, one brow lifting as the corner of his mouth curved into the beginnings of a knowing smirk. “Oh, I see what’s happening.”

Your posture straightened instinctively, a touch of defensiveness already creeping into your voice. “What?”

“That look in your eye,” he murmured, setting the book down on the table with exaggerated care. “It wasn't boredom at all. Well, perhaps partially. But that pink… was that infatuation?” He leaned closer, peering at your eyes like a jeweler inspecting a particularly revealing gemstone. “No—lust. You like it when I lecture you.”

You rolled your eyes — they flashed briefly to yellow (alerted), then right back to that traitorous pink.

“I like your voice,” you said.

“Mmhmm. And you like when I use it to tell you what to do.”

He was insufferably smug now, folding his arms as he loomed closer, absolutely relishing the turn in the conversation. “You’re blushing,” he added with glee, even though your eyes were doing far more talking than your face. “Tell me — when I told you to concentrate just now, what exactly did you picture?”

You made a vague attempt at playing it cool. “Nothing worth mentioning.”

Gale crouched beside your seat, fingers brushing lightly against your knee.

“Should I start assigning homework?” he purred. “Mark up your spellwork with red ink? Give you grades?”

You snorted, but the laughter caught in your throat as your eyes brightened — pure, unashamed pink now.

“I knew it,” he said triumphantly, grinning like a cat with cream. “Well. I suppose next time you feign boredom during a lesson, I’ll know exactly what’s going on in that mischievous mind of yours.”

You leaned in, your smile sharp. “Just be careful, Gale. If you're going to play the teacher, don’t be surprised when the student misbehaves.”

His breath hitched slightly, the air between you thick with suggestion. Then Gale exhaled, shaking his head in fond disbelief. “Gods, I adore you.”

And for a heartbeat, your eyes went a soft, glowing pink — no flicker, no confusion. Just love.

Astarion:

The Absolute camp was a mess of crude barricades, filth, and torch-lit patrols. You, Astarion, and the others had been sneaking around for what felt like hours—avoiding goblin guards and looking for a way through without drawing attention.

Everything had been going smoothly. Until it wasn’t.

There was a wet squelch. A startled yelp. Then a crash followed by the unmistakable, gut-turning slop of something unpleasant.

You froze behind a half-rotted cart, peeking over to see Astarion flailing in a pit—no, a worg pen, by the smell of it—and coated in brownish muck that left very little to the imagination.

He scrambled to his feet, hands held out stiffly, his usual elegance obliterated by whatever vile substance now clung to him.

"Oh gods—what is this?! What is this?!" he wailed, slipping again and catching himself on the side of the pen. His fingers came away coated. He gagged.

Lae'zel grimaced. Shadowheart muttered something about karma. You stifled a laugh behind your hand.

Once the coast was clear, the group regrouped outside the pen. Astarion stumbled toward you, arms out as if begging for a hug—or maybe a cleansing ritual.

"This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me," he said, his voice rising to a near-hysterical pitch. "Do you know what I’ve just wallowed in?! And of course it would be me who falls into the pit of literal shit—worg shit, no less!"

You coughed, covering your mouth. Not because of the smell—though that certainly didn’t help—but because you were biting back laughter so hard your ribs hurt.

But your eyes betrayed you.

Bright yellow.

Alert. Amused.

Astarion stopped mid-rant.

He narrowed his eyes, peering at you with dramatic offense. "Are your eyes—are you—laughing?"

"What? No!" you said quickly. "No, of course not!"

He pointed, scandalized. "They’re yellow."

"They always go yellow when I’m… thinking fast!" you lied, though your smile was now twitching at the corners of your mouth. "Just processing."

"Processing?! Processing what—the depth of my suffering?!"

You opened your mouth to try again, but just then, a breeze blew through the camp. Astarion turned slightly, and the full scent hit you. Acrid, musky, overwhelmingly earthy.

Your stomach turned.

Your eyes flashed green.

His jaw dropped. He took a slow step back, as if you'd slapped him.

"Green?! Green?!" he screeched, hands flailing. "You’re disgusted by me now?!"

"No! I mean, not you—just… the, uh, situation!"

"You can’t lie to me! You’re literally incapable of hiding it! I fall into one revolting cesspit and suddenly I’m some sort of tragic, stinking creature of the night?"

"Astarion, come on—"

"I had style. I had dignity!"

"You still do!" you insisted, chuckling now. You couldn’t stop yourself.

"Then why are your eyes screaming ‘get away from me, foul beast’?!"

You stepped forward, trying to soothe him, still biting back laughter. "Because my eyes are dramatic. Just like you."

He blinked. Then, slowly—reluctantly—a smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Well. I suppose we do have that in common."

"You want a hug or a bath first?"

Astarion sniffed himself, face crumpling in horror. "Absolutely the bath. And you are helping. And scrubbing. All of it."

"Not until you stop smelling like a goblin’s outhouse."

He narrowed his eyes. "Now they’re green and yellow."

"Welcome to the complex range of human emotion."

He huffed, turned dramatically on his heel—and immediately slipped a little in something squelchy. He caught himself with a hiss. You burst into open laughter.

"How dare you," he called over his shoulder, voice full of mock betrayal. "You’ll pay for this. With buckets of rosewater and scented oils."

"Anything to make this memory bearable?"

"Anything to make me forget the texture," he said, shuddering.

You just laughed harder. And your eyes kept glowing yellow. And just a bit green. And maybe—just maybe—a flicker of pink when he scowled and muttered something about how he "used to be beautiful."

Wyll:

"You always try to fix things on your own. Like you don’t need anyone."

Wyll’s voice wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t raised. But it landed—gentle, yes, but direct in a way that cut past armor. You blinked, caught off guard by how much it stung. There was no malice in him. Just observation. Frustration, maybe. Concern. But it still lodged itself deep in your chest like a splinter of something too true, too raw.

You looked away, pretending to adjust your sleeve, buying yourself a moment. A prickle worked its way up your throat, the kind that wasn’t quite tears but lived in the same neighborhood. You didn't say anything, but your eyes betrayed you—as they always did.

The pale silver shimmer that had been there moments ago dulled and darkened into a quiet, deep blue.

Wyll saw it instantly. Of course he did. His expression fell in slow motion, like watching a man drop a sword he never meant to draw.

"No," he said softly, stepping closer. "No, gods, I didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t trying to upset you."

You shook your head quickly, smiling with a practiced ease that didn’t quite reach your eyes. "Wyll, it’s okay. Honestly. I know you didn’t."

"But I did." He looked down at his hands, as if surprised they hadn’t somehow physically harmed you. “I see it. You’re hurting.

"It’s not a big deal," you insisted, trying to wave it away with a light laugh. "You’re not wrong anyway. I do tend to take everything on myself. It’s a fair observation."

"You’re doing it again," Wyll said, his voice quieter now, like he was afraid any louder and the moment would shatter. "Playing it down. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he kept going, voice colored with that particular strain of guilt only someone with a good heart could wear.

"I hate that I put that look in your eyes. I hate that I spoke without thinking how it might feel to you."

Your smile tugged at the corners again, shaky but real this time. He was being ridiculous. Kind. So Wyll. And somehow that made it worse—not in a painful way, but in the way where kindness becomes a mirror, and you can’t avoid your own hurt even when you want to.

You crossed your arms loosely, trying to make yourself look smaller without seeming like you were withdrawing. "It just caught me off guard, that’s all. It’s not about you. I’m fine."

"But you’re not. You’re blue." He pointed toward your eyes, voice a blend of exasperation and heartbreak. “That shade of blue—I've only seen it a handful of times. It’s the one where I know I’ve truly put my foot in it."

You tried not to laugh, pressing your lips together. He leaned in closer, eyes narrowing with melodramatic gravity. “It’s the ‘Wyll Ravengard is a damned fool and now must suffer the weight of his own words for eternity’ shade.”

You lost it. A laugh cracked through your chest—soft at first, then full-bodied, shoulders shaking slightly. You damned him for knowing just how to undo you.

"Wyll," you gasped through the grin, "you’re making this so much worse."

"Good!" he cried, throwing the back of his hand to his forehead. “I deserve it! Let the punishment commence! Let me wallow in shame and regret.”

"You’re turning my minor emotional blip into a Volo tragedy," you said, still laughing.

Wyll clutched his heart with both hands, eyes wide. "Minor? My love, your eyes were a thunderstorm of sorrow. A tempest in cerulean!"

"Okay, that’s a stretch—"

"A tempest, I say!"

He leaned forward again, trying to peek into your eyes for any lingering traces of blue. They had lightened already, more silver now, with a faint blush of pink rising along the edges.

He noticed. Of course he did. His voice softened immediately. “There it is,” he said, his smile warm and sincere. “A little pink. Thank the gods.”

"Great. Now you’re tracking my feelings like they’re weather patterns."

"They are,” he said with a small smile. “And I never want to be caught without shelter again."

You rolled your eyes, but your smile stayed. He reached out and gently cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing just beneath your eye as if he could soothe the color away with a touch.

“I’ll be more careful,” he murmured. “With how I speak to you. What I assume. I never want to see that shade again. Not because of me.”

Your heart twisted with warmth—and guilt—and affection all tangled together.

"I am fine," you whispered. "Truly. I just felt something for a second, and then it passed. You didn’t do anything wrong."

Wyll smiled softly, pressing a kiss to your temple, lingering there.

"Still," he murmured, lips against your skin, "I’ll write a sonnet about it. Title it An Apology in Blue. It’ll be very dramatic. Everyone will weep."

You snorted, grabbing the front of his shirt and tugging him close.

"If you rhyme 'sorry' with 'morning glory' again, I swear—"

"Perish the thought, my beloved!" he grinned, eyes sparkling. "I’ve grown as a poet."

"And a partner."

He leaned his forehead to yours. "Because of you."

Your eyes were pink now. Bright. Full. And finally, finally, he let himself smile like he’d been forgiven. Because he had.

Halsin:

It had been a long day winding through the lower quarters of Baldur’s Gate — the kind of day that hung heavy with the scent of soot, warm bread, and the salt tang drifting in from the harbor. You had wandered down narrow alleys and under creaking balconies, brushing past silk-draped merchants and fishmongers with salt on their fingers. The city buzzed, sprawling and alive, a contrast to the stillness of the woods you’d grown used to. You were used to movement, noise — but not this. Not her.

You turned the corner, trailing just slightly behind Halsin, when a voice rang out with too much familiarity and far too much warmth.

“Well,” she drawled, arms crossed as she leaned against the archway of a tavern, "if it isn’t the bear himself."

Halsin froze. You could see the recognition bloom in him before he even turned to face her, his spine straightening like a struck chord. A slow smile crept over his face — not the kind he gave to just anyone, but one softened with nostalgia, with old laughter and shared memories.

“Neryssa,” he said, and your stomach sank.

She was tall, dressed in leathers that had clearly seen battle, her hair woven into a braid that gleamed in the sunlight. She looked like the kind of woman who had once kissed Halsin in the rain, or fought beside him bare-shouldered and bloodstained. She looked like someone who still thought she had a piece of him — and worse, maybe she did.

They stepped into each other’s space like it was the most natural thing in the world. She clapped a hand to his shoulder, and he chuckled — low and fond, like a memory made flesh.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” she said, her voice teasing.

“You have,” Halsin replied, his tone rich and warm, eyes roving her figure with a familiarity that tightened your jaw.

You were still. Perfectly still. Like a statue carved into the shadow of a stall. Your arms hung loosely at your sides, your mouth curled into an expression of mild amusement. You watched with cool detachment — or so you hoped.

But your eyes betrayed you.

The dull silver of your usual neutrality bled away almost instantly, overtaken by a red so deep it bordered on violent. It shimmered like heat across metal, too bright, too stark — the color of betrayal and fury barely kept in check. And beneath it, a bitter, nauseated green twisted at the edges of your irises — not at Neryssa, no, but at Halsin. At his oblivious smile. At the way his voice dipped when he said her name. At how he still looked at her like she was a poem he’d once written.

And worst of all — he didn’t even notice.

Halsin kept talking — about old campaigns, the time they’d held the line at Deepmere, how she’d once saved his life with a spear through the ribs. His voice was animated, golden with nostalgia. And you — you stood just a few paces away, nodding, smiling, burning from the inside out.

It wasn’t until Astarion wandered up beside you, eyes glinting with mischief and absolutely no mercy, that anything shifted.

“Well,” he said, too casually, “you are quite the stormcloud today.”

You blinked.

“Excuse me?” you said, your voice level, measured.

He tilted his head, tapping a finger thoughtfully against his lip. “I’m just saying… if looks could kill, poor Halsin would be mulch by now.”

Halsin finally turned to look at you. And for the first time, really looked.

His words caught in his throat as his eyes met yours. Not the calm silver he was used to. Not the flicker of pink he adored seeing when he kissed you. But a violent, molten red threaded through with something darker, something ancient. A kind of wrath he’d never seen before — not from you.

He opened his mouth.

You raised a hand, a placating smile still glued to your lips. “Don’t,” you said gently. “I’m fine.”

He stared at you a moment longer.

Then slowly, he turned back to Neryssa and bid her farewell — a few kind words, a lingering smile, and then you were walking, his long strides silent beside you, and the air between you crackled with what had gone unspoken.

Later, much later, when the fire at camp had burned low and the others had turned in, Halsin found you standing beneath a tree, alone. You didn’t look at him. Not at first.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, voice rough with something almost ashamed. “I didn’t even realize I had.”

You let the silence stretch. The wind whispered through the leaves above, and an owl hooted in the far distance — the world so perfectly serene, it made your seething contrast even more unbearable.

“I know,” you said at last. “That’s the problem.”

He stepped forward cautiously, as if unsure if he was still welcome in your space. “She was part of my past. But she’s not my present. That’s you.”

“She didn’t make me angry,” you said, finally looking at him. “You did.”

Your voice didn’t tremble. It was too steady. Too cold. It was the kind of voice that came after the storm, when the damage had already been done and the water was still rising.

“I stood there listening to you speak to her like she still had a claim to you,” you continued, eyes flashing red again — not quite as violently, but still enough to make him flinch. “You made me feel… like I was watching someone I love forget me in real time.”

Halsin groaned softly and dragged both hands over his face. “Gods, I am so sorry,” he whispered, anguish in every syllable. “I was thoughtless. I didn’t mean it that way, but of course that doesn’t matter. I never wanted to make you feel small. Or less than. And the fact that I did—” His voice cracked slightly. “I don’t know how to make it right. But tell me. Please tell me what to do, and I will do it.”

He looked utterly devastated.

You let your arms fall slowly, tension easing in minute degrees. Your eyes, still simmering with anger, began to dull into something softer — steel grey, maybe. Not forgiveness, but the absence of pure fury. A temporary truce.

“You could start,” you said quietly, “by never speaking to an ex like that again in front of me. Or at all, if you can help it.”

“Done,” he said instantly.

“And maybe,” you added, after a pause, “remember that I am not so invulnerable as I look.”

He took another step closer, carefully, until your hands were nearly brushing.

“You are the strongest person I’ve ever known,” he said softly, reverently. “But I will never mistake your strength for invulnerability again.”

Finally, you sighed — long, quiet, bone-deep — and let yourself lean forward, pressing your brow gently against his chest. He let out a breath of his own, one that sounded like pure relief, and wrapped his arms around you with careful reverence.

“I’m still mad at you,” you murmured.

“I know,” he said.

“We're sleeping with clothes on tonight.”

“I deserve that.”

You let him hold you anyway. Not because everything was fine — but because he was trying. Because he had looked you in the eyes and seen you. And for now, that was enough.

I originally wrote 'you are sleeping outside the tent tonight' for halsin but realised he would like that lmao. Hope you guys enjoyed this! -Seluney xox

[socialobligation]

love in the margins | t. iida

a short, slow-burn library romance, ft. one blueberry muffin, exactly zero jokes, and a boy who takes flashcards way too seriously. (4597 words)

you meet tenya iida under circumstances that can only be described as tragically collegiate: a peer-led study group in the furthest, quietest corner of the campus library, surrounded by half-dead fluorescent bulbs and the palpable despair of students on the brink of burnout.

it's the third week of the semester, and you're already floundering.

you hadn't intended to be. in theory, you were going to stay on top of things—read the chapters early, color-code your notes, maybe even start a study group of your own. but somewhere between sleep deprivation, an avalanche of discussion posts, and the mysterious black hole that is the university's online portal, you fell behind. hard.

introduction to public policy has been your academic nemesis from the start. the textbook reads like legal jargon swallowed a thesaurus. the professor talks in dense, circular metaphors. every quiz is a minefield of trick questions and ambiguous phrasing. you are, in every sense of the word, academically drowning.

so when a brightly colored flyer promising a "collaborative review session" caught your eye on the bulletin board outside the lecture hall, you didn't think twice. you showed up. desperate. caffeinated. terminally underprepared.

and now you regret everything.

the room smells like dry-erase markers and nervous sweat. a whiteboard at the front is covered in illegible graphs. someone has already spilled a latte on the floor. the guy leading the group talks fast and loud, his explanations full of buzzwords and gestures but lacking anything remotely useful. you suspect he's just regurgitating the study guide at a slightly faster pace.

the other students seem to agree.

one by one, they start to trickle out. a girl leaves with the excuse of "office hours." a guy mutters something about dinner. another just quietly packs up and disappears, not even bothering with a pretense.

by the end of the hour, only two people remain: you, clinging to a futile hope of salvaging your gpa... and him.

he sits across from you with the kind of posture that makes your back ache just looking at him. tall, composed, and absurdly polished—like someone who writes essays three days early and carries a spare pen in case someone forgets theirs. his navy-blue sweater is wrinkle-free. his glasses catch the dim library light. his notes are not just color-coded—they're thematically organized, annotated with footnotes and marginalia in tiny, immaculate handwriting.

he hasn't spoken once. he hasn't needed to.

he radiates competence like it's a moral obligation.

"you're still here?" you ask, more surprise than judgment.

the boy looks up, blinking as if surfacing from a well of deep concentration. he adjusts his glasses with a practiced motion.

"yes," he says, voice clipped and oddly formal. "you are as well."

you arch an eyebrow. "no offense, but... are you actually getting something out of this?"

his expression doesn't change, but he tilts his head slightly—almost like he's assessing you.

"of course," he replies. "engaging in structured group review enhances cognitive retention and contextual understanding. it's an effective method for consolidating knowledge prior to a high-stakes assessment."

you blink. "so... yes?"

he doesn't hesitate. "yes."

you snort—audibly. it escapes before you can stop it. and to your surprise, a faint smile flickers across his mouth.

"i'm tenya iida," he says, extending a hand across the table with the kind of precision reserved for formal introductions at university mixers.

you stare at his hand for a moment, then take it. his grip is warm. steady. confident in a way that makes you sit up a little straighter.

"y/n," you say.

his smile grows just slightly. "it's a pleasure to meet you, y/n."

he releases your hand and immediately pulls out a second set of flashcards from his folder. of course he has a second set.

"would you like to quiz each other?" he asks, dead serious. "alternating questions could be a mutually beneficial method of review."

you stare at him.

he stares back.

something about him—the earnestness, the posture, the complete and utter lack of sarcasm—disarms you. it's like he's the living embodiment of academic sincerity. you're not sure whether to laugh or agree.

you do both.

"...sure."

you don't know it yet, but that's the beginning.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don't plan on seeing him again.

it's not personal. it's just that study groups are the social equivalent of jury duty—temporary, miserable, and best forgotten. you assume tenya iida is one of those hyper-dedicated overachievers who only exist within the academic ecosystem. he probably recedes into a cloud of flashcards and moral fiber as soon as the library closes.

you are, however, proven categorically wrong the following wednesday at exactly 8:03 a.m.

you enter the campus café half-awake, mildly hostile, and fully dependent on the idea of caffeine as a substitute for sleep. the plan is simple: grab something with enough espresso to make your eye twitch, stare blankly at your phone for fifteen minutes, and pretend the crushing weight of institutional learning isn't slowly hollowing you out from the inside.

but fate—or perhaps syllabus-based divine intervention—has other plans.

because when you step inside, there he is.

same posture. same glasses. same stupidly crisp button-down like it didn't just come out of someone's laundry but graduated magna cum laude from it. he's seated at a table by the window, surrounded by highlighters arranged like soldiers, reading the textbook that has been your personal tormentor since week one.

and next to his coffee?

a single blueberry muffin.

you hesitate, caught in that weird space where it's too late to pretend you didn't see him, but also too awkward to walk past without acknowledging him.

before you can make a decision, he looks up—and smiles.

not just a polite, "ah yes, i recognize you" smile.

a real smile. brief, but sincere. like he's actually glad you're here.

he waves you over.

you hate how quickly your legs respond.

"didn't expect to see you here," you say as you slide into the seat across from him, instantly aware of how tired you look in comparison to his perfectly combed hair and terrifying punctuality.

"i study here most mornings," he replies. "the ambient noise level is consistent, and the natural lighting is optimal for focus."

you blink. "that is... alarmingly specific."

he inclines his head. "i find that consistency breeds productivity."

you want to tease him, but the truth is, it's kind of admirable. alarming. but admirable.

he gestures to the pastry between you.

"would you like half?" he asks. "it's fresh. and i believe we have, at this point, established a cordial enough rapport to justify the sharing of breakfast items."

you stare at him.

"do you always offer muffins to people you've only studied with once?"

he doesn't even flinch. "only when they look tired enough to deserve one."

your mouth twitches.

"you've been saving that line, haven't you."

he looks mildly offended. "no. though i could annotate it in my planner if you'd like."

you laugh—genuinely this time—and accept the muffin. it's warm, sweet, and annoyingly perfect. just like him.

you don't pull out your flashcards. not immediately. you sit there in companionable silence, splitting the muffin and sipping your drinks like it's something you've always done. like this is normal.

you tell yourself this isn't a date. obviously.

it's too early in the day for romance. you're both clutching textbooks like weapons. he hasn't even made a single joke. (you're not sure he knows how.)

and yet—

when he leans in to show you a section he highlighted—carefully annotated with footnotes and marginal notes that are somehow neater than your typed essays—your shoulders brush. you don't pull away.

he doesn't, either.

later, you realize that you don't even remember what chapter you reviewed.

but you remember the sound of his voice as he quietly explained it. the way he passed you the last bite of muffin without saying anything. the way his fingers curled ever so slightly when he set his pen down between you.

you remember thinking, with a strange flutter in your chest: this could be something.

not yet.

but maybe.

⋆˚✿˖°

you tell yourself this is still just about school.

you repeat it like a mantra as you meet him at the library every tuesday and thursday without fail, settling into your now-permanent seats by the windows like assigned partners in some ongoing group project that no one else remembers being assigned to. his bag always lands on the table first, followed by a reusable water bottle the size of your emotional baggage. he brings extra highlighters now—plural—and starts leaving a green one near your elbow like he’s not even thinking about it.

you, in turn, stop pretending to study anywhere else.

because the truth is, you don’t concentrate better when he’s around—not even a little. he’s distracting in the worst possible way: tall and tidy and terminally composed, with a voice like a podcast host and a smile that you pretend not to notice every time he glances over at you with something like pride in his eyes.

and the worst part?

it’s working.

your grades are going up. you understand policy terminology now. you caught yourself referencing a case study unprompted in another class, and the look your professor gave you made it feel like you’d just been knighted.

you’d thank him for it—sincerely—if he didn’t look so smug every time you nailed a quiz.

“you’ve clearly been applying yourself,” he says one evening, looking over your annotated notes like they’re some kind of sacred text.

“i’ve been applying your study methods,” you reply, then instantly regret it, because the smile he gives you in return is devastating.

and that would be fine—annoying, but fine—if it weren’t for the fact that he’s started sitting closer.

not drastically. not inappropriately. just... close.

close enough that when you both lean in to look at something on the same page, your shoulders brush. your knees knock. his hand lingers near yours when he passes you a pen, and he doesn’t move away quickly. sometimes—and this is particularly evil—his thigh rests against yours under the table for minutes at a time, and you’re too proud (and too panicked) to say anything.

you’re not flirting. not really.

you’re both too stubborn for that.

but something is happening. you just don’t know what to call it.

one thursday afternoon, the sky is gray and heavy with the threat of rain. the windows in the library fog up slightly, making the whole room feel smaller, softer, somehow more intimate. your shoes are damp. your brain is fried. you’re barely holding onto your focus.

but he’s already there, sitting at your usual table with a mug from the downstairs café and a folder labeled “legislation review: week 5.” there’s a muffin. of course there’s a muffin.

he looks up as you approach. smiles. “you’re early.”

you blink. “so are you.”

he shrugs. “anticipation is efficient.”

“what does that even mean?”

he hesitates, like he’s genuinely considering it. “it means i enjoy this.”

your heart does something stupid.

you take your seat before your face can give you away.

thirty minutes in, your brain stops processing information entirely.

you’re trying to focus. really, you are. but his leg is pressed against yours and you swear it’s getting closer every time he shifts. it’s not even the contact itself that’s distracting—it’s the fact that he doesn’t seem to notice. like it’s just normal. like this is how he always studies with people.

(does he?)

(no. he can’t.)

“y/n?” he says, and you jolt like you’ve been electrocuted.

“hm?”

“i asked if you’d like to walk through the case brief again. you seem... distant.”

you clear your throat and try not to sound like someone whose brain has just been wiped by a thigh. “yeah, no, i’m fine. just tired.”

he nods solemnly. “understandable. your coursework has been particularly intensive.”

he says it like he knows your schedule better than you do—which he might. you’ve seen his planner. you’re pretty sure he’s memorized the entire academic calendar, national holidays included.

you try to return to your notes.

you fail.

eventually, you lean back in your chair and exhale.

“okay,” you say. “i need to ask you something.”

he looks up, immediately attentive. “yes?”

you glance around—no one’s within earshot— and lean in slightly.

“this thing we do.”

he blinks. “studying?”

“no. i mean yes, but no.” you gesture vaguely between the two of you. “this. the muffins. the flashcards. the... sitting so close i can smell your laundry detergent.”

he goes still.

“i’m just trying to understand if we’re, like...” you hesitate. “is this just a really intense academic friendship or are we... flirting?”

he doesn’t speak for a long moment.

then, carefully: “i hadn’t realized my proximity was making you uncomfortable.”

“it’s not!” you say, too quickly. “it’s just... confusing.”

“confusing how?”

you fidget with the cap of your pen. “because we do things that feel... date-adjacent. and i don’t know if that’s just how you are with people or if i’m—” you stop yourself before you can say not imagining it.

his brows draw together, faintly perplexed. “i apologize. i didn’t mean to cause confusion.”

you blink. “so you are flirting?”

his ears go pink. just slightly. “i wouldn’t define it as flirting. but i do enjoy spending time with you.”

you squint at him. “that’s not a no.”

he hesitates. then, quieter: “it’s not.”

oh.

you stare at him. he stares back.

and then—like the universe can’t stand unresolved tension—your knees bump again.

but this time, he doesn’t shift away.

and neither do you.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don’t call it a date.

not out loud.

not even in your head, really—not technically. because you’re not dating. you haven’t kissed. there’s been no confession. there’s been no moment of clarity where either of you has stood dramatically in the rain and said i think about you all the time, which, honestly, is a bit disappointing.

but you still change your outfit three times before meeting him for coffee on saturday.

you still hesitate in front of the mirror, adjusting your sleeves and second-guessing your hair, muttering get a grip under your breath like it’s a prayer.

you still pause at the door to the café, one hand on the handle, and remind yourself—again—that this isn’t a date.

you’re just meeting up. casually. like friends.

friends who sometimes sit with their knees touching under library tables. friends who share muffins and steal glances and somehow always find reasons to linger a little too long in doorways.

friends who, if they weren’t so emotionally constipated, might’ve figured this out already.

but you push the door open anyway, and the little bell overhead chimes bright and familiar.

he’s already there.

of course he is.

tenya iida is punctual to the point of pathology. if you told him to meet you in the afterlife at 3:00 p.m. sharp, he’d be there early, holding a clipboard and a fully prepared powerpoint.

he’s sitting near the window, back straight, hands folded politely in his lap. his hair is a little messy from the wind outside. his sweater is navy—clean, simple, a little oversized in a way that makes you stare longer than you should.

he sees you and stands immediately, which is both adorable and completely unnecessary.

“you’re early,” he says, voice warm.

“so are you.”

he doesn’t reply, but the smile he gives you is soft around the edges.

you order something with too much caffeine and not enough nutritional value. he offers to pay, like he always does. you decline, like you always do. it’s a silent tradition now, a ritual of stubbornness. he lets it go with a quiet nod, but not without giving you that look—the one that says i was raised right and this physically pains me.

you find a booth in the corner, a little more secluded than the rest. the sun spills in through the window in soft golden streaks, and for a moment, it feels like you’re somewhere outside of time.

“i’ve never seen you wear that color,” he says as you sit down.

you glance at your shirt. “yeah? too much?”

he shakes his head immediately. “no. it suits you.”

your mouth goes a little dry.

you recover quickly, leaning back and sipping your drink like it doesn’t mean anything. like the warmth crawling up your neck is from the coffee and not the compliment.

“so,” you say, clearing your throat. “what’s on the agenda for today? rigorous academic analysis? philosophical debates about economic ethics? impromptu pop quizzes?”

he tilts his head. “i thought we might take the day off.”

you blink. “from... studying?”

“from everything.” he shrugs, a little sheepishly. “i realized we’ve never spent time together without a textbook between us.”

your heart does something strange.

“you mean like... just hang out?”

“yes.”

“like friends.”

he hesitates. just barely. “yes. like friends.”

the words hang in the air between you—awkward, uncertain, but not unkind.

you nod, slowly. “okay. yeah. we can do that.”

and you do.

you talk. not about school, not about deadlines or group projects or the upcoming midterm. you talk about dumb childhood stories and weird food preferences and the fact that he once tried to start a recycling initiative in his middle school and was very upset when no one followed the sorting chart correctly.

you tell him about your obsession with terrible reality TV. he listens with the seriousness of a man taking notes for a thesis.

he tells you about his older brother, and how much he looks up to him. you tell him about the stray cat that used to follow you home in high school, even though you never fed it.

he laughs—really laughs—when you tell him about the time you broke your nose in gym class trying to dodge a volleyball and ran straight into a bleacher.

“i’m sorry,” he says between gasps. “i don’t mean to laugh at your pain.”

“no, you do,” you say, grinning. “and it’s okay. i would too.”

at one point, your knees bump under the table again. this time, neither of you pulls away.

it’s later than you mean it to be when you finally leave the café. the sun is dipping low, the sky tinged with lavender and orange. the street is quiet, and the wind bites just enough to make you zip your jacket up.

you walk together. not toward the library, not toward another class—just aimlessly. like people who have nowhere else to be.

it’s peaceful.

and weirdly... intimate.

you’re not talking. not really. the silence between you is comfortable now, lived-in. every so often your hands brush, and you wonder—wildly, stupidly —what would happen if you just reached out.

but you don’t.

because this isn’t a date.

it’s not.

except maybe... it is.

“this was nice,” you say, when you finally reach the crosswalk where you’ll part ways.

he nods. “i enjoyed it.”

there’s a beat of silence.

“we should do it again,” you say. casually. like it doesn’t mean anything.

but he looks at you like it does.

“i’d like that,” he says. and then—“you’re very easy to be around.”

your breath catches.

you want to say something. you’re easy to be around too. i think about you when we’re not together. i don’t know if i’m imagining this but i hope i’m not.

instead, you say, “you’re weirdly charming, you know that?”

he blinks. “i—thank you?”

you grin. “it’s a compliment. mostly.”

he laughs. soft. pleased. “i’ll take it.”

he takes a small step back, like he’s about to leave —but then pauses.

“y/n?”

“yeah?”

“if this had been a date...” he clears his throat. “would that have been... agreeable to you?”

you stare at him.

then, slowly—carefully—you nod.

“yeah,” you say. “i think it would’ve been.”

he smiles. it’s small. tentative. but it lights up his whole face.

“then maybe next time, we won’t pretend.”

you feel like you’re floating.

“deal.”

he nods once. then, with a strange, lingering sort of hesitation—like he’s not ready to go yet—he turns to leave.

you watch him go.

and for the first time in a long time, you feel... hopeful.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don't know what you're expecting.

when he texts you the next morning—same time tuesday? not for studying this time. if you're free.—you stare at it for a good ten minutes before responding. not because you’re unsure of your answer (you’re not), but because the implication hits like a freight train.

not for studying.

not as friends.

just you. just him. again.

this time, it’s a little different.

this time, he’s calling it what it is.

you don’t overthink your reply (for once). you just type yeah. i’m free and throw your phone face-down before your heart can beat out of your chest.

and when tuesday rolls around, you are twenty minutes early.

you tell yourself it’s because the weather’s nice and the walk was shorter than usual and you didn’t want to cut it close. but the truth is, you’ve been ready since noon.

you’re wearing the sweater he said he liked once, months ago, after a study session where he handed you a highlighter and your fingers brushed and you both paused like the world might end. it’s not even your warmest or your nicest sweater. it’s just... the one he looked at a little too long.

you don’t want to admit what that means.

you sit in your usual seat by the window. a small table, worn edges. your coffee in hand. no textbooks. no flashcards. just the sound of the café around you and the low simmer of anticipation in your chest.

he walks in three minutes early, which is basically scandalous by iida standards.

you glance up, and the second your eyes meet, he smiles.

it’s not his usual polite, committee-appropriate smile.

it’s something else.

something softer.

he sits down across from you like he’s been doing it his whole life.

you stare at him for a second too long.

“you’re early,” he says, like it’s a fact worth noting. his voice is gentler than usual.

“so are you.”

“a rare occurrence.”

“should i be concerned?”

he laughs—quietly, warmly. “i thought you might say that.”

you both go quiet.

not awkward quiet. just... full.

full of everything you’re not saying.

you sip your drink and hope your heart doesn’t explode.

twenty minutes in, you realize you’ve forgotten what time it is.

again.

you’re talking about something stupid—a professor you both silently hate but never speak ill of in class—and he’s mimicking their voice in a whisper, hand shielding his mouth, and you’re laughing.

like genuinely, honestly laughing.

like you don’t have a hundred things weighing you down.

he always does that. makes everything feel easier. lighter.

it’s dangerous, how much you like it.

how much you like him.

you haven’t said it. not out loud. not even to yourself.

but the truth is: you’re in trouble.

deep trouble.

because tenya iida has the power to wreck you in a way no one else ever has.

not because he’s dramatic. not because he’s charming (though he is, in that annoying, understated, golden-retriever-with-a-perfect-credit-score kind of way).

but because he’s steady.

because he means things.

because when he looks at you, it’s like you’re someone worth understanding.

and you’ve never been loved gently before.

not like this.

you walk out together.

neither of you mentions how long you stayed. it’s dark out, but neither of you cares.

you walk close, side by side. your hands brush once, then again. his fingers twitch toward yours, and you pretend not to notice—not because you don’t want it, but because you’re not sure what happens if you reach back.

you talk about nothing. and everything.

he tells you about the time his older brother accidentally dyed his hair blue with a shampoo prank and how no one in their house was allowed to mention it for an entire year.

you tell him about the time you accidentally set off a fire alarm trying to microwave leftover curry in a dorm that very explicitly prohibited strong-smelling food.

“you’re a menace,” he says, laughing.

you bump your shoulder into his. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

he glances at you. “i didn’t say that.”

you both stop at the crosswalk—the same one where you stood days ago.

the same one where he asked if this had been a date...

you’re not pretending anymore.

and yet.

you don’t know what to say.

you just look at him, the wind brushing through your sleeves, your fingers cold where they’re shoved into your pockets.

he looks at you.

longer than before.

long enough that your heart stumbles.

and then—quietly—he says, “can i ask you something?”

you nod. “of course.”

his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. careful.

“why me?”

you blink. “what?”

“why... this?” he gestures gently between you. “i know i’m not the most exciting person. i’m not particularly funny or... spontaneous.”

you frown. “iida.”

“i’m just trying to understand,” he says. “why you keep showing up.”

you want to say because i like the way you talk when you’re tired, or because your laugh makes me want to listen to every dumb story you’ve ever told.

you want to say because i’ve never felt so calm next to another person in my entire life.

instead, you say, “because when i’m with you, i don’t feel like i have to be anyone else.”

his expression shifts.

his jaw tightens. his eyes soften.

he takes a step closer.

“i don’t want to mess this up,” he says.

“you’re not.”

“i don’t want to misread it.”

you exhale, a laugh escaping despite yourself. “you’re not.”

his hand lifts, hesitates—then lands gently against your cheek.

you stop breathing.

“may i kiss you?” he asks.

you nod before your brain catches up.

“yeah,” you whisper. “you may.”

and he does.

it’s not rushed.

it’s not fiery or desperate.

it’s patient. reverent. like he’s memorizing the feeling. like he’s been waiting for the right moment and this, finally, is it.

his lips press softly against yours, and your hands lift automatically to his jacket, holding on, grounding yourself.

when you part, he leans his forehead against yours.

you’re both quiet for a moment.

then he says, “i’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

you smile. “i could tell.”

“was i too obvious?”

“painfully.”

he laughs, arms sliding around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“this is still new,” he says. “i know that.”

you nod.

“but i’m willing to take it slow.”

“okay.”

“i’ll be patient.”

“okay.”

he pauses. “and i’d like to take you to dinner. an actual dinner. with reservations and menus and probably overpriced appetizers.”

you grin. “are you asking me on a real date?”

he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“yes,” he says. “i’m asking.”

“then yes,” you reply. “i’m saying yes.”

you walk home hand-in-hand.

you don’t have to say anything.

it’s not pretending anymore.

and for once—finally—that feels like enough.

[randomshyperson]

Baby, I'm Yours - Wanda Maximoff Oneshosts

Summary: The Avengers gain a new member, and Wanda Maximoff mistakenly assumes she has gained a rival instead of a friend. Or the one where Wanda has a crush that she doesn't know how to deal with. [Requested]

Warnings: really fluff, enemies to lovers, some kissing and a lot of teasing, avengers being a family, emo!Wanda and her first gay crush. | Words: 4.564k

A/N-> This was requested a while ago and I used it as practice for a winter soldier!reader idea that I had. Idk if I would ever make a series out of this idea, but it was fun to write this reader.

General Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad

-&-

Seven months after she joined the Avengers, someone else did too.

Unlike her, Sam was extremely excited by the news, he woke up early and somehow managed to convince Vision to join him in the welcome. 

Wanda would have skipped the interaction - She only went to get breakfast and intended to spend the rest of the training-free day filled with interactions between the team, hiding in her room and watching old TV shows. But as soon as she noticed the little witch sneaking around the kitchen trying to go unnoticed by Sam's excited theories about who the new avenger would be, Natasha whistled and called out to her.

"Good morning, Maximoff. Do you intend to welcome our new colleague in pajamas?" The widow asked, hiding a teasing smile behind a cup of coffee. 

The question already implied what Wanda had feared, and made her sigh. "I didn't know I was expected to take part in the welcome."

Nat grimaced softly - she seemed to be finding the whole thing very amusing.

"What an idea, Maximoff, of course you are! We were all there waiting for you when it was your turn."

She forced a smile, resisting the urge to snap back something bratty like "Thor wasn't". Deciding she had no reason to argue with Natasha, she busied herself with preparing some toast and pouring herself some tea.

When Sam suddenly tapped on the counter, everyone looked at him.

"I got it!" he declared excitedly. "I bet the new guy is Spider-kid!"

Nat frowned. "Who?" and then chuckled to the Falcon's obvious disappointment.

"Come on, the colorful vigilante who keeps throwing webs around? How come you've never heard of him?"

Assuming a thoughtful expression for a moment, Nat flipped through the newspapers on the counter before clicking her tongue on the roof of her mouth.

"Ah, I think Tony's got his eye on that one." She says. "But, no, Wilson. The new recruit isn't the spider. And there's no point in giving me that look, as I won't spoil the surprise."

It looked like the subject was ending - at least that Sam was going to give up. It wasn't long before the rest of the team showed up for coffee, and Wanda mumbled a few good mornings back quickly before making her way to her own room, to change into something more presentable than fluffy pajamas.

But on the way to the bedroom, from one of the glass entrance doors, Steve Rogers appeared and he was accompanied.

"[...] Come on, we're early, they must still be having breakfast." Commented the older Avenger, busy taking off his coat, it took him a moment to notice that Wanda was in the hallway. She was staring, probably. "Oh, good morning, Wanda. I want you to meet someone."

But Wanda already knew you, straight from the television. And from the Shield's files of potential Avenger-level threats. 

So maybe that's why when Steve said your name, patted you on the shoulder and you held out your hand for Wanda to shake, she just stared.

"Okay, not a handshaker." You mumbled awkwardly, lowering your arm. "You're Wanda Maximoff, mind reader and former enemy, right? I didn't expect the shock, given the circumstances."

"Hey, easy." Steve grumbled at your aggressiveness, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. Wanda narrowed her eyes at you, but you didn't look too intimidated, your posture relaxed and your hands in the pockets of your leather jacket. "That's in the past. We're all friends now. Aren't we, Wanda?"

With some resistance, she eventually forced a smile and tried to relax her posture. She sighed and nodded. "Of course, Steve. It's nice to meet you apart from the news, Miss Barnes. Should we wait for your brother to join us or does he still have Interpol on his back?"

You chuckle dryly. "Listen here, you-"

"Okay, enough." Steve interrupts, pulling you by the shoulders and giving Wanda a disapproving look. He also whispers that he'll have a talk with her later, but the witch turns away, dragging her feet back into the bedroom while you and Rogers head in the opposite direction.

On the way to the kitchen, you mutter: "And here I thought superheroes were polite."

The soldier chuckles briefly. "You tried to blow up the White House, you can understand the hesitation. Now come on, we've got the rest of the team to shock." 

It had taken her hours to see you again, not that anyone had asked her opinion, but Steve had put you in the room next to hers on the justification that it would be good for the two of you to have someone close in age to pass the time.

Wanda grimaced and reminded him that you were about 150 years old. Steve chuckled.

"Technically, yes. But she spent almost all that time on ice, so she was only really around for less than 20 years. Can you please try to be friendly? You have more in common than you might think."

Wanda begrudgingly agreed to be the one to give you a tour of the tower. And so she could also discover that she was apparently the only Avenger who was hesitant about your presence on the team.

She knew your list of skills off the top of her head, but still wondered if you could read what she was thinking when you added; "Your hesitation is totally fine, Maximoff. It must be hard to share the podium as the team's coolest person, but you get used to it."

She chuckled awkwardly at the compliment mixed with teasing at the end of the tour. You offered her a farewell wink, thanking her for the favor before muttering that you needed a shower after several hours of driving. You disappeared to your own room before Wanda could come to a coherent conclusion as to why her heart was racing inside her chest.

Perhaps she was having a panic attack? 

Wanda turned on her heels and made her way to Bruce's lab. A quick check-up would clarify things.

While assuring her that she didn't have a chronic arrhythmia, Bruce also - under the influence of Natasha and Tony - diagnosed her with something very common to teenage patients: a crush.

"Did you consider Miss Maximoff, that perhaps, you may have just liked her?"

She did not take this very well. 

"What? That's ridiculous! I'm not even gay!" Bruce looked up from the normal results of the cardiology test she had demanded and offered her a small smile.

"All right, Miss Maximoff, maybe I made a mistake. You're probably just anxious about your return to action next week." The doctor suggested and Wanda stood up from the lab chair with an impatient huff.

"That's definitely it." She assured him, not wasting any more time on Bruce and his absurd theories after thanking him for the tests.

After such an unfortunate situation, Wanda began to avoid you. It was the most viable solution when someone caused her to have irregular heartbeats, sweat or tremors. Perhaps she was allergic to you.

Obviously, she should keep her distance.

But it seems that the team had other ideas.

"Barnes and Maximoff, you're together. No gloves, come on." Natasha arrived at the gym announcing, an iPad with the training schedule in hand. Wanda, who had spent a good few weeks with the successful plan of interactions limited to greetings, nearly had a stroke. At least her partner, Sam, was keen enough to hold off his punch before it got to her. Wanda hadn't even heard his comment about her getting distracted in a fight and her feet were moving towards the mat, her eyes quick to notice your breathless figure removing the fighting gloves you had been using on a practice dummy for the last few minutes.

"Let's see if training with Wilson has taught you anything, Maximoff." You commented with a smile that made her stomach jump. Something about your sweaty, panting appearance was making her dizzy. 

The rest of the team spread out on the edges of the mat, interested to see the exercise, and it was only Natasha who came up to you to lead the whole thing.

"Start with the basics, I want to see Wanda's reaction time." The widow explained, squeezing the two of you on the shoulder. Before turning away completely, she raised a finger in warning to the younger brunette. "And no magic tricks, Maximoff. Even if you're losing."

Wanda smiled, rolling her eyes. Only once had she done that to Natasha and it seemed the widow would never let that story die.

Before the whistle blew, you looked her in the eye. "I'll take it easy on you, little witch." You whispered teasingly, and Wanda felt something burn in her lower belly. She also decided that she had to win because she had to get that smirk off her face.

It was an easier task than it looked - and it was all down to the fact that if there was one thing Hydra had taught her well, it was to exploit weaknesses. 

And yours was to care about her. Every hesitation in your movements, your awareness of the super-soldier strength that could hurt her, made it very easy for Wanda to exploit it, slip away, and dodge all your blows. And there was something else too; a soft choke in your breathing every time she got too close, tangled up between one move and the next. The way your ears turned three shades redder when she managed to knock you over and landed on your chest. 

"Wow, Maximoff really is kicking your ass." taunted Sam from the corner of the room, grinning at Barton and Nat.

You didn't seem to mind, licking your lips as you took a second look at the position Wanda now found herself in; sitting on your hips. 

She did, however, give you an annoyed look. "Don't hold back, I can take it." 

"I'm sure you can, little witch." You retorted ironically, leaning yourself fully back onto the mat. 

Wanda grunted angrily, then grabbed the collar of your blouse. "Fight for real! I don't need you to take it easy, I can handle it."

The disarming was so quick that she barely had time to blink - one second she was on your hips, the next her back was pressed to the mat with her hands pinned to the side of her head.

Your body on top of hers, pressing her to the floor, made her choke.

For a moment, as your dilated eyes descend to her mouth, you also seem to forget what you were doing, and the audience around you.

But suddenly, you let go; a dry, humorless laugh escaping you as you stand up. And you turn to Nat as if you hadn't just dropped Wanda on the mat.

After ignoring you for weeks, she thinks she deserves it.

"Her fight is decent, so I think we had enough."

Nat raises an eyebrow, a smile playing on her lips. "Oh, are you the one deciding on the training now, Barnes?"

You smile briefly before retorting; "Come on, everyone knows she's not punching her way out of fights when she can use the energy tricks. It's a waste of time making the girl train like a soldier."

Natasha doesn't seem to agree. She follows you towards the locker room, arguing how important it is to eliminate the team's vulnerabilities, while the rest scatter around the gym, some giving up practicing to get something to eat and others going back to wrestling.

Wanda regrets sitting on the mat because in that position she can watch you at the locker room door, tugging at your training shirt, exposing a strong muscular back and a lot of skin because of the sports top that doesn't do much good to hide it. 

Natasha continues to talk to you without taking any notice of the gesture, so Wanda is sure she's the problem. Her stupid brain and heart are clearly forgetting that she can't handle a crush right now. 

She doesn't even have Pietro anymore, who, as soon as he'd finished tormenting her about it, would give her advice. Because he's always had a natural talent for this kind of thing, while the last time Wanda tried to flirt with a boy, it sounded like a threat. 

She can't do this on her own. And with that conclusion, she tries to get over it. Maybe Google has some tips, or maybe, the walking computer that hangs around the tower can help.

"Vis?" 

The synthesized man took his eyes off the book in his lap when Wanda called out to him, a few days after the training session where, since being pressed into a mat by you, Wanda found herself unable to think of anything else. 

"Hello, Wanda." He greeted her gently, closing the pages and waiting for her to approach.

"I need your help with something."

"Oh, what would that be?"

Wanda pressed her lips together, her hands restless in front of her body. "Would you be able to tell me the most efficient way to... get over someone?" Vision frowned in surprise, and Wanda sighed. "Someone we shouldn't like. Definitely inappropriate."

Vis opens her mouth, still in shock at the whole thing, but it's someone else who speaks;

"What's definitely inappropriate?" Tony asks, and Wanda thanks the gods he didn't hear the first part. 

"N-nothing!" Rebuts the witch quickly, the color of her cheeks probably giving her away. Stark looks at her suspiciously, then at Vis.

"Okay, what are you two love birds talking about?" The Vision would have blushed if he could. He gets visibly embarrassed, smiling shyly.

That's great as if Wanda needed one more extra thing to stress her out. 

She can barely contain her grimace at the nickname, but Tony doesn't bother; Vision is at least quick to change the subject, and surprises Wanda with his ability to lie very well. 

"We were just commenting on how inappropriate General Ross's accusations were at the last meeting." And that's enough to distract Stark.

Wanda practically flees the scene after that. For a long moment, she had even forgotten about the tension that had been swirling around the Avengers over the last few days, precisely because your absence from the compound made her - not that she would admit it - miss you terribly. And all she could think about was inevitably you, busy on missions with Steve in search of your brother James.

With your presence increasingly rare in the Compound, Wanda hoped that the crush would go away, but every time she happened to bump into you between missions, the feelings came back with an overwhelming force, like two lovers the war kept apart. It was frustrating, to say the least. Especially since Wanda was nothing more than a teammate. Hardly a friend.

When Lagos happened, and it was the worst thing that could possibly occur, at least Wanda had something else to think about. And this time, Ross's visit to the Compound was more than inappropriate - it was final.

Accords and fights between the team led to an unbearable situation. With half of her colleagues out for meetings with the United Nations, Wanda was still grounded at the Compound, waiting for news.

She didn't expect you to be sneaking around.

"You shouldn’t be here." That's the first thing she says as she fully opens the bedroom door you left ajar. Wanda could lie about being your fault that she found you, when in fact she had become an expert at sensing your aura over the last few weeks, the ability to just know when you were around, perfecting itself every time you two met.

You chuckle, without diverting your attention from the task of filling your backpack with as many things as you can squeeze inside. Wanda had the impression that many of the items you came to collect in your room were old presents; everything the others had gotten you over the last few holidays. Things that were precious.

"I'm aware. I won't be long." You retort, folding some socks together to put them away in the closet.

Wanda should call Vis - he's working as a sort of watchman for the tower or something. And he was supposed to notify Tony of your presence. But instead, she closes the door.

Twisting her fingers in anxiety, she asks:

"Where are you going to run off to?"

Offering her a quick glance as you returned to your suitcase to put away some underwear that made Wanda look away, you replied; "I can't tell you that, little witch."

Wanda almost smiled at the nickname. Instead, she took a desperate step forward.

"Would you take me with you?"

Standing back, you chuckle. "Funny."

"I wasn't joking."

You leave the St. Petersburg snow globe you got as a present from Natasha on the dresser and turn with a frown to the witch behind you. "Maximoff, come on-"

"I'm serious." She insists. "Stark grounded me. Like a fucking child. “ She then chuckles sadly. “Or worse, a problem he didn't want to deal with. And I know I fucked up in Lagos-"

"Don't say that, Lagos wasn't your fault." You interrupt her with a certain determination. "You need to remember that, alright?"

Wanda smiles softly at your reassurance, looking away because her face is suddenly very warm. You sigh then grab just one more change of clothes before zipping up your suitcase.

"It's not because of the company, Wanda." You mutter suddenly, with the backpack on your shoulders. She looks at you with confusion, but you don't meet her gaze. "I just don't think it's right, everything that's happening. And I don't think we should all be fighting with each other. But that's what's going to happen from now on. If you come with me, Steve probably expects you to be choosing sides. And I wouldn't want anyone to get hurt."

Her heart skips a beat, but Wanda takes a chance;

"Anyone... or me?"

You're taken aback, but you don't lose your poise. You sighed deeply before approaching her without haste, without any hint of what you were going to do either. Wanda opens her mouth again, to apologize for being so difficult, but you muffle the statement with a kiss.

It's the first time she's kissed another girl if that isn't obvious. She melts, panting and so very shy; it's a good thing that you hold her waist, while your other hand keeps your face close by grabbing her chin gently. Wanda's lungs scream for air after a moment, but she refuses to pull away from a sensation as good as kissing you.

Something like a whimper of need escapes her when you break the act, or maybe it's the way you give her lower lip a gentle tug with your teeth that leaves her trembling, ready to beg for more.

"Sorry if that was sudden." It's the first thing you say, your voice is hoarse, and as affected as your breathing. You smile, your thumb wiping away some of the mess left by Wanda's gloss. "But I think it took us long enough."

She babbles like a fish, unable to form a coherent thought for a whole moment. You wait patiently, your hands touching her shoulders, sliding down her arms as a way of calming her. Wanda has dreamed so much of feeling you that the touch meant to ease her nerves has quite the opposite effect; every inch of skin you touch tingles.

"H-how... did you know?" she asks, and you give a short laugh.

"I didn't." You retort gently. "Not for sure, at least. Not until two seconds ago when you asked to come with me. I had this... feeling. And this tension. Every time we walked into the same room, every time we were alone. I just felt…” You can put it into words exactly, so you just take a deep breath and smile at her. “I thought my mind was playing tricks on me, that the way I felt was making me imagine things but then you came in here. Sneak out into my room and ask if you could leave this fancy tower to run away with me to fight. I just had to be sure."

Wanda bites back a shy smile, feeling the heat spreading from her chest to her face and eras, and knowing for a fact that it's only going to get worse because of the way you're looking at her.

She tries to get some ground again.

"And are you..." A sigh, as one of your hands settles on her waist. "Sure?"

You hum thoughtfully before breaking the distance, kissing her in a different way than before. It's more intense and hungrier. Your tongue invades her mouth, exploring everywhere and your hands prevent her from pulling away when the oxygen is off. Every needy sound that escapes her is muffled against into lips. 

Wanda tentatively follows the rhythm, one of her hands wrapping in your hair. Your backpack falls to the ground and you hold her tighter now, pulling her into you. It's a significant difference between a super-soldier's body and her own, and just the quick memory of you pressing her against the mat makes her moan into your tongue.

The sound makes you lose your mind - Your hands become more determined, the kiss desperate. Wanda struggles for air, exposing the collarbone that keeps you busy as she tries to catch her breath. You bite down on her skin and she arches against you, her hands becoming bold enough to scratch your back and pull up your blouse.

But you break into a husky chuckle, slowing the kiss and pulling away to remind her; "We have to go." Between one touch and the next, "We don't have time."

She needs a whole moment to force her brain to work, and even after you're no longer touching her, and she's sneaking off to her own room to prepare a suitcase, she's still shaking.

When you meet again, running hand in hand with suitcases back to the garage, Wanda is surprised to realize that she was foolish to be afraid of something as good as this. 

That is, of course, until reality hits again.

Wanda has never seen you in action as a Winter Soldier before. She saw it through television, Shield files, and testimonies about deserters captured by the Avengers.

But she was never there.

The Avengers split up and fought each other, and your brother fled with Steve Rogers. She thought you were safe on the plane with them, she made sure you got on - but she didn't see you climb off.

Wanda accepted being captured, she accepted being drugged as a security measure. And throughout the confusion that was the transportation of the Avengers in custody to the Raft, she thought she was hallucinating the whole way there. The masked figure attacking the soldiers and opening the cells was a projection of the sedative in her mind.

She only knew what had really happened, had been able to remember, when you both were already in another country as fugitives from the United Nations.

You were by her side the whole time. You held her on your lap after getting rid of the straitjacket that had trapped her and lay down next to her when there was finally a secure roof over your heads.

Wanda was exhausted. She had lost the only thing she had left; her freedom. There was no longer a home, a team, a brother. She was drugged and trapped like an animal by people she considered family.

She started crying, and you woke up. You didn't say a word or ask her to stop. You just held her and let her sob into your chest until she fell asleep again, this time from exhaustion rather than through the influence of chemicals.

When what was left of the team moved on the following day, to another location to avoid suspicion as Natasha clarify it, Wanda got the impression that maybe it was you who needed her to hold you until you went to sleep now.

Bucky didn't come back, and neither of you knew what had happened to him or Steve. 

Wanda let you cry all you wanted.

But then finally, everyone who had fought for Steve was back together. Even Clint and Scott, who would probably make deals for their families, to try to be with them, and would have to leave soon. For a moment, everyone was there and you found out that your brother was going to stay in Wakanda to be free again.

It wasn't perfect, but it was a good moment. Steve got food for everyone, you had something that resembled a Christmas, or at least an end-of-year celebration.

We're alive and safe. We're together. Steve was a man of words.

Even if they were sharing a safe house that was too small for such a group. Even if half the world was after them.

The team fell asleep between sleeping bags and sofas, and you left the trailer to get some air. Wanda went after you without thinking much about it.

"It's cold, witchy." You commented as soon as she was close enough, even though you opened your arms for her to wrap hers around you.

Your back was against Nat's truck, and Wanda pressed a little closer to hide her face in your collarbone.

"Where are you going to run off to?" She questions into your skin.

You sigh, one hand caressing her back. "I don't know." You confess quietly. "I wouldn't get to Wakanda with this, but I wasn't feeling very well in there. Having a Christmas meal without him."

Wanda adjusts her face to look at you. "Bucky needs to heal first."

You nod, giving her a sad smile. "I know, but Steve told me they put him back on ice. Until they found out what they were going to do with him. Just the fact that he's there, freezing again... " You look away, sniffling softly. "It reminds me of the past, our time as Winter Soldiers. And It makes me very sad.” You explain softly before sighing. “I know there's nothing we can do to help him now, but it's all so frustrating. I just needed to get out of there for a moment."

Wanda absorbs your words for a moment until she returns to her previous position and smiles as she feels you relax and put your arms around her. 

She murmurs; "It's a shame we can't go out there. Natasha said this place has beautiful spots to visit."

You snort slightly. "Actually, we could drive somewhere further away. Far from the city." You comment. "We can watch the Aurora Borealis."

Wanda bites her lip for a moment, considering your invitation, until she adds; "Just the two of us?"

You chuckle. "Unless you want to wake up the team..."

"No, I wasn't complaining!" She clarifies quickly, and you start laughing again. 

She taps you gently on the shoulder to make you stop. "Idiot."

"Your idiot." You hit back with a smirk, and Wanda's heart stops beating for a moment. There's a pause, between exchanging intense glances as you bring your hands to her face, adjusting her hair out of the way. "Don't forget, witchy."

She swallows dryly, her voice hoarse when she speaks: "I won't." She whispers back and you smile before pressing your lips into hers.

[spacestation-l7]

My attempt at redesigning The Beatles 1965 cartoon! I did an alternate coloring for their clothing to make it look closer to life :)

I added some design notes below if you're interested in reading more about my design choices :)

JOHN:

Faceman of The Beatles, "The Smart Beatle". Many mistook him for Leader because of the way he presents himself

Worst case of Main Character Syndrome

Main personality trait: Strong, confident, mischievous, hot-headed

Rectangular base shape to emphasize the "strength" of the character

Second tallest Beatle, same height as George, just like irl

Lightest hair color (Brown). Hair color is the same as eye color. It makes him stand out. Lighter brown indicates energy

Posture is straight, often with chest puffed out to show a confident, dominant presence

Has the most sharp edges out of the Four

PAUL:

The actual Leader of The Beatles, "The Cute Beatle". Fan favorite potential. Everyone Needs to love him while also be unsettled by him

Main personality trait: Cheeky, flamboyant, sarcastic, extroverted, commanding (at times)

Triangular base shape. Triangles work well for characters who are mysterious and unnatural in some ways. It could also signify hierarchy as characters with triangle bases are usually leaders

Very soft facial structure despite the base. "Doll-faced", uncanny yet friendly-looking with his half-lidded eyes.

Tallest Beatle to signify hierarchy

Eyelashes to give off feminime vibes, makes him look "cute" in a traditional sense

Posture is stiff straight

Pupils not filled in to give off that "uncanny" feeling. It also makes them look soulless, a hint to "Paul Is Dead" theory

GEORGE:

"The Quiet Beatle". His expression is fixed as a frown. Youngest Beatle too, which is why I gave him a schoolboy bowlcut

Main personality trait: Quiet, shy, mysterious, thoughtful

Triangular base shape with rectangular sides. The triangle gives a sense of mystery to his character while the rectangle shows a stable character

Same height as John, sometimes slightly taller

Eyebrows are connected to eyelids and will move according to emotions. Though he doesn't show much change in expression, he's very expressive with the way his eyebrows move

Posture is slouched yet shoulders are straight, almost tense looking

Color palette and hairstyle mirrors Paul's to signify his very close brotherly relationship with him

Skinniest(?) Beatle, also to emphasize age

Fangs! Just like old George had :)

RINGO:

"The Funny Beatle", approachable and friendly, thus the wide eyes and permanent smile. Also the nose.

Oldest Beatle. Hinted at with his eyebags, slouched posture, droopy eyes, and having the longest hair

Main personality: Humorous, light hearted, peaceful, wise, cool

Spherical base shape. Circle as a base shape has always been used to potray a friendly, outgoing, and bubbly character with how soft and rounded the shape is. He doesn't have much sharp edges to show that he's quite literally A Friend

Shortest Beatle, that hasn't changed

Brightest eye color. Very blue to give attention to his facial details. Ringo's facial details are the most prominent part of his face. Bright blue eyes also gives a sense of calm

Though shortest, he has the stockiest build to show that while he's also a friend, he still means business. Built like a himbo except he's actually pretty smart. The stockiness also helps with his circular shape

Posture is completely slouched with shoulders relaxed

Two rings on each hands, even though its not visible sometimes with the way his hands are in his pocket

Big Nose

[stellanslashgeode]

W.I.P. Wednesday on a Tuesday

I keep getting inspired to write this scene and I didn’t want it to get away from me because it’s a few chapters away still. I’m posting this for @skygirlstars exclusively by the by. As a little treat.

There was an indicator light on the Ghost’s fuel pressure gauge that wouldn’t stop flickering. Hera had to take precious time out of her morning with the console lifted up soldering the connections.

Chop argued that since he could speak directly with the Ghost’s computer repairs weren’t needed. She argued that for the sake of the ship’s organic complement it should. He once more proposed she get a computer-neural interface so she could converse with the Ghost and more importantly himself without effort.

It was an old argument, one that led down the same alley Hera refused to trod. So she sipped her second mug of caf and got back to work.

Fulcrum glided into the cockpit looking like she just stepped out of a frame of a stained glass window of some Mirialan nunnery somewhere. As usual. “Captain Syndulla.”

Hera grinned and welcomed the interruption. “Morning, Miss Offee.”

Barriss closed her eyes and bowed. “The princess and I must depart soon. We have a schedule to meet.”

“Okay. Well, it was pleasant as always having the two of you visit. You’re always welcome, as you know.”

Barriss gave her a wavering smile but remained rooted to her spot.

“Something the matter? Permission is usually granted to board, disembarking is your bailiwick.”

“The princess and I must be going.” Fulcrum repeated.

“Yeah, so you said. Clear skies.”

Barriss fiddled with her fingers a bit. “I need the princess to do so…”

A dawning of realization shown its harsh light into Hera’s eyes. “You don’t mean?”

Fulcrum motioned with her forehead to the passageway behind her, gave Hera the briefest of grimaces, and shrugged nearly impeccably.

“No!”

“Credibility aside it is thus, captain.”

Hera pulled off her gloves, stood, and mom stomped over to her Mandalorian ward’s door. Sabine had long disengaged the buzzer after one of their initial arguments so she was reduced to pounding on the door itself. “Sabine! Open up!”

There was a susurrus of cursing followed by youthful giggles.

“Sabine! Don’t make me open this. Are you decent in there?” Hera glanced over at Fulcrum and found her doing that infuriating zen trance thing that Force sensitives loved to utilize when in awkward social situations.

“Just a minute?” Sabine called out through the bulkhead. There was another exchange of whispers. Then the door cracked open wide enough for Sabine to pose in the gap. She was wearing her painter’s smock, drizzled with pigment as usual, and Force knows what underneath. Her hair was tousled and last night’s mascara and lipgloss smeared. “Sup?”

Hera folded her arms and adjusted her posture. “Do you have a princess in there?”

Sabine’s eyes went wide and she affixed the blank expression teenagers use when caught red-handed at some minor infraction. “I dunno. It’s pretty messy with my projects and all. And I don’t usually make a princess check of the place before turning in.”

The snort and giggle emanating behind her spoke otherwise.

Hera massages the bridge of her nose. “Sabine. Leia needs to go now. You need to say your goodbyes.”

Sabine pursed her lips and nodded, making a show of it. “Okay, thanks.”

The door slid closed and there was another hushed conference of voices with an accompanied rustling of fabric. The door then opened to its full extend and with a startled “Oh!” Princess Leia Organa was pushed bodily into the hallway.

“Until next we meet, my princess.” Sabine made an exaggerated bow and flourish like a courtier.

Leia curtsied. “Thank you for the lessons in color theory, Lady Wren.”

“And thank You for the discourse on diplomacy and nonviolent resistance.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.” She opened her mouth and looked as if she was contemplating a different goodbye. Then she looked over at Hera. “Captain,” then she went over to Barriss’s side. “Auntie, let us away.”

“Let’s.” Barriss took Leia’s hand and walked with her out of the ship. Calmly and collected. As if they were proceeding to a formal breakfast with foreign dignitaries. Never mind the paint flakes all over Leia’s formally pristine white gown. And on her forehead and cheeks. With a prominent blue thumb smear below her chin. Never mind the half unwound hair bun spilling out of her hood. Never mind that the right side of her face was puffy like she’d fallen asleep against someone’s chest rather than a proper pillow.

Hera looked over to observe Sabine’s uncharacteristically dopey smile before she slipped once more into darkness. She grabbed the doorframe before it could slide closed again.

“Just a minute, young lady. We need to talk.”

Sabine did the thing where she wheeled around while rolling her eyes. Hera had no idea how she pulled that off without getting dizzy. “Oh yeah? What about?”

“She’s the crown princess of Alderaan!”

“Yeah, so?” Sabine countered.

“And our boss’s daughter.”

“Do you think I’m not aware of that every second we’re together?”

“She’s Ezra’s age!”

“Then you should get Ezra in here to yell at him as well. He was the one trying to wear me down with all that ‘nuthin’ but a number, what’ll it matter when we’re in our thirties’ bantha crap.”

Hera put her fits at her hips and glared at her.

Sabine slumped and looked defeated. “What am I supposed to do, say no to a princess? Look, I know she’s two years younger than me. We’re taking it slow. You trust me, right?”

“Really?”

“It’s not like she’s a Jedi or nothing! I’m aware of who and what she is, and SHE is as well. Sometimes she just wants to be a young woman. And she wants to hang out with her girlfriend. What am I supposed to do, be yet another person in her life regimenting every minute of her life towards her glorious ascension?… I’m good to her, gentle, don’t worry.”

“Sabine. I was your age too, once. I broke some hearts.”

“Yeah well so will I. And so will she. You’re acting like I blundered into this like I do everything else. I’m not. I know what I’m doing.” Hera continued her hard stare. “I’ll be careful. Besides, why are your panties in a bunch? Barriss seemed cool with it.”

She almost countered with a “What would Leia’s mother say about this?” But she knew the explosion that mentioning motherhood around Sabine would trigger. And she wasn’t her mother. Instead she just reached out her arms to hug her like a wriggling Loth cat. Hera knew there were things Sabine didn’t take seriously. Things Sabine did take seriously while pretending she did not. And things Sabine deeply held sacrosanct. And in order to parent her, one had to tread a certain path through her emotional labyrinth.

“I’ll be cool if you’re cool, then.”

“Hera! Let go, I’ve got to clean up around here.”

“Ssshhh, just give me a moment to love you.”

[nesisamess]

my first impressions of the characters from the twitter post thing that DRDTDev made about the other killing game. First off: I love all of them, and half the cast gives me gender envy. I am continually impressed at DRDTDev’s character designing ability, especially in making them interesting, non-boring designs that still communicate their personality and aren’t too complex or over designed. ugh. love them for it (/platonically and/or parasocially)

Also, this post will be kinda assuming you’ve already read the very little info we have about them. If you haven’t, go here: https://href.li/?https://t.co/muTM8j8MPH

ANYWAYS

First off, here’s an image of the characters!!

Beautiful, right?

…

Just take a few seconds to admire them.

Ok! I’ll be going over some theories that relate to all of the characters, and then character by character, and then at the end a little general reflection.

So, one of the main theories that have been posed is that this killing game takes place before the events of DRDT, which I am like 87% sure of (up 7% from my last post, woo). It makes sense, especially in the context of the other theories regarding the characters. As well as this, it just makes sense timeline-wise.

There is also a theory that every character is somehow connected to someone in the current killing game, which I am still a little unsure of. I can definitely see it for some characters, but we know so little about each of them that it’s really hard to say whether or not that’s true. I will be going over who I think could be connected to who, just in case it does end up being true. However, I think a more likely theory is that a couple of the people involved in this killing game (likely the survivors) are connected to the current one, and exactly how much is up for us to discover.

Ok, on to the characters!

First off!

(I don’t know why, but she’s the only one who’s photo is cropped. oh well)

Pretty!! For the sake of this post, I’ll be calling her Spiral (I will be using the names that @xmicrophonyx came up with!).

My first thought when I saw her (besides the obligatory screeching) was that she gave me teacher vibes? That might be since I already had the context of this story being “about a person who wants to become the perfect teacher”. But outside of that, she definitely looks shy, with her hunched over posture and expression. I do adore her color palette, and the pops of teal add a lot.

In terms of a possible talent/role, I still think she gives teacher-y vibes, whatever that means, although outside of that I would think her talent is something a little more professional, considering her attire being formal (the coat, top, and scarf most of all). So other possibilities could be a secretary, librarian, buisness woman, etc.

Spiral could also be some kind of fancy art critic, or someone who works with the Spurling Foundation, if we need to connect her to the current killing game somehow.

—

Next up!

The boy!!!!

I’m going to be honest with you. I think he’s my favorite. His demeanor, the neon green jacket, the fingerless gloves, the cap, the khaki capri pants, the aura of a 14 year old shoujo protagonist—he is the moment. The fan name for him is Soundwave.

I think he likely deals with music, since the pattern on his shirt reminds me of sound recordings. Specifically, he probably is into the more technical side of music, such as EDM or techno or something like that (I know pretty much nothing about music, so take my word with a grain of salt).

Because of this, I think Soundwave would be connected to J. J also is in a similar sort of technical profession, so I think that maybe he could be someone who ends up working with J in the future/has worked with J or something like that.

There’s one thing with Soundwave that also is present in 2 of the other characters—he looks quite a bit younger than most of the cast. He’s shorter, yes, but his proportions also make him seem younger. However, the DRDTDev specifies that all of the characters present are 18 or above, so it likely doesn’t mean anything. People can just look young, after all.

I think that’s all, but I’m really excited to learn more about this character because he just seems so fun :)

—

Oh boy, let’s talk about them…

Hello there, XF. I will also be trying my best to use all of his pronouns! (Those being he/she/they). I am so happy to have yet another gender-non-conforming character in the general DRDT universe, and it is amazing to see such a wide array of diversity and representation in this cast, as well as the cast of the current killing game. Genuinely, I am just… blown away.

She is also the character which we have the strongest connection to the current killing game/a character from the current killing game, that being Min. Min mentions in her bonus episode that an organization called XF-Ture Tech were the ones to sponsor her for the test to become the Ultimate Student. On XF’s coat is an XF-Ture Logo. As well as this, they have the exact same tie clip that Min has.

PLUS, on top of this, he has the same purple/pink eyes that Min has. That last detail almost made me think they were related, but I don’t necessarily believe so. I mean, they might be, but I’m more inclined to believe that XF is just affiliated with/the leader of XF-Ture. There are A LOT of theories for her (along with a lot of simping ahem), but I won’t be mentioning all of them.

If they are the founder of XF-Ture Tech, I imagine their talent would be something like Ultimate Founder, Ultimate Inventor, Ultimate CEO, or something in that vein. He may not be the founder, however, and instead may just work for XF-Ture Tech. I’m not entirely sure, but I am inclined to believe that she is the founder because of the pink eyes. I have a theory that Min actually wears contacts, and that’s why her eyes look the same as XF’s. I may be totally wrong about this, and I thought that DRDTDev already said they weren’t, but I looked through the QnAs and I couldn’t find anything saying that. Unless it is confirmed somewhere, or it gets confirmed, that’s my theory for now!

As well as this, in the chapter 2 part 1 QnA, DRDTDev mentions that Min’s least favorite color(s) are pink and white together, because it’s “annoying”. Since that is a part of XF’s color palette, that draws an obvious connection between the two of them. If Min has had a lot of interaction with XF, and perceives them as annoying, this could be the reason for that connection. It definitely furthers the theory that Min and XF are connected. I’m pretty sure I barely scratched the surface in terms of what has been theorized about them, so I recommend you check out @accirax @googledetective and the posts they made, as well as any of the posts that are bound to be made by the rest of the DRDT theorists.

—

Him!!!!!!!

For all of you who don’t know, this character uses he/him pronouns and I absolutely love him for that :,) I am truly just… flabbergasted at how amazing DRDTDev continues to be in adding representation to their stories, and not only that, but doing such a good job of it.

Anyways! I will be calling him Dandelion after the dandelion in his hair.

As far as what we can deduce based on his outfit and demeanor: obviously this is a character who messes around with gender presentation (we stan) and doesn’t fall into the rigid categories that many cultures try to enforce. He also looks somewhat naive, and young (though all of these characters are ~18, of course). I also definitely don’t think his talent is something physically demanding, since he seems pretty skinny, and his clothes don’t look like they would be good for running around in.

However, this character has a few things that might key us in to what his talent might be. The first of which is his clothing, since my first thought on seeing it was that it looked trendy, or like something an influencer would wear. In a way that kind of juxtaposes their outfit, however, he has a dandelion in his hair, through the band keeping it up. It is very different from the rest of his color palette, and dandelions are usually considered ‘weeds’, which makes me think that Dandelion’s talent is instead something plant-based.

Since that dandelion is just so different from the rest of his outfit, I believe the latter is true, and that his talent is something like the Ultimate Botanist.

In terms of characters he might be connected to, my first thought was Levi. They both are fashionable, and if my previous thought of Bunny being an influencer or something of the like, it makes sense for Levi to know them somehow. Still, it’s a shaky theory.

—

I love asymmetrical designs, and the green/blue hair strand balances out his hair really well. I do also really like the strap on his leg, it gives him a slightly edgier look. I will be calling him “Scale” for convenience (I had names for each of these characters before someone came up with better ones, but @pastelclownkitty and I actually had the same idea for this guy!).

So, firsts things first: I do not think he is Elliot Cuevas. I saw this theory, considered it, and have come to the conclusion it doesn’t make sense (at least to me. if this is one of your theories that’s totally fine!). Elliot is described, by DRDTDev in the chapter 2 part 1 QnA, as having looked “shockingly similar” to how Charles looks now. I think the comparison is vague at best, not shocking. They do both have purple hair and dark skin, but both shades of those things are darker for Scale.

In terms of talent, the pattern of his shirt has been pointed out, and I agree that it probably relates to his talent. In fact, Scale somewhat reminds me of an anglerfish, with that bright green in his eyes and that strand of hair. I don’t know, I think I’m just saying things at this point.

Due to the mentioned factors above, I believe his talent is related to fishing or swimming, something like the Ultimate Angler. I can’t discern his build from under his clothing, but he looks a little skinny to be the Ultimate Swimming Pro or anything like that.

Ok. I’m sorry, but he looks a little… Fishy (don’t mind the pun). Maybe it’s how calm he is, or his mouth, but he reminds me of Rantaro somewhat. I love his design, though, and I think his color palette is supremely cool. I also like how his hair highlight is very faintly rainbow. It reminds me of how when you look at water a certain way, it shows a rainbow.

—

Our protag!! Or, well, Teacher.

Now, I’m pretty sure almost everyone agrees that this character is the Ultimate Teacher, or something of the like. He also has an ID card which says:

This ID card is the property of Hope’s Peak Academy. Use of this ID card by any person other than the rightful holder is prohibited. Report lost or stolen ID cards by contacted 555-483-7367.

(Thank you to @weightedblankettt for the blurry text translation!)

Now, numbers starting with 555 are used for fictional phone numbers, specifically in North America, which is how we’re able to tell that this killing game’s participants probably come from the same Hope’s Peak that the participants of the current killing game are from. Other than that, it doesn’t really tell us much, other than our Protag has an ID card for Hope’s Peak. This leads us to believe that he may be staff, however DRDTDev confirms that these are 11 students.

One thing, though, that I think may be something…

What if Teacher is, instead of just a student, a student teacher? Basically, what if he is someone who comes in to help the actual teachers with the class load and such, but isn’t a classmate of the rest of the Ultimates. Either that, or he’s just a student who carries around his ID card from a lanyard. Like a weirdo (/j).

Now: The Mai thing. Many people think that Teacher may be a relative of Mai, or connected to her in some way, due to the red in his hair, on his shoes, and on the inside of his coat. However, the red used with his colors is very different from Mai’s red. Another theory to why he might be related to Mai is because his eyes are always closed in all the art we’ve seen of him, so maybe he’s related to one of the cast and DRDTDev is keeping his eyes closed to not spoil who. I do believe this part, just not with Mai.

Okay well, here my theory goes:

Teacher is the older brother of Teruko. Teruko mentions in chapter 1 episode 4 that she has an older brother, but they were separated when she was 5. She likely doesn’t remember much about him at all (and I suspect that he was the one who Teruko says she “couldn’t remember the face” of as well). Although they don’t have the same hair color, they do have a very similar skin color, and the closed-eye thing could be just as true with Teruko as with Mai. As well as this, most characters in all of DRDT have a gradient on their eyelashes. 3 characters who don’t? Mai, Teruko, and now Teacher.

Imma be honest, it’s a bit of a crack theory, but I kinda like it, and think it’s interesting. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be the only one to believe this haha

Oh wait! I almost forgot! The whole thing on him being the “Teacher” referenced in secret text. I don’t have much to say on that except that yeah, that’s probably true. Maybe. Who knows.

—

Sigh, I love men.

I’ll be calling this dude Mint, which I know is separate from the names that @xmicrophonyx came up with, but… I think it’s cute, so. First off, his design is great, yada yada, and I love his little cropped jacket. Very cute.

I definitely think his design is pretty sporty, especially with the layers of the undershirt, over shirt, and jacket, along with the coat around his waist. My first thought for him is that he does some kind of racing, either with cars or motorcycles, because that’s what his jacket reminds me of. Race car drivers do wear gloves, so this would make sense for that. I imagine this isn’t his actual racing clothes, instead just casual clothes, but there are still elements of his racing clothes in there. Along with this, it makes sense that he’d have his hair tied back so then he could fit it under his helmet and it wouldn’t get in his face too much (although I suspect his ponytail is too high to fit under a helmet. Oh well, he might wear it lower on race days).

His personality seems like it would fit that sort of thing as well, since he looks serious and somewhat aggressive. He also has those little marks under his eyes. I’m not entirely sure what they’re for, but I’m sure I could connect it back somehow if I wasn’t working on this post for like 3 hours and had any energy whatsoever to do research into it (I just got home from a very long car ride, so keep in mind I am still somewhat delirious). Idk. Maybe he just wanted to look pretty/intimidating/whatever so he put markings under his eyes.

—

A Child?!? Well, no, probably not, but she does look very, very young. Perhaps it’s the fact she’s right next to Teacher, who I’m pretty sure is the tallest out of the cast? Maybe it’s also the fact that the color that dominates her design is pink, and her complimentary color is baby blue.

So, her design is pretty clearly inspired by sheep/rams, since her pupil is the same shape as them, her braids are coiled up similarly to ram horns, and the bottom of her coat/dress looks like sheep wool. The bell on her bow also looks like the pupil of a sheep, too. I actually had a phase of drawing people with that type of pupil, too, because I thought it looked so interesting and unique. I still think characters with those kind of eyes are pretty cool.

Since her design looks so much like a sheep/ram, you would think that was involved in her talent, however in her eye you can see a little needle. That makes me think she’s a tailor or seamstress or something like that. Perhaps, since wool is a big material used for fabric, she cares for sheep and then makes fabric out of their wool, or something in that vein.

She seems pretty peppy and happy, so I assume she would take on an Eden-esque role in this killing game (Though, I assume, she is actually far different, and likely more naive than Eden is).

—

Our girl Fire! She is hot, amiright? (Cue the applause). I don’t know what came over me, with that pun. Maybe the spirit of Whit or something.

But no, seriously, she is certainly a… very attractive woman. The snakebite piercings, eyebrow piercings, nose piercings, and bellybutton piercing? Oh my. A win for the girlkissers. A win indeed.

She certainly gives aggressive energy, like she would fight you (and win, obviously. It wouldn’t even be a competition). She looks like she could take Xander. Also!! I really like her teeth, because one of my teeth stick out like that too. I’m pretty sure it’s the one in the exact same spot as her, just mirrored. I’ve always kind of liked it.

Now, her outfit is definitely very sporty, though I’m unsure of which sport exactly. Her abs and chunky gloves give the vibe of something like a boxer or weightlifter, but she also has chaps on. I’m truly unsure if the chaps are just decorative or if she actually does ride horses (I want to say they’re just decorative because white chaps? Not a good idea. No white clothes are really a good idea when you ride horses a lot. Especially if the horses are unruly lol). Plus, she has a lot of skin exposed, and I can say from experience that flies and bugs are a bitch, and there are a lot when horses are involved.

I also just wanted to point out that Fire and Ice (her brother, who I’ll be talking about next) have eyes that are half brown and half grey, and they each have a color palette of either brown or grey and another color (the extra colors are also complimentary). I personally believe this is because the siblings/twins are very different, and likely don’t get along too well, but that’s just a theory. A DRDT theory. I’m mentally unwell, I think.

[total-drama-takes-takes-2]

aftermath 3

A dark blue, fish-eyed globe turns itself across the screen, starting in Canada and traveling eastwards around the world. Five words flash over the globe: TOTAL - TAKES - WORLD - TOUR - AFTERMATH!

A static flash to Fiji, at the beach: 

---

Ass looks back to the other teams, all waiting in anticipation. Chris rubs his hands together, chuckling to himself as if he’s been waiting for this. 

“Albert and Michela never kissed. Mal lied to… well… to cover for us,” Ass says. “Courtney and I are the ones who kissed.”

Max’s expression drops. Michela sighs a breath of relief. 

Julia turns red. 

“YOU… YOU WHAT?”

---

Then to in the plane, on the way to Sweden:

---

Max trails off again, and sighs. “I feel like if this doesn’t work out, nothing ever will,”

Kelly’s smile droops a bit and they turn away from Max. 

---

The Title Card flashes again and fades into a pink, warm-lit studio. The peanut gallery is crowded now as former contestant upon contestant squeezes into the narrow rows. Patrick steps onto the platform and forces himself a seat between Alistair and O, elbowing them both out of the way to make room. Scruffy smiles as the camera settles on them, though they don’t look entirely happy. Peter waves both hands merrily. 

In the other corner of the room, Joner, McLovin, and Sha-Mod are crowded around an amplifier, each holding a different colored plug as they scratch their chins and flip coins to see what goes where. 

Finally, the lights dim. The audience chatter dies, blowing out like a candle. McLovin shoves a red plug into a blue socket and electrocutes himself, then lies flat on the ground as a single spotlight hovers over the center of the stage. 

Then… 

Nothing. 

The audience waits for a little longer. The peanut gallery begins to exchange confused glances. Joner and Sha-Mod poke McLovin’s unconscious form until even he stirs. 

A harsh whisper comes from backstage. “I don’t want to,”

“Well, I’m busy!”

“I’m busier!”

Finally, the sound of dull footsteps echoes across the dead-silent stage. Noco- shoulders slumped and eyes focused on his feet- trudges into the spotlight. He sighs dramatically as he pulls out a cue card and reads off it in a voice so monotone it sucks every ounce of charisma from everyone else on stage. 

“Welcome. To the Total Takes Aftermath. I’m your no-co-host, Noco. Today we have a very special episode. So get ready for mayhem. Drama. And more drama,”

He sighs and tosses the cue card aside. The audience responds with scattered applause- though before Noco can say anything to sour the already rotten entrance, Caesar slides in. 

“Thank you for your patience, everyone! We’re a little behind schedule today, but don’t worry- we’ve got an action-packed episode,” he winks. “Unfortunately, due to… a scheduling mishap,” 

He pauses to glare sharply at Noco. 

“Your would-be old-new co-host, Bonnie, has been sent out on the field! They’re traveling from continent to continent, interviewing Total Takes superfans!” Caesar says. His eye twitches. “Stay tuned for our first superfan, who is inexplicably Noco-Obsessed! Somehow!”

The peanut gallery seems to let out a collective groan. 

“Didn’t you take that blonde bimbo out last episode? What happened to her?” Scary snaps. “Darwin help me, you romantics must have some kind of brain damage...”

Noco shrugs. “The date went fine. I picked her up, we went to a fancy restaurant, and then I talked to her about my theories for two hours. She hasn’t called back,”

“Unbelievable.” Scary says, completely monotone. 

“ANYWAY! The schedule,” Caesar says, tapping his watch. His smile is as bright as always, but he seems far more jittery today. He leans in to mutter to Noco. “Remember that your little stunt has prevented me from even one conversation with Bonnie since they came back. You are on thin ice!”

Noco rolls his eyes. “What? I don’t like travel. I didn’t want to do it,”

Caesar looks like he’s about to wring his neck, but quickly straightens his posture and turns back to the audience as the overhead monitor lowers. “Now, let’s check in with Bonnie in… somewhere in the desert, USA?”

A loud static screech jolts the peanut gallery, forcing everyone to cover their ears as the monitor hums itself to life. The image finally settles in on the beloved goth, shielding their eyes from a cloud of dust whipping around them. Nothing besides Bonnie against the grayish-brown backdrop of sand is visible. 

“H-hello? Can you hear me in there?” they shout into the microphone in their hand. 

Caesar runs before the monitor, shouting as if they’re separated by a pane of glass. “BONBON! Are you okay!? Where are you?”

“Hell- I mean, California!” they shout back. “Who is that?”

“It’s me, Caesar! I’m so sorry about the scheduling conflict, if I had known-”

“BOOO! Get on with it!” Noco says, kicking back on the couch. He sets his feet on the table. Caesar’s eye twitches again. 

“Alright… yeah, okay!” Bonnie shouts. “I’m here with, uh… um… What was your name again?”

The camera zooms out to an annoyed-looking teenage girl in khaki shorts and Tevas. She scoffs. “It’s Anna, interview-person-thing”

Bonnie grits their teeth and points at her. “Listen, you hippie-wannabe, I didn’t sign up for this, I’m not a people person, and if mauling you with my bare hands is what it would take to get back to the studio and see my best friend again for the first time in weeks, I would gladly do so. You do not get to push me around!”

“Wow,” Noco clicks his tongue. “Ruler of boundaries over here, huh?”

Caesar shoots him a glare. Back on the screen, Anna looks sheet-white. Bonnie sighs, mumbles an indistinct “Sorry” and then clears their throat. “Okay, so… You’re a Noco fan, huh? What’d you hit your head on?”

Noco glares at the screen while Caesar chuckles. The teenage girl on screen looks more than displeased. “He’s a hell of a lot better than you phonies. Noco keeps it real,”

Bonnie rolls their eyes as Noco cheers and snaps his fingers. “She gets it,”

“I like, like Total Takes, or whatever, but the drama is so fake! And I like, totally value honesty and genuineness,” she goes on. “I mean, let’s be real, these plot points- it’s like they were written in a drama show. Like, the ships? Totally rushed! The hate is so contrived! When Noco started pointing out the inconsistencies, I listened. As president of the Noco Fan Club in the Pursuit of Truth, I say Chris McLean RELEASE THE RECORDS!”

Bonnie grits their teeth while Noco claps in the studio again. “Again, nothing on Total Takes is staged,” they sigh, massaging their temples. “What the hell happened while I was on World Tour?”

Caesar shakes his head. “So much, Bonbon. I wish I could catch you up, but-” 

The dust storm suddenly picks up and the two scream right before the screen fizzles out. 

“Bonnie? BONNIE?”

Noco pops a stick of gum in his mouth and slouches on the sofa again while Caesar runs around the room, trying to get a better connection by pulling at cables and shouting at interns. He runs back in view of the camera, looking disheveled. “We’ll be right back!”

---

The studio fades back into view, scattered applause following. A silence hangs over the room for a moment before Noco sighs dramatically, sitting up and spitting his gum onto the floor. 

“Welcome back. I’m your substitute host. Or whatever. I think Caesar’s on the roof, waving around the antenna to get a better connection. But while I’m here…” he stands, walking back and forth on the stage. “Let’s talk about my theories.”

“Do we have to?” Scary mumbles. 

Patrick nods. “Yes, I’m with the freak. I’m tired of listening to you prattle on,”

“You’re just scared of the truth!” Noco hisses, pointing at the peanut gallery with pure malice. “I have proof!”

A sudden scoff from backstage. The peanut gallery turns to the source of the intrusion as a brunette in a bow walks into the spotlight, rolling their eyes. The audience cheers and they wave. 

Noco says nothing for a long moment, his arms crossed and gaze pointed in no particular direction. Then, finally, he mumbles. “Staci, everyone,”

The crowd cheers again, and the aforementioned takes a seat on one of the plush chairs adjacent to the couch. “Hi, everyone! It’s so great being back!”

Another round of applause. Noco rolls his eyes. 

“Sorry for the intrusion, but I just couldn’t help myself,” Staci says, gesturing towards Noco. “I read the evidence binder you left on the coffee table backstage, and I’ve gotta say- as an aspiring PhD student, that’s some sloppy work.”

Noco raises an eyebrow. “Sloppy? Please. I could put your whole life on blast without even trying,”

“That’s the problem! None of your research is academic, or even investigative, like someone would expect from a journalist making such a big deal. It’s “gotcha” journalism at best, and at worst… pure speculation with some unreliable sources. You know that eyewitness testimony is the lowest form of evidence in any field of science, right?” Staci goes on. 

Scary snaps their fingers from across the room. Alistair shouts “Gettem!” and Patrick rolls his eyes. 

“The majority of your “findings” are based on internet theories- and yes, I source-checked- and testimonies from former employees. As someone who was on Total Takes, I can say that none of the interns are reliable sources. Memory is fickle, and going through trauma- like all of us have on TT- can totes skew perception and behavior,” she pauses to smile. “I started a psych class last week. It’s really helping me understand people.”

The peanut gallery claps again, and Noco’s eyes lower. 

“You know nothing. You’re like the rest of them- plants!” he snaps. “I’m a journalist!”

Staci scoffs again. “You’re a gossip columnist at best. Stalking someone’s social media isn’t “gathering evidence” it’s being a teenager,” 

“And it’s immature- and rude!” Peter shouts from the audience. Staci nods. 

Noco grits his teeth. “As if I’d trust any of you. Chris is paying you to keep quiet. All of you! My fans know!”

“Ahem- as an engineer, as well as an expert in friendship and romance, I’m pretty sure those girls just think you’re cute,” Staci crosses their arms. She looks thoroughly unamused. “You can go ahead and dig up whatever dirt you want on me- I’m a clean record. My blogs are all public access!”

Noco growls, standing up to shout before Caesar jogs back in the room, covered in wires and holding an antenna. “Back!”

The peanut gallery breathes a collective sigh of relief as their usual host tries to untangle the web of cords he’d cocooned himself in. “We, uh- had a little trouble with the connection, but I called some guys to check it out. Where are we?”

“Nowhere, really,” Scary grumbles. 

Caesar’s eyes turn to Staci. “Stace! Got your segment done already?”

She shrugs. “Kind of. Ass is still backstage, though,”

“Perfect, someone bring them out. We’ve got a very special treat for you all today- welcome to our second-ever Second Chance Challenge!” Caesar says, pacing the stage quickly. “By popular audience demand, five former contestants will be competing right here, right now, for a chance to get back on that plane!”

The peanut gallery turns to each other as the audience ooh’s. 

“No way,” a voice says from behind the benches. Ass walks back on stage, arms crossed. “No one in their right minds would get back on that death trap!”

“Not even for a million dollars?” O asks, eyes wide. 

“Not even for romance?” Peter says. “You and Courtney-”

“Courtney is perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. They’re not stupid,” Ass says. “Besides, I had my moment. Let someone else take my place on death row.”

Caesar shrugs. “Fair enough. Now-”

A sudden ringing interrupts him and an intern rushes in with a phone. Caesar flips it open to listen to an indistinct voice on the other line. He nods along before suddenly going pale. “Grounded? What do you mean, grounded?”

The voice says something else and then the line goes cold. Caesar tries to put on a smile, but to no avail. “Haha… looks like Bonnie’s plane is experiencing some technical issues… and they’re stuck there for the time being! Hahahaha. Isn’t this great?”

“Mmm… I love my cell reception!” Noco says merrily, holding up his phone like a holy artifact. Caesar looks like he’s about to kill him as Ass steps into frame and leans in to whisper. 

“Hey, Loverboy. I don’t wanna dig myself a grave in your personal biz, but before I left, Mal was blabbering something about one of the upcoming challenges being in the southwest U.S.. She’s a nutcase, but she’s good at predicting that crap,” they mumble. “Just saying.”

Caesar thinks for a moment, and then nods. He turns to face the audience. “And we’ll be right back- I’ll be right back, I mean. In the meantime, your co-host Noco will explain the rules of the game.”

“Game?” Alistair asks from the peanut gallery.

They turn to Noco expectedly as Caesar hurries off stage, pulling the Takes Three Trio with him. The sullen boy stares for a moment, and then sighs. 

“We’ll be distributing these lame cans of peanuts. Some of them have a ticket back on that flying death trap. Blah, blah,”

“Let me guess- this is staged, too?” Scary says, rolling their eyes. 

Noco sighs, his shoulders slumping. “Unfortunately, this one is real. I packed the peanuts myself,”

The peanut gallery cheers as a few interns distribute the goods. Scruffy and Staci clink their cans together, Scary tosses hers to the side and returns to her chemistry book, and O, Peter, and Alistair hold hands around theirs to manifest good luck. 

“And one for Mr. Deep Blue Sea,” Noco sighs, tossing a can aside for Caesar. “This is dumb.”

The first cans open- O, Peter, and Scruffy sulk as they dump out their cans of regular old peanuts. Patrick growls in frustration (not in the metaphorical sense- he actually growls like a dog) and attempts to crush the tin can in his fist. After trying two or three times to make a dent, he chucks it across the room, nailing McLovin in the head as the Trio returns from backstage. 

He storms over to Noco. “I demand a new can,” 

“No can do,” Noco says, chuckling to himself before his expression turns sharp again. “All sales are final.”

“Listen here, you miserable little emo-”

Scary rolls their eyes. “Stop whining. You can have mine,” they kick their can over to him, and he nabs it with a victorious smile. 

“Nerd,” he says to Noco as he tears open the can lid. A tiny, spring-loaded solid-gold Chris head pops out and punches his eye. 

Ass pops a peanut in their mouth, watching as a Chris head jumps out of Staci’s can. She squeals. Alistair claps behind her as another shining golden host appears. 

Caesar looks from side to side, cautiously surveying the stage as if he might be attacked as he clutches the can in his hand. He peels back the lid with a loud scrape, and… nothing. “Dammit,” he mutters. 

“Hey, don’t worry, bud!” Joner says, holding his own Chris-infested can. Behind him, Sha-Mod and McLovin struggle to peel back the top on the latter’s peanuts. “If I get back on, I’ll get Bonnie for you!”

He sighs. “Thank you, Joner, but... I hope you don’t take offense to this, but I don’t have a lot of faith in you boys,”

“None taken!” Joner grins as the two other members of their trio open their can behind them, unleashing the spring-loaded Chris directly on McLovin’s chest, sending him flying backwards. 

“And that’s our five,” Noco says, rolling his eyes. 

Patrick walks up to the center of the stage with swagger, not unlike a peacock. Staci and Alistair follow, while Joner helps drag McLovin alongside them.

Caesar surveys the lineup and sulks, his shoulders slumping. Another intern appears, waving a phone out to him, which he begrudgingly takes. “Hello? OH! We’ve got a connection, someone lower the monitor!”

The large TV screen comes down with a mechanical whir, and flickers to life. Bonnie is standing in the middle of a sandstorm, shielding their eyes while coughing. “C-Caesar?”

“Talk about a mouthful,” Noco comments, standing.  

Alistair scowls at him. “Is this really the time for your twisted sense of humor?”

The audio blips in and out as they speak. Caesar runs up to the screen, putting his hand on it as if it were a pane of glass. “Bonnie, can you hear me?”

“I can-”

The monitor suddenly falls dead, a black screen replacing Bonnie’s shuddering form. Caesar’s pupils shrink and he stares in disbelief as Noco walks back on stage, holding a plug. 

“What? We have a schedule to keep, don’t we?”

Caesar’s eye twitches again. The five selected players, standing off to the side now, shake their heads in disapproval. 

Staci crosses their arms. “Is it your job to make everyone miserable?”

“Uh, duh? I’m not called Noco for nothing,”

A distant-sounding voice comes alongside them. “You know what?” Caesar says. “He’s right.”

“Caesar, you don’t have to-” Staci starts, but he holds a finger to his lips to shush them. 

“We’re keeping a schedule. Takes Three Trio- myself- we’ve prepared a special little song for Noco, to express our gratitude,” he smiles. “It’s all water under the bridge now.”

Noco raises an eyebrow, suspicious. Joner and McLovin salute, and Sha-Mod runs up between them, and all three of them pull various instruments from behind their backs. 

Caesar adjusts his bowtie, looking rather calm, and then taps his microphone. “Hit it!”

The Takes Three Trio starts up a jolly jig as the host clears his throat. “Here’s an open letter to a treasure of a guy!”

Noco nods along. “Uh-Huh,”

“Whose behavior on this show always makes us sigh,”

“Hm?”

“He’s a nasty, lying schemer, who calls himself “your host!” Without the help of social media, his job would be toast!”

Noco opens his mouth to say something back, but every member of the peanut gallery delivers a quick “Hush!”

“He’ll call himself a journalist, but he failed his English class! He’s just so full of you-know-what, he has to double wipe his-”

“HEY!” Noco snaps. Caesar brushes him off. 

“He started his own rumor show, under Blaineley and Josh’s nose, and when they found out he was fired and sent down here to host!” 

Caesar points directly in his face. “He’s not the guy you think he is, so don’t drive yourself loco. He plagiarizes all his work, and his real name isn’t Noco!”

“He’s a phony, scheming, wannabe-host, and his real name isn’t Noco! He steals and lies, he’s evil, folks, and his real name isn’t Noco!”

Caesar stops between the Takes Three Trio and they shout the last line together. “It’s Isaac!”

Noco crosses his arms, glaring. He has nothing to say for a few moments, before finally clearing his throat. “You couldn’t come up with anything better? I-”

“Meep! Meep!” Caesar holds out his hand, folded to resemble a mouth. 

Noco stares in silence for a few minutes. “Lies, and-”

“Meep! Meep!” the host flaps open the hand-mouth, cutting him off. 

“Really? This is so immature. You’re-”

“Meep! Meep! Meep! Now, let’s get on with the show,” Caesar says, straightening his tie again. “Time for our Second Chance Challenge! One out of five of these players is about to play for another chance at the million! Staci, Alistair, Joner, McLovin, and Patrick- are you guys ready?”

No response. Caesar goes on anyway. “Time for Total Takes; The Board Game! Each of these squares in front of you represents one of our final contestants. Each has their own personalized challenge, depending on who you land on.” He tosses Staci a large foam die. 

“Fail, and you’re out! Once you’re off the board, I’ll be asking you your final question. Whoever gets this query right gets a one-way ticket back to Total Takes. Ready?”

Everyone shakes their heads- except for McLovin and Joner, who high-five. “Looks like Staci is up first,”

Staci bounces the die in her hands for a moment before tossing it across the board. It lands on five, and she claps excitedly and runs across the spaces, standing on a tile decorated with Julia’s face. 

“The Julia challenge- safe pick!” Caesar says. A table with a computer on it drops from the ceiling. “You’ve got two minutes to hack into this government website. Time!”

Staci stares as Caesar clicks his watch. “But I-”

“C’mon, Stace! You’re an engineer!” Alistair shouts from the other end of the board. 

“Civil engineer, not software!” they cry back. They hurriedly type on the computer, but to no avail. As Caesar’s watch rings, they grunt in frustration. 

“A valiant effort. Patrick?”

Staci kicks the die to the beginning of the board, and the aforementioned picks it up with a smirk. “Please… a little board game? What am I, five?”

Caesar rolls his eyes. “Just toss the die,”

Four. Patrick steps on Albert’s square and chuckles. “What? Do I have to hug a tree?”

“Close!” the host chimes. A tree falls from the ceiling, landing before him. Patrick raises an eyebrow as a belt of chains lands on his head, sending him to the floor. He begrudgingly stands, holding the iron. 

“What’s this?”

“Your challenge is to chain yourself to this tree as this intern attempts to cut it down with a chainsaw! Chicken out, and you’re done,” Caesar says merrily, gesturing to a uniformed blond man, revving the biggest chainsaw Patrick had ever seen. 

He gulped, but picked up the chains anyway, fastening himself to the trunk. “No big deal. I’m not chicken,”

The chainsaw whirs to life, but before the intern can even step onto the game board, Patrick wiggles free of his constraints and scampers across the stage. 

“That’s what I thought,” Caesar smirks. “Joner-”

“Can we go together? As buds?” Joner says, holding McLovin’s hands with a pout. The host sighs, and then relents. “I suppose it’d save us some time. Joner and McLovin, you’re up,”

Two. They take exactly two steps forward, and stare at the pink tile beneath them. 

“Oh, this is delightful,” Caesar grins. “Michela’s challenge: defend yourself from eighty-three hungry rats with nothing but a hockey stick.”

“What?” Ass snaps from the peanut gallery. “That makes no sense!”

Joner shakes his head. “No, that’s Miccy,”

“Very Miccy,” McLovin sighs. 

Caesar hands them exactly one hockey stick and backs away as a nearby cage opens, and dozens of rats clamber out. The host watches with the peanut gallery, wincing as the two boys shriek. 

“Okay…” Caesar says, making no attempt to stop the rats from carrying McLovin and Joner away with them. “Alistair- it’s all on you. If you can make it across the board and answer the final question, you’re back in the running.”

“Wooo! Go Alistair!” Peter and O cheer. He waves to them. 

“I’m pretty confident,”

“Sure,” Noco murmurs from the suede couch. “All this friendship and smiles crap is making me sick.”

Alistair picks up the die and gives it a few good shakes before tossing it. It lands on a six, and he steps across the board. 

“Kelly’s challenge- write a nice haiku about someone everyone hates,” Caesar reads off the cue card, tucking it back in his coat. “Say… Julia!”

“Hey!” Scruffy shouts from the peanut gallery. They are ignored. 

“Oh, performance poetry! Simple,” Alistair says, crossing his arms. “Julia, so smart. She hacks, attacks, and bites back. What a piece of art!”

Caesar hums to himself for a moment. “I suppose I’ll count that as positive. Roll again!”

Scruffy crosses their arms and grumbles to themselves. “I could’ve done a better one,” Staci pats their shoulder.

Noco rolls his eyes. “Can we get on with this?”

Fren tosses the die again, rolling a five. That sends him off the board, and to the final question. Caesar pulls another card from his blazer pocket and clears his throat. 

“As the rules dictate, anyone who answers this question correctly earns themselves a non refundable trip straight to Total Takes. Alistair- are you ready?”

The British boy nods, crossing his arms. 

“Alright. Here’s your question: “What is Albert’s philosophical school of choice?””

Alistair pauses for a moment, rubbing his chin as he thinks. “It’s just at the tip of my tongue… it’s… Nigeria- no, that’s a country. Nickel? No…”

“You people can’t be serious. Are you all so happy-go-lucky and gullible that you can’t even recognize the core fundamentals of misery?” Noco snaps. Caesar tries to hush him, but to no avail. 

“And you think I’m the phony. Well, I think all of you are naive, immature, annoying little rays of sunshine who don’t even know what nihilism is!”

A faint ding sounds, and the stage lights up in colors. The peanut audience gasps. Caesar glares. “Great! Look what you’ve done!”

Noco raises an eyebrow. “What’s-”

“Isaac, you’ve just won yourself a chance at a million dollars,” Caesar grumbles, massaging his temples. “You know what? This is fine. Fine! I can’t trust anyone to rescue Bonnie, but hey- at least we’re getting rid of him!”

“That boy’s gonna get eaten alive,” Ass shakes their head. The peanut gallery nods in solemn agreement. 

A long pause follows, and then a wide, terrible grin spreads across Noco’s face. “Please. This is great! I’m finally going to prove everything I already know! Total Takes is pre-written, Max and Julia have been dating in secret, and everyone is miserable. I’ll see you suckers on TV, when I’m running my own show! This is my break!”

Caesar rolls his eyes as the former co-host walks off, making sure to flip off the audience before he disappears backstage. 

“Well… that’s our time. Our next aftermath will be at the finale, so stay tuned!” he sighs, turning away from the audience. “I need to lie down.”

[sliptohk]

Prompt #3: Tempest

Several bells passed as stern-faced assistants winnowed away ill-suited candidates. Bridges burned as some cursed and threatened representatives that found them lacking, while others expressed unexpected maturity. The depths of that self-control varied widely once drinks began to flow and grievances aired. Ultimately, the illusion of respectability served a group best. Few wanted a motley collection of violent toughs predisposed toward throwing tantrums when things worked against their favor. Save for especially bloody work that those with some choice in the matter shunned.

Soon enough the meager handful lucky enough to remain gathered before a half-circle of cushioned seats. Oliver handled the negotiations on their part, having developed some degree of rapport during the brief acquaintance with the prospective employers. Deafening enthusiasm worked well during the cacophony of battle. This was a more civilized front.

That did not keep Ellory from having a bit of fun. Despite heroic efforts to distract the woman, it was inevitable that she would confidently choose to muster alongside Silent's crew. Who did their level best to ignore the obvious efforts to get their attention with flicked pebbles and hissed breaths out the side of the mouth. We Wretched Few may not have had so dour a reputation as the name implied, but they were not known for their levity. Especially not with a job at hand.

It was only natural that served as a tempting challenge.

Sadly, it was too daunting to defeat that morning. The selection was decided before fraying control could snap. Five secretaries sallied forth to stand at rigid attention before an equal number of remaining companies. Some degree of psychology went into the order such things were chosen. Whether decided by card or dice the wealthy staggered their choices in the way to provide the most dramatic timing to the gathered audience. Their numbers slowly increasing as the time of declaration arrived.

A hyuran woman stepped forth, wrapped in silken garments adorned with threaded gemstones. Ostentatious dyes complimented the colors even as they erred dangerously near the fine line between extravagant and gaudy. Muted chatter faded as curiosity peaked.

Her voice rang clear like the chime of silver bells, "Kakali Kali has elected Hear Us Roar! Tempered in the bloody fields of Bozja! Instincts honed in fierce rebellion against Garlean invaders! They proudly represent the storied Kali Trading Concern in this most honorable hunt!"

Ellory appreciated the drive to go first. A crowd was at its freshest and overflowing with enthusiasm for even the most mediocre of offerings. Not that the choice was middling. The unknown collection of Hrothgar were roaring exuberantly even if it did little to further turn the crowd to their side. An excellent effort to live up to their name! But it was a poor draw to lead or an overly arrogant participant. It was easier to overshadow one that preceded you.

The first speaker bowed to the crowd, before stepping back and retreating to stand behind a young lalafel relaxed to the point of near snores. Perhaps there was a little more than mint and yogurt in their morning drink. But little time to consider it as an elezen man stepped up next. Chin raised and eyes fixed on the scroll unrolled before him as if that posture would more readily project his voice. Crisp attire gave the implication of a military man, albeit one currently wielding ornamental gear rather than battle-ready equipment.

"The gracious lady Ibrane Faltine of House Faltine elects the talented crew of erudite mages, the Opposing Elements! Known among the academic world for their brilliant theories regarding unimagined manipulation of aether! Honored among the common folk for the practical application of such abilities to battle the wickedness of the world! Pleased to be in service of the good Lady Faltine for this grand adventure!"

The applause drowned out the derisive snort that Arlette let slip, even if it were more muted than the prior presenter. It seemed a touch too much arrogance slipped through. While an excellent way of portraying oneself as a villain they gained little outside of a theater environment. Unless they desperately wanted odds to be against them in the inevitable stakes the gambling dens would soon announce. Turning crisply on one heel, the elezen moved back to stand with puffed chest behind their dear Lady. Their chosen crew offered short nods and simple waves. It did little to encourage further excitement from the crowd.

Third was an excellent position, one could never go wrong being chosen in that fine middle-ground. Before the onlookers grew weary of a spectacle drawn out overlong.

Hobbling forth, an elderly woman leaned heavily upon a lovely, carved cane. Leaf and stem carved to near realistic detail in the dark wood as both hands rested upon the curve of the grip while a beatific smile moved slowly to capture the eyes of those who met her. It was like watching a beloved nana stand before family at holiday dinner.

Then, she spoke, "Evenin' all, ye right bastards and magnificent bitches! Didja come fer stuffed shirts an' stuffier words? Nay! Th' lotta ya are hankerin' fer some fine bleedin' sport! An' who raises the best bloody gladiators on th' Bloodsands? Who turns 'em out ta break the toys of soft-handed moneygrubbers? Heribert Smokefist an' his chosen blades th' Merciless! Cheer fer 'em proper! Bet on 'em heavy! An' greet 'em loudly now an' on their glorious return!"

One had to respect a show woman, and Ellory raised to fingers to her mouth to let out a piercing whistle of encouragement to the fiery elder as she raised both hands to shake in reply to the wave of cheers raining down upon her. Heribert was something of a performer themself, so far as the stories told. Surprisingly gentlemanly too as he rose from his comfortable seat to guide the elder instead. A further shout of approval answered that carefully choreographed show of respect.

Though Merciless hardly seemed to demand any of that regard. Weapons were raised, swords clashing and axes slamming loudly against shields. The sort of cacophony one raised before battle. They would bear watching. Young as they appeared to be, it never hurt to be mindful of opponents that seemed especially violent-minded. Particularly when they gripped their weapons so tightly. One among their number abstained. Arms crossed before his chest and eyes so pale they practically glowed. Or truly did? Ellory hardly knew many black-scaled au ra men. Though that unblinking gaze seemed to be drinking in all it could.

The hyurgadyn returned that look, uncowed by a rookie trying to stare down a rival. Turquoise boring into blue until it began to stir something unwelcome at the back of Ellory's mind.

"Stop." Silent kept her head forward, hair dark as her namesake falling low to mask all but their mouth. Skin as pale as marble."Not that one, Teitaspaer. He belongs to me."

It was enough to break the spell between them. Questions were quick to fill that brief moment.

"Old friend of yours? New lover?"

"Just watch your back."

With a dismissive cluck of the tongue, Ellory failed to turn her attention back to the announcers as they proclaimed first Silent's crew then her own. Instincts told her that something bad was coming and had the contract not already been sealed she would have pressed them to leave. But a mercenary's word was her bond. And she was confident nothing would stand against theirs.

"They're just a pack of preening jackals! They can try their worst!"

It was an interesting phenomenon. When one stood in the eye of the storm they never realized what was yet to come. And yet again, she called it down upon them.

Silent let the comment settle between them before turning back to the procedure at hand.

"They will."

[maximumprincecollective]

Beauty Rituals That Go Beyond the Mirror

In a world that constantly demands our attention, moments of personal care can feel like small acts of rebellion—time we reclaim just for ourselves. Whether it’s the quiet focus during a haircut or the calm stillness of a manicure session, these rituals are less about vanity and more about self-connection.

Hair Styling as Everyday Expression

Your hairstyle is often the first thing people notice—and it says more than we think. From sleek ponytails to textured waves, styling reflects how we feel or how we wish to be seen. Professionals trained in hair design understand not just trends, but how to tailor each look to your features and lifestyle.

Makeup as Mood, Not Mask

Contrary to the idea that makeup hides, many wear it to highlight. Whether it’s a subtle touch-up or a bold, artistic look, the application of makeup is a way to play with identity and mood. It’s a practice rooted in precision, color theory, and personal artistry.

The Simplicity of a Great Hair Cut

A well-cut head of hair doesn’t just look good—it grows well, holds shape, and complements face structure. It’s the foundation of all other hair decisions, requiring expertise in texture, density, and movement. A skilled stylist knows how to cut with both present style and future growth in mind.

Hands and Feet Matter Too

Often the most overlooked, hands and feet carry our daily stress. A professional manicure and pedicure isn’t just about polish—it's about cleanliness, circulation, nail health, and even posture. It’s maintenance with therapeutic value, quietly boosting both hygiene and mood.

For those seeking quality personal care without the noise, it’s easy to find professionals skilled in everything from hair styling and beauty services to restorative grooming experiences—all rooted in experience and attention to detail.

[yomica12345]

Dimensional: Chapter 13

Chapter 1 Link, Chapter 12 Link

Ao3 Link

Warnings: Anxiety/Nervousness

Chapter 13: Held in Place

Logan watched as Virgil anxiously checked the door again, his shoulders only relaxing when the number shifted from one to twelve. A faint smile tugged at Logan’s lips.

“Sixteen?” Patton’s voice broke the silence, his head tilting in curiosity.

Logan turned back to him. “Sorry, Patton. Could you give me a moment?”

Patton hesitated, his cheerful expression faltering for a split second before he masked it with a grin. “Sure, Logan.” He hopped off the bed, wandering over to the coloring pages scattered nearby.

Logan approached Virgil, clearing his throat softly.

Virgil flinched and spun around. “Uh—hey.”

Logan chuckled. “Hey.”

“I’m sorry, I—” Virgil rubbed the back of his neck, his words stumbling. “I just… don’t 

know whether to expect you or Sixteen.”

“Either way, you may still call me Logan.” Logan’s gaze flicked to the number on the door. “It may be a while until one of the doors we need appears. Perhaps we should get some rest.”

“We should, yeah.” Virgil glanced around his room, clearly uncomfortable. “I can summon an extra mattress for Patton, and you can take the bed. I’ll just crash in the living room downstairs.”

“You shouldn’t have to further your anxiety for everyone else to be comfortable.” Logan said, standing a little straighter. A faint blush dusted his cheeks. “Sixteen or I would be willing to share your bed—with either Patton or you.”

“Share?” Patton perked up, his eyes wide.

“I could share.” Virgil and Patton blurted at the same time.

Patton quickly stood, his enthusiasm dimming. “Actually… you two should share. It’s Virgil’s bed anyway.”

“No—” Virgil started, waving his hands. “You’re the guests. You two should share.”

Logan’s posture stiffened as Sixteen briefly took control, nodding firmly. “That logic sounds reasonable to me.”

“How about we all share?” Logan suggested suddenly, his voice a bit too formal.

Virgil and Patton both turned to stare at him.

All of us? Sixteen’s voice sneered in Logan’s mind. How exactly do you plan to manage that?

Logan cleared his throat, a deep blush creeping across his face. “Sixteen and I can take the middle, as I assume that would be most comfortable for everyone. We should fit if the two of you…” He trailed off, looking away.

Virgil shifted uncomfortably but nodded. “We can try that. If you’re sure about sharing.”

“I am,” Logan said, his voice calm despite the color rising in his cheeks. “Though perhaps we would all be more comfortable in pajamas?”

“Right, yeah.” Virgil shifted them all into pajamas, summoning some extra blankets for the bed.

Patton grinned down at his shirt, running a hand over the print. “Thanks, Virge. This shirt is pre- tee neat.”

“It’s the least I could do,” Virgil muttered, watching Logan rearrange the pillows with meticulous care. “So, uh, how are we gonna do this, L?”

“This should be rather simple.” Logan lifted the covers from the bed, shuffling into the middle, hyper aware of Virgil and Patton’s eyes on him as he did so. He paused as he looked between Virgil and Patton, releasing a soft sigh as he ducked his head. “I mean theoretically this should be rather simple, there have been plenty of examples in the entertainment Thomas has watched.”

Virgil climbed onto the bed beside Logan. “You don’t know anything about sharing a bed do you?”

Logan straightened slightly, clearing his throat. “That… is correct. My experience in this area is limited. However, I have observed several practical arrangements that seem effective in fiction.”

“Fiction, huh?” Virgil smirked, though his expression softened at Logan’s earnestness. “Alright, genius. Let’s hear your plan.”

“Typically,” Logan began, adopting the tone he used for explaining complex theories, “the individuals involved divide the available space evenly, maintaining personal boundaries while ensuring maximum comfort for all parties. It is also recommended to minimize unnecessary movement to avoid disturbing others’ sleep. Though I know that may be difficult for those who are restless sleeper or-”

Patton climbed onto the bed beside Logan, placing a gentle hand on his arm and chuckling softly. “It’s just a little cuddling and sleeping, Logan. Nothing to overthink.”

Sixteen’s voice came through briefly, his uncertainty clear. “Cuddling?”

Virgil rolled his eyes but reached over, placing his hand on Logan’s to pull him back into control. “We don’t have to cuddle, but it’d give us more space. Less chance of someone rolling off the bed.”

Logan hesitated, glancing down at their hands. His thumb instinctively traced the ridge of Virgil’s knuckles in an absent motion. “Then, for the sake of practicality… I suppose we should… cuddle.”

Patton wasted no time, wrapping his arms around one of Logan’s. Logan stiffened immediately, his posture straightening like a ruler. “I haven’t cuddled with someone in so long,” Patton admitted, his voice soft and wistful.

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “Maybe we should ease him into this, Pat.”

“You’ve cuddled with someone before?” Sixteen asked as moving stiffly as Virgil guided him to lie down.

Patton nodded, his own arms relaxing around Logan’s. “Remus and I used to cuddle all the time. Before Roman… Well, he didn’t really like it, so we stopped.” His voice trailed off, and he fiddled absently with the edge of the blanket.

Sixteen watched Patton’s arm for a moment before his attention returned to Virgil.

Logan met Virgil’s eyes.

“You might be more comfortable without these,” Virgil murmured, gently removing Logan’s glasses and setting them on the nightstand. He readjusted himself, his cheeks warming as he slid an arm beneath the pillow Logan’s head rested on. His free arm hesitated before wrapping around Logan in a protective embrace. “Just like before?” he whispered.

Logan lifted his head slightly, his gaze locking with Virgil’s. “Could I… I would like to make you feel safe too.”

Virgil’s eyebrows furrowed slightly. “You…” His voice faltered, the words catching in his throat.

Logan hesitated only a moment before wrapping his arms around Virgil, his hold steady and deliberate. “I want you to know how I felt in your arms,” he admitted, his voice soft but firm. His hand hovered above Virgil’s hair for a moment, unsure, before he finally allowed himself the motion, his fingers threading through the soft strands.

Virgil closed his eyes, a faint shiver running through him as he shifted closer, resting his head against Logan’s chest. “You do make me feel safe,” he murmured, the words a quiet confession.

Logan’s expression softened, a small, rare smile tugging at his lips. He pressed a featherlight kiss to Virgil’s forehead. “Good night, Virge.”

Virgil lifted his head slightly, his gaze drifting over Logan’s shoulder. Patton, lying with his back to them, looked to be fast asleep, his breaths even and peaceful.

A flicker of hesitation crossed Virgil’s face before he leaned forward, capturing Logan’s lips in a brief, tender kiss. When he pulled back, a small, sleepy smile graced his lips. “Night, L.”

Logan blinked, his composure momentarily faltering before a faint blush dusted his cheeks. He tightened his hold on Virgil ever so slightly, a warmth settling in his chest as Virgil closed his eyes once more.

The quiet of the room wrapped around them, and for a moment, all the uncertainty, all the looming pressures, melted away into the soft rhythm of their breathing.

[lost-dreamers-troupe]

Getting reassurance from multiple people that like, this is real and we're not just like, playing pretend in a way that we have no control over (which would...make it real, I guess but y'know how it is)

Is really nice. Hearing that there's clear differences between us -- ways we hold our body, ways we talk, ways we move -- more than just what I (Roz) am cognizant of while someone else is fronting.

Because when someone else is fronting, I'm looking through them like a filter -- I'm still there (usually) but everything is colored by the perception of the person driving. So I feel their feelings and their ways of looking at the world.

So like, I can remember or tell when I'm Adam because I can feel the way my posture shifts -- I can feel the way he looks at the world and feel his like, default emotional status.

But that's all internal, at least other than posture and voice (which hits out at around the bottom of my speaking range) and so it's always like "well I (Roz) am still here -- I'm still cognizant of everything, still looking at everything that happens (usually)." so it feels... fake. It feels like I must just be playing, I must just be roleplaying but...

I am not a good enough actor to change my micro expressions, I don't even know if I know how to alter that in theory, because it is such a subconscious thing...

Because like, also, in order to switch (if I'm not really high), I usually have to like, "get into" their mental state. If Florian wants to front we usually spend a little bit of time cofronting/blended while I'm "putting on" Florian enough for him to be in the driver's seat. (Sometimes there are just out of nowhere shifts where suddenly, like, Adam is fronting or Florian is fronting. The last couple weekends we've had Laci out a lot)

So it feels like.... I'm play-acting, because I have to like, pretend to be/take on the mannerisms of the alters in order to allow them to shift into front except on a rare occasion.

Anyway though, yeah -- talking with my partner online (and we've had this convo in person too) and talking with my housemates... Hearing that no, there are very obvious tells, very obvious ways of existing and being that make the others Not Roz.

The things I feel when Adam is fronting, the things I remember the body doing (the posture shift, the change in body language, dropping our pitch), they're all things others see clearly... Things I don't know how I would even start figuring out how to change (the micro-expressions, the different ways of gesturing)...

I wonder if our body "passes" better when like, Adam or Louis are fronting. I know we probably pass way less if like, Laci or Morgan are fronting because y'know, they're both very much girls. Just hm.

[nightmourned]

"color theory isn’t magic," he repeats, like he’s rolling the phrase around, testing its weight, "sure. and i’m guessing you’ll tell me next that lighting isn’t witchcraft, either." his voice is flat, but the glint in his eyes gives him away — he’s teasing, matching her playful dramatics with his own deadpan flair. his arms fold loosely across his chest as he watches her with that familiar, unimpressed-but-entertained expression. "besides," he adds, "if you were summoning spirits, you’d let me know, right? i’d at least want to say hi." the corner of his mouth twitches before he shifts gears, his voice slipping into something mock-serious. "as for trying," he tilts his head slightly, "you ever consider i do try? maybe i just choose carefully what’s worth the effort. dramatic flourishes," he gestures lazily between them, "that’s worth it. but color theory?" he pauses, drawing out the moment, "i don't know. sounds like a cult to me." but despite the usual sarcasm, there’s something easy in his posture, something familiar in the back-and-forth that says he’s exactly where he wants to be — here, trading jabs and humoring her rambling about her newest project. angelica had a way of expecting nothing but an open ear from him that made sharing a space with her almost comforting. a stark contrast to his usual routines. "still," he concedes with a dramatic sigh, "if you’re dumbing it down for the common folk, myself included? guess i’d be rude not to give it a try."

"i was a drama student, of course i'm dramatic," she joked, albeit only partly, flipping a few stray locks of hair out of her face. "you want to know what's really dramatic?" she spared a pointed look in minho's direction. was it any surprise she was talking about him? of course not; they were the only two in the room. that didn't change that she thought they were working back and forth like old railway cars, one dramatic flourish after another. it was some of the reason that angelica liked him, even—he could match her stride, if given the right encouragement. "you talking like im summoning spirits by pulling up the vibrance. color theory isn't magic!" for all his sarcasm, he was a blessing to have around. there was nobody else she would have tolerated being so grumpy in her presence, no matter what time of day it was! "you don't give yourself enough credit. you could understand anything if you actually tried, you know." and he could stand to try more often, too. "but yes, this one even you will understand. it's about as dumbed down as i'll get."

[selfgroomingmakeuptips]

Transform Your Look: Master the Art of Beauty with Expert Makeup Classes

In today's image-conscious world, personal grooming has become a vital aspect of self-care and confidence. Whether you're preparing for a corporate meeting, a casual outing, or a grand event, presenting your best self often starts with how you look and feel. That’s where makeup comes in—not just as a cosmetic touch-up, but as a powerful tool for self-expression and personal transformation. If you’ve ever found yourself scrolling through beauty tutorials or envying flawless looks on social media, perhaps it’s time to take your beauty skills into your own hands through makeup classes.

But not just any class—self grooming makeup classes are tailored specifically for individuals who want to master daily makeup techniques and refine their appearance for personal or professional life. Let’s dive deep into what these courses offer, who they’re for, and how they can empower your beauty journey.

Why Self Grooming is Essential in Modern Life

Gone are the days when grooming was seen as a luxury. Today, it’s a necessity. Whether you’re a college student, working professional, homemaker, or entrepreneur, your appearance speaks volumes before you even say a word. Personal grooming reflects your hygiene, attention to detail, and self-respect.

Makeup is a major component of grooming. From mastering the art of applying foundation to understanding your facial features and enhancing them, makeup allows you to showcase the best version of yourself. And that’s not just about looking good—it’s about feeling good too.

That’s where self grooming makeup classes come into play. These courses aren’t just about contouring and blending. They are comprehensive learning experiences that teach you how to care for your skin, understand different products, and adopt a beauty routine that suits your lifestyle and personality.

Who Should Take Self Grooming Makeup Classes?

You don’t need to be a beauty influencer to enroll in a grooming course. These classes are for everyone:

Beginners who want to learn the basics of skincare and makeup.

Working professionals who need to maintain a polished appearance.

College students who want to stay presentable and confident in their social circles.

Homemakers looking to rediscover themselves and feel more confident.

Anyone looking to elevate their daily look and boost self-esteem.

In fact, these classes are ideal for people who often rely on salons or beauty parlors for even the smallest makeup tasks. Why depend on others when you can do it yourself, and do it better?

What You’ll Learn in a Self Grooming Makeup Class

Self grooming courses focus on equipping you with practical, hands-on skills. Here’s a glimpse of what most classes include:

1. Skin Analysis and Skincare Routine

Understanding your skin type is crucial. You'll learn how to build a skincare regimen with the right products and techniques, which is the foundation of flawless makeup.

2. Product Knowledge

From primers to highlighters, you’ll explore the functions of various beauty products and how to choose them based on your skin tone and needs.

3. Day and Night Makeup Looks

These sessions teach how to differentiate and apply makeup for daily office wear versus party or wedding occasions.

4. Face Shaping and Contouring

Learn how to enhance your features, shape your eyebrows, and define your cheekbones using contouring and highlighting methods.

5. Eye Makeup Techniques

Smokey eyes? Natural lids? Learn how to play with eye shadows, liners, and lashes to create different eye looks.

6. Lipstick Application and Color Theory

Explore how different shades impact your overall look and how to apply lipstick for long-lasting wear.

How Makeup Classes Enhance Your Confidence

Confidence is often tied to appearance. When you feel good about how you look, it reflects in your attitude, posture, and communication. A professional makeup class doesn’t just teach you technique—it helps you build self-assurance. Imagine walking into a meeting, a date, or even a casual brunch knowing that you look your best without spending hours or money at a salon.

These courses also give you the creative freedom to experiment. You’ll learn what works best for your face, discover your signature style, and eliminate the trial-and-error phase that most people go through.

Online vs Offline Learning: Which is Better?

While traditional classes provide hands-on guidance, online makeup classes are gaining popularity due to their convenience. You can learn at your own pace, rewatch tutorials, and practice comfortably from home. Many platforms now offer hybrid models where you can access theory online and attend occasional workshops or Q&A sessions with instructors.

No matter the mode, what matters is the quality of instruction, curriculum, and trainer expertise.

Where to Enroll for Quality Grooming and Makeup Classes?

If you’re in Chandigarh or even outside looking for expert-led training, self grooming makeup classes by Fashion Make Fashion are a fantastic option. These courses are designed to cater to different levels of learners—from total beginners to those with some experience. The academy provides not just makeup lessons, but a complete grooming transformation.

Their experienced trainers focus on both theoretical knowledge and practical application, ensuring that you not only learn the "how" but also the "why" behind each technique. Whether you’re interested in light everyday makeup or stunning evening looks, their curriculum covers it all.

Additionally, makeup classes offered by the same institute are ideal for individuals who want more in-depth training. These classes are great if you plan to venture into freelance makeup artistry or start your own beauty blog or channel. You’ll also receive tips on hygiene, tool maintenance, and product selection, which are crucial for any aspiring artist.

Student Testimonials and Real-life Transformations

Hundreds of students have transformed their appearance and confidence through these classes. From professionals acing job interviews to homemakers rediscovering their self-worth, the impact of grooming and makeup education goes far beyond the mirror.

Here’s what one student had to say:

"I never thought I could apply eyeliner without messing it up. But after attending just a few sessions, I not only learned how to do it right but also got compliments from my colleagues. I feel more confident and put together, thanks to Fashion Make Fashion!"

Tips to Get the Most from Your Makeup Training

Practice regularly – Makeup is an art, and like any art, it gets better with practice.

Take notes – Especially for product names, skin tips, and step-by-step routines.

Stay updated – Trends change. Follow beauty pages, blogs, and YouTube channels.

Ask questions – Your instructors are your best resource.

Invest in tools – Good brushes, mirrors, and lighting can make a big difference.

Final Thoughts: Investing in Yourself

In a world where first impressions are often visual, learning how to present yourself confidently is a valuable skill. Makeup isn’t about masking flaws—it’s about highlighting your strengths, celebrating your uniqueness, and expressing your creativity. With the right guidance, tools, and practice, you can master the art of makeup and use it as a tool for personal empowerment.

Whether you’re aiming to upgrade your daily look or want to understand beauty more deeply, enrolling in self grooming makeup classes is a smart step. And if you want to learn from industry experts, check out the comprehensive makeup classes available at Fashion Make Fashion. It’s more than a class—it’s a transformation.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

sooooooooooo for the NRC family day interactions, i'm curious to see what would happen if riddle and step-dad ashengrotto met in the wild, because riddle has expressed that recently he's gotten interested in law. it would b cool for him to chat with the canon lawyer who taught azul about laws n contracts.

plus the whole, riddle being unsure actually because his whole life his parents had plans for him and planned for him on becoming a healer like them, but now he's interested in something else. n while i kno he reads about law, it would give him a lot of insight to actually, speak to someone who does this for a living, who maybe even suggests ideas of finding a way to combine both medicine and law, like medical law (branch of law) or medical jurisprudence (branch of medicine).

and other stuff too.

idk i just think a conversation between the two could be interesting, even outside of like, riddle's own interest in law; like another interesting thing would b his whole, family/homelife situation & the fact that riddle hints that his parents don't really get along that well + knowing that step-dad ashengrotto met mama ashengrotto while she was filing for divorce... just lots of ideas in me brain i think.

idk hopefully this isn't unintelligible sdfjsdklfd thank youuuuuuu

Thank you for submitting this really interesting idea ^^ This one is really long compared to the others, so I slapped a cut in to make scrolling by easier. This fic borrows ideas from a theory that I talked about a few days ago?

I don't know if I've ever mentioned this before, but I think it's cool that Azul not only has a stepdad, but actually gets along with him. Rarely do I see divorce portrayed as a positive thing (I mean, how often do we see wicked stepparents or a child that refuses to accept the stepparent), so Azul's family was really refreshing to see.

Not me taking inspiration from the divorce lawyer in Enchanted and various characters from Ace Attorney for stepdaddy Ashengrotto—

Family means Nobody is Left Behind or Forgotten.

The cafeteria was packed, and the ghost chefs were working overtime to feed the influx of hungry guests. Staff, students, and their family members had been coming in and out throughout the day, leaving not many tables open and the food line long. Some had taken to sitting cross-legged on the floor or spilling out into the hallway to make space for new arrivals.

One look at the gaggle of people along the walls and on the ground, and Mrs. Rosehearts had turned up her nose. "I won't have you sitting like a barbarian, Riddle. We'll find you a proper seat. Look, there’s one now. You sit—I’ll see what they have available on the menu and fetch you an appropriate meal.”

“Yes, mother.”

Riddle shifted uncomfortably at a cramped table. He dared not falter in his posture. Back straight, head high, hands neatly folded in his lap. He was a rose among those deemed the weeds called riffraff.

… It’s noisy, Riddle noted.

Indeed, it was. The cafeteria buzzed with activity, students exchanging chatter and laughter with their loved ones. Sharing bites of food and stories, nourishing their bellies and their souls.

A memory clad in flowers filled his mind.

“Riddle!”

He was back in the Heartslabyul gardens, colorful decorations and card soldiers in every direction. Flamingos and hedgehogs at the ready, the roses painted red, a dormouse in the tea pot. Cakes, tarts, and finger sandwiches sliced up and served with tea.

Ace and Deuce were arguing over something silly again. By the sumptuous spread of snacks, Cater was snagging pictures before so much as a bite. In the memory, Riddle made to tell them off, only to be stopped by the vice dorm leader at his side.

“They have so much energy,” Trey had remarked. “It’s livelier than usual today.”

Yes, that was the right word for it. Not noisy, but lively.

How curious that dining at Night Raven College is like this. At home…

There was a lone platter set for him, a sad, limp little square of food in the center. His mother, arms folded, to the right. His father, trembling in his chair, to the lift. Raised voices and scathing remarks.

Some days the dining room was empty altogether, save for himself and stacks of textbooks. When he did crossword puzzles and sudoku, the vocabulary and the numbers kept him company.

His heart twinged. Riddle frowned and curled a hand over his chest, as if trying to soothe the pain.

What is this? Why… do I feel this way?

"Excuse me, young man."

He jolted upright.

An older gentleman in glasses was beside him. His hair, peppered with streaks of white, was neat, and he was dressed in an even neater suit. He smelled like salt wrapped in a sea breeze, faint citrus and sunshine.

The stranger gestured to the spot beside Riddle. “Pardon me if I disturbed your train of thought. I wanted to ask if this seat was taken. I need a quick place to rest my legs, then I’ll be out of your way.”

Riddle took a quick glance at the line—which still snaked around the room, but at least his mother had vanished from view. Relief. “It’s open. Please, sit.”

“Thank you.” The man slipped in next to Riddle. He sighed, just as relieved as the boy was. “Much appreciated. I hope I’m not stealing this seat from one of your parents.”

“Not to worry, sir. Only my mother is with me today, and it seems like it will be quite a while before she returns," Riddle reassured him. “My father is preoccupied with work, so he was unable to attend."

It was partially true. Whenever possible, his parents actively avoided each other. Strategically taking specific hospital shifts just so happened to be a means to that end.

"I'm here with my wife and son myself, they're perusing the food. A shame about your father. Really. Perhaps he'll be able to attend next year."

"Perhaps."

Riddle hoped not.

He looked away, dodging the man's eyes. Fearing that his own would betray him.

A glint of gold snagged his sight, and Riddle's heart leapt. Pinned to the stranger's lapel was a small pin depicting the scales of justice.

The man took notice. "I see you've spotted my bar association badge."

"You're a lawyer, sir?" Riddle's question came out small.

"That's right." He tilted his head to one side. His smile was slight, yet encouraging. "Might you have an interest in law, young man?"

"Ah, well..." Riddle instinctively looked to the line again before his gaze darted back to his conversational partner. "Y-Yes, I suppose you could say that. However, I'm aware that it is a big commitment, and I have already resolved to pursue magical medicine."

"A career like that can be fulfilling as well," the man said kindly. "I have colleagues that specialize in medical malpractice and negligence. We also sometimes work with forensic scientists for certain cases.

"There is most certainly crossover between the legal and healthcare sectors. You could consider looking into those fields as a middle ground between your two interests."

Riddle blinked.

"Did I overstep my bounds?"

"No, I just..." Hesitation. "I'm not used to speaking like this."

"About your future?"

No, Riddle wanted to correct him, it's being given advice and suggestions, rather than expectations and orders.

"About straying from the path," he said, a quick half-truth. "It's difficult to compromise, even if the options exist out there."

"Hmm." The man nodded understandingly. "Changing course can be scary, yes. I don't fault you for thinking that way. If it would help in any way, you are free to ask me questions about my own experience. I'm no medical lawyer, but hearing it from the horse's mouth has helped some of my clients before."

"You would offer such a thing...?"

The man's eyes shone with the trace of a contained laugh. "I don't charge for the first consultation," he joked.

"Then..." Hope crept into Riddle's voice. "Could you tell me about your own specialization?"

"My firm mainly deals with cases of divorce."

Divorce.

The word was bitter on Riddle's tongue as he swallowed it. But the lawyer spoke it with such ease, like it was nothing more than the weather forecast for the day.

Divorce, divorce.

It had always been an option for Riddle's parents since the first problems had started between them, but never seriously considered, never discussed. His mother would sooner die than confess she was anything but right, that she had made the mistake of choosing the wrong man. And what would the community think? What would they say?

As a child most foolish, Riddle had prayed to the Queen of Hearts to share her secret to a successful marriage. No answer ever came, and it was then that he realized: divorce was never in the cards for his parents.

The man carefully took in Riddle's frozen expression. "It happens. I see it a lot in my line of work—and it is one hundred percent normal. People are like castles in the sand, you see. They change, their feelings change. They fall out of love. Part of my job is to ensure that the separation occurs smoothly.

"There is stigma attached to the concept of divorce, that it ruins families and brings them great shame. But sometimes a family is better apart than together, and they can find new happiness once they've picked up the pieces. Cutting ties can be the most liberating feeling in the entire world.

"I speak from experience myself. I met a lovely, bright-minded woman while she was going through her own divorce proceedings. Now that woman is my wife, and her son, my own."

Riddle's brows knitted. Disbelief and confusion crowned his features. "It almost sounds like a fairy tale. Can such a drastic change truly lead to happiness?"

"For me, it did. It may not be the case for you, because you and I are different people."

"Th-Then tell me!!" Riddle stood, slamming his hands on the table. Food and silverware rattled, people stared. He didn't care, his volume spiking. "How? How do I do that...? Please tell me. I don't... I don't know how to do it myself."

"That, I cannot say."

"Why not?! You... You said you would help me!"

"I did say that, didn't I? I said I would help you by talking about my own experiences. Tricky thing, wording. It's easy to overlook the fine print." The man pointed at him. "The rest is in your hands."

"I can't do a single thing," Riddle protested. It felt like roses were choking him. "My hands are tied. My path was determined a long time ago. Change is absolutely unacceptable."

The lawyer regarded him coolly. "Let me tell you something, young man. The law is the law because there is a human element to it, no matter how impartial, how black and white, we try to be. We write the laws, act on them, and interpret them. Likewise, you, too, are responsible for that interpretation.

"What is right, what is wrong, and what role you must play therein... these are things you alone determine, whether that be in career, in love, or in life. You are your own judge, and the decider of your own destiny. It is something only you are capable of, and no one else but you."

Riddle reeled his head, reacting as though he'd just been decked.

Right and wrong... The role I must play... Something only I can do?

Someone had told him something similar not too long ago. The words harsher then, and paired with a sound punch to the face.

"Is that all you are?!" Ace had demanded, fist clenched, still raw from making contact with his dorm leader's cheek. "An extension of your mom? Can't you think for yourself?"

The twinge to his chest had returned. Stronger, sharper. Like thorns tearing into his skin.

"... I see," Riddle said slowly. "I think I understand it a little better now."

"I'm glad to hear it." The man's smile broadened. He looked at something beyond Riddle, then rose from his seat. "Well, if you'll excuse me... It seems my family has finished their business. We should get going now."

"Of course. Thank you very much for speaking with me, sir." He humbly lowered his head to the man,

A voice came from behind the redhead. "Oya, what a surprise. If it isn't Riddle-san."

He immediately bolted up in horror. The dorm leader of Octavinelle stood before him, lips cocked into a smirk. A woman with the same silvery hair was next to him, cut in a sleek black gown and with seashells in her jewelry.

"Wha--?! Azul...?! What are you..." Riddle faltered with both his words and his calm.

"Oh? Is it a crime to come collect one's stepfather?" The merman sighed dramatically. "I was going to come over sooner, you know—but it looked as though you two were having quite the engaging conversation. I thought it rude to interrupt and cut it short."

Riddle's head whipped back to the lawyer. "Th-This is your stepfather?!"

"Azul, I didn't realize this lad was your friend. We were just having a nice talk about career goals."

"Career goals, you say? My, that sounds so interesting." There was something unsavory, slimy even, about the way Azul emphasized his interest. "I'm jealous, Riddle-san. We've shared our dreams with one another before, but never on such an intimate level."

"And just who in their right mind do you think would willingly divulge that information to you? Don't act as though we're friends."

Azul smiled wryly. "Aren't we? After all, we've been through both hell and high water together."

"It sounds to me like you boys are good chums," Mr. Ashengrotto remarked, exchanging raised eyebrows with his wife, "though you certainly have a strange way of showing it."

"Why haven't you told us about him, Azul?" his mother asked. "I'd love to have him over for dinner."

"Riddle-san can be surprisingly shy. I wouldn't wish to cast a spotlight on him."

"Who's shy here?! All you've been doing since you showed up is put me on the spot!"

Mrs. Ashengrotto put a hand over her mouth, stifling a chuckle. “If you visit us, Azul could invite his other friends—do you know them? The Leech twins. You could all get to know each other, and that could help you get out of your shell.”

“N-No thank you, ma’am!!” Riddle said (perhaps a little too loudly, and too quickly). The farther away I stay from those sketchy brothers, the better!! I wouldn’t be caught dead trying to cozy up to them!

“No? Maybe another time then. The offer is always there. Come to us when you're comfortable with it, dear.

"I guarantee you won't regret it," Mr. Ashengrotto chimed in. "She makes the best food I've ever had under the sea. Azul could pack away an entire bucket of her fried..."

Azul loudly cleared his throat. "While this chat has been amusing, I believe it's time we stopped hounding the poor, unfortunate soul and moved to the next item on our itinerary. I'm sure that Riddle-san is busy with his own matters as well."

"Yes, my mother will be back soon with lunch."

"That so? We'll be on our way then. Wouldn't want to disrupt your time together." Mr. Ashengrotto tenderly squeezed his wife's arm. His other hand found its way onto Azul's shoulder. "Have a happy Family Day, Riddle."

"Happy family day to you too."

With that, Azul and his parents departed. Their mouths moved, their expressions changed, playing off of one another. Saying things Riddle couldn't hear, nor understand even if he could hear.

The rose-red ruler, entrenched in a sea of people, was left with many thoughts racing through his head. Those gathered in the cafeteria, Heartslabyul, the Ashengrottos...

One question lingered like the last vestiges of sunlight on a lazy summer day.

Are these... what families are meant to be like?

[inoshibi1]

-Yandere Akaza X Demon Reader-

⚠️warning⚠️ mentions of obsessive behaviour and implied stalking.

Fandom: Demon Slayer. Character(s): Akaza [upper rank 3 demon], Lord Muzan (mentioned)

A/N: Tbh I’m not 100% proud of this one, and I’ve been writing other fanfics along with this one so if there are any typos in this then I’m sorry pls let me know <3

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Akaza would never consider why he paid so much attention to you, or why he committed so many details about you to memory (he knew, on some level of course he knew), but he could say that he had admired your smile before. In the time you'd been working together as upper moons, he had come to appreciate the way your eyes lit up when you teased around, the way your lips turned up and the sound of your laugh (it was an unspoken fact within his mind that the feeling of warmth the memories brought was irrelevant).

There was more, too. Akaza had seen your expression grim with a dark and serious look whenever it came time to devour human flesh, sharp and swift whenever killing hashiras. He'd seen you soft, worried, upset, and caring. Although Akaza couldn't (didn't dare) recall the exact reason for his specific attention, in the short amount of time that he had gotten to know you, he'd seen and could remember you in so many different ways; Your eyebrows knit in rage, your lips pursed in concentration, your eyes glowing scarlet whenever exercising your highly skilled blood demon art.

But, Akaza had never seen your cheeks lose their rosy color or your bottom lip tremble. He had never seen your eyes wide and glassy in panic, or shiny as tears began to form, even when the stakes were deathly high, your posture remained confident and firm.

It wasn't that you were weak, or that you weren't fit for your title as upper rank 6 oh no (although Akaza realized as the both of you came to a safe spot on top of one of the buildings rooftop that he truly believed you deserved better). The problem was that the world was devastatingly cruel, and you weren't exactly like him, nor like any other upper rank demon.

Of course Akaza wanted better for himself as an upper rank 3 demon, and had learned to grow rapidly stronger. His life as a demon had taught him how to grow stronger each day, to strive for power and appreciation from his superior. But, at the end of the day, he still knew the reality of people like who he once was.

Maybe you knew that, too, at least in theory. After all, you held out better against the hashiras you'd both had been ordered to kill by lord Muzan than any other upper moon demons. You had been able to stifle your reaction to the blades cuts and shouting as you saw the battle to completion. Now that it was over, though, Akaza noticed the toll it had taken upon you.

For some reason, it upset him more than it should have.

For some reason, Akaza didn't want to see you in a position of pain and suffering. And he never cared for another's well being in his life.

For some reason, he very badly wanted to protect you from it all.

All the madness and chaos this new life has brought upon you.

You'd forced a teeny break once the two of you were in the safety of the deep forest, heading back to the human village where Lord Muzan was surely waiting for you both.

For all your demon life you had done what needed to be done, but Akaza could easily see that your strength was cracking. Your composure was finally lost.

His mouth opened in a sense of disbelief, willing words into existence that could help soothe your pain (did any such words exist?), but before he could, you suddenly threw yourself against him. Years of Doma’s surprise hugs during upper moon meetings would have forced him to shove you off of him for what he might have otherwise seen as an attack, but instead he just stood still. The action still stunned him beyond belief, making him stiff with shock as his mind processed the embrace. Never would he have thought to see you be so affected by all the stress. How this life as a demon has created such a toll on you.

Then it clicked, and for a fleeting second, Akaza felt the vague and protective impulse to tease you for so boldly throwing yourself against him, or at least make a light hearted, snarky remark. He didn't, though. Those words faded away as easily as the lip service of comfort he had intended to provide.

Maybe you needed this.

Akaza’s arms raised to wrap around you, pulling you closer.

Maybe he wanted this.

Maybe he really wanted this.

Your face nuzzled against his bare chest, your tears rolling strait down. That action, that sensation, cast away any and all self control.

Maybe he needed this.

Oh dear god, maybe he really needed this.

For reasons Akaza didn't dare name, he could remember you in hundreds and hundreds of ways, picture your voice and face and mannerisms with crisp clarity, but those were only two pieces of the puzzle, two senses that he had to recall you with.

Maybe he wanted more.

Maybe he wanted it all.

More than the occasional graze of your hand against his, of the brief glances you two would share during the upper moon meetings. Now he could really feel you, feel that you were warm, you were so impossibly warm. Akaza hadn't thought of himself as being particularly cold until you touched him, but he knew that if you were to pull away now he would freeze to the bone. This was a kind of warmth no human or demon on earth could give him.

He could feel how solid and real you were in his arms, how comforting of a weight you were against him. Until you laid your head against his chest, your arms slowly slithering around his waist, Akaza had been sure of his comfort as he composed himself from the stress of the situation and considered how to help you. Despite that, if your soothing warm embrace was gone, he was sure that the loss would make him ache and most defiantly crave.

Akaza could feel the tickle of your soft hair on his chin, the desperate grab of your hands against his back, softly grasping onto his exposed skin. He could feel the shape of your body against his own, how perfectly you fit against him and the softness of your chest and waist, tucked so neatly to him with his hands carefully placed at the reasonable spot of your middle back.

More. Maybe, subconsciously, he wanted more than the occasional whiff of your hair or skin whenever he so happened to be close by. Almost without thinking, Akaza pressed his nose to your head, inhaling the scent of your hair. It was nothing more than an impulse (or so he could tell himself), but not one that he took any effort in denying. He wanted to smell you, to have that piece of the puzzle slotted away in his mind, to solve that delicious curiosity.

You smelled sweet, ever so sweet. The natural warm scent of your scalp with the darker base of your sweat filled his mind, overwhelming and intoxicating. Uniquely you, soft and comforting, feeding the ignored taboo that memorized your expressions and mannerisms, that held the very thought of you to the forefront of many of his thoughts.

And still Akaza wanted more. Some greedy part of his mind wanted to touch you properly and to know and memorize the scent of your skin, to explore these curiosities fully, to protect you from the entire world.

But then you sniffed, a reminder of your tears and turmoil, of the reason you had sought his embrace at all, and Akaza felt a violent rush of regret and self loathing for those perverted thoughts.

The reason you were crying at all was because of demons like him, rather, who he was so used to being (but what kind of demon such as himself would have felt the things he just had?). Would you still seek solace in his arms knowing that? Would you still need him then?

Would you still show such vulnerability if you knew his thoughts? Would you even ever feel safe around him if you knew just a glimpse of how he felt towards you?

No. No You wouldn't.

"Is this...okay?" you finally asked, your voice small, quiet and unsure, halting Akaza from forcing himself to pull away from your fragile body. He knew your voice to a pitch perfect degree, and now it was weaker than he'd ever heard it, worsening the guilt and intensifying him ache to protect you. "I'm so sorry, I-" You let out a hitching breath, nuzzling against his chest again in a seemingly unconscious expression of stress.

It wasn't that you were weak. Oh no.

"No," Akaza purred, her voice coming out gruffer than intended, making you tense up. He cleared his throat before you could pull away from him, rubbing your back without thinking. "I... I really don't mind this at all Y/N.”

But you still needed him, in this moment, you still needed Akaza.

"I didn't think it'd be so hard, but the look in their eyes..." you said quietly, "Will they ever know that it’s not our fault? Will we ever be forgiven for the things that we can’t control?." You let out a heavy and shuddering breath, then your arms dropped.

Akaza let you go, allowing you to step away and leave him cold. It ached. Although your eyes were red and swollen, you looked far more composed now.

Then you smiled.

It was another new one for his collection, something brittle and brave. Beautiful, strong, heart-breakingly....irresistible.

"Let's get back then, I'm ready for this all to be over, Lord Muzan must be growing impatient waiting for us after all." you stated with more confidence, almost an attempt at your natural playful tone.

For a demon like Akaza, the words hit him hard. You were ready for this all to be over. To bid him goodbye, to move on.

"And, ah... I'm... Sorry about that," you added sheepishly before turning away, "You're a good hugger, though. Thank you so much, Lord Akaza." The smile you wore turned genuine, the look you gave him enough to make Akaza feel his cheeks heat up, his chest fluttering strangely.

"Don't mention it," he replied with a forced casualness, hating the flush of emotion your words sent through him. Then you turned away, taking all the irresistible warmth with you. Quick on your heels came the burn of embarrassment and a harsh pang of disappointment. Akaza stood in his tracks for a moment, shook his head to clear it, his hands raising to readjust the mess that his hair ended up in as he slowly began to follow.

You wanted-

Akaza knew it wasn't weakness you suffered from, it was vulnerability and your bright smile, it was the fact that you were far too good for the life you'd involved yourself in. You wanted this to be over because the horrors of the world had worn you out, but you'd seek it out all over again the moment you got orders.

You needed-

Akaza knew you weren't entirely naïve. You were too trusting and hopeful. You miscalculated the danger of the world in your belief of the good. You needed to be protected from that.

He wanted-

Akaza knew he could protect you and keep you safe if he stuck by your side, perhaps he could even teach you enough that you wouldn't need to be protected by him anymore. You were scared that you would never be forgiven for allowing yourself to be contaminated by a monsters blood, but he was far more dangerous and cunning than any of them. And he wanted to protect you.

He needed-

Soft and warm in his arms, Akaza could still feel the sweet phantom feeling of your arms around his waist, the comforting weight of your body pressed against his very own.

He needed-

If he breathed deeply he could ignore the smell of the city air and recall the sweet scent of your hair, the natural musk of your sweat.

He needed-

More.

Absolutely everything.

He needed-

He wanted-

He craved-

You.