HiddenLibary

[hiddenlibary]

Twining Divinity

The day after your twin sister goes missing you get thrown into the same situation that she’s in. Though unlike her, you don’t have the luxury of being in found first

Disclaimer: This might change as the story progresses

Prologue- Missing

Chapter 1- Teyvat

Chapter 2- Discovered

Chapter 3- The Creator(s)

Chapter 4- The Abyss

Chapter 5- Adjusting

Chapter 6- Return?

???

[pineapple-frenzy]

Book 2 au with Zuko and Katara Lee and Huamei

Katara is separated from her friends, and so she's left to travel the earth kingdom on her own. She stumbles across Zuko, who is similarly travelling on his own. They decide that pairing up and travelling together would be best

[hayleynwong]

Zutara Month 2021: A Farewell Kiss of Longing and Good Luck

In case Tumblr can’t play the video, here’s the Vimeo Link 

Happy Zutara Month! (It’s funny, I was overwhelmed at the idea of Zutara month… like 30 different drawings?! No way… * proceeds to do over 100 panels for an animatic * @-@ )

And for more Zutara month fun, check out @ifyouwereamelodymeg’s Zutara EP Where the Water Flows (updated post with information about saving to spotify here) which I made art for along with @favlie and @doodleladi.

A big thank you to my friend @fictionissocialinquiry for help with the story!

This animatic came to me in a hazy naptime dream a month or so ago, but I finally had time to sit down and finish it recently. I just had a vision of Zuko and Katara in the Southern Water Tribe with Zuko about to head out on a hunting trip with Sokka and Hakoda (a la stories like the-badger-mole’s Traditional Series ), and then Katara sends him off with a giant, warm fur and a goodbye kiss. Ultimately, I wanted an excuse to do some cute domestic SWT Zutara fluff and kissing. God, I want to work on an animated romance show so bad (even though drawing kisses is so flipping hard help). ToT On one hand I wish I had it in me to do more grand animatics, but really, I like making calm fluffy things and I’m alright with that. 

Music:

The Journey to the West - Princess Mononoke (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)

No monetary gains are made from these animatics. I make these for free and fun, and I want to keep it that way. They are purely fanart.

PLEASE DO NOT REPOST.

More rants and ramblings below the line

Keep reading

[hayleynwong]

Oh yeah and here’s the drawing from the end. I gave up halfway through. I don’t think I have the patience for coloring/digital painting ToT but here it is, Zuko cooking a meal for Katara after the hunt n.n

[minetro]

The Daily Life of Malipo

wc. 1.4k

After you and Kinich moved in together, he had curated a bit of a routine for himself that he looked forward to. But one day, his perfect life was shattered right before his eyes.  The culprit? Discounted shampoo.

tags: fluff, established relationship, slice of life, gen!reader, romantic comedy(?)

note: ending is a bit rushed icl

Malipo Kinich has always been deemed a reasonable man. 

As a saurian hunter, he approaches jobs with a tactical mind and a disciplined resolve which has garnered him a satisfied repertoire of clients over the years he’s been in his field. 

Outside of the job, his personality is no different. Consistency is a practice that Kinich actively subscribes to at all times.

When the sun rises, Kinich rises with it – never failing to awake at five, on the dot, every morning. After completing his routine exercise, he takes a quick shower to freshen up before grabbing a quick bite of breakfast. At this point of the day, he’s set and ready to head out – but there’s still one last thing left in his morning agenda. Kinich promptly makes his way back to the bedroom and takes a while to observe you, asleep, with an expression of tender bliss on your face – and when he’s ready, he bends himself downwards and plants a quick, chaste kiss on your cheek. Then, and only then, is he out the door as the clock strikes exactly at thirty minutes past six. 

The rest of the day goes as Kinich expects – jumping from one client to another and completing request after request (but if he’s lucky, he’ll be graced by the chance to meet you in between tasks). When midday arrives, Kinich doesn’t even try to hide the smile that adorns him. In a minute or two, he’ll finally be able to see you again for a lunch date together at a new restaurant that had opened up at the People of Springs. 

“Kinich!” 

His heart flutters at the way your eyes light up at the sight of him. 

“Hey.” He pulls you into a hug, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead.

The two of you walk into the restaurant hand in hand. 

“How’s your day been?” You ask, as per usual.

“Better, now that you’re here.” He answers, as per usual.

An hour passes by in a blink of an eye with the company of good food, conversation, and of course, you. Kinich makes it a point to walk you to wherever you're supposed to be before he inevitably will have to go back to his own errands and away from you. 

And Kinich pretends like he doesn’t want to stay awhile longer, ditching his next client to opt for more time to spend with you. But duty calls, and Kinich is not one to ignore his responsibilities. He relays his goodbyes to you and is about to leave for his next appointment before your shout stops him at his feet. 

“Wait!”

Kinich turns to you, confused. “What’s–”

His words are cut short as his lips are closed with yours.

“Okay! Uh, see you tonight!” You run off giddily. 

Kinich grazes his lips – the heat of yours still lingering on them even as he watches your figure slowly obscure with the growing distance. 

And with that, he’s certain he has enough energy replenished to last him till the evening. 

–––––––––––––

As much as Kinich would love to run back home to you as soon as he’d got done with the last client of the day, he stops by the market to pick up a few things needed around the house. 

He reads the list he’d prepared in advance in his head.

Cleaning detergent. Eggs. Garlic. Salt. Those saurian crackers that you like. And Shampoo.

Nodding, Kinich carefully assesses all the items he’s gotten from the list – all that’s left is the shampoo. As he makes his way to the usual vendor he buys his shampoo from, Kinich is filled with thoughts of the dinner he will soon share with you. At that, the speed of his strides quicken. 

“Evenin’, Kinich!” The owner of the vendor calls out to him. “What’cha lookin’ for?”

“Evening. Kinich greets back. “My usual shampoo please, three bottles.”

“Gotcha!” The man pulls out three bottles of shampoo from a box below him and puts them on the counter. “That’ll be 9,000 Mora.”

Kinich freezes amidst taking out the money from his bag. 

“Come again?”

“That’ll be 9,000 Mora, please.” 

“Isn’t it usually 8,000 Mora?”

“My supplier said that the cost of production went up,” he explained. “Sorry, Kinich. Nothing much I can do about it.”

Kinich frowned. It wasn’t that he didn’t have money to spare, a thousand is certainly not gonna push him to the point of poverty. He simply did not like seeing the numbers of his daily expenses rising. 

Just then, Kinich’s eyes caught sight of this moment's saviour. A bulk sale. Ten bottles of shampoo for the whopping price of 15,000 Mora. 

Kinich made the calculations in his head. 1,500 Mora per bottle, he’d be getting half the price for one bottle compared to his usual shampoo. 

It’s a steal.

“Nevermind, I’ll get that instead.” Kinich pointed at the sale. 

It was a completely different brand than he was used to, but Kinich figured that as long as it got the job done of cleaning his hair then there wouldn’t be a stark difference anyways.

The man chuckled, seemingly used to Kinich’s antics. As a merchant, he’s well aware of the saying that if there’s a discount then there will be Malipo Kinich. He went to grab the ten shampoos, placing them on the counter. 

“That all?”

“Yes.” Kinich hands him the payment. “Thank you.”

“Pleasure doin’ business with ya!”

Turning his heel, Kinich wasted no time to make his journey back home. He could finally spend the rest of his time relaxing and unwinding with you in his proximity. 

–––––––––––––

It was a lazy evening and so the two of you had agreed to skip cooking and instead heat up some leftovers from last night for dinner. The conversations exchanged above the dinner table were nothing extraordinary or extravagant – merely a casual exchange of mundane happenings and passing thoughts that carried no particular weight. 

“Speaking of Sumeru, we should make the time to go there!” You said in between bites. “I heard they have this forest with really, really tall trees. Apam Woods, I think.”

Kinich hummed. “When we get the chance to take time off work, sure.”

After the tables had been wiped down, dishes cleaned spotless and put away, and the conversation had calmed to a low murmur, Kinich prepared himself for bed. Heading into the shower – new bottle of shampoo in hand – to wash away the day’s build up of filth. 

With a towel on his head, Kinich rummaged through his hair harshly – trying to quickly dry them so he could jump into the bed where you awaited him and commenced with the last bit in his nightly routine agenda; cuddling to sleep. 

He waddled his way with hurried footsteps to the bedroom where you were already waiting for him – patting his side of the mattress for Kinich to occupy. Nestling into your arms, Kinich sighed as he felt the familiar feeling of your fingers caressing his hair – relaxing his body and resting his head on your chest where he’ll fall asleep to the sound of your heartbeat and your gentle breaths against his head; just like every other night.

“Eugh–,” you groaned, pulling yourself away from him.

Huh?

“Huh?” Kinich echoed his thoughts.

This isn’t what usually happens. 

“Did you… change your shampoo?” You asked, still running your fingers through his hair, but in a way that suggests you were inspecting his head. 

“Is it that obvious?” Kinich sat up. “Yeah, why?”

“It smells different…,” you retracted your hand from his hair, proceeding to remove yourself entirely from him.

What. What’s happening?

Kinich stared dumbfounded as you laid with your back facing him, letting out a cheery and unassuming “oh well, good night!” Drifting off into dream land leaving him to cope by his lonesome from a shocking reality.  

Did you just… reject him? But, you two always cuddle at night – how could this happen? 

Kinich laid on his back, his wide eyes glued to the ceiling. What could have caused this?

The Shampoo. 

If Kinich continued to use that shampoo, would you eventually break up with him? He shook his head, no, could not allow a repeat of tonight. 

–––––––––––––

Malipo Kinich has always been deemed a reasonable man. 

But you seem to be the catalyst causing exceptions to his deadset principles. 

The next day, he’d found himself back at the vendor’s stall.

“Three bottles of my usual shampoo, please.”

In the end, the reasonable, money-conscious Malipo Kinich lost 15,000 Mora and spent an extra 9,000 Mora more in the span of two days. 

All for the sake of protecting the routine he’d grown accustomed to, and of course, to preserve the sacred ritual of his nightly cuddles.

[randompebble]

"Kindness, forbidden books, flowers... Whatever you want, White Lily Cookie, I’ll get for you."

A comic redraw of a scene from my friend's fic 🥺Please read it because it hurt me.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/81734246

[magicalmatcha]

— all mine

❝we had our downs but we had way more ups,let's make love❞

pairing — firelord zuko! x fem!earthbender!reader

synopsis — who was surprised when you and zuko were the first in the gaang to get pregnant?

content — fem!reader, mature content (17+), suggestive themes, mention of sex, no actual plot really, indulgent fic, takes place seven years before the legend of aang (which takes placed 12 years after ATLA) so Zuko is 22 and Reader is 21, no use of yn, not proofread

author's note — I didn't watch the leaks yet just clips and if I do I'll still be watching the movie to support the animators

The Princess of the Fire Nation, though she often felt that, as the wife of the Fire Lord, she deserved a far grander title, sat before her vanity, studying her reflection. One by one, she had dismissed her maids, choosing instead to prepare for bed on her own. In truth, the new trending fragrance they all insisted on wearing had begun to make her nauseous.

Though, lately, everything seemed to make her sick.

“Aang sent a letter.”

She hadn’t even heard him enter.

Slowly, she turned to face her husband, a faint crease forming between her brows. “My love, you spend all day in council, and the first thing you do after not seeing me for hours is talk more about the council?” she teased lightly, though there was a hint of tiredness beneath it. She turned back to the mirror, picking up her hairbrush and dragging it gently through her hair.

“Well, love, this isn’t about the council. Technically,” he replied, stepping further into the room. “It’s about Aang. He needs our help.”

“Our help?” She turned again, confusion softening her features as she rose from the vanity. Her green satin nightgown draped elegantly over her figure, the gold stitching catching the candlelight with every movement. The most prominent change, however, was the gentle, undeniable curve of her stomach.

“You knocked me up, dummy,” she teased, a small smile tugging at her lips as she approached him. Her hands slid to his shoulders, then to the ties of his robes, beginning to loosen them with practiced ease. “Or did you forget already?”

He laughed softly, the sound low and fond, allowing her to help him out of his robes as the fabric slipped from his shoulders.

“How could I forget?” he murmured, turning toward her.

His gaze drifted over her slowly, appreciatively, before settling on the curve of her stomach. His hands followed, almost instinctively, coming to rest there, warm, steady, protective. His thumbs brushed gentle circles over the satin, as if he could feel something deeper beneath it.

“When you carry the future of the Fire Nation inside you?” he said quietly, his voice softening. “A little piece of me…”

His eyes lifted to meet hers, something tender and unguarded flickering there.

“And all of you.”

She hummed softly, rising onto her tiptoes as her arms slipped around his neck, drawing him down to her. Her lips met his in a gentle, fleeting kiss, soft, familiar, almost teasing.

But when she tried to pull away, he didn’t let her.

His hand tightened at her waist, the other still resting protectively against her stomach as he followed her retreat, capturing her lips again before the distance could grow. Even as her heels lowered back to the floor, he bent with her, closing the space she had tried to create.

This time the kiss deepened, slower, warmer, lingering in a way that stole the breath from her lungs. It wasn’t hurried, but it wasn’t soft either; it carried weight, intention, something unspoken between them.

His thumb brushed lightly against her side as he tilted his head, pressing closer, as if memorizing her. The world beyond them seemed to fade, the council, the letter, everything, leaving only the quiet crackle of candlelight and the steady rhythm of shared breath.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far, just enough for their foreheads to rest together, his lips still ghosting over hers, reluctant to let her go.

“I can’t get you pregnant again, can I? Double pregnant,” he teased, a grin tugging at his lips.

She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head at him. “Oh, you’ve certainly tried,” she replied, her voice laced with amusement. Her hand lingered briefly against his chest before she stepped back, just enough to create space between them. “But don’t try again, I need this thing out of me first.” "I don't know if I love you referring to our child as a thing."

She separated from him fully then, turning slightly as if to busy herself, though she didn’t miss the way his shoulders subtly slumped at the loss of contact. The warmth between them lingered in the space she left behind, unspoken but felt.

Her fingers adjusted the sleeve of her gown absentmindedly, her expression softening for just a moment before she glanced back at him over her shoulder. There was still a hint of her earlier smile there, though now tempered with curiosity.

“Now,” she said, more gently this time, “tell me what Aang wants.”

"That can wait for the morning." He mumbled, his eyes never leaving her lips as he pulled her back into another kiss.

“A village?”

Zuko sighed, steadying Appa’s harness as he helped his wife climb aboard. “Why would he possibly want us to go to a random village?” And why would he say pack a coat? We're going to a mountain aren't we?" she huffed, gripping the edge before finally pulling herself over with a bit more effort than she liked. "I hate mountains."

He lingered below for a moment, looking up at her, concern etched into his features. “Are you sure it’s a good idea for you to go? You can stay—I’ll be back in a couple days.”

She leaned over the edge slightly, brows knitting. “Aang needs the second-best earthbender with him, Zuko. I’m not disabled—”

She winced mid-sentence, her hand instinctively going to her stomach before she turned toward Toph. “Sorry.”

Toph shrugged easily. “Hey, I’m just glad you finally admitted I’m the better earthbender.”

“I give you your flowers when they’re due,” she shot back with a small smile.

Toph grinned, but it slowly faltered, her head tilting slightly as if listening to something no one else could hear. "Your heart must be beating really fast." "Is it?" The princess quirked her head confused. "Why else am I hearing two heartbeats coming from you?”

Katara gasped, her hands flying together in delight. “Oh my gosh, you’re pregnant! I thought your coat was just oddly bulky but you're pregnant! Oh my Gosh!" she exclaimed, immediately rushing forward to wrap the Fire Princess in a tight hug. “I thought they were just rumors, because surely you and Zuko would’ve told us!”

The princess blinked, caught off guard, before her gaze slid over to her husband, who was just now hauling himself rather ungracefully into Appa’s saddle.

“Zuko,” she said slowly, one brow arching, “I thought you told them.”

Zuko froze mid-step, staring back at her blankly. “I thought you did.”

There was a beat.

“Oh my gosh.”

“I mean, it was only a matter of time,” Katara chimed in, smiling knowingly. “You two have never exactly been subtle. And Zuko practically insisted on marrying you the moment he could.”

Toph snorted, crossing her arms. “Yeah, honestly? I’m surprised it took this long. Thought for sure you’d have a whole lineup of heirs by now if Zuko could keep his hands to himself for more than, what? two minutes?”

Zuko nearly choked, his face flushing a deep, unmistakable red. “That’s— I—” He cleared his throat, straightening awkwardly as he avoided everyone’s eyes. “That’s not— we’re not—”

The princess, however, looked entirely unbothered.

In fact, she looked amused.

“Well,” she said lightly, smoothing a hand over her stomach as she glanced at him, “he does have a bit of a… lack of restraint.”

Zuko snapped his head toward her. “You’re not helping.”

Katara laughed, covering her mouth. “I mean, you can’t blame them. You’ve both been—” she hesitated, searching for a polite word before giving up, “—like that since the beginning.”

Toph grinned wider. “Please. ‘Like that’ is putting it nicely.”

“Toph,” Katara warned, though she was still smiling.

“What?” Toph shrugged. “I’m just saying—half the time, I didn’t even need my feet to know when they were in the same room. The tension alone was loud enough.”

The princess let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You’re all incredibly annoying.”

Zuko groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Can we please focus on the actual reason we’re here?”

“Oh, no, no,” Toph continued, clearly enjoying herself. “You deserve this. All those nights you two kept everyone awake—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” the princess cut in quickly, though a smile tugged at her lips. She glanced at Zuko, amused. “He can’t get any redder. He’s about to turn into a tomato.”

Zuko let out a quiet, embarrassed huff, but didn’t argue, instead shifting closer and settling against her side, seeking some sense of refuge.

She softened slightly at that, her expression gentler as she let him.

“Let’s just go get Sokka,” he muttered, still avoiding everyone’s gaze.

The princess had shrugged off her coat minutes into the trip. They weren’t even close to Aang yet, and the extra weight had her uncomfortably warm, a light sheen of sweat clinging to her skin. The shifting air currents around Appa did little to help.

Katara, however, had not left her alone once.

The questions came one after another, gentle but relentless, curiosity shining in her eyes.

“How far along are you?”

“Five months,” she answered, offering a tired but polite smile.

“What’s the gender?”

“No clue.”

“Any baby names lined up?”

“We’re trying for something that blends earth and fire,” she said, glancing briefly at Zuko, “but nothing’s stuck yet.”

Katara brightened. “That’s so sweet—”

“Are you going to have more?”

The princess didn’t even hesitate. “Have you met my husband?”

Katara blinked, then laughed, covering her mouth.

Zuko, meanwhile, coughed into his fist, his ears burning all over again.

Through it all, his hand never left her, resting protectively over her stomach, thumb brushing slow, absent circles as if grounding himself in her presence. Every so often, his grip would tighten slightly whenever Appa shifted, like he could somehow steady both her and the child at once.

“Careful,” he murmured under his breath at one point, guiding her subtly as the saddle dipped.

“I’m fine,” she replied, though she didn’t pull away from him.

By the time the icy waters and familiar structures of the Southern Water Tribe came into view, the air had grown colder, sharper against their skin. Snow dusted the ground below, and the distant figures of Water Tribe members began to gather, pointing up at Appa’s descending form.

They didn’t have to search long.

Sokka was already striding across the snow toward them, boots crunching loudly with each step, his grin widening the second he took them in.

“Well, well,” he called, arms spreading like he was welcoming honored guests. “Look who finally decided to show up. Took you two long enough.”

His gaze flicked between them, lingering, calculating, before it dropped.

Then paused.

“…Whoa.”

Zuko stiffened immediately. “Don’t.”

But Sokka was already circling them, slow and deliberate, like he was inspecting something fascinating. “No way. No way. You’re serious?”

The princess raised a brow, unimpressed. “Very.”

Sokka let out a low whistle, dragging a hand down his face before pointing straight at Zuko. “I mean, I knew you two had issues with personal space, but I didn’t think you’d go and make it this… I don't even know the word for it. You two are freaks."

Zuko groaned, already regretting coming. “Sokka.”

“What?” Sokka shrugged, smirk growing. “You expect me to ignore this? This isn't even groundbreaking it's just expected from you both knowing you. This is, this is what happens when you two get even five minutes alone, isn’t it?”

Toph let out a quiet snort.

Sokka leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make it worse. “Actually, scratch that. Five minutes is probably generous.”

Zuko made a strangled noise. “Okay.”

Katara slapped a hand over her face. “Sokka—”

“No, no, I’m just connecting the dots,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself. “All those times you disappeared during meetings, all those ‘private discussions’ yeah, makes a lot more sense now.”

The princess tilted her head, completely unbothered. “You’re being very bold for someone standing this close to me.”

Sokka grinned. “I’m just impressed, honestly. You two had so much tension it was practically a natural disaster, and now—” he gestured vaguely toward her stomach, “—this is the aftermath. Surprised it took you this long."

Toph laughed outright at that.

Zuko looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

Sokka wasn’t done.

“I mean seriously,” he added, folding his arms, “if this is what happens when the Fire Lord gets a little too… distracted, I’m shocked there’s not a second one already on the way.”

Zuko choked. “That’s enough.”

“Hey, I’m congratulating you!” Sokka shot back. “Just saying, next time, maybe let people know before you two go off and—”

“Sokka.”

“—expand the royal family.”

Katara shoved him lightly. “You’re unbelievable.”

“But not wrong,” he corrected smoothly.

The princess let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Unfortunately, he’s not entirely wrong.”

Zuko turned to her, betrayed. “You’re encouraging him.”

“We've been married for eleven months and I've been pregnant for five of them, you lack restraint Zuko” she stated bluntly, though her smile gave her away. He shook his head leaning close so only he could hear her. "Who suggested riding me in the throne ro-" "Okay hush now."

Sokka clapped his hands together once, satisfied. “Great. Now that we’ve established the Fire Lord has absolutely no self-control—”

“Sokka.”

“—can someone please tell me why Aang is dragging us to some random village?"

The teasing was warranted, deserved, even.

The Fire Nation had taken your father, your brother. Zuko’s redemption didn’t erase that. Not to you. He had hunted you, cornered you, forced you into survival more times than you could count. While the others learned to trust him, to laugh with him, to move on… you hadn’t. Not so easily.

So yeah, there had been tension.

A lot of it.

It just… hadn’t been resolved in a way anyone else approved of.

His lips brushed slowly along the inside of her thigh, unhurried, deliberate, testing, teasing. The touch alone was enough to pull a quiet, unwilling sound from her, her breath catching despite herself.

“Just do it already,” she muttered, more breath than voice, her fingers tightening against the sheets.

Zuko clicked his tongue softly, unfazed. Another kiss followed, closer this time, but still not quite where she wanted, where she needed.

“Not until you say please.”

Her head tipped back in frustration. “Why would I have to say please?” she shot back weakly. “You said you were atoning for everything your nation did. Consider this part of your apology.”

A quiet huff of amusement left him, warm against her skin. “I’ve been atoning for two months now,” he murmured, his voice low, almost thoughtful.

Another slow press of his lips, lingering.

“And yet,” he added, “every morning I wake up and you’ve already taken my portion of breakfast because, apparently, ‘murderers don’t deserve to eat.’”

She exhaled sharply, somewhere between a scoff and something softer. “Well, when the Fire Nation killed my family, I couldn’t afford breakfast—”

“I know.” His tone shifted immediately, the teasing giving way to something heavier, sincere. His hand stilled, grounding. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

There was a pause, the air between them tightening, thick with everything unsaid.

“I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it,” he continued quietly. “For what I did… for what I stood for.”

His placed a long kiss to her core, a soft moan (against her will) escaped her lips.

“Let me try,” he said, voice gentler now. “Even if it’s not enough.”

“I’m glad you all could make it, this village needs our help with—” Aang began, pulling back from Katara mid-sentence.

His eyes flicked across the group.

Paused.

Then widened.

“…Are—did—?”

He leaned toward Katara, lowering his voice into what he clearly thought was a whisper. “Am I allowed to ask people if they’ve gained weight?”

Katara’s eyes widened. “No, Aang. We’ve been over this.”

Aang nodded quickly. “Right, right. No asking.”

“…They’re pregnant,” she added quietly.

Aang blinked.

Then looked back at them.

Then back at Katara.

“…Zuko’s pregnant too?”

Toph snorted.

Sokka immediately burst out laughing. “Yeah, yeah, Fire Lord had a lot to do with it actually.”

Zuko’s face flushed instantly. “That’s not—”

“I’m pregnant, Aang,” the princess cut in, voice flat.

“Oh!” Aang straightened immediately, relief flooding his face. “Oh, that makes way more sense.”

There was a beat.

“…Congratulations!” he added, a little too late but entirely sincere.

Then his expression shifted, concern creeping in.

“Wait, are you sure you should be here?” he asked, glancing between her and Zuko. “I mean, with everything going on… I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Zuko immediately nodded. “Exactly.”

She sighed.

“I’m pregnant, not made of glass,” she said, crossing her arms lightly. “I can still help.”

Toph smirked. “Told you.”

Katara smiled gently. “We’ll keep an eye on you. Just in case.”

Sokka grinned. “Yeah, someone has to make sure Zuko doesn’t give himself an aneurysm trying to watch after the princess.”

Zuko shot him a glare.

Aang hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. I trust you. Just… be careful, alright?”

She gave a small, confident nod.

“Always.”

Aang clapped his hands together once, refocusing. “Right, so. The village has been dealing with a spirit. It’s been acting aggressively, and I think it’s tied to something in the mountain.”

The princess exhaled slowly. “…So you did drag us out here for a mountain.”

Aang winced. “Technically… yes.”

Zuko sighed. “Of course.”

Toph cracked her knuckles. “Good. I was getting bored.”

Sokka looked between them, grin already returning. “Alright, angry spirit, pregnant Fire-Earth Princess, and Zuko on edge. This should go great.”

She leaned slightly into Zuko’s side, her hand brushing his.

“Next time,” she murmured, “we ignore the letter and go to Ember Island."

He huffed softly. “…Agreed.”

love speaks! rushed and indulgent sorry i wish this was better but if i draft it it'll never get done. divider by @/cafekitsune

[hiddenlibary]

This is too good for me to forget

[shamalabingbong]

don't you love when I come around? (keito Tachibana x reader)

guysss I finished it. don't expect crazy good quality or anything, im still getting used to writing and actually posting on Tumblr after being a lurker for who knows how many years oops also I bullshitted the coffee order im not a coffee drinker LOL

You awoke to something messing with your hair. Your eyes opened wearily to see none other than your brunette boyfriend standing over you. 

“Enjoying the view?” You teased.

Keito dropped the hair strand that he’d been toying with. “Did you sleep well?” He asked gruffly.

You snorted. “Well, I was until someone decided to wake me up.”

Keito squinted at your expression, averting his gaze to the side. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Hm, well, you did,” you said flippantly, stretching your arms out. Keito batted at one of your limbs softly as it came a bit too close to his glasses. You didn’t care and continued to push your arms into his face. 

“Are you five?” he muttered. 

“You’re such a scrooge in the morning,” you retorted. 

“It’s way past noon right now,” he said as he grabbed the corners of the blankets. 

You turned your head towards the analog clock on his bedside. Quarter past three. “Wow, you let me sleep in so much? I knew you loved me!”

“I did it because I knew you were going to be an idiot,” he huffed, straightening the blanket on the bed. “Why the hell did you stay at the company so late? Do you even realize the time you came home?”

You flitted your eyes over to the side, knowing the lecture that was coming, “I was, uh, a bit behind in my loggings. I didn’t want to push the extra work onto Mr. Fujita.”

Quickly, you pushed a finger to Keito’s lips before he could scold you about your heinous time management skills, “But, I got it all done! I swear this is the last time it’ll happen!”

His eyebrows drew downwards. Your other hand reached up, trying to massage the crinkle forming, “Hey, don’t do that. Wrinkles are the last thing you want as an idol.” Somehow, his eyebrows drew even more downwards. 

“If you keep pushing things off like this, you’re going to overexert yourself. You’re just like those idiots Ori and Tamon when they pushed themselves for that stupid center competition,” he said. 

You smiled. “You almost sound worried about me,”

“Tch, what if I just don’t want to have to testify as a witness when you randomly drop dead in the middle of a T.V. appearance or something?” he grumbled as his own fingers gently traced the dark circles that were surely cemented under your eyes. Your eyelashes fluttered as they got too close to your eyelids.

“I made pancakes,” he murmured as you yawned, “and coffee.”

“Banana chocolate?”

“Mm.”

“Two-shot espresso with extra whipped cream?”

“Mm.” Keito hadn’t even possessed a coffee machine before you. He was a tea drinker, through and through. 

“Are you sure you haven’t fallen in love with me or something?” you ask, as if you hadn’t clearly been there when he stuttered through his confession all those months ago. It was a memory that made you wish technology could advance enough for you to extract it from your brain and save it on video.

“Shut up,” he mumbled, pressing a kiss to your eyelids, “promise me that you’ll get more sleep,”

“I–”

“And give me your location. I don’t understand the thought process that made you think coming back at nearly five in the morning is normal.”

“Well–”

“Promise me.”

Waah!

You responded by throwing your arms around him, yanking him down on top of you. 

“Hey-!”

“Ugh, you’re just so cute.”

Keito grumbled but did not move. You genuinely can’t believe how lucky you are. From being an assistant manager as a fan to his girlfriend, you certainly would have never imagined being in this position a year prior. It had taken quite the effort on your part to convince the miser on top of you that you were more than the crazy fans he dealt with. It had also taken twice as much to convince him that he was allowed to take the reins for something he wanted. Even as an idol, he was allowed to want someone. (Y’all just had to keep it on the downlow, easy-peasy!)

“You don’t have errands to run?”

He let out a sigh equivalent to that of a tired old man. Is this guy really twenty-two? “Don’t remind me,” he said as he tightened his arms around you. 

You hummed in response. If he’s willingly staying in bed with you, you might as well pick his brain a bit. “Say, after your idol career is over, what do you think of starting our own family?”

Keito nearly choked on air. “You’re thinking about kids already? In this economy?!”

You rolled your eyes. Right, you’re dating the human equivalent of fucking Mr. Krabs.

“I think it’d be cute.” You continue on. “I’d love a little boy with your eyes and hair. A mini Keito!”

“We have five of those at home. You can take whichever one you want,” he said flatly. “I’m sick of boys, I’d want a girl.”

You chuckled. He’s not wrong. He's basically been put in charge of five younger brothers (willingly) and four rowdy teammates (unwillingly). 

“I wouldn’t mind a girl either. A mini Kie instead!”

“Hm,” he said. “I’d rather her have your eyes and hair. I’ve seen enough variations of my own.”

“Haha, aw, that’s so sweet!”

“Oh, shut it,” he mumbled, burying his face into your shoulder. It did little to hide the red forming at the tips of his ears again.

You switch gears, delicately running your nails through his hair and down his back.

“Hmm, what kind of girl do you think you’d want?”

Keito fell silent for a moment. Then, in a hushed tone, “Someone like Miss Kinoshita.”

You raised an eyebrow. Similar to you, it had taken a minute for him to get over his disdain for fans to properly acknowledge her skill and wit. Though her (insane) obsession with his adopted sixth brother primary money maker likely hadn’t scored her any points in his book. 

“Miss Kinoshita? Well, her caretaking skills are top-notch,” you say.

Your senior, Mr. Fujita had put that poor girl through the wringer, adding excessive bullshitted clauses to her role as housekeeper to keep Tamon somewhat stabilized. To your surprise, however, it worked. Though you’re pretty sure it was due to the fact that the main dancer of F/ACE was harboring a serious crush on her than any calming technique Mr. Fujita was convinced Utage somehow possessed. You glance over at Keito. He thankfully hadn’t noticed anything between them yet, or he definitely would have blown a gasket. You rolled your eyes at the thought. You can only imagine the Olympic-winning mental gymnastics routine he’d perform in his head to justify why this situation was alright and not theirs. 

“She’s hardworking. Loyal. Listens and responds well to instructions,” he said.

“Uhh, are we describing a kid or a dog right now?”

A tic mark appeared on Keito’s head. “Would you let me finish?” 

“Hm, maybe,” you said as you shut up, snuggling into him further. 

He huffed and pulled the covers back over you both and tangled your legs together.

“She’s got a good head on her shoulders. Once you get past her Tamon craziness, she’s not that bad. She’s level-headed…for the most part,” he said much more softly. “I’d want my daughter to have those qualities.”

As you heard him speak, you softened. He’d really come a long way with Miss Kinoshita. From routinely checking Tamon’s apartment after her cleaning appointments to advocating for her participation in exclusive F/ACE activities, Miss Kinoshita certainly seemed to worm her way into Keito’s very short list of tolerable people.

“–Also, we’d have one kid at max. With the price of diapers going up every year consecutively, I’d even get a vasectomy if it came down to it.”

Anddd of course he had to ruin it.

“You don’t want her to have a sibling?”

“You’re asking me that?” 

“Touche.” You deadpanned.

He chuckled under his breath. You could feel him at your pulse. 

“She’d have nine uncles to play with. She wouldn’t ever be bored.” He mumbled.

Your mouth dropped open. “I think that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said about your group members.”

“–Not to mention, two of them are rich-rich. Can you imagine the money we’d get out of them for the baby registry?”

“Genuinely, would it kill you to not talk about money for five seconds?”

He responded by gently pecking at your neck. “Yes. It. Would. Money makes the world go round.” He accentuated with each press he made towards your body. 

You giggled at the sensation. He hummed in response. 

“Though I don’t think any of those four, except Tamon, would be any good at babysitting. And like hell I’d leave Kie alone with either that damn chainsmoker or gorilla. I don’t need her becoming a delinquent.”

“Oooh, so we like the name Kie?”

He pauses, pulling back his head. “It’s a good name. Akira sounds nice as well.”

You blinked. Bright, intelligent, moonlight. “Are you the type to hold value in baby names?”

He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling in thought. “I thought I wasn’t until my brothers were born. My dad was barely there, so my mom and I took to naming the rest of my siblings. I wanted to make sure they had something that had meaning from the second they were born, even if it was into a rather sorry life.”

You snuggled into your blankets. Keito’s dad has always been a rather sore subject for him. Safe to say his quick decision to literally abandon his six kids for the sake of his idol worship had done more than a bit of damage to Keito’s opinion on idol stans. You could hardly fathom why his father acted the way he did in the first place. After all, Keito’s mom was the sweetest little lady you’ve ever met, endlessly apologetic and kind. 

“Your brothers haven’t had a sorry life. Their older brother made sure of that,” you said softly.

He grit his teeth. “You haven’t seen what it was like before F/ACE. We could barely afford to feed everyone–”

“Mm, but you managed. Your brothers are old enough to recognize that on their own. And I’m sure that they do,” you responded.

“You, who auditioned and got into ‘F/ACE’ despite not having any prior singing or dancing skills, just for the chance to provide for your family. That’s pretty admirable, Keito.”

He opened his mouth to respond before shutting it abruptly, ears tinted red. “I-I did what I had to do. The right opportunity just so happened to fall into my lap.”

You nuzzled your face into his neck. “And I love you more for it.”

You could feel his breath hitch, and he stiffened under you. For a long minute, he said nothing. It saddened you. His sacrifices, all his hard work, do people ever notice? Has anyone ever stopped and directly told him, ‘I’m proud of you for holding out this long?’ Or was he too used to the responsibility, to the expectation that this is what he was supposed to do?

He shifted away from you. You let him. You’ve come to learn that verbal admittance is hard for him. He’d sooner shave his entire head bald than ever admit his struggle. And just now, you were laying it on pretty thick. 

You sigh through your nose, deciding to give him an out. “By the way, is Kaito still a huge fan of Tamon?”

He exhales, not making eye contact. “Y-Yeah, he even got Tamon’s exact haircut recently, can you believe that? I feel like I’ll end up scrubbing pink hair dye out of the tub during my next visit.”

You snorted. You could believe that. The self-insert fanfiction you had accidentally seen on the kid’s laptop when you went to call him for dinner told you that maybe he was a bit more than just a huge fan of Tamon. But, he had already sworn you to secrecy, and who were you to break a promise with your future brother-in-law? (Naturally, that title was a work in progress, but hey, you were getting there!)

“Does he know about Tamon’s, uh….Tamonness?”

“Of course not, that’d break his heart into pieces. He already thinks Tamon is the coolest person on Earth,” he said, stiffly. You zeroed in on that reaction. 

“Ha, you jealous that your brother prefers your group-mate?” 

The scowl came back. “I don’t even have the time to stress over that stuff,” he responded a bit too fast, “but I’m pretty cool on stage too. And I’m both the leader and the center.”

“Hm, I don’t know. Natsuki’s rhythm is pretty unmatched. I always look forward to seeing him in your dance practices.”

That was enough to bring back the grump in your boyfriend. “What the–you can’t be serious! He barely has stamina!”

You shrug. “He’s fun to watch. Didn’t Ori say something about you being boring at that Jason session?”

A tic mark appeared on Keito’s head. “That was months ago! I got way better!”

“Hm, I dunno…” You drawl. 

“You–!!” he started, before sitting up abruptly. You whined at the loss of heat. “Forget it, I’m throwing out your pancakes.”

“You? Wasting food? You?” you immediately shoot back. 

That makes Keito pause momentarily before he continues his march out the bedroom door. “Fine. I’ll just call Ori.”

Okay, that was way more of a viable threat. You and that annoying teenager had developed an unspoken beef because you secretly sided with his love rival for Utage’s hand. You shrieked and stumbled out of bed, trying to catch up to him.

You crashed into his back in your fervor. Absent-mindedly, you wonder if he had been walking slowly on purpose because there was no way he wouldn’t have gotten to the kitchen by now. Keito turned around in record time, wrapping his arms around you. 

“If you don’t want Ori eating the food that I made you, then admit I’m your favorite,” he said, eyes shifting everywhere but your face. You looked up at him in surprise. Wha–he had actually been jealous? 

You giggled, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “Wow, you’re really making me say it out loud? I’m shy!”

“Tsk. No, you’re not,” he retorted, before his voice dropped to a whisper, “so say it.”

You preened against him. “Keito Tachibana is the absolute light of my life, the shining star in the cosmos, the apple of my eye, the–”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he cut in. The red that previously tinted his ears now coated his cheeks in a pretty cherry flush. A hunger for something other than just pancakes started to build up in you. He was just too cute! But you pushed it down, not wanting to ruin the perfect domesticity of the afternoon right now. 

“So, can I have my pancakes now?” you asked, leaning in for a kiss. He quickly placed a hand on your mouth. 

“Brush your teeth first.”

You booed before realization hit you. “Shit, I forgot to buy a toothbrush after I dropped that last one in the trash–”

“I bought another one,” he said dismissively, “when you open the cabinet, you’ll see it there.”

You melt a little internally. “...Thanks, Keito.”

“Mm,” he grunts, wheeling you into the bathroom. “We’ve already wasted so much time. I bet the pancakes got cold.”

You laughed as you walked in, making a beeline for the medicinal cabinet in his tiny bathroom. Sure enough, a packaged plastic toothbrush in your favorite color stared back at you. 

Once you finished up your business, you walked into the dining room to see a steaming plate of pancakes stacked on top of each other, paired with your favorite coffee. 

“Be careful before you burn yourself,” said Keito as he padded to sit next to you. You hummed in response, eager to dig in. 

“I keep thinking back to our earlier conversation about kids,” you said absentmindedly. Keito says nothing but nods, keeping his eyes trained on you.

“Parenthood kind of scares me, though. Costs aside,” you said quickly as you could feel this dick’s (affectionate) mouth open to yap at you. “Pregnancy does a real number on the mother’s body. Dealing with that sounds rough.” You carefully cut a piece of your pancake and shoved it into your mouth, trying to be as nonchalant as possible.

Keito’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t deal with that alone.” He said, firmly.

You blinked, looking up from your plate. It was very, very rare for Keito to verbally assure you. He was the most uptight, money-grubbing asshole you knew, but his actions were also just as sincere. It had taken a bit, but you’ve learned to read that this–the pancakes, the toothbrush, letting you sleep in his bed–it was all his method to show that he cared. Keito was high-strung 24/7 and thus never wasted his efforts on people he didn’t deem worth it. He simply didn’t have the time. 

Still, you more than welcomed the unexpected change. 

“You…wouldn’t care if my body completely changed? Or my face?”

There it was. The hidden vulnerability that you weren’t sure you were willing to show. 

Keito frowned at you, though it seemed slightly different from his usual You’re-annoying-the-hell-out-of-me frowns or his Can-you-shut-up frowns. 

“You think I care about that? You’d have just given birth, and you think that’d be on my mind?”

You smiled. “So, you’d stick with me?” 

“Of course.” He said, holding eye contact with you. “You think I wouldn’t?”

You put a finger to your lips in feigned ignorance. “Hmm, I don’t know. You’d probably sell me for a frying pan or something.”

Keito clicked his tongue. “That’s what the rest of F/ACE is for. Not you.”

“Awww!”

[hungrydata]

Day 154

"An Angel left her Wings."

I wanted to make sure to finish this vomic before the new update drops (which is in a few hours now. Oh welp ;v;)

I hope you guys don't mind Yuri ShadowSugar (except the last frame), this is just what came into my mind after the update trailer and SMC hiding in the title card.

[bonzirella]

𐔌 . . . 𝐐𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐗𝐈𝐍 ꒱

✧ you thought giving a qingxin flower to an adeptus would be a sweet act of gratitude. wrong. now you're married to him, unbeknownst to you. ― xiao x gn!reader (it should be gender netural, please please lmk if i accidentally messed that up) ⋆ incl. fluff, crack, both xiao and reader are oblivious dolts, prideful reader which causes reader to be annoying at times ❃ ུ ۪ wc. 3.9k 𝜗ৎ the double space was getting annoying to type... thank you for 1k followers omg. i've been working on this for a while and i still can't stand the ending.

You hadn’t known an adeptus could be wed with nothing more than a flower. 

No book had written it and no tale had whispered it. So when you climbed the mountain, plucked a pale qingxin, and offered it to Xiao on the balcony of Wangshu Inn, you had expected nothing but silence. He appeared anyway. Perched on the railing like a hawk, gaze cutting. “Foolish mortal,” he said, voice rough as stone worn thin by rivers. “You don’t know what you bind yourself to.” Yet he took the flower and pressed it to his chest, where it disappeared like breath into cold air. A sharp pulse went through you then—otherworldly, heavy, as though your heartbeat had doubled and no longer belonged entirely to you. You told yourself it was only nerves, only the startling fact of his beauty. (Why must he be so devastating to look at?) So you smiled, voice soft with gratitude, and he slipped into the dark as though the night had been waiting for him.

You didn’t think much of it, not at first.

But in the days that followed, you felt a shadow over your shoulder, and it was as if luck was in your favor. Merchants no longer shortchanged you and strangers kept their distance, and the ordinary chatter of life faded into silence. For the first time, the world seemed to leave you alone, though you could not shake the feeling of golden eyes that never left you. 

…Perhaps you smelled strange.

Still, it was more than luck. The aches that usually woke you each morning faded, and even the most tiring moments of your day held a strange ease to them. A sense of peace lingered under your skin, and you had a feeling that it would be impossible for anything to take it away from you. 

One afternoon, you sit beneath your favorite tree in the mountains and close your eyes, promising yourself only a moment’s rest. However, when you wake, you find yourself in your room at the inn. Startled, you search for some sign of how you had returned. There is none. When you ask around, everyone stares, baffled—even the front desk receptionist. None had seen you come in. “It’s like the wind carried you,” one mutters. You feel an unsettling shiver go down your spine, as if those words held a deeper meaning that couldn’t belong to an offhand comment.  

So, you decide to do what any reasonable person in this situation would do. You walk through Bishui Plains, under the weightless stars, to take your mind off of things. The night air is cool, threaded with the chirp of crickets. You had once heard a rumor that the stars of Teyvat were false, but such talk felt cruel; you couldn’t believe these cold-burning, ethereal lights were anything less than real. You lay down in the grass. The blades bend beneath you, fragrant and damp. The moment is too peaceful, like a soft reverie in the blur of unease you’ve found yourself lost in for the past few days. You close your eyes, content to spend the night out here, when your peace is suddenly interrupted. 

“Always sleeping,” a voice rasps above you, “like a stray cat. Collapsing wherever you please.” Your eyes fly open, head spinning as you try to locate the origin of the voice. He stands against a tree, dark silhouette cut against the silver night. Xiao. He approaches slowly, as though speed itself might shatter something delicate between you. When you make no move to flee, he sits beside you. 

A god at your shoulder. A story made flesh. Born and raised in Liyue, you had grown up hearing tales of the Yakshas. The silent protectors who fought in the shadows so mortals might walk in peace. And here was the last of them, close enough for his sleeve to brush the grass by your hand. Your throat tightens. You look away, cheeks warm, “Don’t call me a cat. I’m only…sleep deprived. An author’s curse.”

A sharp exhale, half scoff, half laugh, “An author. Of what? Those tales you scribble… The Secret Life of the Tyrannical Emperor?” His tone curls with disdain. “Hardly noble work for a carpenter’s daughter.” 

Heat flames across your face. You defensively lurch into a sitting position. “W–When did you even—? In my room? Under my bed? You creep! Were you snooping? I–I knew I shouldn’t have given you those flowers–!” 

“It was on your desk,” he says flatly, eyes narrowed, searching. A pause, then softer, almost to himself. “So you regret the flowers, then. Foolish. Mortals are always this way. Frustratingly elusive, slipping just beyond my understanding.”

And before you can protest, he vanishes. The air rushes in where he had been, knocking you backward into the grass. You splutter, glaring upward, words spilling like starlight sliding off a darkened sky. “Foolish?! I’m not foolish! If anything, you are—leaving someone like me behind! You’re impossible! You walk around as if the world has—has—”

A sudden gust shoves you flat into the ground, no doubt his doing. You yelp, muffled against your own palms. 

Eventually, the wind dies, and you find yourself able to stand, knees wobbling from the force of his presence or whatever that breeze had been. You glare skyward one last time, lips pressed into a thin line, fists clenching, before turning on your heel and stomping back toward Wangshu Inn. Each defiant step is a promise that Xiao will not get away with this. 

Before the sight of the inn reaches you, the sound does. Laughter, cheers, and music so loud it cuts through the night air like a blade. The dining hall is alive tonight, packed with the city’s elite musicians who’ve come to perform. The scent of roasting meat, spiced wine, and sweet pastries drifts to you even before the door swings open, teasing your senses, taunting your focus. 

You head straight for the bar, weaving past clusters of patrons laughing and clinking glasses. Your fingers drum on the polished counter as your thoughts swirl in a hot, tangled, and stubbornly unyielding storm in your mind. 

What did he mean by “Mortals are always this way”? Did he—Has he experienced this before? No! Stop. Absolutely not. Xiao has no right to wander into your life, make stupid remarks, vanish without explanation, and leave your pulse racing like this. No way. He was unreasonable, arrogant, a Yaksha with the gall to mock you. He was nothing like those tales you had heard of when you were younger. 

Anger drives your hands to the nearest glass. You down the first, then the second, letting the burn of alcohol chase away (temporarily) the sting of your humiliation. The bartender watches you with polite caution, but before long, he’s shaking his head, muttering something about “too much to drink, miss,” and guides you gently but firmly to your room. You don’t argue; you’re too caught up in your frustration, too determined to plot your revenge.

No sooner is the door closed behind him than you slip from your room, careful to avoid the maze of inn staff and boisterous patrons. The night is warm, fragrant with the garden outside and the distant mountains looming black and silent. You step onto the balcony, hands gripping the railing as though it could anchor the storm inside you.

“Xiao! You big, ugly, stupid, mean—did I mention ugly..?—unbearably rude, Yaksha!” You roar into the wind. The night swallows your voice. The music and laughter from the hall below serve as a buffer, sparing your dignity from the ears of anyone else.

Your chest heaves. Your hair, loose and wild, clings to dampened skin from the heat of anger. “I hate you! I… hate…” Words falter, floundering somewhere between fury and exasperation.

The edge of the balcony suddenly feels treacherous. You sway, caught in a moment between defiance and dizziness. Then you feel a sudden, firm grip around your waist, chest pressed against your back, arms sliding under your thighs and across your shoulders. Your breath hitches, eyes widening as the world tilts slightly, saved from disaster by sheer, unyielding force.

“Do you always scream like that?” a voice, his voice, murmurs into your ear—deep, controlled, with an edge that could slice through stone. Xiao. Of course it’s him. And of course, he somehow appeared the moment you were most reckless.

You twist to glare, but there’s no room to move; his hold is firm. “Let me go!” you snap, voice sharper than you intend. “I’m not—”

“You are unsteady,” he interrupts, tone clipped, eyes narrowed even in the dark. “You fall too easily.”

You huff indignantly, “I was not falling! I was—well, okay, maybe I was a little…” Your words trail off as your cheeks heat, not entirely from embarrassment, but from the awareness of him so close. Every inch of him radiates controlled energy, a quiet intensity that somehow presses against your nerves like thunder waiting to break.

He shifts slightly, adjusting his hold just enough to make you breathe easier, though it’s no concession. “Careless,” he mutters, voice low, almost reluctant, “always rushing… always reckless. Foolish mortal.”

You snort, twisting your hands to grip the railing instead of punching him. “Careless? Reckless? Me? Oh no, Xiao, you clearly don’t know me at all.” Your tone is defiant, daring him to contradict you, daring him to leave. But inside, your chest flutters. You refuse to acknowledge it.

“I do not need to know you,” he replies, voice flat, eyes flicking toward the horizon as if everything in the night belongs to him alone. Then, just as quickly, his attention snaps back, sharp and piercing. Xiao’s grip tightens ever so slightly. “You are foolish,” he says, almost a whisper. And then, impossibly, he sets you down on the balcony floor, step by careful step, though his eyes linger on you longer than necessary. “Do not do this again. Do not tempt fate.”

You fold your arms, pouting like a child caught in a scolding, cheeks flushed. “Tempt fate? I was yelling at you! You dimwitted Yaksha!”

The corner of his mouth twitches. It’s barely a smirk, but it is there. “I am not your target for insults, mortal.”

“Not my target?!” you huff, unable to suppress the flare of indignation. “I’ll insult you all I want! You showed up out of nowhere, made fun of me, and disappeared like a—like a ghost! You—”

He tilts his head slightly, patience thinning. “Your words are as reckless as your actions,” he says, low and even, yet not unkind. And for a moment, you feel the undeniable pull of his presence. It’s dizzying, it seeps into your very essence and threatens to take control of your emotions, baiting you to do something stupid once more. You clear your throat. 

You grumble, flaring one last time, then lean against the railing, crossing your arms stubbornly. “Fine,” you mutter, “maybe I’ll just… plot revenge instead. Yeah. That’s it. Revenge.”

Xiao doesn’t reply. He only watches the night for a heartbeat longer before he steps back and vanishes, leaving the balcony cold and empty save for the echo of your own voice and the faint, lingering brush of a breeze that smells faintly of the mountain.

And in the quiet aftermath, you realize, begrudgingly, that your grudge might be the only thing keeping your heart from utterly melting under the weight of his impossible presence. You refuse to think about it too much and collapse onto your bed, wishing that sleep will come sooner rather than later. 

Unfortunately, sleep does not come easily that night.

It would be impossible for you to fall asleep after the wine, after the shouting, after the way his arms had closed around you. He was warm, firm, unyielding, as if the idea of you falling had never been an option to begin with. You turn over in your bed, pressing your reddened face into the pillow as if that might smother the memory. It doesn’t. Eventually, once you’ve tired yourself out from flopping about, you give in to the soft lullabies of sleep and allow yourself to drift in and out of a state of consciousness.

The inn is quieter now. The musicians have long since packed their instruments, the laughter has thinned into scattered murmurs drifting up from below. A faint breeze slips through the window, cool against your skin

You freeze. It lingers just for a second too long.

“…Don’t you dare,” you mutter into your pillow.

The breeze stills.

Good.

You huff, satisfied, and force your eyes shut.

The next morning arrives. Golden sunlight spills across the plains like honey poured too generously. You decide—firmly—that you are done thinking about Xiao. No more strange comments. No more appearances out of nowhere. No more… whatever last night was. You grab your satchel, your notebook, and leave the inn before your thoughts can betray you again.

The mountains welcome you like they always do. They are quiet, vast, and indifferent. Mighty, stunning, beautiful beasts that never entirely crumble, despite the long, arduous years. As you walk, the grass bends under your steps, the scent of wildflowers drifts in the air. It’s peaceful, grounding. It is exactly what you need. 

You settle beneath a tree, the same one as before, and open your notebook. Ink scratches softly against paper as you write, words coming easier than they have in days. Characters move, argue, confess things far more coherent than anything in your own life.

You almost forget him. Until a shadow flickers across the page. You pause and frown, glaring at your notebook. 

“…If you’re going to hover, at least have the decency to say something,” you mutter, not looking up.

Silence.

Then, he says, “You are alone.”

Your pen stops.

Xiao stands a few steps away, arms folded, gaze scanning the treeline instead of you.

You retort, “Yes. That tends to happen when one goes out alone.”

He ignores the tone entirely. “This area is not safe.”

You snort, “Oh? And since when do you care where I go?”

A pause that lasts a moment too long. 

“I do not,” he says finally, though his voice lacks its usual sharpness. “It is simply… inefficient to allow you to come to harm.”

You stare at him. “…Inefficient.”

“Yes.”

You let out a breath through your nose. “Right. Of course. Wouldn’t want to inconvenience the great Yaksha.”

He doesn’t rise to your snark. He just watches the horizon like it’s more interesting than you.

You hate that a little. Defensive and a bit miffed, your emotions take over you once more. 

“Go,” you hiss, waving him off. “I’ll be perfectly fine. I’ve survived this long without you hovering over my shoulder.”

Another pause. You don’t look at him, but you feel the way the air shifts, the weight of his attention dispersing.

“…Very well.”

The wind stirs, and then he’s gone.

You make it perhaps an hour before things go wrong. At first, it’s a subtle rustle in the brush. A break in the quiet that doesn’t belong. Then a faint, wretched smell hits you, like garbage mixed with vinegar. 

You stand slowly.  “…Okay,” you murmur, “that’s new.” You slowly back away, back onto the trail that takes you to Wangshu Inn, all while keeping your eyes on the brush. 

The first hilichurl emerges from the treeline, weapon raised, then another. And another.

Your grip tightens around the small knife at your side. “Oh. Oh, that’s—no, that’s a lot.”

They start to circle around you. You take a step back.

“Alright,” you say, voice thin but determined. “We can talk about this. I have—uh—very little money, but I do have snacks?”

They roar. You bolt.

Branches claw at your sleeves as you run, heart slamming against your ribs. The ground dips unexpectedly beneath your feet, uneven, treacherous. You stumble, catch yourself, keep going.

Behind you, the pounding of footsteps grows louder.

“Okay—okay—this is fine—this is fine—”

It is not fine.

A rock catches your foot. You go down hard, the breath punched from your lungs. Your vision swims.

The world narrows to shouting, the rush of blood in your ears and then silence falls so suddenly it feels wrong. You push yourself up on trembling arms. The hilichurls lie scattered, unmoving.

And at the center of it is Xiao with his spear in hand and his expression unreadable. He’s breathing steadily, as if this had cost him nothing at all. You can’t help but think bitterly, “Of course it hadn’t.” 

You exhale shakily, relief flooding you, hot and overwhelming. Just as quickly, an irrational wave of anger follows towards Xiao. So what if you almost died?? This embarrassment is making you wish you had. Xiao just saw you fumble around and eat shit when you told him you’d be fine on your own, and now your prideful heart cannot act normal. It’s embarrassing, your immaturity.  

“Seriously?!” you snap, scrambling to your feet. “Do you just follow me around waiting for me to trip over something?!”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his gaze flicks past you, sharp. “More are coming.”

You blanch. “Oh.”

A moment passes and you hear the load roars. 

“…Oh.”

He moves before you can process it—grabbing your wrist, pulling you forward. The world blurs around you, wind tearing at your clothes as he moves faster than anything human should. You squeeze your eyes shut, clinging onto him. 

Then, it’s quiet, dark, and cool. You hear a soft trickle of water. You slowly open your eyes and look at Xiao, who stands at the edge of the cave you are in, scanning for hilichurls. You’re safe…for now. 

After relief, the silence presses in from all sides, suffocating you. Your chest heaves, adrenaline still burning through you. You pace once, twice, then turn on him.

“Why?” you demand.

He tilts his head slightly, looking back at you. He chooses—with a final glance outside—to walk closer to you. 

“Why do you keep doing that?” you press, frustration spilling over. “Showing up out of nowhere, saving me like I’m some helpless—some—thing you’re obligated to protect?! I didn’t ask for it!”

His expression doesn’t change. If anything, he looks… confused. “You would prefer I did not?”

“That’s not what I—!” You cut yourself off, dragging a hand through your hair. “I just—I don’t understand you!” 

A pause.

“I am fulfilling my duty,” he says.

You sneer, “Your duty? To what? Babysitting reckless mortals?”

His brows knit faintly. “…To you.”

The words are like a bucket of cold water splashed onto your head. All you can do is blink and dumbly blurt, “To me?”

“Yes.”

The silence stretches until you can’t take it anymore. 

“…Why?”

He hesitates. Xiao actually hesitates. You’ve never seen that before.

“…Is that not obvious?” he asks slowly.

“No.”

Another pause.

Then, he speaks quieter than before, a hint of uncertainty in his usually firm voice. “It is the duty of a husband.”

Your brain stops functioning for a second. You let out an unintelligible noise, regain yourself, a light dusting of pink on your cheeks, and then ask, “…What?”

He stills. Color creeps, faint but unmistakable, along his neck.

“…To protect. To remain close. To ensure your safety,” he continues, voice stiff now, like he’s reciting something he doesn’t fully understand himself. “To care for… one’s other half.”

You stare at him.

“Husband,” you repeat blankly.

“Yes.”

“…Other half.”

“Yes.”

You open your mouth, close it, open it again. You repeat this a few times like a fish. 

“…Xiao.”

“Yes.”

“What are you talking about?”

He looks away, face red now. He clears his throat and mutters something under his breath. Then, slowly, he speaks, “The offering on the inn’s roof. The Qingxin flower.” 

Your stomach drops. “The… flower?”

“The qingxin,” he nods. “An offering of that nature—given willingly—carries meaning.”

“Wait,” you whisper, “you mean—”

“It is not something given lightly,” he says, gaze fixed somewhere just past your shoulder now. “Nor is it something I would refuse.”

Your heart stutters. “You thought I was—marrying you?” you manage to say.

“I did not think,” he replies, quieter now, “I accepted because…I have never been offered such a thing before.” His confession is soft like the gentle breeze that seems to follow him. His gaze flicks to yours for a moment, then away. 

“And I—” He pauses, then speaks again, “I found that I did not… dislike it.”

Silence floods the cave. You stare at him, the pieces slotting together in your mind with terrifying clarity. The shadow over your shoulder. The sudden safety. The way he always appeared—

“Oh my Archons,” you breathe.

You married him. By accident. To a Yaksha. You clap a hand over your face.

“Oh my Archons—”

“I have fulfilled my duties poorly,” Xiao says, voice low, almost tense. “If you regret—”

“I don’t regret it!” you blurt, dropping your hand. “I just—would’ve liked to know?!”

He blinks. “…Ah.” As if the thought of informing you never crossed his mind. 

You pace again, then stop, looking at him, really looking, squinting, as if trying to read his soul. He won’t quite meet your eyes now. As you scan his entire body, you notice the faint red still lingering on his skin, the tension in his shoulders. They’re broad. His arms are well-sculpted. He’s not much taller than you, but you like that. Makes it easier to kiss—

You flush at the thought, mentally swatting it away like a pesky fly. You manage to regain your voice. “…You really thought this whole time…” you murmur.

“Yes.” 

You’re getting slightly annoyed at his one-word answers. You stand with your hands on your hips, glaring at him.  “…And you didn’t say anything?”

“It did not seem necessary.”

You laugh. You can’t help it. It bubbles out of you, incredulous, overwhelmed.

“Of course it didn’t,” you mutter, “of course you wouldn’t think that’s important.”

And before you can stop them, the words burst from your lips like the fireworks at the inn last night, intense, brief, and uncontrollable.  “…You like me?”

He stiffens. “…You are… acceptable.” He practically whispers the admission, redder now. Not so much like a flower, but more like a tomato. 

You grin. “That’s high praise coming from you.”

“…You are also reckless,” he adds abruptly.

“There it is. That’s the Xiao I know. You had me scared for a moment. I thought you had been drugged or something, being all cheesy and red like that.” You giggle. 

He glares at you, but he can’t hide the small, fond smile on his face. 

By the time you leave the cave, the monsters are gone and the world feels different. Not because anything has changed. The people still chat in the streets, the birds still chirp, the wind still flows softly. But because now you know, and knowledge feels like the sweetest fruit. 

Back at Wangshu Inn, the night settles quietly around you both. You sit on the edge of your bed. He stands near the window, as if unsure where he belongs. You pat the space beside you.

“Come here.”

“I can remain—”

“Xiao,” you say sternly. 

Then, slowly, he moves like a grumpy cat. He sits besides you cautiously like you might disappear if he does it wrong. You lean against him anyway. He goes rigid, eyes wide and face reddening. Then, after a moment, he relaxes. Just slightly.

“…This is unnecessary,” he murmurs.

“Mhm.”

“…I am already here.”

“Mhm.”

He pauses and squints before looking away to hide his expression. 

“…You are warm.”

You smile, eyes drifting shut.

“Told you.”

The breeze outside stirs, soft and steady. It doesn’t feel like something watching over you overprotectively. It feels like something that thinks you’re worth staying for. 

© 2025-2026 bonzirella . . . . . . . . interested? read more here

[shamalabingbong]

keito wip cuz dammit be the change you wanna see in the world (I’m starved)

still working on the next chapter for my fanboy!tamon fic, im at a crosswords because I have two separate ideas for where the fic will go </3

in the meantime, may I give u grumpy keito realness cuz writing this made me laugh.

Manager assistant readers x Kieto bc someone needs to save that poor manager lemme cook

this is my first real attempt at humor please bare with me </333 also this is unedited so there’s probably a godly amount of grammar mistakes 😭

“Say, after your idol career is over, what do you think of starting our own family?”

Keito nearly choked on air. “You’re thinking about kids already? In this economy?!”

You rolled your eyes. Right, you’re dating the human equivalent of fucking Mr. Krabs.

“I think it’d be cute,” you continue on. “I’d love a little boy with your eyes and hair. A mini Keito!”

“We have five of those at home. You can take whichever one you want,” He said flatly. “I’m sick of boys, I’d want a girl.”

You chuckled. He’s not wrong. He's basically been put in charge of all his younger brothers (willingly) and four rowdy teammates (unwillingly). 

“I wouldn’t mind a girl either. A mini Kie instead!”

“Hm,” He said, “I’d rather her have your eyes and hair. I’ve seen enough variations of my own.”

“Haha, aw, that’s so sweet!”

“Oh shut it,” He mumbled, burying his face into your shoulder. It did little to hide the red at the tips of his ears.

You switch gears, delicately running your nails through his hair and down his back.

“Hmm, what kind of girl do you think you’d want?”

Keito fell silent for a moment. Then, in a hushed tone, “Someone like Miss Kinoshita.”

You raised an eyebrow. Similar to you, it had taken a minute for him to get over his disdain for fans to properly acknowledge her skill and wit. Though, her (insane) obsession with his adopted sixth brother prime money maker likely hadn’t scored her any points in his book. 

“Miss Kinoshita? Well, her caretaking skills are top notch,” You say.

 Your senior, Mr. Fujita had put that poor girl through the wringer, adding excessive bullshitted clauses to her role as housekeeper to keep Tamon somewhat stabilized. To your surprise, however, it worked. Though, you’re pretty sure it’s more due to the fact that the main dancer of F/ACE is harbouring a serious crush on her than any calming technique Mr. Fujita is convinced Utage has. You glance over at Keito. He thankfully hadn’t noticed anything between them yet or he definitely would have blown a gasket. You huffed at thought. You can only imagine the Olympic-winning mental gymnastics routine he’d perform in his heaud to justify why this situation was alright and not theirs. 

“She’s hardworking. Loyal. Listens and responds well to instructions,” he said.

“Uhh, are we describing a kid or a dog right now?”

A tic mark appeared on Keito’s head. “Would you let me finish?” 

“Hm, maybe,” you said as you shut up, snuggling into him further. 

He huffed and pulled the covers back over you both and tangled your legs together.

“She’s got a good head on her shoulders. Once you get past her Tamon craziness, she’s not that bad. She’s level-headed…for the most part.” He said much softer. “I’d want my daughter to have those qualities.”

As you heard him speak, you softened. Keito doesn’t compliment people for the most part, making the few compliments he did give out much more meaningful. It’s a side of Keito that you’ve oddly come to adore, because it showed all the more that you served as his only exception. 

“–Also, we’d have one kid at max. With the rate of diapers going up every year consecutively, I’d even get a vasectomy if it came down to it.”

Anddd of course he had to ruin it.

“You don’t want her to have a sibling?”

“You’re asking me that?” 

You deadpanned. “Touche.”

He chuckled under his breath. You could feel him at your pulse. 

“She’d have nine uncles to play with. She wouldn’t ever be bored,” He mumbled.

Your mouth dropped open. “I think the sweetest thing you’ve ever said about your group members.”

“–Not to mention, two of them are rich-rich. Can you imagine the money we’d get out of them for the baby registry?”

“Genuinely, would it kill you to not talk about money for five seconds?”

He responded by gently pecking at your neck. “Yes. It. Would. Money makes the world go round.” He accentuated with each press he made towards your body. 

You giggled at the sensation. He hummed in response. 

“Though, I don’t think any of those four except Tamon would be any good at babysitting. And like hell I’d leave Kie alone with either that damn chainsmoker or gorilla. I don’t need her becoming a delinquent.”

“Oooh, so we like the name Kie?”

He pauses, “It’s a good name.”

[sweetbunpura]

Yuu, sitting in the front seat as Leona drives the car away from the arena: Leona?

Leona: Yeah?

Yuu: I wondered why you never wanted to go home, why you despised your family so much to avoid them at all cost. I'm sorry.

Leona, glances at Yuu: Why are you sorry?

Yuu: Because you spent your life surrounded by people who didn't think you were worth anything. So you built up that persona of not caring because you were beaten down.

Leona: ...

Yuu: Your family is terrible for making you believe that. Kifaji is terrible for blaming how the other teams were acting because of your absence. You're loved, Leona, if not by them, then by me.

Leona: ...You know there are other people in the car, right?

Yuu: Yeah, but thankfully the peanut gallery hasn't said anything.

Vil: Because Kalim and Lilia are crying.

Kalim, crying: That's so sweet, Yuu!

Lilia, sniffing: She's got a way with words.

Yuu: Don't think I don't see those tears, Vil.

Vil, rubs his eyes: What tears?

Yuu, shakes her head and looks at Leona.

Leona, lowers his voice so only Yuu can hear: You're the best thing to happen to me, Herbivore.

Yuu, lowers her voice and smiles: I know.

[mellosdrawings]

This is how chapter 3 went and you can't convince me otherwise.

[mellosdrawings]

@nemiisnemisis My friend, Leona also got rickrolled that night. He went from being blissfully unaware to having all the cursed/meme songs stuck in his head for days!

[tanoshiboo]

Inspired by The Garden Of Eden by Rivière and common philosophy (Aristotle, Leibniz, Socrates, Plato) believing that happiness and knowledge need each other one way or another

Translated to Korean for KR friends :)

[bananarrlele]

➛ warnings: none • fluff • soft romance • mutual pining • physical affection (non-sexual) • love confession • commitment issues • first date • jealousy themes • slow-burn • hints of an established connection.

➛ characters: harlequin.

gender neutral reader.

➛ resume: you are a dedicated artist navigating the chaos of the circus, diving headfirst into your own writings and drawings. surprisingly, you invite harlequin to spend some time outside that place, at an amusement park — and this opens space for mutual recognition, for the discomfort between you both, and for the recognition of the strength it takes to stay.

This writing was heavily inspired by the songs "Unloveable" by The Smiths and "Lovesong" by The Cure.

The park was a vibrant spectacle of colors and lights. Banners fluttered in the wind, adorning wooden huts painted in cheerful shades of red, yellow, and blue. The sound of that merry, tender, and distant music filling the space was pleasant in the most satisfying way possible, reaching the ears of others like the lull of a fever dream or a soft, almost melancholy memory — of moments when life was essentially simpler, memories of better times. Small, unreachable glimpses of childhood, with its own wounds and tenderness, and the sugary premise of a simple happiness.

For reasons unknown, parks had this peculiarity: the ability to evoke a sense of longing and imprint a feeling of short, comforting, and deceptive belonging. It was as if the few hours spent there, in that small sanctuary bounded by rigid, unbreakable iron gates, were capable of returning to easily shaken hearts that childish contentment. The euphoria of being limitless, of leading a life that was light and without edges.

The false correspondence of the present with the past, however, was usually blatantly punitive. Like a mild caress, but not a lasting one. The attempt at a forced fit; a new image in an old frame, already worn, permanently gnawed by the passage of time.

It is for this exact reason that we can say Harlequin did not let himself be affected by the uplifting atmosphere of amusement parks. It was useless. A mere luxury that, in truth, benefited no one.

Even so, he arrived earlier than usual.

The park hadn't yet decided if it was open or abandoned. Some lights shone with a green and white splendor — mixed, weak colors; others, on the other hand, remained dark, as if saving their charm or having simply burnt out. He chose a random bench near the stationary Ferris wheel and let out a long, bored sigh, resting his hands loosely on his knees.

He wore casual clothes, far too simple for someone who usually shone under the spotlight, telling terrifying stories and seducing the audience with his performances. Still, the green remained there, discreet and stubborn — more than just any color, as if it were a strange extension of his own skin, surpassing the condition of a mere aesthetic choice. His curly, dark hair fell in free, misaligned curves; a heart-shaped curl, shy, hung undisciplined at the level of his eyes in an almost intimate way.

He was restless. Harlequin hated waiting, yet he watched that park like a poorly assembled stage. He harbored no expectations — they seemed like nothing more than an insignificant blur in his mind, something dispensable. Encounters were quick and, in his conception, that’s how they should be: made of calculated entrances and clean exits.

The plot was always the same. A subtle touch of innocence at the beginning, playful hesitation here and there, a slight and blatant brushing of bodies, empty flirtations, and an eventual make-out session under some dim light in a hidden corner. Who could blame him for that?

Harlequin checked the time once more — not out of nervousness, but out of something close to doubt. He considered leaving, getting out of there once and for all. He considered pretending that this had never been a plan.

Then, he finally heard footsteps.

The sound of a restrained gait over the uneven ground of the park, the presence of someone who did not rush time. Harlequin felt a slight discomfort run down his spine, but he remained seated for a few moments, staring at the motionless Ferris wheel. The reflection in the windows of a small night shop on the street showed a figure walking unhurriedly, almost airy, distractedly carrying a sketchbook, a light-colored folder, and a simple dark pen.

You stopped in front of him with a respectful posture. You didn't seem to hesitate, nor did you advance too far. You gave him a polite smile, nodding slightly and clutching your belongings lightly against yourself.

"Good evening, Harlequin."

Harlequin looked up slowly. For an instant, he considered smiling the right way, tilting his head at the exact angle, offering some light irony, but he gave up before he even started.

"Hi. Good evening." The answer escaped simply.

You pointed to the Ferris wheel, shaking your head slightly in disapproval. The ride remained still, its cabins unperturbed and imprisoned in place.

"Seems like we arrived too early, doesn't it?"

Harlequin let out a brief exhale through his nose. It wasn't exactly a laugh, but it wasn't disdain either.

"Seems you're right." He observed your figure for a few moments, catching every detail of your appearance and the clothes you wore with an attentive eye. His eyes didn't reveal much beyond that mocking, lazy glint that reached the edges of his eyelids.

"Want to take a quick walk? We can talk for a bit. We’ll wait until the rides actually start working," you suggested, brushing away a persistent lock of hair that the restless wind pushed against your face.

Harlequin sighed in relief, even though talking wasn't his favorite activity for first or second dates. Despite everything, a walk would be appropriate to calm his nerves, relax his body, and eventually make him attempt a bolder approach, regaining ground.

He nodded immediately, his smile revealing his pointed teeth.

"Please," he groaned lazily, stretching dramatically as he extended his limbs. "Let's hurry. It’s good that we can find something tasty to eat and buy along the way."

"Sounds good."

You responded with a slight nod, a faint smile on your lips. The walk began as a flat path, occasionally dodging cables and crooked signs. The park creaked with mechanical sounds, as if it were breathing with difficulty, preparing for something that, perhaps, would not happen that night or would not be seen.

Harlequin walked half a step ahead, almost without noticing. It was an old habit — to lead, to dictate the pace, to choose the path. He commented on small things, unpretentious observations, the kind of conversation that never required much emotional attention.

"Parks get a bit strange like this...," he began, his tone low. "Without many passersby, without loud music; they almost seem less harmless. But tell me, isn't it like we have a lot of wasted space?" Harlequin’s arm brushed lightly against yours as he played dumb and kept walking.

You sighed softly, holding back a giggle. He had a difficult task ahead of him, and apparently, the stubbornness of a mule.

"I don't think the space is being wasted, Harlequin," you replied after a few long seconds of suspense. "We have a mild, peaceful atmosphere. Sometimes, it’s in settings like this that the most interesting, most rewarding things appear. You just have to know how to look carefully." You shrugged, continuing the walk as the wind filled the space between you like a cool embrace.

"You speak in riddles sometimes. Artist thing," Harlequin gave a little laugh, letting out a lazy sigh. "Seems like you like looking for hidden things," he commented, his own body leaning in your direction with a smile that was familiar, rehearsed.

You smiled faintly, continuing the walk without really giving much importance to the proximity. You didn't return his touch, but you didn't pull away abruptly either. You just looked at his face, your attention fixed on his eyes.

"I believe it's not exactly about looking for hidden things. It’s more about perceiving what remains there when no one is trying to call attention to themselves. Does what I'm saying make sense?"

He nodded his head discreetly and without much conviction.

"Actually, it does make sense, yes. And what do you see now, if you can tell me?"

You hesitated for a few moments, choosing your words.

"I see someone in a dilemma. A silent bargain between the desire to be seen and the other... the one of simply being present." The answer came soberly, without any irony or malice. Just the genuine feeling of recognizing, of seeing through his eyes.

Harlequin frowned, slowing his pace. He looked at you intently for a few long seconds, his lips twisted in a confused pout, before slowly sketching a new smile. Not just any smile, though: a mocking, theatrical smile, but one deeply hurt inside. He profoundly loathed being read like a book; that burning sensation of judgment, as if he were an object subject to critical analysis by people supposedly more educated, wise, exemplary, or genuine than he would ever be. He placed one hand over his heart as if holding it dramatically.

"How you wound me with your words. And here I was thinking you'd say you saw a dangerous and exciting glint in my eyes."

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly. Raising your arms in a sign of feigned surrender, you looked at him with a playful gaze.

"How you sicken me with that overly sugary charm of yours, Harlequin. It’s truly a feat."

The provocation made the smile of the man dressed in green broaden further, his white teeth exposed like sharp, imposing daggers. Harlequin’s fingers then brazenly touched your shoulders, drawing random patterns on your skin as if it were a mere game.

"So you discuss me? If I disgust you so much, you must think of me quite a bit."

You ignored his constant teasing, letting out a soft, tired sigh before quickening your pace slightly and letting his fingers brush against thin air. You spotted a cotton candy stall at the end of the next turn in your path, glowing gracefully and lit with small lanterns and decorations.

"I can guarantee that my thoughts do not coincide with what you imagine. Besides, you talk too much," you mocked lightly. "Come on, there’s a cotton candy stand over there. And hopefully, there are other things for sale nearby too."

Harlequin watched your figure walking away for a second longer than intended. His fingers stayed suspended in the air, undecided, before slowly retreating back to his body. The smile remained, but there was something less secure in it now.

"Cotton candy?" His voice came out more like a murmur, a muffled sound reserved only for himself. "Questionable choice. And so much personality in one individual, wow!" Harlequin pursed his lips in a dramatic and exasperated gesture. His facial expression revealed confused feelings, a mixture of admiration and genuine frustration and indignation.

He resumed his pace, now at your side, not ahead.

The stall was small, lit by colored lanterns that swayed with the wind. The sweet scent spread through the air, almost excessive. Harlequin watched the machine spin, the sugar transforming into fragile clouds, and let out a low laugh.

"This here always seemed like a well-told lie to me," he commented. "Beautiful, light… and disappears far too fast."

You shrugged again, delicately taking the two sticks the man offered you. Harlequin paid the attendant, and then you both went to sit on a small treated-wood seat to finally talk for a bit.

"Do you like sweets, Harlequin?" You asked unpretentiously, handing one of the sticks to him.

"I admit that sweets aren't really my thing. Actually, I prefer spicier flavors," he said, grabbing a good handful of the pink candy in his hands. "But I guess a little sweetness won't kill me."

A brief silence. You nibbled on a bit of the pink cloud of sugar too, humming silently while your taste buds assimilated the soft, delicate flavor.

"So, you draw, don't you?" Harlequin asked, distractedly wiping his sugar-stained hands on the sides of his pants. The tone, however, was too casual to be just casual.

You nodded, letting a small happy smile escape; those characteristic smiles of someone with a specific passion, who is in the presence of another and eager to show them what their little world is about. You set the cotton candy aside and carefully opened the sketchbook you were carrying. The pages were already worn at the edges, marked by constant use.

"Yes. Actually, I draw, I write; I do a bit of both crazily, or else I do nothing for days," you admitted with a subtle nervous laugh, flipping through some pages carefully. "It depends on my mood and creativity. Do you want to see my latest work?"

Harlequin hesitated for a millisecond before nodding firmly. You chose some specific pieces, some unfinished and colorless sketches, and some scribbles with words poured over the paper, which he didn't know were poetry or something else entirely.

Delicately, you pushed the sketchbook toward him — and the narrator speaking here can admit that his eyes shone brightly like two stars in that moment. He was suddenly intrigued, curious to see what you liked to draw and write about.

The first figure was a sketched landscape. The light stroke of the pen on the paper showed that you were a careful and attentive illustrator — and a perfectionist. Harlequin narrowed his eyes, invested now, and saw the drawing as a whimsical representation of the circus's main entrance. The tents illuminated by their little lights, some nearby stalls, the elegant and restrained presence of Ticket Taker in the center, captured in a quick, not-too-detailed sketch, yet perfectly recognizable. He held his breath for a second, flipping through the pages further with your silent consent. He wondered to himself why the circus was so important to you. What was so significant behind those colorful lights and repetitive, dazzling performances that made you stay?

Right. Staying. He had always had trouble with that.

The next page was divided into two parts. One contained a small note about a performance watched with rapt attention, but the text itself wasn't long. It was merely a light tribute, without much depth. The writing was accompanied by a slightly more detailed drawing of the red tent, with Pierrot in the center of the spotlight. The moment captured in the sketch seemed to be the end of the show, as Pierrot appeared to hold his daggers between his claws in a solemn bow, thanking the audience for their presence.

Posing correctly. Majestic. Absolute.

The favorite clown of everyone who passed through there.

Harlequin felt the discomfort before he could even name it. That familiar, silent sting, old and persistent. Pierrot always had that effect on people. He didn't need to force a presence; he didn't need to ask for attention. He just had to be there: quiet, charming, inevitably chosen.

Columbina flashed through his mind without warning. Not as an image, but as a memory. As an absence. She appeared in the gaps of his mind from time to time, always on the wrong side of his story. Pierrot’s soft charm, the comfortable silence — the choice that didn't need to be spoken aloud to be understood. He swallowed hard.

It was just a drawing, after all. A faithful portrait of what was already known to everyone. He would never be that other man, no matter how hard he tried. Still, the sensation persisted like a painful needle: the feeling of, once again, watching someone else be chosen first.

He was her favorite.

Why wouldn't he be yours too?

He tried to let out an ironic chuckle, flashing his usual mocking smile. But the smile turned into a trembling, uncertain grimace as he murmured his next comment.

"So we have a sketch of Pierrot here. It seems he really does have this curious effect on the people who see him during his performances." He shrugged slightly, nervously touching that heart-shaped hair lock of his. "That mute bastard."

Harlequin let out a light laugh, but his apparent joy and unpretentiousness felt hollow. After that empty laugh, a brief silence settled in. Not awkward, just suspended.

You didn't counter his comment about Pierrot. You didn't defend the silent artist, nor did you accuse him further. You simply observed Harlequin for a beat too long, as if mentally negotiating whether to continue exposing your more intimate works or to take the sketchbook back and end the sharing right then and there.

"There's more," you admitted at last. Your hand hovered over the notebook for a second, hesitant. "If you want to see."

There was no expectation in your voice. No invitation, no challenge. It was a permission. Harlequin, however, only nodded.

The following page didn't feature sketches filling the sterile white space. Only words, carefully chosen and aligned on the paper. It looked like a short story — a sort of narrative poem using simple figures, personified discreet forces of nature. Metaphors selected with care to star in scenes and interpret the core of complex human feelings: a shy rose, slow to bloom, and a flighty, mischievous carnation. A truly simple premise.

Harlequin's green eyes scanned the essence of the words.

A carnation that tormented the quiet flower, which pulled its petals back in embarrassment. A presence that arrived without asking. Presence without promise. Charm without permanence.

"The wild Carnation is a haughty and proud force. Dense and dark — half amber, half soot. There is beauty in its bitterness, and between its dark brows, there are cloudy eyes, a storm of desires. It surrounds me without haste, but its very presence already pierces me."

"The Carnation is not just a flower. It is a mischievous minstrel, a magician of shadows. Its lyre is made of laughter and traps. He, the mocking poet, delights in collecting the tremors of others. He torments me at all hours of the day."

“In the third hour of his amusement, he laughs. He guffaws without exhaustion. Loud, beautiful, always scoffing. The Carnation sings to the rose, in a mocking tone:

[CARNATION]: ‘Poor little rose, still stuck? Eternally hidden in the shade, enjoying no surprises!’

He sings like one who desires nothing and yet claims the world; like one who lives to touch freedom with the tip of his tongue. The Carnation is never a slave, but a walking king, an adventurer, a bohemian who belongs to no one's garden. And yet, he invades mine. He is like the wind that comes and goes as fast as it arrives — a presence that appears without asking permission and without taking root."

Harlequin felt as if his heart had stopped upon recognizing the words printed on that page. Doubt gnawed at him. Did that work really represent him? He breathed deeply, his left hand wavering slightly, almost shifting the notebook in his previously careful grip. His eyes ran over a few sentences again, trying to twist their meanings, looking for something to minimize the impact; searching for anything that would reassure him that this selfish, laughing flower was not your version of him. For some stupid, unknown reason, he didn't want to be seen that way. Especially not by you. He didn't want to allow it to be true.

He felt the sting rise: uncomfortable, hot, unbearable.

"This..." he began, but couldn't even finish the sentence.

He didn't finish. He didn't ask directly. He didn't want to hear the answer that was already hinting at itself. There was something humiliating about admitting he recognized himself on that paper; the role of an intense, fleeting presence that arrives without promising and leaves without staying. He bit the inside of his cheek, annoyed with himself. He hated that horrible feeling: being observed too closely, almost decipherable. It was strange and contradictory. He wanted to be loved, esteemed — but he didn't want someone to see his flaws with such intensity or detail.

After all, who would stay after seeing all the ugly parts of him? Those parts he judged unworthy of valuing, simply unloveable?

He sighed, however, when your hands gently enveloped his, silently asking him to turn the page. The man in green looked back reluctantly, only to have his composure completely shattered, his green eyes shining in confusion and almost childish ecstasy.

He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

The drawing occupied the entire sheet. A colorful, vivid, complete work. He himself looked almost proud in the representation. Whole. There was no rush in the strokes, no careless improvisation. Every color seemed chosen with clear intent. Every shadow was placed to support, not to hide anything. The characteristic green of his clothes, his personal brand, didn't scream; it affirmed. His body was upright, present, without exaggeration. It wasn't Harlequin on stage. It wasn't the artifice. It was him when he didn't need to prove anything to anyone.

It was your favorite version of him. The Harlequin you appreciated so much, the one you liked to watch. The only version you had chosen for yourself.

The previous discomfort didn't disappear, but it changed shape. Where before there was the painful suspicion of being seen as something that doesn't stay, there was now something else, harder to sustain: the certainty of having been chosen with time. With attention. With permanence.

He flipped back slowly. That’s when he noticed small details scattered in the margins of the pages. Nothing flashy. Nothing overt. Just almost distracted marks: interrupted curved lines, incomplete strokes that, if observed closely, vaguely resembled hearts. Some were half-erased, others seemed drawn without intent, or perhaps with too much.

Harlequin felt his stomach flip. He looked up to meet yours, his green eyes like bright, unarmed crystals. He uttered his next words as a disconcerted, restless whisper.

"You made all this revolve around me? All these drawings, all these words, this poem. This isn't random. Why?"

He couldn't understand the reason. He stared at the figures one last time, his claws carefully scratching the surface of the paper as if he could pluck the image and the complex metaphors and hide those artistic works somewhere deep inside his tormented chest. He slowly closed the sketchbook, returning it to you in a restrained, almost timid gesture — an unusual move for someone like him. Finally, Harlequin let out a silent sigh, his gaze fixed on yours as he waited for some answer for his already racing, pounding heart.

"Because I saw you."

The answer came after a brief silence, as if you needed courage to cross the space between thought and speech. "Not just what you show." You took a deep breath, fingers lightly squeezing the edge of the now-closed notebook. "But what stays when the lights go out. When the stories end. When no one is looking."

You looked up at him, not in challenge. Just presence. "I don't know how to explain it well. I just wanted to record it. My way. As if, by drawing, I could keep that part of you close. Even if just for a little while."

Harlequin's face contorted with an expression bordering on disgust, but it wasn't quite that. He was completely terrified. He tried to think of something witty to say — some flirtation or disconcerting line — but nothing came. His mind was like a sterile space, a dry desert of thought. He didn't answer immediately; he just scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably, looking confused and vulnerable.

"You have a special talent for confusing people with your strange, polished metaphors and your way of thinking." He looked away, abruptly standing up from the seat with a long sigh and a careful stretch. "Don't do that to me again. Or at least, warn me next time."

You blinked two, three times, surprised. But then you simply stood up too, brushing off the remaining sugar from the cotton candy. You gave him a sidelong glance, unsure if your words had been received poorly or if they had secretly pleased him. He was a difficult person to understand.

"We're in a hurry, aren't we?" you teased lightly, though your eyes shimmered with your own insecurity. Maybe you had shown Harlequin too much of your world, the true colors of your heart, to the point where just thinking about it made you feel a bit humiliated. "What are your plans now, Harlequin?"

"Rides. They must be working by now; it’s impossible they aren't operating yet," he murmured, answering as if it were ridiculously obvious. "Aren't they the reason we're here, at an amusement park, on a romantic date?" he added, letting out a giggle and delicately running his green tongue over his teeth in a suggestive way, trying to regain his usual charm.

You blushed, clutching the sketchbook to your chest. Then, you shook your head in disapproval, giving him a glaring look.

"This isn't exactly a romantic date! Who or what suggested that to you, you green dot on the street?" You finally weighed your next words, your tone softening. "I just wanted to show you some things I've been working on."

He laughed spiritedly, dramatically slapping his hands on his knees while looking through you. Strangely, as he did so, he felt a warm, pleasant sensation in his chest.

"Then why are you blushing so much? Because of my quick, harmless words? Come on, you're better than that." He waved his hands dismissively, winking at you. "Just walk. The lines for most rides must be giant."

You nodded lazily, now walking beside him, keeping a steady, habitual rhythm. "And what are your choices, boy?"

"I don't know, something interesting, please!" he groaned playfully. "Something radical or at least demanding. I don't want easy, boring attractions."

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head as you watched him out of the corner of your eye. "Radical and demanding. Noted.”

It didn't take long before you reached a more open area of the park, where the lights flashed more aggressively and sounds overlapped: brief screams, nervous laughter, the metallic creaking of moving structures. There, the tower rose. Too high to be ignored. Its vertical reflectors rose and fell in slow, almost provocative intervals, while the mechanism lifted the seats to the top before dropping them in a sudden, unannounced fall.

You pointed up, casually. "How about that one?"

Harlequin stared at the ride, his green eyes widening slightly.

“A drop tower?" He gave a discreet chuckle, trying to hide his nervousness. "And here I was, thinking you were going to go easy on me. We're just getting started, you know? Usually, we go slower than this."

Your smile widened as you narrowed your eyes in a mocking gesture. "Chickening out now, Harlequin? I thought you were the one who said you wanted 'radical and demanding' rides just moments ago, or am I mistaken? Refresh my memory a bit, please."

Harlequin's expression of comic despair became even more pronounced. "What a pest you are! Full of provocations and mockery. You need a lesson in humility." He leaned closer, whispering softly in your left ear. "I can't wait to delight in your beautiful, desperate screams as we plummet from up there. My little revenge will do me much good."

You joined the line. It wasn't as big as Harlequin had predicted, but long enough to create an uncomfortable wait. He remained restless, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, his fingers tapping lightly against the side of his thigh. Every so often, he cast quick glances upward, always too quick to seem like genuine curiosity.

"I didn't ask you, but have you been on one of these before?" His voice sounded unpretentious, trying to cut through the inevitable boredom of the queue.

"I have, once, when a traveling group set up temporary attractions in my city," you began, slowly crossing your arms. "It gives you butterflies, but there's almost no time to think properly, you know? It's so fast that by the time you realize it, you're back on the ground. Safe and sound."

"Great." Harlequin nodded, as if he had just confirmed something important. "So you practically don't even have time to think about regretting it."

When your turn finally came, the attendant pointed to the seats. Harlequin went to his spot first, sprawling his body exaggeratedly as if trying to reaffirm dominance over the situation. Still, when the safety harness descended and locked over his shoulders, he let out a low sigh. Not of explicit fear, but of tense expectation.

You sat beside him, smiling reassuringly as the ride began to lift you both. The park receded from the ground, the lights turning into blurred dots below. The wind blew colder up there, and for a moment, Harlequin remained in absolute silence.

Then, before the drop came, he murmured almost to himself: "You chose well."

As you suggested, the drop was alarming but fast. When the ride finally stopped, the world seemed suspended and shaky for a few generous seconds. Harlequin, for one, took an extra moment to get up — nothing dramatic, just a brief adjustment of posture, as if he were relearning how to control his own body. You also took a moment to regain your balance, moving your legs softly as you smiled lazily.

"That was quite an experience, wasn't it?" you commented. "What did you think?"

Harlequin shrugged, breaking into a wide grin. "I think we both screamed too much. There must be people who got off that tower and are now deaf forever." He let out a loud laugh, one of those sincere, almost childish ones.

"Yes, that's true. You were screaming right next to that guy and his girlfriend. Poor couple." Giving him a light nudge, you continued: "And don't forget that time, before the second drop, when you squeezed my hands so hard I thought my fingers were going to fall off. Were you scared, Harley?”

The nickname sounded too sweet. Almost intimate. His eyes almost shone with a calm, tender reflection.

"That's not true. Stop talking nonsense," Harlequin retorted, looking away over your shoulders, his eyes narrowed curiously. A new attraction had caught his eye. "Look over there. Those shooting gallery stalls," he said. "Seems like a good option now, doesn't it?"

"It does seem promising, indeed."

Right. Truly, the shooting gallery was smaller than it looked from a distance. Colored lights flashed above the metal targets, and the dry sound of toy shots mixed with the occasional laughter of those who miscalculated their aim. Harlequin approached the counter with a confidence too rehearsed to be entirely true. He picked up the air rifle, weighing the object in his hand as if it were familiar, something he mastered.

"This is going to be simple." His tone emerged proud. "Coordination, focus, a little patience. There's not much secret to it."

You observed him, standing close to him, contemplating his burning determination. Before you both, the prizes were displayed. Various stuffed animals: cute bears, puppies, kittens, frogs, sheep, turtles. Your eyes, however, sparkled when you saw one in particular.

It was a little bear different from the others. A bit smaller, stitched unevenly, with greenish-gray fur that stood out from the sea of vibrant colors. One of the button eyes was slightly darker than the other, and there was a visible patch on its chest; not poorly made, just accepted as part of its history. You liked to extend this even to inanimate plushies, creating backstories for them and everything around you. An artist's restless mind, no doubt.

Harlequin noticed the movement of your eyes, fixed on the little bear. He understood in silence, nodding slightly with a small click of his tongue.

"You want that one, don't you?" he asked aloud, though he clearly already knew the answer. "What a curious choice. But today I'm feeling generous. I'll get that little guy for you, don't worry."

His tone sounded almost affectionate and attentive. You tried to dismiss the idea delicately, but Harlequin shook his head quickly, taking his position and leaning his body slightly, trying to find the best angle to demonstrate his aim. He closed one eye, totally focused on the task ahead, as if he were showing off or trying to prove his value to you.

The first shot missed by a hair. The second made one of the targets wobble but stay upright. Harlequin let out a low sound of frustration, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

"This junk is totally rigged, I can swear it to you!"

He looked at you, trying to gauge your reaction. You weren't exactly angry or disappointed with him. But for some reason that motivated him further and scared him at the same time, he didn't want to see you sad and without your beloved stuffed animal. He would try until the damn park closed if he had to as if it meant giving you a piece of him. A physical, material memory of the time you spent together. Not in kisses or passionate dates, but simply enjoying each other's company in a way he hadn't expected to be so pleasant, so rewarding.

"I... I told you I was going to get that stuffed animal, okay? Just wait. You're going to be parading around with this little thing in your arms," he reassured you, moving the rifle in his hand again. "And your sketchbook, of course."

You didn't comment. You just offered an encouraging smile and stayed there, watching not with overt expectation, but only showing that silent calm that made him want to strive even harder.

He adjusted his aim before spending his last chance. The third shot, surprisingly, hit the mark. The target fell with a dry clink, drawing a brief whistle from the attendant. Harlequin blinked, surprised for half a second, before covering it with a crooked smile.

"See?" Harlequin commented, too fast. "It was a matter of persistence."

You let out an excited laugh, opening your arms wide. Harlequin received the prize from the stunned attendant, whistling in admiration. He pushed the stuffed animal toward you, only to be surprised by your gesture, freezing exactly where he was.

You hugged him. Simple as that.

Instead of clutching the newly won stuffed animal to your chest, you hugged Harlequin with affection and gratitude. For an instant, he didn't know what to do with his own hands. Then, almost without noticing, he relaxed his shoulders, allowing himself to stay there. He discreetly appreciated your proximity: the soft scent of your hair, the small details of your face, the smile lines around your sweet eyes, the look you gave him, loaded with recognition, a kind of patient affection. He loved that feeling.

Harlequin held the hug for a bit before pulling away with a shaky sigh and a contained smile. "Are we getting intimate now, I presume?" he teased affectionately. His tone, finally, was free of any venom or sarcasm.

"Maybe I really am feeling more comfortable with you." The confession came out faint, but genuine. You looked at Harlequin like someone waiting for his next idea. You didn't exactly want the meeting to end, but you had the growing feeling that you two would separate soon — after all, the park was close to closing time.

Harlequin cleared his throat, looking away, and pointed with his chin toward the high structure of the Ferris wheel, illuminated against the dark sky. "Let's go before the line becomes impossible."

You nodded, following Harlequin with renewed energy. The two of you walked together in a comfortable, calm silence, yet one heavy with unspoken words. Your gaze softened as you tried to catch a glimpse of the expression on the man whose hand was dangerously close to yours. You pulled the stuffed animal tighter against your chest, feeling a warm sense of satisfaction. Spending time with him definitely did your heart good; he was being so kind, so affectionate — in unexpected ways, even if he perhaps didn't realize it himself.

You wanted to say something. You wanted him to hear you being sincere about your old and persistent feelings. And yet, you waited. You would wait just a little longer for the right moment. Yes, that seemed like the most rational choice.

A small sigh escaped your lips when your hand lightly brushed his. You yearned for his warm touch, for that same attentive glint he’d had in his eyes when handing you the prize, desperately trying to gauge your reaction. The thought surfaced before you could even resist, making you blush slightly. You wanted to see him again. To be near him often. You wanted it more than you were willing to admit out loud.

When you finally reached the long-awaited Ferris wheel, the line wasn't as large as you had feared. Some people had already left the park; others were occupied with different attractions, too distracted to notice the two of you.

You moved forward and greeted the employee operating the ride. It was then that Harlequin, in a slightly clumsy manner, ushered you ahead, gesturing for you to step up onto the platform. He followed right behind, casting you a peaceful smile: less sharp teeth, more true.

The cabin closed with a soft click. The seat was narrow enough that your shoulders almost touched. As the mechanism began to move, there was that brief instant of suspension, as if the world held its breath before rising with you.

Harlequin leaned his elbow on the backrest, looking far too relaxed for someone who was usually "on stage." His eyes, however, were not on you. They were on the landscape below.

"You really liked this little guy, didn't you?" he asked lazily, his face still turned toward the view.

The park stretched out beneath you like a sea of living lights. The stalls, the rides, the illuminated paths looked small, almost unreal from up there, blinking and glowing as if waving to the two of you.

You looked down at the stuffed animal in your arms, your fingers distractedly stroking the soft fabric. "Maybe I really did like him a lot." You smiled broadly. How could you not, after all? He had tried so hard to win it and finally give you that gift.

Harlequin turned his head toward you, noticing you stroking the plushie. He let out a mocking little laugh, but his gaze was kind.

"Does this little thing have a name yet?" The tease was light, but he truly wanted to know how you would answer. Harlequin knew you were creative.

You blinked, surprised by the question. You looked at the toy for a moment, as if truly considering it for the first time. "I was just thinking about that."

"Hm..." Harlequin rested his chin on his hand, theatrical as ever. "I vote for Grass."

"Grass?" you repeated, incredulous. The choice was curious, to say the least.

"What? Weren't you the one who liked writing funny metaphors about flowers, roses, and carnations?" He chuckled. "I'm just following your line of reasoning."

"Right, that makes sense." You huffed softly, nodding. "I thought of something like Little Leaf. If we're going to highlight his green nature."

"Little Leaf?" His smile widened as he leaned a bit closer to you. "Sounds excessively cute. In my home country, we would say it like “Folhinha”. You know, Fo-lhi-nha,” he murmured, testing the word on his tongue. "I'm not so sure."

The way he pronounced it made your stomach flip slightly.

"You say that as if it’s important," you commented, almost without thinking. "Surprisingly, it seems you're taking this choice more seriously than I am."

"Maybe I am." He shrugged, but his gaze remained locked onto yours. "Names matter, you know."

You went back to staring at the toy, thoughtful. "And what if it were… Moss?”

"Musgo. A more foreign touch to it." Harlequin repeated the name, now with more attention. "Sounds better. More mature than the previous one, and still captivating." A small silence settled in. "We can leave it at that. Musgo."

He tilted his head, curious. "You don't like how it sounds?"

"Mus...go." You tried to repeat it the way he said it, but the word came out marked by your accent. Harlequin let out an affectionate giggle and gave your knees a light tap.

"I'll teach you that word. And many others," he said naturally, as if it were obvious. "Don't worry about it."

You nodded shyly, resting your head lazily against the cabin's safety bar. A deep sigh escaped your lips while your heart beat a little faster.

"Can I tell you something, Harlequin?" Your voice was low. "Something important."

Harlequin didn't make a joke this time. The gentle swaying of the cabin marked the pause as the Ferris wheel reached its highest point. The park lights twinkled below you like artificial constellations. He slowly reached out and wrapped his fingers around your wrist — not squeezing, just enough to anchor the moment.

"You can." His green gaze met yours, attentive in a rare way. "I'm listening."

The silence stretched just long enough for you to take a deep breath and organize your thoughts. Your fingers squeezed Musgo tighter against your chest, as if the small weight of the plush could give you courage.

"I'm not very good at expressing my feelings out loud. I get tangled in words; I hesitate for too long." You sighed, running a hand over your temple. "Maybe that's why I prefer writing and drawing. Feelings flow more easily that way."

Harlequin nodded slightly, his eyes a bit wider than usual. He remained silent, letting you continue.

"But I needed to tell you this. To unburden my heart." You hesitated for a moment, staring into his dilated pupils. "I admire Pierrot. I like him. His talent, his silence, the way he commands the stage." Your voice did not falter. "But he isn't the one who makes my heart race."

Your fingers closed carefully around Harlequin’s wrist, returning the touch. Almost like a request for permission.

"It's you."

There was no urgency in your speech. No demand.

"I prefer you, Harlequin. The way you enter places without asking permission, but also these moments where you stay quiet, when no one is looking."

A shy smile appeared, truly fragile, as you touched his fingers. "I just wanted to go slow. For you to follow my life closely. For us to spend time together... if that's possible."

For a few seconds, Harlequin said absolutely nothing.

The grip on your wrist remained, but his fingers had relaxed, as if he were more anchored than he would ever admit. The easy smile didn't return. Neither did the sarcasm.

"You really have a gift for saying dangerous things as if they were very simple." He breathed with difficulty, as if the revelation had stolen his composure. A nervous smile emerged, and his eyes betrayed his own commotion. "What a pest you are. You planned this from the moment of the invitation, didn't you? The exact moment to tell me."

You shrunk back slowly, thinking it might have been a stupid idea to say it out loud. But before any apology could escape, he placed a gentle hand on your shoulder: warm, firm, reassuring.

"I'm glad you told me that." He ran his free hand through his hair. "Going slow isn't exactly my specialty."

A brief pause. "But for you... I'm willing to try."

Harlequin swallowed hard. His hand remained on your shoulder for a few more seconds, as if he needed that point of contact to avoid getting lost in what he felt. His green eyes dropped to your lips for a moment — too fast to be an invitation, too slow to be accidental.

He leaned in.

The gesture was careful, almost hesitant, as if asking permission from the very air between you. Instead of seeking your mouth, Harlequin touched your cheek with a brief, warm kiss, loaded with an unexpected tenderness. Nothing urgent. Nothing hungry. Just presence.

You practically melted, letting out a soft sigh — of relief, of affection, of something very close to happiness.

"Don't go thinking this means I've become easy to deal with," he murmured, trying to recover a shred of his old mocking tone, and failing miserably. His voice was too low. Too soft.

"I certainly didn't think anything of the sort," you replied, with a peaceful and genuinely happy smile.

He rested his forehead lightly against yours for an instant, taking a deep breath. "But I like the idea of staying."

A short pause.

"As long as it’s with you. Going slow, I guess.”

The Ferris wheel began its slow descent, and the park lights reflected in his eyes like restless little constellations. Harlequin carefully intertwined his fingers with yours — not to bind you, but to accompany you.

Musgo remained squeezed against your chest.

And for the first time in a long while, Harlequin felt at ease. There was no impulse to flee at the first sign of sunlight. The monster who believed they were unloveable went home carrying a new sensation, warm and quiet.

The feeling of being wanted.

Of being, finally, the chosen one.

He had secured another date.

[iyayadonna]

✑ 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎: 𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓊𝒷𝓁𝑒𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓇𝓈 ꩜ 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝑔𝓇𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈𝓆𝓊𝑒 

ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.

✑ 𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You've been voluntold to babysit the circus's two biggest troublemakers. After one fight too many, TFC Grotesque—Jester has had enough. Pierrot and Harlequin are officially your problem now—dumped at your tiny apartment with nothing but a glare and a "deal with it."

They fight. They flirt. Will they ever get along?

And somewhere in the middle of the broken bed, you realize you wouldn't have it any other way.

✑ 𝓌𝒸: 7.7k

𝒶/𝓃: shhh im working on creepypasta rn, this is just for shits and giggles—typed all of this on my ipad during physics lecture—well the rough draft and just got finished with it, considered this me feeding yall...

✑ 𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: oneshot · pierrot x gn!reader x harlequin · OC! Inkyette (mentioned) · forced proximity · chaotic fluff · monster management 101 · suggestive · one bed trope · making out · biting · marking · possessive pierrot · teasing harlequin · soft moments in the chaos.

Pierrot and Harlequin always be fighting.

If it's about food, it's a fight. Pierrot spends forty-five minutes cooking a perfect meal. Harlequin eats it before he can plate it. Pierrot throws the pan. Harlequin laughs.

Ticket Taker has to file an "Incident Report: Culinary."

If it's about flyers, it's a fight. Besides passing the flyers out on the streets, Harlequin would help and designs them—just sleek, sharp, chaotic. Pierrot redesigns them—more tragic, beautiful, sad. They argue for three hours.

Jester appears, takes both versions, and uses neither.

If it's show order, it's a fight. Harlequin wants to open—sets the tone, gets the crowd hungry. Pierrot wants to close—leaves them aching, wanting more. They nearly come to blows in the midway. While the audience waits, the doctor unexpectedly witnessed the both of them fighting before show, forced to cancel and patched them up.

If it's about you?

That's not a fight. That's a damn brawl.

Glances across the midway turn into territorial positioning. Casual comments become ammunition. One compliment from you and suddenly they're circling each other like sharks, waiting for the other to make a move.

You cannot catch a damn break with these two.

You could be doing something simple—since you work at the circus now, usually be doing what circus runners, you run, constantly back-and-forth to make sure that things are organized.

The delivery truck had come and gone, leaving behind a mountain of crates near the back entrance of the circus.

You stood before them, hands on your hips, already exhausted.

Twelve crates. Each one labeled in crisp, impersonal script. Each one filled with who-knows-what for who-knows-which domain. And each one heavy. You'd tested the first one—just a small push with your foot—and it hadn't budged an inch. "Circus runner," you muttered to yourself. "More like circus pack mule."

You grabbed the first crate, heaved, and managed to lift it about three inches off the ground before your arms screamed in protest. You set it back down with a thud.

This was going to take all day.

You were psyching yourself up for crate number two when a familiar voice drifted across the grounds.

"…there you are, my dear."

You turned to immediately see Pierrot was walking toward you, his tall, mournful figure silhouetted against the afternoon sun. He moved with that quiet grace he always had, the one that made him seem both present and somehow elsewhere.

He stopped beside you, his eyes taking in the crates, then you, then the crates again. "Do you need help…?"

It wasn't a question.

"I mean—" You hesitated. "Don't you have an act to prepare for? Tomorrow's performance?"

"Ha… already practiced." His voice rough, dry. "Finished early. looking for something to do. Found you..." He looked at the crates again. "…these are heavy. you shouldn't lift them alone. 」

You thought about saying no. About sending him away, preserving the peace while it lasted. But your arms were already sore, and there were eleven crates left.

"...Okay. Yeah. Help would be good."

His eyes lit up—a small, almost imperceptible brightening—and he moved to the nearest crate, lifting it like it weighed nothing.

"Show-off," you muttered.

He glanced back, and you could have sworn he was smiling with his eyes.

You'd been at it for about twenty minutes when you realized one of the crates was different.

The others were standard—plain wood, simple labels, clearly commercial shipments. But this one... this one was smaller, more elegant, made of a darker wood with brass reinforcements at the corners. The label read, in beautiful cursive:

ARCHIVAL MATERIALS – HANDLE WITH CARE.

"Pierrot, wait." You stopped him as he reached for it. "This one's different."

He tilted his head, reading the label. A strange expression crossed his face—recognition, maybe, or something softer. "Oh… that's from her tent. The covered in swirls. Near Jester's domain."

Your heart skipped. Her tent. The one that had belonged to—

"The Poppet, Inkyette," you breathed.

Pierrot nodded slowly. "I overheard… Jester said it needed cleaning. Organizing. Maybe this is why."

You looked at the crate. At the elegant label. At the promise of her handwriting inside. "I should... I should take this one myself. To her tent. Make sure nothing gets damaged."

Pierrot understood immediately. He gave a small nod and stepped back, letting you take the crate.

It was lighter than the others. Almost reverent in your arms.

The swirls tent—with ink swirls, hints of dark purple and black was exactly as you imagined—faded but beautiful, whimsy room filled with old secrets. You set the crate on a low table and pried it open with careful hands.

Inside was a ton of journals. Like dozens of them, stacked neatly, their spines worn from years of handling. Each one labeled with dates and subjects in that same elegant cursive. You pulled one out at random—Observations: Harlequin & Pierrot, Dynamics of—and opened it.

The first thing you noticed was the handwriting. Perfect, flowing, alive. It covered every page in dense paragraphs, punctuated by sketches and diagrams and notes in the margins.

The second thing you noticed was the content.

"Their conflicts follow predictable patterns. Harlequin initiates approximately 73% of altercations, typically through verbal provocation. Pierrot responds with physical aggression approximately 68% of the time. The duration of these conflicts ranges from 3 to 47 minutes, with an average of 12.4 minutes."

You blinked. What the hell.

"Harlequin's provocations often target Pierrot's attachment to [REDACTED]. This is a known pressure point and consistently escalates the conflict. Pierrot's superior physical strength (see Appendix A for strength metrics) typically ensures his victory, though Harlequin's agility and unpredictability make him a formidable opponent."

You turned the page.

There were sketches. Rough but detailed—two figures locked in combat, their movements captured in quick, confident strokes. Notes in the margins: "Pierrot's left hook, 78% accuracy" and "Harlequin's feint, effective 82% of encounters".

Further down: "Stabbing incidents: 14 documented. Severity ranges from superficial (9 incidents) to requiring medical intervention (5 incidents). Pierrot is the instigator of stabbing 12 times. Harlequin, 2 times. Correlation with verbal provocation: 100%."

You sat down heavily. Like this journal—this archive matter of fact—had predicted everything. Every fight, every provocation, every moment of chaos you'd witnessed between them. It was all here, documented in cold, precise detail by someone who had watched them for years.

Someone who had understood them.

You kept reading, pulled in by the sheer weight of her observations. Pages and pages of data, sketches, theories. Notes about their preferences, their triggers, their hidden softnesses.

She had known them. Completely. Flaws and all.

You closed the journal, hands trembling.

Thirty minutes had passed. You'd lost track of time completely, buried in her words, in her presence.

You needed to get back to work.

You stepped out of the swirly tent, journal still clutched in one hand, mind still reeling from everything you'd read. The crate of journals could wait. Right now, you needed fresh air. Needed to breathe. You walked toward the shipment area, intending to check on the remaining crates—

And stopped. Because there they were.

Pierrot and Harlequin. Fighting. Of course.

You stood at a distance, watching the chaos unfold. Pierrot had Harlequin pinned against one of the crates, his fist raised. Harlequin was laughing—actually laughing—even as he struggled to free himself.

"You're so predictable," Harlequin taunted, his dual-toned voice carrying across the grounds. "One little comment about them and you lose your mind. Every. Single. Time."

Pierrot's amber eyes was dark—not void, not yet, but close. His fist connected with Harlequin's jaw, and the sound made you wince.

Harlequin's head snapped to the side, but he just kept grinning. "That all you got, Pierrot? They liked it better when I—"

Pierrot hit him again. Harder.

You should intervene. Should try to stop them.

Instead, you leaned against a nearby crate and watched. Because the journal had been right. About everything. The provocations. The responses. The pattern.

And because—as you'd learned the hard way—there was no way in hell you were getting between two fighting monsters.

They were grown. Ancient. Capable. They'd survive. Plus, from what the journal said, Pierrot wins most of the time anyway since he physically stronger than Harlequin.

You pulled out your phone and checked the time. The fight had probably been going on for a few minutes before you arrived.

You gave it another ten, maybe fifteen, before it ended.

In the meantime... you had a journal to read.

You opened it to a random page and kept reading, the sounds of chaos serving as a bizarre backdrop to her calm, collected observations.

"Today's altercation: 14 minutes. Provocation: Harlequin referenced Pierrot's attachment to [REDACTED]. Outcome: Pierrot victorious. Injuries: Harlequin, minor lacerations; Pierrot, superficial bruising. Notes: Harlequin's laughter during conflict remains consistent. Psychological coping mechanism? Further observation required."

You snorted.

She really had thought of everything.

The fight continued behind you. Punches landed. Threats were exchanged. At one point, something that looked suspiciously like a knife glinted in the sunlight.

You turned the page.

"On the topic of their attachment to… myself: patterns emerging. Pierrot's devotion is intense, bordering on obsessive. Harlequin's interest is predatory but genuine. Both are unaware of the extent to which they mirror behaviors I documented in myself, years ago."

Your breath caught.

"I do not know if this is comforting or concerning. Perhaps both. Perhaps that is simply what it means to love monsters—to see yourself reflected in their hunger and hope you've taught them well enough not to consume what they adore."

You closed the journal, heart pounding.

Behind you, the fight was winding down. Pierrot stood over Harlequin, chest heaving, eye slowly returning to its normal state. Harlequin lay on the ground, still grinning, blood trickling from a cut on his lip.

"Good one," he wheezed. "Almost felt that."

Pierrot said nothing. Just turned and walked toward you. 「 Sorry. 」 His phone screen was cracked—probably from the fight but still legible. 「 he started it. 」

"I know."

Then you felt a tall shadow right behind you.

Not dramatically—just enough. Just a single, sudden darkness that vibrated up through your feet and into your bones.

You looked up to see none other than Jester. Shit.

He stood at the edge of the chaos like a mountain that had decided to relocate, his tall form radiating something that made the air itself feel heavier. His purple glow was darker than usual—not the warm, ambient light of performance nights, but something pressed. Something angry.

Pierrot froze mid-step. Harlequin stopped grinning.

"WHAT," the Jester's voice rolled across the grounds like thunder, "IN THE ACTUAL HELL IS GOING ON HERE?"

You'd never heard him yell before. It was terrifying.

Pierrot's eyes went wide—genuinely wide, not performance-wide. Harlequin's sharp grin vanished completely, looking away.

The Jester's burning gaze swept over the scene: the displaced crates, the scuff marks on the ground, the blood on Pierrot's knuckles and Harlequin's lip, the general chaos of it all.

He was, for once, at a complete loss for words.

Then, very slowly, very carefully, he pointed at the ground in front of him.

Pierrot moved first—dropping to his knees with the quiet resignation of someone who knew they'd been caught. Harlequin followed a beat later, less graceful, more sulky.

They knelt there, side by side, heads bowed, staring at the scuff marks they'd created.

The Jester looked at them.

Looked at you. Looked back at them. And sighed.

It was the sigh of a being who had existed for centuries. The sigh of someone who had seen it all, dealt with it all, and was absolutely exhausted by it all. The sigh of a tired mother who had just walked in on her children doing something unspeakably stupid.

Then he started lecturing. For Forty-five minutes.

Just forty-five minutes of the Jester's voice rolling over them like a slow, inevitable tide. Forty-five minutes of being reminded of every single time they'd done this before. Forty-five minutes of historical context, emotional analysis, and a surprisingly detailed breakdown of why their behavior was "counterproductive to circus cohesion."

You stopped timing after the first twenty minutes. You stopped listening after thirty. By minute forty, you were just watching Pierrot's shoulders slump lower and lower while Harlequin's attempts at maintaining his usual bravado crumbled into dust.

"—and furthermore," the Jester was saying, his voice somehow both monotone and devastating, "the frequency of these altercations has increased by approximately 34% over the last fiscal quarter, which correlates directly with—"

Harlequin mumbled something.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, 'correlates with what.'"

The Jester's eyes flared. "With increased stressors in the domestic sphere, which you would KNOW if you ever attended the quarterly reviews I explicitly require."

Pierrot's face lift up weakly, "… I attended."

"Pierrot. No talking. Rules are rules."

He went quiet.

You bit your lip so hard you tasted blood, trying not to laugh.

Finally—finally—the Jester stopped. He stood there, massive and glowing, looking down at the two kneeling figures with an expression that was somehow both furious and profoundly tired.

"I cannot," he said slowly, "continue to tolerate this behavior. Normally, I would. You have been doing this for centuries. I have let you do this for centuries. But at this particular moment, with everything else that is currently happening in this circus, I absolutely cannot."

Pierrot and Harlequin exchanged a confused glance.

The Jester's gaze look over at "You," he said.

You looked around before pointed at yourself. "Me?"

"You will watch them."

"...What?"

"For a period of time. At your residence. Away from the circus. Where they cannot destroy important property or injure each other or create more paperwork for the Ticket Taker." His eyes narrowed. "You will supervise. You will report. You will keep them from killing each other."

You stared at him. He stared back.

"I'm sorry," you said slowly, "are you saying you want me to take these two—" you gestured at the kneeling monsters, "—to my apartment?"

"Yes."

"My tiny, studio apartment."

"Yes."

"Where I have breakable things."

The Jester's expression didn't change. "Then perhaps they will learn to behave around breakable things. Consider it... exposure therapy."

Pierrot's head lifted slightly, a look of hope in his eyes.

Harlequin's grin started to creep back.

You wanted to fucking cry.

Which is how you ended up here.

In your tiny studio apartment. With Pierrot and Harlequin standing behind you like two very large, very awkward, very out of place shadows.

The door closed with a click and the lock turned with a final, almost suffocating twist that made you want to scream. Your apartment, once warm and inviting, now closed in on you from all sides. The bed was just three feet away from you, the kitchen four feet away in the opposite direction, and suddenly there was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run away to, nowhere to breathe.

Pierrot stood near the bookshelf, regarding it with a look of almost sacred intent. Harlequin had his eyes fixed on the fridge.

You stood in the center of it all, journal still clutched in one hand, and wondered what, exactly, you had done to deserve this.

"How great," you muttered.

Harlequin's head snapped toward you. "Did you say something?"

"No. Nothing. Everything's fine." You took a deep breath. "Welcome to my apartment. Please don't touch anything. Please don't fight. Please don't—" You looked at Pierrot, who was now gently running his fingers along the spine of a book. "—please don't break my stuff."

Pierrot looked up, genuinely offended. "I would never."

"You literally stabbed him three hours ago."

"That's different. He's worth nothing. Your things are sacred, my dear."

Harlequin snorted. "You're so weird."

"You're weird," Pierrot shot back without missing a second.

Harlequin's eyes widened. "Wait—you're talking. Out loud. In front of a human. You know the rules, mourner. No speaking outside the circus."

Pierrot's expression didn't change. "I can speak if I'm in their home. That's different. That's—" He glanced at you, something soft flickering in his eye. "That's dear rules. Not circus rules."

Harlequin opened his mouth, closed it, and for once had absolutely nothing to say.

You found the opportunity. "You're both weird, and you're both in my apartment, and I have to live with this for—" You glanced at your phone. "How long did Jester actually say?"

Silence.

"He didn't say, did he?"

Pierrot and Harlequin exchanged a glance. The kind of glance that said we're in trouble and we know it. "No," Harlequin admitted quietly. "He really didn't."

You shut your eyes, bracing for a long day ahead.

Somehow, somehow, right now, they both fit in your space. The walls of the apartment had been tall enough—old building, high ceilings. You'd never noticed that before until today. Harlequin, just over six feet tall, could stand comfortably. Pierrot, a good bit taller than six feet, had to duck a little under the doorframes. But once inside, he could stand to his full height without ever touching the ceiling.

It was the only thing going for you right now.

You'd walked them in, pointed to the small clearing in the center of your studio, and said: "Sit. Don't touch anything. Don't make a mess. Just... sit."

And they did. They actually did.

Pierrot folded himself onto the floor with surprising grace, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his knees like some kind of mournful Buddha. Harlequin dropped down beside him, less graceful, more sprawled, but still sitting. On your floor. Doing nothing.

You stood there, staring at them.

They stared back. This was your life now.

"How," you muttered to yourself, "do you take care of them?"

Harlequin's head twitched. "We can hear you, you know."

"I know."

Pierrot tilted his head. "You're doing that thing again. The thing where you talk to yourself like we're not here."

"Because I'm trying to figure out what to do with you two."

Harlequin grinned. "Entertain us."

"That's not—I'm not a—" You stopped. Took a breath. "Okay. Think. Think."

You crossed to your bag, pulled out the journal you'd been carrying since the purple swirly tent, and flipped through it desperately.

There had to be something. Some instruction manual for dealing with these two. Some guide. And there—buried in the middle of a section on "Conflict Dynamics"—you found it.

A small, boxed-off list titled: "Operational Protocols: Harlequin & Pierrot"

✑ THREE RULES FOR MANAGING THE DUO:

1. No favoritism. They will notice. They will exploit it. They will weaponize it against each other and against you. Absolute neutrality is required at all times.

2. Constant stimulation. Boredom is the enemy. Boredom leads to provocation. Provocation leads to violence. Have something—anything—ready to occupy their attention.

3. DO NOT LET THEM WORK TOGETHER. Under any circumstances. If they coordinate, they become unstoppable. The damage potential increases exponentially... you will not come out alive. Separate them. Always.

You stared at the page. Three rules. Only three?!?

Nothing about preventing fights. Nothing about keeping them calm. Nothing about what to do when they inevitably went for each other's throats.

Why was this ever written—who had spent years managing these two—had simply... let them fight. Let them tear each other apart until it was over. Then picked up the pieces and started again.

That was crazy.

That was also, you realized, completely understandable. Because they weren't human. They didn't operate by human rules. Violence was probably as natural to them as breathing.

But that third rule...

You looked up at them. They were still sitting on your floor, still staring at you, still waiting. "Do not let them work together," you murmured. "What does that even mean?"

Pierrot's eyes sharpened. "What was that?"

"Nothing. Just—" You flipped through more pages, looking for context. "Just trying to figure out how to keep you two from destroying my apartment."

Harlequin stretched lazily. "We would never destroy your apartment. It's yours."

"That's not comforting for some reason."

"It should be," Pierrot added, "We respect your space. We just don't respect each other's faces."

Harlequin suddenly lunged. Pierrot caught him one-handed, holding him back like he weighed nothing.

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

Still, Pierrot sat cross-legged and patient, his long fingers resting on his knees like he was meditating. Harlequin, sprawled and dramatic, one leg stretched out, the other bent, his head tilted back like he was posing for a very strange portrait.

You stood over them, journal in hand, staring down at the two most chaotic beings you'd ever met.

"You know," Harlequin said, breaking the silence, "this could be a sleepover."

Pierrot's head snapped toward him, eye narrowing with suspicion.

"A sleepover," Harlequin continued, his voice taking on that dangerous, wheedling tone. "You know. Snacks. Movies. Actually being comfortable instead of sitting on the floor like we're in timeout."

"It's not a timeout," you said flatly.

"Could've fooled me." He stretched, arms reaching above his head, spine popping audibly. "Look, here's the thing. If we're gonna be stuck here—" he glanced at Pierrot, then back at you, "—we might as well make it fun. Right? Get comfortable. Snacks. Maybe a blanket or two." His voice was... kind. Not overly freaky. Actually kind. Soft in a way you'd never heard from him.

Pierrot blinked, then slowly nodded. "Agree."

You stared at them.

This has to be a trap... right? Like it had to be a trap. But... snacks. Comfort. A break from standing here like a prison warden. "...Fine," you sighed. "I'll get snacks. Don't move."

You turned toward your tiny kitchen, which you were gone for maybe thirty seconds. Just thirty seconds to grab a bag of chips from the cabinet. Thirty seconds to grab three waters from the fridge. Thirty seconds to turn around and—

"What the fuck."

They were on your bed.

Your bed. Your clean, neatly made bed.

Harlequin was sprawled against your headboard, hands behind his head, legs crossed at the ankle, looking for all the world like he owned the place. His big, heavy, dirty uniform boots were planted right in the center of your comforter.

Pierrot was standing beside the bed, clearly trying to find a spot to sit, but Harlequin large ass had taken up approximately 90% of the available surface area. The bed frame was already creaking in protest.

"How—" You sputtered. "I was gone for seconds. How did you—"

"I’m fast," Harlequin said simply, grinning.

"Your boots. On my bed. My clean bed."

He looked down at his feet, then back at you, then down at his feet again. "Oh. Yeah. Those."

"Take. Them. Off."

He batted his eyelashes. "You could take them off for me."

You gave him a look. Not just any look—the darkest, most terrifying glare you could muster. The kind of look that said I will end you. Harlequin's grin faltered. "...Fine." He directed his legs off your bed, placing them right on your nightstand as a kickstand. "Happy now?"

You see dirt on your nightstand.

Honestly, you wanted to fucking punch him in the face no wonder Pierrot be finishing those fights Harlequin is fucking enabler, however you just signed, "Ecstatic." You turned to Pierrot. "Scoot over. Make room for him."

Pierrot gave Harlequin a pointed look. Harlequin sighed dramatically and shifted, creating a small sliver of space. "There. Happy?"

Pierrot sat, immediately sinking into the mattress with a soft sigh of relief. His long legs hung off the edge slightly, but he looked more comfortable than he had all day.

You took a breath. Okay. This was fine.

They were on your bed, but they were settled. Maybe this would actually work out—

And then Harlequin moved fast. Like faster than you could track. One moment he was lounging against your headboard, the next he was there, right in front of you, his hands closing around your waist.

"What are you—"

He lifted you like you weighed nothing. He threw you onto the bed.

You landed on your back, bouncing once, twice, your soul briefly leaving your body before snapping back into place. You stared up at the ceiling, breathless, heart pounding.

Then two faces appeared above you.

Pierrot, eyes wide with something between concern and delight. Harlequin, grinning like the absolute menace he was. They both looked down at you from either side, their shadows falling across your face, their presence everywhere.

Oh damn.

Their faces had changed, and not in a showy way.

There had been no flash of light, no reveal of triumph in the eyes or the baring of teeth. It had been subtle, almost invisible. The hint of expression around Pierrot’s eyes had made him appear hungrier, and Harlequin’s smile had become more of a promise than a jest.

You were sandwiched between them, back to the mattress as their shadows fell across you.

Harlequin moved in close. His voice dropped to that two-tone purr. "For someone who likes to read the past so much, you really don't plan ahead."

"What—"

"We know you have her journal," Harlequin's voice dropped to that dual-toned purr, silk wrapped around something playful. "It’s clear you don’t know how to handle us. After all, you put us in your space. Your bed. Together. With you." He tsked, the sound almost gentle.

"That's not very smart, little thing."

You tried to move, to sit up, to create space between you and them—but Harlequin's large hand was already there, palm flat against your stomach, warm and firm and grounding.

A reminder that there was nowhere to go.

Pierrot said nothing.

He'd gone somewhere else entirely—you could see it in the way his eyes had gone soft and unfocused, fixed on you but seeing something only he could imagine. His long fingers pressed against his own cheeks, nails grazing the pale skin, leaving faint red trails. His white hair curled around his hands as he twisted it absently, pulling, releasing, pulling again.

His lips moved. Words too soft to hear, but you caught fragments drifting across the small space between you:

"...soft... want to... hold... mine..."

"Pierrot's already gone," Harlequin observed, and there was genuine amusement in his voice—but also something else. Something almost like appreciation. "Look at him. Thinking all those impure thoughts. Wondering what you'd taste like."

Pierrot's murmur got louder, more desperate: "...neck... shoulders... want to mark..."

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. "Okay. This is—this is getting weird. I'm gonna get up now—"

You tried to move.

Yet Harlequin's hand pressed down—still gentle, still warm, but firm weight keeping you exactly where you were. "Ah, ah, ah, no you're not, we should decide who goes first~" Harlequin's voice was casual, conversational, like he was discussing pizza toppings. Like he wasn't currently holding you pinned to your own bed while Pierrot basically tweaking out beside him.

Pierrot blinked, the fog in his eyes clearing slightly. "Me."

"No. Me. This was my idea."

"Your idea doesn't mean you get priority." Pierrot's voice was soft but certain. "I've waited longer."

"You've pined longer. There's a difference." Harlequin waved a dismissive hand. "Besides, I'm better at this. I'll warm them up for you."

Pierrot's eyes narrowed. "I don't need you to warm anyone up. I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?" Harlequin's grin widened, sharp and knowing. His free hand reached out, fingers trailing down your arm—slow, careful, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "Because from where I'm sitting, you look like you're about to vibrate out of your skin. You're gonna be too gentle. Too reverent. They'll fall asleep before you even—"

"Better than whatever you're planning."

"Oh, I'm planning plenty." Harlequin leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. His lips brushed the shell of your ear as he spoke. "Bite marks. Scratches. Little reminders of who got there first. I'll leave them aching for days." He pulled back just enough to meet Pierrot's gaze, his eyes bright with challenge. "I'll show you how it's done, Pierrot. By the time I'm finished, they won't even remember your name."

Pierrot's eye flashed—dark, hungry, competitive. A growl rumbled in his chest, low and dangerous. "You think you can do better than me?"

"I know I can."

"Then prove it."

The words hung in the air like a challenge thrown down.

Harlequin's grin turned wicked. "Oh, I intend to."

"A contest," Harlequin announced, sitting back slightly—but his hand never left your stomach. If anything, it pressed a little firmer. "Who can leave the most marks."

Pierrot tilted his head, considering. The fog was gone from his eye now, replaced by something sharp and focused. Hungry. "Define type of marks."

"All of them. Bites. Scratches. Bruises. Anything that lasts." Harlequin's eyes gleamed. "We'll take turns. See who makes them forget the other existed."

Pierrot's gaze traveled over your body—slow, carefu, cataloging. You felt it like a physical touch, heat blooming everywhere his eye lingered. Your neck. Your collarbone. The curve of your waist. The inside of your thighs.

"Acceptable," he quickly murmured.

"NO." You finally found your voice, pushing up on your elbows—only to sink back down as Harlequin's hand pressed gently but firmly. "No contests. No marks. I was going to get snacks. Play games. Be normal."

Harlequin looked at you with something almost like pity. "Snacks."

"Yes. Snacks You asks for them. Chips. Dip. Maybe a movie."

"And you think that's what we want right now?"

"I think—" You stopped. Swallowed. Their eyes were on you—Pierrot's burning, Harlequin's gleaming—and for a moment you forgot how to breathe. "I think you... should listen to me?"

Pierrot's expression flickered—guilt, maybe, or the ghost of restraint. But Harlequin just laughed, soft and low.

"Oh, little thing~." He leaned in, close enough that his lips brushed yours as he spoke. "We listened to you all day. We sat on your floor. We behaved enough." His tongue traced the seam of your lips, quick and teasing.

"Now it's your turn to listen to us."

They moved closer.

Their bodies bracketed yours, warm and solid and everywhere. Pierrot's hand found your wrist—gentle, always gentle, but his grip was iron. Harlequin's fingers traced your jaw, tilting your face up, exposing your throat.

You couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think, watching their shadows merged above you, blocking out the light, blocking out everything but them.

So this is them working together.

The thought surfaced somewhere in the back of your panicked mind.

This is what the journal meant. Do not let them work together.

What you didn't expect was for them to actually take turns.

Pierrot went first—or maybe Harlequin let him, some silent agreement passing between them that you were too dazed to catch. Either way, Pierrot's hands were on you, gentle but insistent, sliding beneath your shirt to find the bare skin of your waist.

His mouth found the curve of your neck with devastating precision.

He was rough. Not cruel—never cruel—but desperate, hungry, like he'd been holding back for centuries and finally, finally let go. His lips parted against your skin, and you felt the first brush of something warm and wet—

His tongue.

Longer than any human tongue should be. Warm and flexible and everywhere, tracing the pulse point at your throat with agonizing slowness. It was orange-yellow, you realized dimly, the color of aged honey or dying sunlight, and it moved with a life of its own.

He pulled back just long enough to meet your eyes, checking. Always checking.

"Okay?" he breathed.

You nodded—barely, just a tilt of your chin—and something in his eye ignited.

His mouth descended again. This time, his teeth found your shoulder. Sharp points grazing skin before sinking in—not hard enough to break, but hard enough to mark. You gasped, fingers clutching at his shoulders, and he groaned against your skin.

"Sorry," he breathed, the word muffled. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I just—you're—mine—"

His lips soothed the bite, his tongue tracing the indentations his teeth had left. Then he moved lower, finding your collarbone, leaving another mark. Then lower still, pushing your shirt aside, exposing the curve of your chest.

Each bite was followed by a kiss. Each kiss was followed by a promise whispered against your skin:

"Beautiful." "Wanted this." "Yours."

His tongue explored every inch of skin he uncovered, mapping you with desperate reverence. It was longer than you'd realized—long enough to trace from your collarbone to your ear in a single, languid stroke. Long enough to wrap around your fingers when you brought them to his face, to tug gently, to play.

He made a sound when you touched it—a low, rumbling moan that vibrated through his chest and into yours.

His mouth found yours.

The first kiss was soft—almost shy, despite everything. Just lips, warm and gentle, asking permission.

You gave in. The second kiss was deeper. His tongue brushed against your lips, and you parted for him without thinking, without hesitation.

And then—Oh.

His tongue was long. You'd known that. You'd felt that. But knowing and experiencing were entirely different things.

It slid into your mouth like it belonged there, warm and flexible and everywhere. It traced your teeth, your gums, the roof of your mouth. It curled around your own tongue, stroking, coaxing, claiming.

You made a sound—high and surprised—and he swallowed it greedily.

His hands moved while his mouth devoured you. Your shirt, pushed up, then off, discarded somewhere. Your bra, unfastened with trembling fingers, sliding down your arms. Cool air hit your skin, immediately replaced by the heat of his palms.

He pulled back just enough to look at you—really look—and the hunger in his eyes stole your breath.

"Beautiful," he whispered again, reverent. "So beautiful. Mine." His mouth returned to your neck, your chest. His tongue traced everywhere his lips touched, leaving trails of warmth. His teeth found your nipple—gentle, teasing—and you arched against him with a gasp.

"Pierrot—"

He groaned at the sound of his name. His tongue circled the sensitive nipple, lapping, soothing, before moving to give the other the same attention.

All the while, his hands worked lower. Your waist. Your hips. The button of your jeans, undone with surprising dexterity. The zipper, pulled down. The fabric, pushed over your hips, your thighs, your feet.

And then you were damn near bare beneath him—in your underwear, and he was shaking.

"Look at you," he breathed, his eye tracing every inch of exposed skin. "Look at what I get to have. What I get to keep."

His fingers found the warmth between your legs—gentle, exploratory, reverent. He watched your face as he touched you, cataloging every reaction, every gasp, every shiver.

"Can I have you? Is this is for me?" he whispered. "This—all of this—is mine?"

"Y-Yes," you managed. "Yes, it's—it's yours."

He made a sound—broken, desperate, grateful—and lowered his mouth to yours again. This time, when his tongue slid down your throat, forcing you to lift up your body just a little to give him more room

Truly, you should not be entertaining this however you’re not gonna stop too big ass monsters for forgetting what they want soooo….

You welcomed it. You lowkey wanted more it.

Fuck... like you didn't feel as mad anymore.

He tasted like salt and sweetness and something ancient. His tongue filled you, stretched you, claimed you from the inside of your mouth. When he pulled back, there was a trail of slob from your mouth—damn near almost taking your tongue in the process—breathless, just enough to meet your eyes.

"More," he whispered. "I need more. I need all of you. Please. Please."

Behind him, Harlequin stirred, watching with dark, hungry eyes.

It was now his turn.

Where Pierrot had been desperate, Harlequin was playful. Where Pierrot had been reverent, Harlequin was teasing. His bites were lighter, more precise—placed with the careful expertise of someone who had done this before, who knew exactly where to sink his teeth for full effect.

The curve of your shoulder. The soft skin just below your ear. The spot where your neck met your collarbone, where your pulse jumped fastest against his lips.

His forked tongue followed each bite, soothing the sting, drawing shivers from your skin. His fingers traced patterns on your stomach, your hips, your thighs—feather-light touches that left you arching into him, seeking more.

"Look at you," he murmured, his dual-toned voice thick with amusement and something darker. "Taking both of us. Such a good little thing."

You couldn't respond. Couldn't think. Could only feel—the heat of his body beneath you, the cool tease of his tongue, the way his hands mapped every inch of skin they could reach.

By the time they switched again, your clothes were halfway gone. Jeans already gone, Shirt now discarded somewhere. You ended up in Harlequin's lap, straddling him, his hands on your hips holding you steady while Pierrot worked on your back—mouthing at your shoulders, your spine, anywhere he could reach.

You were dazed. Floating. Lost in the sensation of being wanted, being claimed, being theirs.

Harlequin's voice cut through the haze, soft and amused: "Wasn't expecting you to be this easy."

You blinked, focusing on his face. His sharp features were softer now—satisfied, almost fond. "What?"

"Been such long time since I pulled a trick like that." He grinned, sharp and satisfied. "Thought you'd put up more of a fight."

"I—" You didn't have words. Didn't have thoughts. Just the feeling of Pierrot's mouth on your skin and Harlequin's hands on your hips, grounding you, holding you in place.

"Haven't done this in years," Harlequin continued, almost conversational. "Especially not with him involved." He tilted his head toward Pierrot, who was too focused on marking your shoulder blades to notice. "We used to try, you know, like get along for everyone sake at the circus. Back in the day. Schemes. Plans. Collaborations." He laughed softly.

His fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin, watching your reactions with satisfied interest.

"There was this one—" He paused, something flickering in his eyes. "You’re familiar with her, like she could sniff out trouble from across the circus. Every time we got close to actually pulling something off, there she'd be, hands on hips, giving us that look."

Pierrot's mouth paused against your skin. His eyes flickered up—just for a moment—before he resumed his work.

"We succeeded twice," Harlequin said, his voice softer now. "Just twice. Both times were... memorable." His hands tightened on your hips. "But you? You walked right into it. Didn't even see it coming." He laughed, genuinely amused. "Almost laughable, how clueless you were."

You should have been offended.

Should have pulled away.

Instead, you just stared at him, drunk on sensation and proximity and the weight of his words.

"Let's see..." Harlequin's hands began moving again, exploring with renewed purpose. "Where are those sweet spots? Gotta find them before Pierrot gets all the good ones." His fingers traced your ribs—light, teasing—and you twitched.

"Oh?" He grinned, repeating the motion. "Sensitive there?"

"Stop—"

"No, no, this is 'important research.' she would've said," His fingers found your waist, squeezing gently. Another twitch. "And here? Interesting."

Pierrot growled against your back—a low, warning sound.

"Relax, mourner. I'm just mapping." Harlequin's hands continued their exploration, finding every sensitive spot with devastating accuracy. The curve of your hip. The inside of your thigh. The small of your back, where Pierrot hadn't yet reached.

"Here," he murmured, fingers pressing just right, and you gasped.

"There it is." Triumph in his voice. "Knew I'd find it."

Pierrot's head lifted, eye narrowing. "...stop playing with them."

"I'm not playing. I'm learning." Harlequin's grin was wicked. "There's a difference."

"There really isn't."

"There really is." He looked at you, eyes bright. "See, when I learn someone, I learn everything. What makes them gasp. What makes them shiver. What makes them beg." His thumb pressed that spot again, and you bit your lip to hold back a sound. "Found one."

Pierrot made a sound of pure exasperation and went back to marking your shoulders, but you could feel him watching—always watching—tracking every reaction Harlequin pulled from you.

Pierrot lifted his head again, reaching for you. "Come here."

He wanted you in his arms. You could see it in his eye—that desperate, aching need to hold you, to have you close, to keep you.

You moved toward him—

Harlequin's hands tightened on your hips, pulling you back. "Not done with you yet."

"Yes you are."

"No, I'm not." His voice dropped, that dual-toned purr sliding over your skin. "I've barely started. Haven't even gotten to the good parts."

Pierrot's eye flashed. "You've had your turn."

"My turn isn't over until I say it's over."

"Harlequin—"

"What? You want them all to yourself?" He laughed, sharp and taunting. "Typical. Get your marks, get your cuddles, leave me with nothing."

"I'm not—"

"You are. You always do." Harlequin's hands flexed on your hips, possessive. "But not this time. This time, we share."

Pierrot's jaw tightened. His hand reached for you again—

And Harlequin shifted you away, just out of reach. "Not. Done. Yet."

The tension crackled between them—two monsters, one human, all of them caught in a web of want and need and competition.

Pierrot's eyes darkened. "Give them to me."

"No."

"Harlequin."

"Pierrot."

They were fighting over you. Literally fighting, hands grabbing, bodies moving around, the bed creaking beneath them—

Then Pierrot moved, putting his full body weight on the mattress, lunging toward you, and for a moment everything was chaos—shouting, grabbing, you caught between them—

And then: CRACK.

The sound was deafening. Everyone froze.

You looked down. The bed—your poor, innocent, decent sized bed—had a massive dent in the middle. The frame was splintered. The slats had given way. The mattress sagged at an alarming angle in the middle.

Pierrot's eyes went wide. Wide. The kind of wide that meant he was absolutely, completely terrified of your reaction.

Harlequin's face went through approximately twelve expressions in three seconds, settling on something between panic and disbelief.

You looked at the bed.

Looked at them. Looked at the bed again. And sighed. Like a long, heavy, exhausted sigh. Like that’s one way to ruin the mood. Shit. You should’ve figured in the beginning that your bed couldn’t handle these two fat asses. 

Pierrot's face crumpled into pure puppy-dog desperation. His eye shimmered, tearfully, hands reaching for you like you might disappear. "I’m sorry,“ his voice crack a bit, “I'm so sorry. I didn’t mean to—we were just—i'll fix it. i'll fix everything. please don't be mad.”

Harlequin, beside him, had gone for a different approach: large cat eyes, blinking slowly, trying to look as innocent as possible. It wasn't working.

You pointed at Harlequin, your voice flat with exhaustion. "You broke my bed."

"We both broke your bed."

"You started it."

He had the audacity to look thoughtful. "I finished it. There's a difference."

Pierrot made a strangled noise—something between a groan and a whimper—and buried his face in what remained of your poor, abused blanket. His long fingers clutched the fabric, knuckles white, like it was the only thing keeping him from completely unraveling.

You wanted to be angry. You really, truly did.

But they looked so pathetic. Two ancient, terrifying creatures, sitting in the wreckage of your bed, staring at you with matching expressions of guilt and hope and please don't hate us.

Harlequin cleared his throat. "So... about those snacks?"

You hit him on the head.

"Ow!"

"You broke my bed and you're asking about snacks?"

He rubbed the spot, and for once, there was no playful comeback. No teasing grin. Just genuine, almost awkward contrition.

"Sorry. You're right. That was—" He paused, something shifting in his expression. "Poor thing. You must be exhausted."

The words were so unexpected, so soft, that you almost didn't recognize them coming from him. No edge. No tease. Just... care.

Pierrot peeked up from the blanket, his eyes visible, hopeful and guilty all at once.

Harlequin turned to Pierrot, his expression shifting to something almost thoughtful. "You know what this means."

Pierrot tilted his head, questioning.

"If we're gonna keep doing this—" Harlequin gestured vaguely at you, at them, at the broken bed, at the absolute mess of the situation, "—they're gonna need a more stable bed. Something that can actually handle both of us."

Pierrot considered this. Seriously. Like it was a legitimate logistical concern.

"And probably a bigger one," Harlequin added, his voice dropping to something almost innocent. "For... reasons."

Pierrot nodded slowly. "Agree."

Then he processed what Harlequin had actually said.

His eyes narrowed. His spine straightened. His whole body went rigid.

"Wait—'keep doing this'? 'Both of us'? What exactly are you—"

Harlequin's grin returned, sharp and wicked. "Just saying. If we're gonna share—"

Pierrot punched him. Right in the face.

Harlequin flew off the bed, landing on the floor with a thud and a wheeze. Pierrot immediately turned back to you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you against his chest. "Mine," his phone screen read, held over your shoulder. "Not sharing."

"Ow," Harlequin said from the floor. "Worth it."

You looked at Pierrot. At his desperate, adoring eyes. At the way he held you like you might disappear. "We're gonna need a new bed. We'll buy you ten," Pierrot promised, holding you tighter, pressing a kiss to your hair.

"One is fine." You let him do it, don’t have enough to stop him.

You looked at Harlequin. At his sharp, satisfied grin. At the way he was already planning his next move from the floor. "Ten," He agreed from the floor. "And a couch. And probably a bigger apartment."

"You're not moving in."

"Not yet."

You hit him with a pillow. He caught it, laughing.

You looked at your broken bed. And you laughed. Like you couldn't help it. It was all so absurd. So completely, ridiculously absurd.

They both stared at you like you'd lost your mind.

❝Just a pair of troublemakers.❞

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ

[maichip]

ENJOY...LORDY HAVE MERCY. I'm surpise my hand is fine after this LLODFL Pierrot, Harlequin (c) @/nekoboydreams

[cursedcola]

Prompt: Couples will evidently begin to mimic their better half after some time. What traits do you steal from him, and vice versa? Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Characters: Everyone - because I want to and I’m amidst fleshing out all my Yuu/Character dynamics + designs Format: Headcannons. Masterlist: LinkedUP Parts: Heartslabyul | Savanaclaw | Octavinelle | Scarabia (Here) | Pomefiore | Ignihyde | Diasomnia A/N: I'm part of the 'everyone underestimates Kalim Al Asim , the layers of his character and upbringing' club. Sweet does not equal being a dum dum my dudes.

Habits You Steal:

Theatrics (Inherited): Kalim talks with more than his mouth. There's body language. Watch out when this guy gets excited because he might knock over a lamp amidst a rant. Hands are flying with each embellishment. He's pacing. Jumping. Energy is seemingly endless with this one. When Kalim laughs, he does so with his entire body without reservation. Head flying back, grin wide, shoulder shaking, etc. Not that he can't replace what gets broken but - y'know. Be careful else you might get bitch slapped on accident. Which normally wouldn't hurt too much but Kalim's decked out in gold. The last thing you want is a ring imprint on your left cheek because Kalim got too excited after a card game. On that note - someone get Jamil some aspirin because that excitement is infectious. You can be the most stone-hearted edge-lord on the face of Twisted Wonderland, but eventually his infectious sunshine attitude takes hold.

"A-Ah! It's okay! We can replace the lamp, so don't worry. Are you hurt? No, no. It's really aright. I'm fine, see? You missed me - can I see your hands for a second? OIII! Can someone please bring a med-kit! Thank you!" <- Jamil's already grabbing the broom before you can say sorry. This is the last time he lets you sit anywhere near fragile objects during a game of charades - or any game. Kalim was bad enough...but at least with him fretting over the tiny cut on your palm, Jamil could clean the mess in peace. At least until you offer to pay for the lamp. Kalim's got enough tact to lie about the price, and everyone's thankful. No one wants to see the Ramshackle Prefect have a heart attack for shattering a real crystal lamp. 'cause then Kalim will cry too and it'll just be dominos from there.

Personal Space (Inherited): Kalim tears away any sense of dignity, self-preservation, and privacy that might exist. In a good way, of course. It's not that Kalim is an open person. Quite the contrary. He needs to keep a calculated distance between himself and others due to his position as an Asim. Regardless of his happy exterior, never forget that Kalim is far from an airhead. Kindness doesn't equate connection - as much as Kalim would love for everyone to be his friend. Yet for those who are in that trusted circle? He treats them like an extension of the self. His lack of shame bleeds into your own perception.

Training and Resistance (Inherited and Developed): Kalim hates that you need to do this. He rarely 'hates' anything, but he despises that you need to worry about being poisoned. What’s worse is that you refuse to have a tester, or a guard, or anything of the sort. It all started with discussing the future with Jamil, who logically brought up the complications that come with Kalim taking a partner. You couldn’t be shadowed, were in a difficult position with the headmaster, and it would only become difficult once the duo moves back to the scalding sands. Even more once you join them (as NRC is merely teaming with prideful youths, while the Scalding Sands is a free for all).

Point summary? You need to build resistance to drugs and learn what to do in a hostage situation. The former is handled by Professor Crewel, and the process was explained in excruciating detail. Jamil, who’s undergone training, was unphased but Kalim desperately wanted you to back out. Yet it would mean needing a guard - which would be hard to arrange - and so…yeah. Many weekends in the nurse’s office. You also have to complete the hostage drills all Asims and their spouses are put through. How to escape bondage, how to last an interrogation, how to navigate without magic (which you could, duh, so basically without a map when stranded), negotiate, etc.

"Are you absolutely certain that this is what you want to do? I can still hire a body guard - there are many options available back home! You can spend our next vacation at the main villa and meet with them. We can - oh. y-you're sure?... alright. If this is what you want then I'll be there through every step. Just remember to ask if you need anything. I'll come running, no matter what."

Charisma (Inherited): Everyone underestimates just how dangerous Kalim is. Seriously. Nothing is more risky in a school like Night Raven College than dropping your guard. It can cost you your life - or at the very least leave you indebted to someone you do not want having dirt over your head (*cough*ACertianCephalopod*cough*)The gossip grapevine is a menace. Everyone has their pride. Everyone has their secrets. Everyone holds each other at arm’s length, even if you’re cordial or friendly. Everyone except Kalim, who has this innate ability to pry the most dirty secrets out of you simply through his nonchalant attitude. Nothing drops another’s guard quicker than a sense of security and superiority. People often mistake his genuine heart for nativity. They fail to recognize that it’s a choice, and deep down he is aware that the Al Asim name places him high above the people he sees as friends.

"Hm? Isn't that the alchemic lab on potionomics meant for second years? You're so smart! I didn't get to do that lab until just a few months ago! - it's not yours? Then why are you working on it?" <- game. set. match. You think he doesn't know what your handwriting looks like? He saw you lingering outside Crewel's classroom earlier and wanted to know why. Saw an opening. Took it. Is happy you’re helping out one of your other friends, but just had to make sure no one was bullying you into doing their work.

Since he truly believes that despite this gap, friendships can transcend - his ability to get information is uncanny. A power he can wield intentionally if need be, in getting you to name drop any person or problem posed. It’s a great quality to have! This way he can help and support you :) Why is this an inherited trait, you might be asking? Because as the next head of Al Asim, Kalim’s been studying how to do business since he was young. He’s going to teach you. Pray tell what is born once the Ramshackle Beast Tamer learns the ways of Scarabia’s master of charisma and resident sunshine child?…Night Raven’s downfall. Power couple. Dead serious right now.

Jewelry (Developed): Worth your weight in gold takes a new meaning. This isn’t in reference to being spoiled, mind you. This is about status and the meaning behind the jewels Kalim is imparting. The cultural significance. Considering that you’re not from twisted wonderland, you technically are a blank slate to all countries. Who better to learn from than someone who’s spent his childhood studying to become an expert in international trade? Kalim has enough tact to bite his tongue about the deep meaning behind the gifts. You may not understand just yet, but his excitement can’t be contained. Each bangle and piece from the family treasury has a small story. While he has no problem using his wealth to help people who need it, there’s a joy that comes from decorating his treasure’ in treasure. Y’know?

"Do you like it? This necklace was my mother's at our age. My father gifted it to her during a business trip to the Queendom of Roses. Ah - you can have it! Really! She has many others, and when I told her about you this was what she chose to have sent over. It's already yours! You can wear it to the next banquet, please?" <- Being the next head of House Asim, Kalim can't be with just anyone. Yet he seemed so happy in his letters, and Jamil vouched on your behalf - so this is your time to shine. Also, sending the necklace back would be like slighting his family's good will. You quite literally need to accept it.

Music (Inherited): Can you play an instrument? Sing? It starts out as wanting to be near him more - so you join the pop music club. Kalim, Cater, and Lilia are very convincing. So they push you to pick up something. Anything. It doesn't matter what, so long as you have fun with them. Even in the earliest stages where the notes come grated and your friends (Grim) make fun - Kalim is supportive without fault. His encouragement leads to proficiency and an appreciation for music. He'd love if you sing with him. Even if it's just a lullaby - no, especially so.

Habits He Steals:

Naming inanimate objects (Inherited): Your effort at making Kalim more money-conscious. The decite of sentimental attachment, if you will. It’s honestly a risky move to make considering the sheer amount of things that he owns, so naming everything is off the table. Yet it’s the silly things. Like seeing a face in the paintwork on one of his tapestries, and then deciding to dub it Artie. Oh no, Kalim we don’t need to get new artwork for the bathroom! What about Artie? It’s already pretty enough so lets just leave him there. No - no, that ring’s super pretty but the matching set from our anniversary is enough. We wouldn’t want Garnet and Pearl to think we were replacing them, right?

"I think Vinnie would work best on display, don't you? Purple and yellow are sure to catch people's attention from far away! Or maybe should we hang up Paolo? There are so many tapestries in Scarabia’s vault, I feel guilty only putting one up on display at our festival stall. Do you think they’d let us hang more?”<- It works. Kalim defiantly thinks twice. He's a bit like a kid refusing to give up their action figures after watching Toy Story, ya feel me?

Cooking (Inherited): Kalim is learning how to cook for himself as one step to being more self-sufficient. He only eats food that Jamil prepares, but with Viper’s seal of approval you’ve earned a pass. Essentially anything you both make with pre-approved ingredients is fair game. You pick a recipe every week, give Jamil the grocery list, and he makes sure to have the stuff in the dorm. Jamil is only okay with this so long as you supervise. Teaching Kalim is on your shoulders - and in all honesty? It’s an amazing bonding experience. Jamil can rest easy for a few hours and Kalim isn’t being thrown straight into the deep end. Obviously it’s only a small reprieve, and temporary since back at the Scalding Sands there are regulations in place. Kalim loves wearing matching aprons, humming little tunes while reading recipe books, watching cooking videos, learning about all the nutritional benefits in food, and really gets an appreciation after seeing how much work goes into his favorite dishes. There’s also that spark of joy when you sit down to eat, and it’s somehow one-hundred times better than eating with his family back home. Not that Kailm doesn’t love his siblings, but family really takes a new meaning when you see it coming together right before your eyes.

"Mph th-ish is sho gud! - how do you like it? Should we invite our friends to try some? It tastes almost like Jamil's! I bet if we keep at it, then we can cook up a banquet all on our own. That'll surely put everyone in a good mood!"

Skinship (Developed): Kalim is the type to initiate touch. Not receive it. If you look at his interactions with the others, he’s always the one throwing himself at them or being a vibrant glow-stick. Very few people give that back - and in truth? Like, honest to Seven truth? Kalim’s got no problem with it. Many people have bad intentions. Not everyone wants to be his friend, and that’s fine. They come to him looking to get in his good graces. It’s unnecessary…he’ll happily help without them twisting his feelings. All they need to do is ask. Do you know how easy it is for someone to prick him with a drugged needle? He’s not comfortable with physical contact that he does not initiate, unless it’s from someone he trusts. Like Jamil, Silver, Cater, his siblings, etc. Even they have a limit (which he’s confident will never be crossed, since again, Kalim is almost always the initiator). This list is subject to change…what, you think a family of 30+ kids can exist without animosity? He dreads the day he has to think of one of his little siblings becoming untrustworthy.

Anyways. Trust is a choice for Kalim. His happiness and extroverted optimism is all a choice. Sometimes on an unconscious level (*cough* his awareness of the divide between himself and Jamil, yet pushing the knowledge down until it inevitably hurt them both *cough*). So imagine reaching the point where he trusts you. It could be something small, like the first time you hug him from behind or lace your fingers together. Intimate. Not like Cater’s half sling over the shoulder, not like his little siblings hanging on his legs, or Jamil pushing him ahead while they walk. When he’s not initiating, and Kalim might hesitate for a moment. Hard to picture, I know, but by letting it be he’s choosing to trust you wholeheartedly. All in the span of like 5 seconds, and he might not even realize it until later on. Those of us who shine the brightest, usually have walls that are hard to see. Just some food for thought.

"Really? Really, really?? Really, really really??? Really - Ah! Sorry, I just can't believe it! There's so much I still don't know about them...but they're paying attention to me, huh? That's it! I need to work harder to be a worthy boyfriend! Starting right now, I'll become a better man!" <- Kalim. Sweetie. No. You're already the brightest boy. Your dormmates only brought the prefect's changes up to make you happy! I mean - mission successful? The goal was to motivate him and they technically succeeded. Just not for studying. He's 100% fired up with enough energy to run laps around the dorm now. He doesn't know what to do first, should he get Cater to help make you a playlist? Or have some flowers sent over? Would you prefer red roses or a mix of violets with chrysanthemums. Wait. Grim's 'technically' a cat, right? He should make sure not to send anything harmful to kitties. Maybe some tuna for him with chocolates for you? But this gift should be something you can keep. Ohhhh he is vibrating from excitement. He needs to show how much he loves you. Your attention and care truly means the world to him.

Habits You Steal:

Bug Spray (Developed): Jamil can and will throw you under the bus when faced with insects. Big hit to his pride, not his best moments, but he is NOT dealing with the absolute infestation at Ramshackle. You are spraying that place with heavy duty RAID if you want him over longer than ten seconds. If he so much as catches a GLIMPSE of a roach - nah. Just nah. He will shove that dustpan in your hands and send you to war. Don’t call him until it’s dead, the carcass has been disposed of, and you’ve wiped down. Grim’s a cat. Teach his ass to hunt. He needs to pay rent. You think he’s letting the flame-ball follow to the Scalding Sands after NRC? Jamil wants him on hinting duty for scarabs or else it’s time to prep hobo box.

“Burn it….Did you not hear me? I said. Burn. It. Better yet? Burn this whole damn building!” <-First night he decides to let Kalim handle Scarabia and humor you with a sleepover - and a giant spider decided to invade the shower. We’re talking big spider, maybe pregnant. Please keep in mind that during the VDC prep, Vil had Ramshackle deep cleaned. So the worst Jamil saw was a few ants. Now, the science club does meet in the Ramshackle garden often since you’ve cleaned it up, and Trey may grow plants that make the place insect central. Jamil was unaware of this. The gut wrenching scream that echoed through every room in the house. You’d think one of the ghosts pulled a cruel prank - but no. You didn’t even get a moment to investigate. The bathroom door flew open, Jamil running out still wet and drenching his pajamas. The death glare and spew of curses was the most genuine you’d ever seen him. Well, it could have been appreciated if not directed at you. Fix it or he will never set foot in this place ever again.

Spice Tolerance (Inherited): Not much to say here. He likes his food spicy. Sure, Jamil isn’t great with his words so his main love-language is bringing over tubbaware filled with food, and he does cater to your preferences more often than not. Except you undoubtedly will be eating what himself and Kalim eat most days. Which is packed with flavor. Grim isn’t complaining, food’s food. You? It’s funny to take a chomp out of ghost pepper like it’s a roma tomato, only for Ace to try and then start wheezing. Work them tastebuds, ya scrawny magic man. Heh.

"Can't handle the heat? Curry's a versatile dish. I could make something mild next time...you still want it? Why? Just because it's my favorite, doesn't mean you have to like it. Still not going to give it back? Alright. Lets see you clean that plate then." <- Flattered that you want to experience his favorite foods prepared to his tastes. For the record - Jamil likes it spicy spicy. Hotter than fiery vindaloo. Its an acquired taste and he really can alter the recipe if its too much. Won't unless you ask, because it's funny and oddly romantic seeing you sweat just trying to make him happy (Will hit the breaks in if you are getting sick from it. Does not play around).

Braids (Inherited): Paired with Jamil’s developed trait. Braids or hair beads - take your pick. Maybe both? Or a headscarf. His little sister - Najima, do you remember her? She’s the first Viper you get to spend time with during a trip to the Scalding Sands and gifts you either some hair beads or a headscarf as her unspoken blessing. Nothing fancy, and Jamil forced the coin in her hand for it, but she did take you through the markets while he was busy tending to other needs. It’s honestly really sweet, and Jamil will braid the beads or scarf in one of your side pieces of hair every morning (or wrap the scarf around your head. Not fancy like Kalim’s but still a knot he ‘insists’ will look better if he does it since you’re inexperienced. He could teach you. He won’t.)

Silence (Inherited): Shit just does not phase you anymore. Ever heard of the inability to keep calm until there's someone more panicked nearby? Jamil embodies this, being surrounded by emotive people all the time, and his perpetual state of indifference physically does not allow you to feel unsettled. If Jamil isn't bothered, then neither are you. It's that simple. Resting bitch face is contagious. Jamil's ability to handle Kalim comes in handy for raising Grim. You can now ignore his baby face and daily begging for premium tuna. Little kitty needs to expand his arsenal of tricks, because your will is stone.

"Bad day? Grab a cup. The dorm's usually quiet for the next hour. I'll be there in a moment." <- Queen never cry. If anything actually does phase either one of you, it normally ends the same way. Plopped on the floor of his bedroom, sipping hot tea and staring at the wall in comfortable silence while stewing in mutual suffering. Eventually you give him one of those starry sky projectors, and y'all ill stare at that instead. If it's a problem that has a tangible solution then it gets solved. Easy. This is for the 'yeah, life sucks' moments where all you can do is let it be before getting back up again. At least you have each other.

Habits He Steals:

Braids (Developed): Jamil can easily do his own hair. A flick of the wrist and it magically braids itself. Ebony locks carry memories of pain, growth - and change. Small change. Yet change nonetheless, which seemed impossible years ago. There’s something very intimate that comes with fixing another person’s hair. You’re not proficient enough to handle his cornrows (or are you? To his standard? As fast as magic?) but Jamil’s fine with changing his hair style to a simple triple braid, or a braid-band using the framing pieces that can crown around his head. So long as you do it for him every morning.

Fix-It-Felix (Developed): You know that one type of dad? The one who visits your home and looks for imperfections. He comes over, puts fresh produce in the fridge, mends the nail holes in the wall and fixes that one loose board on the steps that you made a habit to avoid. Barely says two words during his visit but seemingly solves half the problems you were procrastinating? This is Jamil. 100% Jamil when he comes to Ramshackle. He needs to make himself useful. And to scold someone. Grim more often than not, but you’re not safe. He really goes ‘bitch you live like this?’ at least once a week. Then proceeds to take preventative measures like a textbook tsundere.

“I put tangerines in the fridge since winter is coming. You need to be getting enough vitamin c and - where’s Grim? Don’t let him eat them all and make sure he knows not to light the fireplace tonight. There’s some cleaner on the bricks that needs to sit for a few hours…you know what? I’ll go with you to get him. Grab your heavy coat, it looks ready to rain.”

Dancing (Developed): Jamil participates in solo-dance during his downtime. It’s not like he had a partner to do duos with. Jamil also was not interesting in cozying up to a stranger just to learn a dance he would rarely have a moment to indulge in. Kalim’s the one who mentioned this in passing to you. His intentions were pure, of course. Just as they always are. He signed you both up for a ballroom dance class as a present for officially becoming a couple! Jamil finally had a partner and time to try, so why wait?! The vice in question wanted to deny since (1) who has time for that, (2) it was off campus, would take three hours out of every weekend for a month and (3) The chance of embarrassing himself was higher than he would like. Yet Kalim is smarter than most think, and purposefully handed the gift to you. Not Jamil. Along with the excited embellishment that Jamil could now do this ‘long desired’ class that really wasn’t high on his radar.

"If it makes you happy...then I don't mind. Just try to avoid stepping on my toes. Otherwise I'll demand compensation. What do I want? Wouldn't you like to know, prefect." <- Five seconds in and he yields. You weren't going to let him out of it - no matter what excuse Jamil came up with. He'll put up with it and get back at Kalim later. The chance to spend time with you for that long is rare, and Jamil isn't the type to squander opportunities. No matter his personal feelings on the 'gift' in question.

Except Jamil finds the entire experience pleasant and hates that it’s all thanks to Kalim. Dancing with you is entirely different than dancing alone. It’s clumsy, new, and honestly tiring since he needs to lead. Especially in anything fast pace like a quickstep or to swing. It’s also three hours out of the week that Jamil isn’t maintaining his composure. Just you, him, and the instructor since Kalim splurged on private lessons. It’s liberating and Jamil wants to keep with it far beyond after the class ends. Even if it’s just slow-dancing in the common room to one of those vintage records stowed at Ramshackle. Seven, let him have this.

‘We’ instead of ‘Me’ (Inherited AND Developed): Automatically assumes that any invites are for you too. Jamil is used to thinking this way. Except the ‘we’ applied to Kalim, with Jamil as a plus one. Jamil did not want to be part of that ‘we’. Hence why he would only refer to Kalim when laying plans out. ‘Kalim has dance lessons at six, then dinner at seven, then study until 10 and then bed. Tomorrow, Kalim’s going to a banquet head by the treasure’s family and then returning to campus.’ The unspoken truth being that Jamil’s schedule matched. He followed, but was never on board with being Kalim’s ‘we’. He has always been a ‘me’ and made an active effort to preserve all his ‘me’ moments. For someone so self-aware…Jamil isn’t sure when he began to view you as his ‘we’. Only that when you auto-included him in everything…it was less strenuous than with Kalim. Far less. Easy to adapt. In the past, Jamil believed a partnership to be another chain. Perhaps being a ‘we’ was never supposed to hurt.

“Thanks for the invitation, but we’re staying in tonight…. No, not Kalim. The Prefect. What? I’m not speaking for them. If my word’s not good enough, just go ask the prefect yourself.” <- Other people might look at him and think he’s treating you like Kalim. Oh, how wrong they are.

Texting (Inherited): Jamil’s not used to someone keeping tabs on him. You’re going to see him within the hour, why does he need to call before going to wake up Kalim? Why do you need a text that he’s back in his dorm before you’re able to sleep? Why do you show up in Scarabia at one in the morning, throwing rocks at his window, if he forgets? (Jamil never forgets. He just had to reign in some rowdy first years and couldn’t catch a break. It was on his mind. Really.) It’s not the worst demand. A five minute call while he’s prepping breakfast and a few messages to know he’s going to rest are a small price to pay. Turns out a little rundown of his day before bed makes sleeping a ‘little’ bit easier. Huh.

“I don’t see it.” <- A lie spoken with the most monotone tone possible. Jamil rolls his eyes over the rim of his mug, taking a sip before turning the page in his book. Najima scoffs before returning to her magazine. She can say he’s softened up all she wants. He won’t admit to it. Doesn’t mean she’s wrong in the slightest. Jamil’s well aware that hopes and wants denied to him from birth have begun to stir within him. No matter how small the changes may be, Jamil isn’t foolish enough to give those emotions his attention. Not if he wants to keep them. Good things always escape his grasp…his wounds are too fresh to get comfortable just yet.