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chrollohearttags · 8 months

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candy girl • nanami kento

warnings + themes: mentions of abuse, angst, drugs, sex worker!reader, smut, lil bit of jealous nanamin 🥺. This is one of the installments in my Tales of The Underbelly series. These are in no particular order or theme.

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capo/underboss nanami….whew. A good man despite the line of work he’s in. One of seven other members in a smaller yet fearless gang that had accrued the reputation of some of the most vicious men in the underworld. A syndicate compiled of murderers, pimps and evil people. In a short period of time, his makeshift mafia had climbed their way to the top of the ranks. Acquiring millions via drug dealing, sex trafficking and gambling. In the midst of this awful activity, was a beacon of hope by the name of Kento. Who just so happened to wander into one of the clubs owned by him and his fellow comrades one night that he was the head over…where he saw a lady being tugged by her arm by two strange guys, who obviously couldn’t take no for an answer. He had witnessed many horrible things in his time as an underboss…people being killed for something as simple as a stolen dime bag of weed. His associates beating people senseless…it was a lot for anyone to take in but he handled it well. However, he couldn’t stand by idly when he saw one of them raise their hand and attempt to slap the young woman. Almost instinctively, without thought or pause…he intervened and return the hit right back to both of them. Laying them out where they stood.. it’s then that he met her gaze and swore he saw heaven for the first time in this hellish thing he called life.

“Mr. Nanami! I’m so sorry!” The girl frightened and in fear that he’d retaliate for having to step in and possibly ruin his night. Many of the others had come in here and flat out ignored the abuse that they had to endure at the hands of their johns and clients. Horrible, nasty dogs who had no respect. But if there was one man who’d do all he could to ensure that they treated his girls right. All of them loved him and when he came around because it was the semblance of kindness in a place that didn’t allow for it. He made them feel special, feel human and that they had somewhat of a safe space with him. But there was only one woman to truly capture his attention. The brown, doe eyed beauty with dark skin, pouty lips and platinum blonde hair. So gorgeous and alluring in her tight two piece but yet so innocent looking. He couldn’t help but to feel a way…or protect you. Tilting your head up with a finger underneath your chin. “No need to apologize, it’s my job. You all let me know if you have any other problems.”

as stoic and poised as ever, he strutted off with his hands tucked into the pockets of his khakis; golden wristwatch refracting underneath the bright lights as he retreated to his office. But unbeknownst to you, his face was flushed beet red and his heart was thudding. You were a goddess..a deity if he had ever seen one. One that he wanted to see all the time. So weeks pass and he requests to be stationed at the club every week. If for nothing else, to keep a keen eye on you..a close one that observed you as you strutted around in those clear Pleasers and served drinks to the men who wouldn’t have the slightest clue of what to do with you. Those toned legs and thick thighs looking divine when you came into his office with his signature glass of scotch and a bottle. It’s one night when he asks you to join him for a drink and to secretly get acquainted.

you happily oblige and sit atop his desk, sipping and nursing your own cup as he questioned you so sweetly. “You have a name, sweetheart? If you don’t mind, I’d like to know.” With a bit of hesitation, you’d answer.. “(y/n)…but they call me (nickname).” Both equally as beautiful as your face. He was smitten..intrigued that a girl like you had found yourself in a place like this. It’s then you’d go on yo explain that you were sucked into this life and knew of no way out. In a way, it was comforting, it was home and with him around, you felt safer. You’d speak about all of the things outside of this chaotic life that you loved. You with a passion for baking, stemming from your childhood when you were far more innocent…that you were more than your lifestyle and him with a bit of a sweet tooth ironically; an affinity for all things cakes, cookies and pies you just so happened to have the fix for his craving….in more ways than one…

“Is that so? Well you’ll have to treat me sometimes. I’d like a taste.”

sentiments which could be applied to both the cookies you so delicately made for him and delivered when he asked you to spend some time with him… “best I’ve ever had..” or the divine nectar between your thighs that he’d soon get a sample of when he for the first time in the three months that seemed to pass once you two met, got you to smile…and not just fake it as you had done so many times before with many of the male clients in this place. Including his cohorts. You’d laugh wholeheartedly, holding your belly after he made a joke about one of the other members. That’s when he’d point out something no one had ever said to you.

“You have the most beautiful laugh, (y/n). Being happy looks good on you.”

you nearly began crying on the spot and wanted to jump straight into his arms but you instantly froze…afraid that the other shoe was about to drop at any time. The switch that would inevitably occur when he decided to manipulate or control you..use that trust you guys had built to get whatever he wanted like so many others had done but that wasn’t the case. He had no ill intentions and although it was hard to figure him out sometimes, there was no doubt that Kento Nanami was only interested in seeing you glow. Eventually, the distance between you two came to a close and he’d brush the side of your face before posing a question:

“Would it be inappropriate for me to ask you for a kiss?” Which was by the far the most gentle thing you’d heard since becoming an escort. You wouldn’t hesitate to give him permission and your lips crashed together in a powerful haze. Your bodies tousling back and forth as you absentmindedly stripped the other out of those clothes. By the time you came to, your dress was hiked up and his shirt was wide open. The stains of your glossy lipstick painted all over his neck and nape.. he doesn’t want to stop and you damn sure don’t want him to so you give him your consent to do as he pleased to your body. “Can I touch you here, beautiful?” “Can I put my mouth here?” All questions you answered with a breathy “…yes. Whatever you want.” But he couldn’t in good faith feel you up unless you wanted him to. Not when he knew of your past encounters. How you had been violated not of your own volition, left with scars from the horrible encounters you’ve had to endure. So he’d gently kiss, rub and tend to every wound, telling you how beautiful that body was even when you wanted to conceal it in shame.

“It’s okay, I promise you’re safe with me. I’d never hurt you..”

he means every word. Especially considering that from this point forward, whether anyone knows it or not, you’re his girl. His lady and he’d kill anyone who’d dare compromise that. He’s never felt anything like this before! Love, lust…hell, he couldn’t even put a name to it but all he knew was that he never wanted this moment to end. So right there…right there in that office on his chair, he’d pull you atop him with his hands coiling your back and bouncing you up and down his dick. A grip on your ass that felt so domineering but soft and kind. As if he were doing it as a form of security rather than control. He’d allow you to whimper into his shoulder blade as you took him balls deep; his palms landing on those thick cheeks, causing a ripple. “Mmmphm! Kentooo…” crying out with a shrill cry as your nails scathed his skin. He loves the feeling…the touch of a woman that satisfied him physically and emotionally. The way you gripped his shaft as if you never wanted to let him go as all eight and a half inches slammed into you. Guiding you up and down and feeding you sweet praise.

“There you go..you take me so well.” “God, you feel so good..” “..you look so pretty with me inside of you.”

and it was only a few minutes later when the both of you would meet your climatic peak together and in a barrage of tears and sweat, you’d become one and immediately meet with a kiss afterwards. Telling you to let it all out and allow those sweet fluids to rain on him. It was from that night on that Kento refused to let another soul mistreat you or make you feel less than your worth. “I’m so glad I met you..”

you were the sweetest deal he’d gotten out of this entire ordeal since he’d become a capo. His angel…his candy girl.

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 9 months

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Comet Donati [Chapter 9: Why Don’t We Go There]

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (+18), beef cattle, drugs, alcohol, smoking, Walmart, vegan baking, David Archuleta, mental health struggles, pregnancy, pigs, bodily injury, death, miscarriage, Jace acting vaguely human, angst, Southern Baptists, Cookie Monster pajama pants.

Selected Chapter Quote: “You have no idea how much I’ve kept from you.”

Word count: 8.6k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @doingfondue @catalina-howard @randomdragonfires @myspotofcraziness @arcielee @fan-goddess @talesofoldandnew @marvelescvpe @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mariahossain @chainsawsangel @darkenchantress @not-a-glad-gladiator @gemini-mama @trifoliumviridi @herfantasyworldd @babyblue711 @namelesslosers @thelittleswanao3 @daenysx @moonlightfoxx @libroparaiso @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @mizfortuna @florent1s @heimtathurs @bhanclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @heavenly1927 @mariahossain @echos-muses @padfooteyes @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis @juliavilu1 @amiraisgoingthruit @lauraneedstochill @wintrr13 @r0segard3n @seabasscevans @tsujifreya @helaenaluvr @hiraethrhapsody

Only 1 chapter left! 💜

The last day of summer, the first day in Kansas City: emerald seas of soybeans, cornstalks taller than you are, massive tractors rolling laggardly on the shoulder of the road, red-tailed hawks perched on utility poles, cloudless cerulean skies, sunlight that beats down like soft rain. There is a long, rambling dirt driveway that leads from Route 210 to your parents’ farm. When you climb out of the Escalade, you cannot hear traffic or voices or some playlist of bygone pop hits or ice cubes jangling in misty glasses or the roar of jet engines. You can hear only the sounds of the Midwestern earth: wind in the leaves, cicadas humming, the distant mooing of black angus cattle. For a moment, Comet Donati just stands there breathing in the unhurried, golden air like the atmosphere of a new planet, their lungs acclimating, their eyes wide and peering around. Where have we landed? Any signs of intelligent life?

There are footsteps and then the squealing creak of the screen door as your dad throws it open. Along with your parents pour out five Australian cattle dogs. They bark uproariously, herding the new arrivals like errant calves. Aemond laughs and crouches down in the dust of the driveway to pet them. Rhaena screams and clings to Luke.

“Belmont! Bel, you git down!” your dad scolds, pulling her away from Rhaena by the collar: pink, so everyone knows she’s a girl. “Don’t be scared, sweetheart, she don’t bite none.”

“Unless you’re a cow, of course,” your mom adds, tittering merrily. She starts handing out glasses of sweet tea, already dripping with condensation. Outside it’s 80 degrees even.

Your dad whistles as he studies Aemond’s scar, his sightless left eye like a pool of blue fog. “That must’ve hurt like a son of a bitch.”

“Jeff!” your mom objects mildly; she abhors swearing.

Aemond considers your dad: a man who doesn’t flinch away from him, who doesn’t bury truths under the cover of night. “It did.”

“My uncle came back from ‘Nam with something like that. Was never right again.” He taps his own skull. “You must be tough as nails to be carrying on like you are, son. What happened to you was a damn shame.”

“Jefferson, please!” your mom says.

“The man’s been to New Jersey, Carol! I think he’s heard worse words than bitch and damn!”

“Her name’s Belmont?” Rhaena says, frowning nervously at her canine tormentor: rust-orange, brown-eyed, tail wagging eagerly at the prospect of making new friends.

“You betcha.” Then your dad informs Aemond: “That’s Lone Jack you got there.” He points to the remaining dogs. “And the others are Carthage, Kirksville, and Island Number Ten. We call her Tenny.”

“They’re all named after Civil War battles,” you tell Comet.

“Civil War battles in Missouri,” your dad says. He turns to his guests. “Were you aware that over 100,000 Missourians served in the Union Army? Ulysses S. Grant’s first military assignment was in Missouri. He met his wife Julia here.”

“Daddy, they’re English. They don’t know what the Union Army is.”

“Were they for or against staying colonies?” Aegon asks, and Criston covers his face and groans.

Your dad spots the motorcycle Aemond rode here from the airport, weaving between the Escalades until Criston stuck his head out a window to yell at him. “Lord almighty, is that a Gold Star?! Made by the Birmingham Small Arms Company?”

“Yes sir,” Aemond says, smiling down at a delighted Lone Jack and scratching his long pointy ears.

“An ingenious piece of machinery! ‘55?”

“1960.”

“Remarkable.” Your dad admires it. He’s wearing red flannel, Wrangler jeans, the UChicago hat that you bought for him your freshman year of college.

“We’ve been told you don’t eat meat,” your mom says to Aemond, with a gentle, sympathetic tone like she’s conscious of some bad luck that’s recently befallen him: a grim diagnosis, a storm that carried away his house. “So I’ve got some chicken soaking in buttermilk to fry up for supper.”

Aemond chuckles uncertainly.

“No, she’s serious,” you tell him. And then: “Mama, we went over this on the phone. He’s vegan. That means no animal products at all. No meat, no poultry, no fish, no dairy, no eggs, nothing that came from an animal.”

“Well I’ll be, what the heck does he eat?!” your dad says. “Carrots? Acorns? Sticks and leaves? He can graze out in the pasture if he likes.”

“We’ll find you something,” you promise Aemond.

Your dad surveys Aegon (white cargo shorts, neon pink tank top, sparkly matching Crocs) and then Jace (black skinny jeans and a violet sequined blazer with nothing underneath except a mosaic of tattoos). “I suppose you two will be wanting to share a room. Well, it ain’t my place to pass judgement, I reckon. But I don’t want to overhear nothing that couldn’t be done in church.”

Jace is confused. “Huh…?”

“No, Daddy, they’re not gay.”

“What, me?!” Aegon exclaims. “Gay?! For Jace?!”

Jace says: “Sir, if I ever start looking at Aegon that way, I give you enthusiastic permission to take me out back and shoot me dead like a horse with a bum leg.”

Your dad guffaws, a deep gruff rumble like an earthquake. “I don’t think I could oblige you, buddy.”

Your mom gestures to the front door. “Y’all go on in and make yourselves at home. We got a few extra bedrooms and a nice big den if anyone’s willing to sleep on a couch. But be warned: you’ll probably end up having a dog or two snuggled up with you.”

“We are guests here!” Criston shouts at the band as they begin dragging their luggage inside, suitcase wheels bumping up the creaking wooden steps of the wraparound porch. “You will not humiliate me! You will not break things! You will not cause any problems whatsoever or you can stay at the Hilton with the security guys and I’ll have them handcuff you to a bed!”

“He will,” Aegon warns the others. “I’ve seen him do it before. To…um…somebody.” He disappears into the five-bedroom farmhouse: mint green paint, white accents, two rambling stories plus an attic and a cellar.

Criston waves to the security detail as the Escalades turn around in the driveway—stirring up dust like a parched cough of earth—and then head back towards Route 210, towards the light pollution and acclaimed barbeque joints of Kansas City. Now Aemond is standing by the barbed wire fence of the pasture and looking longingly at the black angus cattle grazing on tall swaths of windswept, green-gold switchgrass. Lone Jack, Carthage, and Kirksville are all bounding around him hoping to elicit praise and scratches. Tenny has taken a liking to Baela and follows her and Jace into the house. Belmont, still held captive by your dad, whines and struggles.

“Aemond, you can’t pet the cows,” you say. “They’re beef cattle. They spend most of their lives out in fields, they don’t get handled very often, they’re not used to people. They can be aggressive.”

He is disappointed. “Oh, okay.”

“You can pet the pigs though,” your dad says.

“Pigs?” Cregan perks up. “There are pigs?”

“Sure are. Well, they’re pigs now…come Thanksgiving, they’ll be hams! Hahaha. They’re right ‘round the back of the house. You’ll show ‘em, chickadee?”

You reply: “Yeah, Daddy. I’ll show them.”

As the rest of the band claims sleeping spots and unpacks their suitcases inside, you lead Cregan and Aemond—and Lone Jack, Carthage, and Kirksville, all blue speckled with random splatters of white markings like stray dabs of paint—to the pigs. They have a large, muddy enclosure surrounded by a wooden fence that stops at your waist; pigs, fortunately, cannot really jump. They immediately come trotting over to their visitors, tails swishing and snouts twitching, spewing a chorus of guttural oinks. Aemond leans down to pet them, beaming, then takes a Ziploc bag of raw cauliflower out of his jeans pocket and starts dropping pieces into the pigs’ gluttonous, slobbering, gaping mouths.

“Wow,” Cregan says. He’s grinning broadly, something that’s rare for him. He slips out his phone and starts taking pictures. “Iris is going to love this.”

On the second floor of the farmhouse, a window slides open. “Aemond!” Aegon calls. “I need help! It’s an emergency!”

“What’s your problem?” Aemond snaps.

“Tell Jace I need the bigger bedroom!”

“Please go away.”

“Aemond! Do not betray your favorite brother!”

“Hey!” comes Daeron’s muffled objection from inside.

“Aemond! Threaten to break Jace’s face again!”

Aemond exhales in a loud sigh and then makes for the house.

Still taking pig photos, Cregan glances over at your belly: ten weeks. Not enough to be properly showing, but enough that you can feel a difference, an extra inch here and there, a heaviness that settles in you like stones plinked in a jar. Your parents don’t know. Nobody knows but Aegon. “So,” Cregan says. “Have you told Aemond yet?”

Your attention jolts to him, a lightning strike, a surge of adrenaline. “What?”

“I remember what it looks like when someone’s trying to hide the fact that they’re pregnant.” He smirks. “And I remember that night at Club Camelot.”

People are going to start figuring it out eventually. Aemond is going to figure it out. “Do you think he’ll take it well?” you ask hopefully.

“No,” Cregan says.

In your chest, a sinking like dead weight: “Oh.”

“But he’ll probably come around to the idea eventually.”

After he’s said something unforgiveable. After he buries another knife in me, spilling blood and scraping marrow. You stare down into the pigpen, observing them root around for remnants of cauliflower and blink their awfully intelligent eyes, too clever for the fate they’ve been assigned.

Cregan lights a cigarette and puffs on it, taking advantage of a rare moment out of Criston’s line of sight. “When I first found out about Iris, I did not behave in a way that I would consider to be honorable. But fortunately, nature gives everyone time to adjust to these things. I had my head right by the time she was born. If I had to guess, I’d say it will be similar for Aemond. Then again…” He takes a deep, meditative drag. “I’d like to think I was never as fucked up as he is now.”

You study Cregan. “So you’ve been watching me. I’ve been watching you too. You haven’t been partying as hard. A few vodka shots, a secret cigarette on occasion. But no more disappearing with Aegon to do lines in the bathroom or arranging drop-offs with drug dealers.”

He shrugs. “Someone has to be the adult. Someone has to help Criston look out for the others. It used to be Aemond, but not anymore. He’s different now. One day he’ll figure out where he’s supposed to be and he’ll stop touring with Comet altogether. So I’m going to do it. There are people who need me.”

“Comet is your family,” you say. “Just as much as your mother and siblings and Iris. They love you. They belong to you, and you belong to them. And that will never change.”

He smiles; his greyish eyes are teasing but kind. “Good luck, Stargirl. You need it.”

“Thanks, Cregan.” And together, you leave the pigs and join the rest of the band inside.

Your parents’ farmhouse, the same one you grew up in—a different world, a different you—is painted in shades of gold: late-afternoon sunlight, chicken thighs and drumsticks browning in canola oil, mashed potatoes wet with cream and butter, corn cut from the cob, an enormous pan of baked macaroni and cheese, homemade rolls, a butterscotch pie cooling on the windowsill. You find a vegan alternative for Aemond in the pantry: a box of Barilla spaghetti, a jar of Ragu marinara sauce. Criston insists on cooking it so everyone else can enjoy their supper. Cregan asks your parents about tips for raising pigs; Rhaena asks about the history of the farm; Aegon eats butterscotch pie until he has to roll out of his chair and lie sprawled on the hardwood floor for a while, Australian cattle dogs licking at his pink palms and cheeks. And when Aemond finally receives his spaghetti and marinara sauce, you think: That’s the same thing he was eating in Rome. And you remember the razored sting of the comet tattoo, the nightscape motorcycle ride, the incomplete truth about Aegon, the realization of what you felt for his scarred, perfect, brilliant, haunted younger brother.

“I didn’t know the weather would be so nice here,” Baela says as she scoops herself a third helping of macaroni and cheese. Tenny lies by her feet under the table, her muzzle resting on her paws.

Your dad nods, but his words hold a warning. “It can turn quick.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“He could be a stay-at-home dad,” Aegon suggests. It’s the next day and you’re up in a hundred-year-old white oak tree, killing time until the Escalades arrive to shuttle Comet to soundcheck and their first of two shows at Arrowhead Stadium in downtown Kansas City. You’re sitting on a colossal, sturdy branch only four or five feet off the ground, your feet dangling; Aegon is a few limbs above you, alternating between swinging like a monkey and lying on his stomach so he can peer down at you with those large, oceanic eyes.

“No. If he chooses to, sure. But not because he has no other options. A baby is not something to paper over a quarter-life crisis with.”

Aegon thinks, then is struck with inspiration. “He could work for your dad on the farm!”

“The beef cattle farm?” you say. “You want the traumatized vegan to spend the rest of his life as a cog in the blood-drenched machine of American industrial agriculture? Besides, I’m sure he hates Missouri.”

“I don’t know, I mean I thought I hated Missouri too. But lowkey it kind of slaps.” Aegon closes his eyes and smiles as the warm, sunlit breeze breathes through him, tousling his hair. It’s long again, it’s almost down to his shoulders. He smells like sunscreen and Axe body spray and the homemade waffles your mother made for brunch, soggy with dollops of butter and a river of amber-colored maple syrup. Something’s missing. It takes you a moment to realize it’s the scent of beer. Your parents don’t approve of drinking, the house is bone dry. Aegon hasn’t complained about that yet, a miracle, Moses turning the Nile to blood. Maybe Missouri is good for him after all. “How’s Starbaby?”

“Good, I think. I’m not nauseous anymore. Now I’m just super hungry and horny.”

“Oh my God, you can’t say stuff like that around me, now I’m having immoral thoughts.” He squeezes his eyes shut, frowns mournfully. Goodbye forever, pornstar pussy. “When are you going to tell Aemond?”

“Soon,” you say noncommittally, like a coward. Not a coward: someone who’s been hurt before. Not just hurt: slaughtered, buried, exhumed, robbed for the jewels on the bones of her fingers. You’re finally whole again. You’re in no hurry to imperil your resurrection. “Cregan knows.”

“Rhaena knows too.”

“What?!”

“She asked me in Dallas, but she waited until I was sloppy drunk first. Smart girl. I tried to deny it, but honestly she already had it figured out.” Aegon looks at you meaningfully. “If you wait much longer you’re going to lose control of this thing. It’ll get to Aemond before you can. And I think it will be worse if he finds out from somebody else.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. I’ll tell him, Aegon, I promise. Before Comet flies out of Kansas City.” They’ll be leaving you here, though no one except Aegon and Criston know that yet. Their private jet will take them to New Orleans, and then Miami, and then all the way to South America: Rio de Janeiro, Sao Paulo, Bogota, Buenos Ares, Lima, Santiago.

Now someone is trekking across the field behind your parents’ house and towards the centenarian white oak tree. It’s Jace. He’s wearing a rather understated outfit today: a lavender polo, denim shorts, boat shoes. His dark curls whip and tangle in the wind.

“Ugh,” Aegon says once Jace close enough to hear. “Why don’t you go try to pet a rage-filled, 2,000-pound mound of unprocessed cheeseburgers?”

“I’m here for my complimentary therapy session.”

Aegon stares at you. You stare back. The only sounds are made by the earth and the sky and the animals, air in the leaves, the low mooing of cattle. You both wait for Jace to rescind his request. He does not. At last, you relent. “Okay. Fine. Aegon?”

“You want me to leave you alone with this inked-up ogre?”

“Confidentiality is important. I’ve always given it to you, Jace deserves the same.”

“Does he really?” Aegon flings back; but he obediently climbs down from the tree and walks to the farmhouse. Your parents have no booze, no internet, a landline telephone, and a single tv with basic cable. Everyone else is in there playing Uno, doing animal-themed puzzles, and baking apple cider cookies in honor of the first day of autumn. You’d think Comet would be losing their minds after adapting to months of nonstop, breakneck excitement, but they seem to be enjoying themselves. You feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. You don’t miss the jet, you don’t miss the bars or the five-star hotels, you don’t even miss your apartment in the city that is still being sublet by some grad student with a Flemish Giant rabbit. You wonder if you ever wanted to leave the farm at all, or if you only wanted to leave the way you felt about yourself the last time you called this place home.

Jace grins and hauls himself up onto the tree branch to sit beside you. “Want to see my new tattoo?”

“Comet has definitely already been to Kansas City.”

Still, he’s acquired one, left wrist, black ink: a single star the size of a quarter. “For you, Stargirl. So I don’t forget about you. So I don’t lose you in the sea of gorgeous women I have marooned myself in.”

“It looks like a pentagram,” you say. “That’s appropriate, since you’re basically Satan.”

He’s not offended. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want to talk about?”

“I already know.”

“Do you really?”

“You’re happy, but you feel bad about it. You wanted to be the leader of Comet, but you wish it could have happened a different way.”

Jace opens his hands and offers you a crooked, wry smile. “I might jibe at Aemond, but I don’t hate him. Why else would I let him knock out four of my teeth without expecting any penance in return?”

“No, you certainly don’t hate Aemond.”

“And what happened to him…it sucks. I mean, obviously, it was life-ruining for him. Not ruining, I shouldn’t say that. I’m sure he’ll get a new life someday. But it wrecked him in ways I’ll never be able to understand.”

“You’ll have to let him go when the time comes.”

“Yeah,” Jace says, unusually somber, gazing out across the field of white wild indigo, prairie dropseed, blue star, yarrow.

“And if Baela gets into ballet school, you’ll have to let her go too.”

Now Jace turns to you, startled. “I can’t. I’d miss her.”

“Yes, but you aren’t right for her. Sometimes we have to give people the freedom to realize they want something more than us. It’s the greatest act of love we can do for them.”

He laughs, a disdainful little snort. “That’s what everyone says. If you love someone, let them go. But then nobody ever really does it. They cling and they manipulate and they beg. Nobody helps the people they love leave them. Nobody escapes the indignity of becoming a regret.”

Please don’t let that be true. Please don’t let Aemond regret meeting me, touching me, maybe even loving me. “Why do you think that is, Jace?”

And he says, like it’s obvious, like you should already know it: “Because letting go is too fucking painful.” He hops off the branch and drops into the tall grass below. Then he extends a hand to help you down. “Come on. I bet those apple cider cookies are ready.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You see glimmering dresses, incandescent string lights, neon signs, the winding reptilian sheen of the Missouri River in the distance, faint dots of stars muted by the city’s synthetic luminance. You taste your faux Bramble: ice, cranberry juice, a sliver of lemon on the rim, sweet and tart and cold. The speakers are thumping out Prayin’ For Daylight by Rascal Flatts. Aegon is in neon yellow. You almost wore the same, but the flowing yellow gown you bought in Reykjavik suffered an unfortunate Australian-cattle-dog-related incident before Comet left your parents’ farmhouse for the concert. You opted for the short sparkly black dress embroidered with silver stars instead…and hurried out the door before your parents could catch a glimpse of your comet tattoo.

“No way!” Baela cries as she checks her phone. “Look, look!” Liam Payne has just posted a selfie on Instagram. Cuddled up next to him on a beach in Ibiza is Shelby, tan and with her long blond waves flying everywhere. The comments are a smorgasbord: Cutest couple EVER! Aww, did you and Aemond break up again :( Enjoy your vacay, girlie! Guess love really can’t conquer all. You are stunning, Shelby! I’m still hoping you guys get back together. You deserve better! What is Aemond even doing these days?? Is this why Comet took A Girl Named After A Car off their tour setlist :(((

“Damn, poor Liam,” Daeron says. “Should we warn him?”

Aegon replies: “Bruh, this is so tragic. That dude has enough demons already.”

“Good luck, Liam,” Luke says, toasting his Mai Tai against Aemond’s fully-alcoholic Bramble. “Thoughts and prayers.”

“Maybe he’s dumb enough to sign up to be her boy band baby daddy,” Aemond quips. You and Aegon exchange an uneasy glance. Then Aegon gets an incoming FaceTime call. It’s Taylor Swift. He beams—he lights up, he glows—and rushes away to find a quiet spot where he can talk to her. Criston chases after him, extra vigilant since Aegon’s overdose in Las Vegas.

You gulp down the rest of your not-cocktail cocktail. The bartender calls over: “Another cranberry juice, ma’am?”

“Cranberry juice?!” Daeron says. “That sounds…healthy?”

“Why aren’t you drinking?” Baela asks you. It would be a rude question if you didn’t know each other so well. Though not quite as well as she thinks. Cregan and Rhaena peer awkwardly down into their glasses, eyebrows raised.

“Because. Um.” You hesitate. Aemond looks over at you curiously. “I’m an alcoholic.”

Baela blinks. “You’re what?”

“Um. I was developing an alcohol problem so to be safe I stopped drinking altogether.”

“How mature of you!” Rhaena chirps, then drags Baela towards the dancefloor. Luke and Jace go with them. Daeron and Cregan depart to charm some potential paramours: a flock of Kansas City University students for Daeron, a bachelorette party of flattered, giggly soccer moms for Cregan. You procure another cranberry juice from the bar and then return to Aemond. You are alone together, a strange combination of adjectives: solitary, secretive, appreciated, known. You migrate towards the edge of the roof and sip your matching drinks, wearing your matching black clothes, wind in your hair and the sounds of late night traffic on the streets below.

“So this is the place,” Aemond says, playful, wistful. “Where you and Aegon…met.”

“It feels so different now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You look out over the city, breathing in humid night air and a verdant, ancient wildness. “You know how when you’re a kid, you’ll go somewhere and it feels endless and magical, and then you go back five or ten or fifteen years later and you’re disappointed? Like, that’s it? Is this even the same place?”

He swigs his Bramble. Ice clinks; the glass is frosty in his hand. “I know what you mean. But it hasn’t been that long. A little over a year.”

“I guess I’ve changed.” More grounded. Less restless. Less aimless. More pregnant.

“I hope Comet hasn’t traumatized you.”

You laugh, and he’s looking at you like you’re the only two people at this rooftop bar, in this city, on this planet: one river blue eye, one pool of sightless otherworldly mist. He hasn’t worn sunglasses since Shelby’s deportation from the band’s retinue. “Not yet.”

He is mischievous. “There’s still time.”

Not much of it. Aemond’s iPhone rings, Mr. Brightside. He checks it. “Is that Shelby offering you ten thousand blowjobs if you take her back?”

Aemond smiles. “No. It’s Helaena.” He answers and puts it on speakerphone. “Hi, LaeLae. Can I call you tomorrow? I’m at a very loud, very crowded rooftop bar.”

“With her?” Helaena asks, delighted.

“Yes, actually.”

“Okay. Call tomorrow. I wanted to tell you about the praying mantis I found in the garden. Check the weather. Goodbye!” She hangs up before Aemond can.

“Weather…?” he muses, then shakes his head and slips his phone into the pocket of his dark jeans. He returns his attention to you. “Ten thousand blowjobs, huh? I think I’d rather have another ten minutes in a bar bathroom.”

You are so game. It’s humiliating how game you are. Dear Starbaby, today I had slutty bar bathroom sex with your slutty dad, the same place I hooked up with your super slutty uncle. “Really?”

“No,” Aemond says sheepishly. But the corners of his lips are curled up in fond nostalgia. “That’s not my usual style.”

“What is your style?”

He drains his Bramble and turns to you. “Do you want to get out of here?”

You want few things more. “Yeah.”

You leave your empty glasses on a tray by the edge of the roof. Aemond lets Criston know that you’re taking one of the Escalades back to the farm. Aegon pauses his conversation with Taylor Swift just long enough to wink at you. No need for condoms, he mouths with a grin. And then he shouts, as the opening notes of Starboy blare from the speakers: “Stargirl, it’s our song!”

The Escalade makes one pitstop: the Walmart just off Route 210, the same one you always shopped at growing up. Aemond piles the requisite ingredients for vegan chocolate chip cookies in the screechy-wheeled cart, flour, baking soda, salt, white sugar, brown sugar, dark chocolate chips, rice milk (Aemond swears it tastes like Rice Krispies), vanilla extract, coconut oil. You wander down the aisles together talking, joking, finding excuses to touch each other, hands on wrists and collarbones and waists.

As you scan the items at one of the self-checkout kiosks, two guys buying frozen pizzas and White Claws peek over at you and start snickering. You grab snippets of their conversation like fireflies from the air: critiques of your body, critiques of your soul. You ignore them. This happens sometimes when you’re home. Someone from high school will recognize you, someone will remember.

Aemond is staring at them. Not staring; glaring, seething, mentally splitting flesh and dislodging teeth.

“Aemond, it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

“It’s not a big deal. I’m not upset. Just ignore them.” He walks away from you. “Aemond, don’t!”

He grabs the closest man’s shoulder and spins him around. “You got a problem?”

Both men gawk up at him, mouths hanging stupidly open and eyes inane like fish. The one he’s clenching sputters: “I’m sorry, are you…are you…are you Aemond Targaryen?!”

“I’m the guy who’s about to go to prison for second degree murder if you don’t shut the fuck up.”

He puts both hands in the air. “Hey man, I am actively shutting the fuck up. You have a nice evening.”

Aemond releases the man with a shove that sends him staggering back into a rack of tabloids. He returns to you, puts the bags in the cart, starts pushing it out to the parking lot.

The man turns to his friend. He is starstruck, elated. It might be the best day of his life. “Bruh, I just got assaulted by Aemond Targaryen…!”

The Escalade glides through the dark to your parents’ farm and drops you and Aemond off in the dirt driveway before zooming back towards the city. Aemond insists on carrying the shopping bags…but he doesn’t go inside. He stands near where his Gold Star is parked and gazes up at the night sky: moon, stars, the hazy white shadow of the Milky Way, all unmarred by the arrogant, buzzing radiance of electricity.

“Aemond?”

“You can see everything out here,” he says. “Maybe Kansas isn’t so bad.”

“Missouri.”

“Missouri,” Aemond agrees. “But you’re still the best thing about it.”

You smile. “I don’t know the names of any of those constellations.”

He points to show you. “Ursa Major. Ursa Minor. Perseus. Draco. Hercules.”

“Heroes,” you say.

“And animals.” He ascends the steps of the front porch. They creak beneath him, weight that will soon be gone, to New Orleans and Miami and South America and God knows where else.

Your parents are watching the 11:00 news in the den. The weatherman is issuing tentative warnings for tomorrow. Summer is gone, storms are coming in. They politely ask what you and Aemond are up to and then try not to look repulsed when you mention vegan cookies. You’re actually pretty excited; you love cookie dough, and because it will have no raw eggs in it, you can eat as much as you like without endangering Starbaby.

On the kitchen counter is the same CD player that your mom has owned since 2008. You press play on whatever she has currently spinning around in there. MercyMe? TobyMac? Danny Gokey? What you hear instead is Crush by David Archuleta.

“That’s a throwback,” Aemond notes.

“My parents love David Archuleta. He’s Christian, he’s cute, he’s gracious, he doesn’t swear. I remember them incessantly calling in to vote for him when he was on American Idol. They put in a prayer request at church to help him win the competition. I guess God used his executive veto power.”

“Do they know he’s…?” Aemond draws an invisible rainbow in the air with his fingers.

“No, they don’t use Google.”

“We won’t tell them. He needs the record sales.”

You and Aemond mix the cookie dough and then portion it out on a baking sheet. He slides the sheet into the oven, sets the timer, and then notices the reserve of dough you’ve left in the bowl. You dip your pinky finger in and then lick it slowly, savoringly: sweetness, chocolate, fats obtained without the sacrifice of a soul.

“Looks good,” Aemond says, a little hoarsely.

You swipe your index finger around the curve of the bowl and then offer it to Aemond. He holds your hand still and licks your finger clean, his tongue dragging over your skin, goosebumps rising on your arms, heat stirring up everywhere. You’re transfixed by him; you can’t stop watching. Then he closes the gap between you and cups your face in his palms and kisses you, not in some glittering city or on a stage or for an Instagram post but in the kitchen of a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, the home of nobodies. His lips are sweet, swift, seeking more. He only pulls away when the noise of heavy footsteps approaches the kitchen.

“Smells great in here, chickadee! Even if they are vegan cookies.” Your dad says the word vegan like someone else might say the name of a tourist destination halfway across the globe. He can’t quite get the pronunciation right. His eyes snag on the bare skin between your shoulder blades. “Lord almighty, what is that on your back?!”

Your comet tattoo, that’s what. “Uh, Daddy—”

“It was my idea,” Aemond says quickly, seamlessly. “They’re my lyrics. Lyrics I wrote before the accident, I mean. And I was feeling just…purposeless, and useless, and really doubting myself. She wanted to show me that my work still mattered. So when the band was in Rome, Jace got a tattoo and I suggested she get one too. It’s entirely my fault.”

“Huh,” your dad replies uncertainly. “Is that right? Well, I suppose there’s not much to be done about it now.” He chuckles and moves your hair so it’s covering your tattoo. “Let’s not mention it to your mother. She’s already got high blood pressure. Say, can I try one of them cookies when they’re ready?”

Criston and the rest of the band arrive back at the farmhouse just as the cookies are coming out of the oven. Miraculously, no one is drunk enough that your parents are aware of it. Everyone samples the vegan chocolate chip cookies and agrees that they are nearly as delicious as the cruelty-enhanced version. You and Aemond watch each other from across the kitchen that’s now crowded with people, hearing them but also not, wanting more and knowing you can’t have it, here in this place with little privacy and very few remaining secrets.

Comet scrambles to get ready for bed, racing to claim bathrooms and banging on doors to peer pressure people into finishing their showers faster. Back in your bedroom, clean and alone and wearing an oversized Backstreet Boys t-shirt and your favorite Cookie Monster pajama pants, you rearrange your pillows over and over again and try not to think about the band leaving in two days. Strangely, you don’t really want to go with them; you don’t want to board the jet, you don’t want to sightsee, you don’t want to be surrounded by people ingesting poison in all its forms. But the thought of being away from the band—from Aegon, from Aemond—is impossible, unbelievable, horrifying. You’re humming something as you crawl into bed. You don’t even realize what song it is until you’re under the covers and sinking into sleep: The Man Who Can’t Be Moved.

You’re only asleep for ten or fifteen minutes. When you wake your eyes are watery and you can’t remember your dream—you almost never can—but you know that Aemond was there. Now he’s here in your room as well. He’s gently stroking your cheeks, your forehead, sitting on the edge of your bed.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay,” he’s murmuring, only a silhouette in the darkness. But you would recognize him anywhere. “You had a nightmare. You were crying, I heard you.”

“Were you lurking outside my door or what?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead he asks: “What were you dreaming about?”

“You.”

And when you reach for him, he meets you without hesitation, his hands in your hair and his lips on yours, blankets thrown aside, his weight between your thighs, your fingertips ghosting against his face, reading his past and future like braille. He bites your lower lip, nips at the curve of your jaw, kisses a path down your throat like the contrail of an airplane. You yank off his t-shirt. He lifts away yours. He’s touching you everywhere, fingers beneath your pajama pants, smothering his moans against your neck so no one else will hear.

He whispers breathlessly: “I don’t want to rush this time.”

“I’m yours for as long as you want me.” Forever, I hope. And then: “Can I turn on the light? I want to see you.”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. And then he reaches out to click the lamp on. The nightstand is cluttered with your souvenirs: refrigerator magnets, snow globes, figurines, cosmetics, snacks, crochet celestial objects, the frisbee from New Jersey, your plushie sika deer nestled together with the hammerhead shark from the aquarium at the Mandalay Bay. In the weak golden lamplight, you study Aemond like a painting, a marble statue, a comet you’ll only see once in a lifetime.

You say, softly like a prayer if you believed in such things: “You are so fucking beautiful.”

He doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t stop. He wants to see you too. Your clothes are gone, every scrap of fabric and concealment; if he is cognizant of any minuscule changes in your body, he is not suspicious of them. Now he is bare for you as well, now he is pushing your thighs apart so he can marvel at you, taste you, drench his mouth and chin in your wetness, bring you to the edge of a cliff with no bottom, no rocks to rupture against. Now he is inside you, tremendously big but also careful, listening to you, watching every line of your face, slowly, so exquisitely slowly, his tongue darting between your lips and his palm against your cheek. And you remember how Aegon felt—always so simple and yet transient, soothing and welcome but never necessary—and Aemond could not be further from that. Nothing about what you have with him is simple. It is profound and intense and singular, and the thought of it not lasting forever is agony.

Afterwards, he retrieves his vintage metal lighter—small, square, Targaryen etched into one side—and a shimmery gold pack of his Benson & Hedges cigarettes out of the pocket of his pajama pants that are crumpled on the floor. He lies on his back and takes deep, drowsy drags, smoke like opaque morning mist in the air, one arm draped across you as you rest your head on his chest, lungs and heart and bones and blood.

Secondhand smoke isn’t good for the baby. You get up out of bed and sneak across the treacherously creaky hardwood floor. “Let me open a window.”

“So your parents won’t know?”

“Yeah.” You push the window open and then turn to him. “You should stop smoking. It’s really bad for you.”

Aemond smiles faintly. “Why would I care about that?”

“It’s bad for the people who love you too.”

He looks at you for what feels like a very long time. “Come back,” he says at last.

You do: to Aemond, to his warmth and lust and tenderness, to the space he occupies that will soon be empty like the vast expanses between comets, between stars.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I would like to say something.” You rise from your seat at your parents’ long dining room table, perfect for hosting judgmental-church-people gatherings and family reunions. Lunch for Comet Donati is steak and baked potatoes, lovingly prepared by your mom just before she and your dad left in their Ford F-150. It’s Sunday, and your parents will be at church socializing with their friends until late afternoon. Aemond is suffering through another meal of boxed spaghetti and Ragu marinara sauce. He doesn’t seem to have much of an appetite; not for food, anyway. You take turns glancing at each other and then looking away, smiling, flushing. Now he is intrigued by your announcement. His brow knits into thoughtful little grooves. The Australian cattle dogs scuttle around under the table for scraps. The television is on in the den. A tornado watch has been issued for the greater Kansas City area; no big deal, they get alerts like this once or twice a week here sometimes. It rarely amounts to carnage. Outside the sky is a tumultuous grey but not especially sinister at the moment: no greenish hue, no cloud rotation.

“You agree that Aegon hooking up with Taylor Swift would be disastrous for everyone involved,” Jace jokes.

“No, I know what it is,” Aegon says. He pokes at his baked potato with his fork, melancholy.

“I want to thank you for giving me this amazing opportunity,” you tell Comet. You have perhaps not dressed for an occasion of this significance: flip flops, a tie-dye One Direction hoodie, an old pair of shorts you found in your bedroom dresser. You like the way Aemond watches you when you wear them. “And I’ve experienced so many things, and learned so much from all of you, and I sincerely hope that we’re going to be in each other’s lives forever. But for right now…for this tour…Kansas City is my last stop with Comet.”

“What?!” Baela cries.

“No!” Rhaena gasps, her dark doe-like eyes glistening.

People are asking you why, people are asking you to reconsider. Aemond only stares, a sharp hostile look, menacing like storm clouds.

“I really, really appreciate everyone’s concern. But it’s been over three months, and this was never intended to be a permanent arrangement. Right, Aegon?”

“Right,” he reluctantly agrees.

“And it’s time for me to figure out what the rest of my life is going to look like, because I can’t just follow Comet around the world forever.”

Cregan nods to Criston. “Did you know about this?”

“I did, yeah,” Criston confesses. “We finished up the paperwork last week.”

“But we’re going to miss you,” Baela says. She sounds shockingly close to tears. Jace tries to soothe her and she shrugs his hand away.

“I know,” you concede. “And I’m going to miss you too. But we’ll still talk all the time, and I’m always willing to help you guys with anything, and maybe in the future I can visit—”

Aemond stands, his chair squealing against the hardwood floor, and flees from the dining room.

“That went well,” Jace says.

Aegon points towards the doorway Aemond left through and asks you: “Do you want me to…?”

“No, I’ll do it,” you say, and go after Aemond. He’s outside by the pigpen, his hair and t-shirt whipping wildly in the strengthening gusts of late-September air. Sparse raindrops fall from the sky. The pigs are agitated, pacing, oinking, scampering in and out of the shed they have for shelter. Aemond is smoking, embers glowing on the end of his cigarette; you purposefully stand upwind from him.

His voice is stunned and dazed and beneath that dangerously angry. “You’re leaving the tour.”

“Yes.”

“When we get on that jet tomorrow, you’re not going with us.”

“No, I’m not.”

“And you told Aegon and Criston but you didn’t tell me.”

“I had to tell Criston. And Aegon…” What can I say? What is the truth? “Aegon is easier to talk to about things like this.”

“So you feel like you can’t talk to me?” Aemond demands.

“Well, yeah, because sometimes you’re kind and patient and the single most incredible man I’ve ever met, and then something rattles your demons awake and you’re this…this…this vengeful, mistrustful, irrationally insecure person, and I can’t do anything right because you’ve already decided what my intentions are.”

“I want you to stay with Comet,” he says suddenly.

“I can’t, Aemond.”

“In Tokyo you asked me what I want, so now I’m telling you. I want you to stay.”

“Why, so you can sometimes love me and sometimes hate me, and refuse to build a new life for yourself, and relive what happened at the Budokan over and over and over again because that’s the background noise of everything you do now? Why?”

He gestures vaguely. “So we can figure things out.”

“I’m figured out, Aemond! You’re the one who isn’t and I can’t help you anymore, you have to do it for yourself, you have to want it!”

“You’ve never wanted to stay with me. You’re a liar, you’re a user. I’m glad Comet could fill that gap in your resume.” He takes a forceful drag and exhales smoke that the wind snatches away. “All you do is keep things from me.”

Venomous, violent disappointment blooms dark and scarlet in your veins. “You have no idea how much I’ve kept from you.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

You watch him, mourn him, commit him to memory for when you can’t see him anymore, every thread of him, miraculous and doomed. Saint Jude, you think, a man your parents as good Southern Baptists do not pray to. You tell Aemond: “You’re a lost cause.”

“And you’re a nobody.”

You turn away from him like ripping a page in two. You don’t want anyone to see the tears welling up in your eyes, escaping down your cheeks, marking you as someone who was weak enough to believe you could save him. You know that’s not the way it works, you know people have to be willing to accept the truths you help them uncover like prehistoric bones. Still, you believed in him. Why? Why?

Because I wanted to. Because I love him.

Your flip flops pound against the soil of the driveway, raindrops leaving spots like freckles, dust flying everywhere. You swipe at the tears that blur your vision. When you are far enough away that nobody can see you from the farmhouse, you rest your trembling hands on your belly. The life in progress there is half-built of Aemond, you carry pieces of him around with you like coins jangling in you pocket. You can’t forget him. You can’t forgive him. It shouldn’t be possible to be so close to somebody and yet so far away.

There’s no one out on Route 210. Your flip flops cross from a dirt road to black pavement. You lose track of how long you’ve been walking. Five minutes, ten minutes, it doesn’t matter. What are minutes when your mind is years away?

How will I keep Aegon in my life without tabloids finding out about the baby? What will I tell my child when they ask who their father is?

A vicious wind, so strong it snaps branches from trees and almost knocks you over. And then you hear it, that sound that every inhabitant of the Lower Midwest knows: a deep rumbling like a train. You peer up into a sky that is dark and murderous and glowing a strange sickly green. And above your head, spiraling with increasing speed: a funnel cloud, an emergent tornado.

~~~~~~~~~~

Criston is herding everyone towards the cellar, bellowing, waving frantically: Aegon, Luke, Rhaena, Jace, Baela, Cregan, Daeron, five yelping Australian cattle dogs. Through the window, they can see the tornado approaching the farmhouse, a column of shadowy atmospheric fury, unpredictable and unstoppable, here and then gone, the meteorological version of a comet.

Aemond slams the door as he sprints inside from the field behind the house. He breaths heavily, his chest heaving as his clear right eye studies the band’s panicked faces. “Where is she?”

“What the fuck do you mean ‘where is she’?!” Aegon pitches back. “She was with you! She’s with you, right?!”

Aemond looks at Aegon, looks through the glass at the tornado, grabs the keys to his 1960 Gold Star off the dining room table.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re running, but you can’t see; there’s dust and debris everywhere, there are pieces of trees and fences careening through the air, when you breath you choke on airborne earth. The wind keeps pushing you off the road and then you have to fight your way back. You have to find your parents’ driveway. You have to get to the house. The sun is gone, and the roaring like a freight train is louder, louder, louder. And now there is another sound too, a different sort of growling, mechanical and familiar. Punching through the haze like a bullet, Aemond and his Gold Star screech to a stop beside you.

“Get on!” he screams over the storm, then helps drag you onto the seat behind him. You link your arms around his waist and then you’re flying together, just like Rome, just like before Reykjavik or Paris or Singapore or Tokyo or East Rutherford or Las Vegas or any of the other cities happened, back when you believed you could cure him like a witch with a spell, back when you wanted him in a way that was unburdened by truths you wish you didn’t know.

The Gold Star rockets by trees, utility poles, fence posts seconds before they are ripped from the ground by 200 miles per hour winds. Aemond steers roughly onto the dirt road of your parents’ driveway. You cling to him, breathing him in: smoke, cologne, memories, nightmares, dreams. In the rearview mirror is a maelstrom of dark, churning grey peppered with wreckage.

Something collides with the motorcycle, a pence post, a tree limb, you don’t know, it doesn’t matter. The Gold Star is knocked off the driveway like a bloodied tooth from a jaw. You sail off of it as it begins to roll; you hit the ground hard on your back, loose a pitiful wounded howl, try to start crawling towards the farmhouse.

“No, stay down, stay down!” Aemond is saying over the roar of the tornado. He covers you, he shields you, he pins you to the ground, he puts his hands over your eyes. The last thing you see is the Gold Star lying on its side a few yards away, its wheels still rotating. It’s over 400 pounds, too heavy for Aemond to lift even if you helped him, even if that couldn’t hurt the baby.

The baby?? Your own hands go to your belly. You try to ascertain if the heat throbbing in your back has traveled anywhere else, reached with blood-red, needle-sharp talons to your child, to your future.

The wind is letting up; is that your imagination? No, the tornado is receding, the debris fall to the earth, the deafening runaway train made of rogue air evaporates. Cautiously, Aemond rises from you. When you look at him, the right side of his face is riddled with shallow, bleeding gashes; but his eye is mercifully unharmed.

“Aemond,” you say, pained, reaching for him, trying to clean the blood from his face with your sleeves, a hoodie with some boy band on it, men you don’t know and don’t care to meet, fantasies that pale in comparison to the reality that stains you like rust.

“I’m fine, are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I think so…”

They come stampeding down the driveway: Criston, the rest of Comet, the barking Australian cattle dogs.

“Oh my God, they’re alive!” Jace exclaims, and soon everyone is there, surrounding you and Aemond like a circle, a ring, an orbit, something that goes around and around and might fade but never ends.

You aren’t worried about the baby. There’s no cramping, no pain except the throbbing in the curve of your back, blood loosed and then trapped, indigo bruises tattooed under your skin like ink. You press your palms to the earth and brace yourself so you can stand. No one is helping you get up; why is no one helping you? Why are they only staring, gasping, covering their mouths with shaking hands?

“You’re bleeding,” Aemond says, a panicked voice through fog. Slowly, like trying to run in a dream, you look down. There are thin rivulets of scarlet snaking their way down your thighs, calves, shins, ankles, painless ruinous tributaries, constellations unraveling until the patterns cease to exist, no myths, no monsters, no men, just senseless pinpricks of distant light you’ll never know the names of.

“No,” you whisper, like you can stop it from happening if you refuse to believe it, like it’s a mistake you can talk yourself out of. You gaze up at Aegon. Knowledge flies between you, something shared like an heirloom or an oath.

“Call an ambulance,” Aegon says to Cregan. “Tell them that she’s…” His eyes dart to Aemond and then back to you. “Tell them to hurry.”

Aemond is holding you, he is touching your face, he is asking: “Are you cut, do you need stitches—?”

“I’m alright, it’s nothing, it’s—”

“What are you talking about?! It’s not nothing, you’re bleeding, why are you bleeding?”

“Aemond, it’s nothing—”

“Tell me what to do, tell me how to help you!”

“It’s just…” And a sob breaks from your throat, and your words are brittle and splintering, and you can’t lie to him anymore. You’re out of time in so many ways. “It’s just the baby.”

#aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #aegon ii #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen ii

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gabessquishytum · 4 months

Note

Orpheus runs away, from Calliope and Dream.

His parents are getting a divorce - not that they've told him. Both his parents treat Orpheus like a baby; he's not a baby. And the house is either too loud with them yelling at each other (most times about him) or too silent with them stonily not talking to each other.

So Orpheus grabs some of his stuff and just goes. He makes it as far as his favorite duck park, near that neat pub that has the best hot chocolate that Dad will take him to some times.

He doesn't know what to do, he's got his little suitcase and sadness,,,,,and now the ducks.

Robin sees a kid with a suitcase sitting on the bench near the duck pond. He knows that his dad wouldn't want him to ignore a sad kid alone in the park.....so he goes over to say hi.

Orpheus has his head down, trying not to cry, when he sees bright pink, muddy, wellies in his field of vision. He looks up and sees a boy about his age with freckles, dark brown eyes and messy hair. The boy asks Orpheus if he's alright; Orpheus says he isn't. The boy says that's okay my dad can fix anything, do you want to come with me to talk to him?

Orpheus knows all about stranger danger, but the boy seems nice, and says that his dad is at their inn...Oh, Orpheus likes the inn with the hot chocolate. So when the boy, Robin, offers his hand, Orpheus takes it and his suitcase, and they walk to the inn.

Hob was working on the books and knew that Robin was mucking about in the park next door. And now he can even hear his voice a little over the afternoon din of the bar. He's probably talked the staff into making him an extra large (dinner ruining) hot chocolate.

He was not expecting to see Robin with another little boy who Hob didn't recognize, who seems to have a small suitcase with him.

Hob bending down to kiss his boy on the forehead: Hey, Songbird, who's your new friend?

Robin: This is Orpheus. I met him in the park. He needs help. And I told him you're the best at helping!

Hob knew encouraging Robin to help would get him in trouble, but he was expecting a stray puppy or feral cat, not a whole little boy. But okay, Hob will roll with it. And Hob listens as Orpheus tells him all about his problems.

By this point Dream and Calliope realize Orpheus is not in the house; that he's gone. They are frantic, especially after they find his little suitcase gone. He can't have gone far, he just can't have, so they each take a direction - Dream heads towards the duck park and then thinks to head to the pub, since he's been there a time or two with Orpheus. Maybe someone would have seen something.

Just as Dream was opening the door to the pub, his phone starts to ring. Hob had convinced Orpheus to give him his dad's number and was calling him.

Hob was actually walking towards to front door, leaving the boys with their giant hot chocolates, as the call connects,,,,bumping into Dream picking up his call.

Aww, I really feel for lil Orpheus here. With his little suitcase and his teddybear. He's convinced that his mum and dad are fighting because of him (and he's also just angry at them for fighting, because it’s scary). In the moment, living at the park with the ducks sounds like a very good alternative to home.

But of course once he gets there, he's rather scared and miserable, and quite happy to get inside with Robyn. Robyn's daddy seems very nice and sensible, and Orpheus is actually quite relieved that his mum and dad are going to come and get him. The hot chocolate is pretty good too.

Hob, meanwhile, has an armful of terrified skinny goth man, and about 45 seconds later, another armful of terrified beautiful goddess woman. He wrangles the two of them into the pub's little snug room (in sight of the boys), sits them both down with a hot chocolate each, and... tells them to start talking.

Dream and Calliope haven't agreed about anything for a very long time, but faced with a gorgeous, stern, doe eyed pub owner, they find themselves suddenly sympathising with each other. They're both blushing and squirming and hating themselves for being horny when they just nearly lost their son... but hey. At least they've got one thing in common now.

#the sandman #immortal throuple #dream x hob x calliope

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secretagentsociety · 1 year

Text

Huge yandere X extremely concerningly chill reader pt2

We all know the drill eng isn't my first language,I didn't proof read yada yada and this is again just self indugent

more about huge yandere!

•first thing first the world you're in Because no!people no no this fic is not taking place in our normal modern world that would be boring.to write,anyway this world is a fantasy world called gaia,it have worrior,villains,heroes,fairy,god goddesses,elf,goblins and even the legendary m.i.l.f. and d.i.l.f so there's that.

In my defense who doesn't know a fantasy magic based world amirite? Alr we done? We cool with this? Moving on!!

• so whats like his deal?,like what's his backstory?Well you're in luck!bcuz I have just the thing!firstly he hails from a humble beginning-

Nah he's the hero of this world,yes you heard it right the righteous hero,summoned isekaid typical op mc but he's just built naturally tall and naturally scary so ppl thought of him as a devil and basically discredit his hero Status, The mages then proceed to summon another hero a more traditional looking one yk?suave,cool,has way with words and prolly have a whole harem?yes that replaced our beloved yandere

oh but it's fine!he doesn't rlly see the point of a harem,in his eyes there can only be one person he shall devote his life into And that is you!:D his beautiful dearest darling (yes even if you're a dude you'd still be beautiful to him)(no exceptions)

• now that his backstory is over let's get to know him really His name is Tresh (real name unknown)(goes by Tresh cuz yes)

his height?that depends how tall are you?now take that and add about...hmmm....alot more than that and bam!you have his height!(How many is alot more is unspecified,go ham make him a giant for all we care :P)

His appearance typical scary mobster but still kinda cute kinda hot ya feel me?,like wouldn't be the first guy you laid your eyes on but wouldn't be the dude you forget instantly

his hair is basically just black with little white strand to it His eye colour plain brown just normal brown that looked like black nothin special but it's cute yk?I love brown eyes,they cool,they vibing

•his job? well he's basically a hero?villain?who knows not even me the author knows,but I could tell you this,since he is the original hero the world favours him GREATLY!

so don't even try to run cuz some of the most ridiculous sht will happen to you like for example tripping on a stick and bam! Right into his arm how you get there?idk.

and since he basically got the world's favor he's strong as fk remember? he's mc,typical op and yada yada all that jazzy plot armor,yes he had those even if he's 'replaced' the only thing the new hero can obtain is just the thing he never pursue After

which he felt lucky that he pursue you (he say pursue I say kidnapping,but yk what tomato potato) Before the new hero,cuz just the thought of you being eyed by that sleezy womaniser!perverted!douchebag! new hero made him angry to the point his mana spills out causing a not so good natural disaster

Oh well he's sure the new hero will fix it :D

• how jealous CAN he get Now I mentioned previously he's jealous as fk,now his jealousy doesn't show Infront of you,although if it did you prolly wouldn't even gaf,but behind you oh boy...

honestly had you not been aware of you surroundings?!

basically everyone avoided gazing at you for more than 5 seco-i mean 3-no?ok 2 seconds???- okay he gotta stop or everyone gonna have to use a blindfold just to keep the empire peaceful and away from his wrath

may or may not have had his loyal subordinates to trail after you,not to stalk you or anything (yes it's to stalk you) it's just to take records of what you're doing everyday (which is stalking) but it's not rlly stalking if it's for your safety (nope still stalking) he just loves you so much what if you got injured?!and he wasn't there?! Oh god the horror of paper cuts you could be in pain!!(cool motif still stalking)

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

Have to stop here bcuz it'll be too long,I shall continue later.

Pt1

#yandere male #yandere oc x reader #yandere hero #yandere x darling #Tw yandere

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tojiscumdumpster · 4 months

Text

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ PART ONE - TOJI

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ summary page

✧ content warnings unaliving of major character.

“Any last words?”

Within the next few minutes, I’ll be dead. I knew this the moment I saw that blue-eyed freak reappear after when I thought I killed him. Fucking sorcerers and their cursed technique bullshit. Maybe I was too confident thinking I would win the second time. I doubted myself at first, but then I calmed down… No .

I was just too confident.

A world like this wasn’t meant for a monkey like me. I was born into a fucked up family that treated me like shit because I didn’t have any cursed technique. The scar on my lip reminds me of it every day. I got over it, though. I accepted this was my faith. I served my purpose and it was time for me to go.

Still, I can’t help but wish I made it out alive. That I had a little bit more time.

“Nah,” I replied, vaguely.

How am I supposed to answer some cliché question like that?

Any last words?

Why would I tell him that?

Tell him about the thoughts and images that’s in my head.

Tell him that I had a wife who actually saw some good in me. Good enough to get pregnant and raise a kid together. Tch, me? Toji Fushiguro? A husband and father? I never thought I would live to see the day. And of course, it didn’t last long.

My wife died because of an incurable sickness. I never felt pain before. Not when I’m standing here with half my body blown off. Not when my family tortured me. But the day she died, I felt pain. I didn’t cry. I just felt empty. Felt like I had no reason to be decent anymore. How was I supposed to raise a kid by myself?

She told me I was going to be okay.

I wasn’t okay.

I’m a fucked a person.

A fucked up father.

I was never meant to carry responsibility because it never lasts long. Good things don’t last long. Death will always be endgame. So I went on with my life. I left my kid to fend for himself. Even Kong tried helping me take care of him, which was a waste on his part.

There was no point.

I was never made to be a fucking dad. Me selling my son to my family is better than what I could’ve done for him. It wouldn’t make any difference if I was or was not in his life because I would never be good enough to be a father. . . A person . . . But I met. . . Her .

In my final moments, I think of my late wife, my son, and her.

Y/N.

Another person who managed to see the impurity I have in me as pure.

What I had with Y/N was accidental. Not in a bad way, but we met on a whim. I met her at a bar a few months after my wife died. She was just so…vibrant. Special. Y/N puts words in my vocabulary I thought I kept reserved for my late wife.

Gorgeous. Breathtaking. Sexy. Deep brown skin, and a bed of coils on her head that smelled like honey and pomegranate. Curves of a siren but a face of a goddess. I wanted her to lose herself in me…

It seems like I lost myself in her.

A one night stand turned into every night. Sex turned into conversations, and conversations turned into…

Feelings.

A sick motherfucker like me who killed a teenager for money, almost killed one who fucking did reversed cursed technique to come back to life, and left another badly beaten, has feelings. For another woman who isn’t my dead wife.

The shit I got myself into with Y/N, having unspoken feelings for a woman I’m never going to see again, and she is a part of my last dying memories.

I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to this fucking sunlight beaming in my face every time I sleep here. Y/N says light helps you through the day, so being met with it first thing in the moment will give you the energy that you need.

Whatever that means.

However, I would be lying if I said I don’t feel calm right now, especially after last night.

We had an argument like we’re a couple. We’re not. I don’t know what exactly is going on between me and Y/N, but I know I’m selfish enough to claim her as mine without actually having a title. I made it very clear that I would kill anyone that she tries to move on with, and I have every intention of keeping that promise.

And I know she’s probably getting sick of this complicated situation we have.

I fuck her, we talk, and when I felt like it was getting too real, I leave for weeks then return when I think I have my feelings under control.

But see that’s the thing, no matter how long or far away I am from Y/N, I’ll never have what I feel for her under control.

What I feel is indescribable. She makes me feel like I have a choice to be better. To do better, and when I’m around her, I think that I want to.

I sound like a fucking sap. Toji Fushiguro, the Zen’in fuck up, having feelings all because of her. Love is foreign to me. Never thought I would come close to experiencing it again, but Y/N helps me find the meaning.

And even if I never said those words to her before, I feel it.

I feel it when I wake up in her bed, laying in the sheets that carry her lingering scent. Vanilla. Almonds. A hint of jasmine with sweet berries.

I feel it when I walk into the kitchen to see her cooking breakfast while wearing my shirt.

Fuck, she’s so goddamn sexy and beautiful. Morning wood is getting harder by the second.

My arms find Y/N’s waist to wrap around and pull into my erection so she can feel what she does to me.

“‘Morning, sweets,” I grumble, kissing the sweet spot behind her ear. She relaxes into my arms, but still manages to cook.

“I see you’re finally up… and here,” she says with a soft smile on her face.

“We are up.” We, meaning my cock and I. “And I am here. I told you I was staying the night. Thought I was lying?”

“No, I thought something might’ve come up. You know—with your sorcerer killing business.”

I hum. “Not today, but I do have something to handle in a couple of days.” Soon I need to take down the fake bounty I put out for the Star Plasma Vessel to make my move.

Y/N’s body tenses, shoulders becoming rigid and putting distance between us due to me telling her that I’m leaving soon. She turns off the stove, puts down the cooking spoon and turns to look at me. I know she’s mad at me. More so, disappointed. I just can’t help but think how fucking gorgeous she is, especially in the morning.

“You’re leaving already?” she asks. “I haven’t seen you in weeks, Toji. Where are you going now?”

“I’m not going anywhere far. I’ll be in Tokyo. It’s a quick job, then I’ll come back to you.”

Y/N purses those full pretty lips and crosses her arms over her chest, causing the swell of her breasts to be seen.

Now isn’t the time to have horny thoughts about her, but fuck.

“Whatever. Breakfast is ready. You can grab a plate.” Y/N turns to walk away from me. “I’m going to start getting ready for work.”

“Hey,” I say, grabbing her wrist to pull her back into my arms. This time, enclosing her tightly so she doesn’t leave until I let her. “I said I’m coming back to you. Didn’t I?”

“Yeah, and you always fucking say that. Don’t you? What makes this time different?”

“Because I-” Before those words escaped my mouth, I looked away.

The stare of Y/N’s round chestnut-colored eyes weigh on me while she waits for me to speak.

It’s quiet. Early morning, all that is heard is the birds chirping, making the silence between me and Y/N even fucking louder. We’re like this for about thirty-seconds until she realizes my unfinished words.

Her face softens. “You… what?”

“Y/N…” I sigh. “It’s not easy for me. These fucking words. These emotions. They’re all jumbled in my head. I just-”

“When you come back.” She interrupts, however, I don’t understand what she’s saying, so she continues. “Promise me, whatever you were going to say to me, promise that you’ll say it when you come back.”

“Sweets-”

“Just promise.” Her voice slightly breaks, eyes already glossing from the near tears.

I look at Y/N and see peace. Hope. Maybe’s and what ifs. Again, feelings that are foreign to me. Feelings I should be incapable of feeling. Shit, I fucking hate this… Then again, I don’t.

She doesn’t deserve the half-assessed bullshit I’ve been giving her. The inconsistency, and lack of commitment.

And I don’t deserve anything she gives me. Her time. Honestly. Empathy. Hell, not even the sex. But she gives it to me because she sees some shit in me that I don’t.

Maybe… maybe I should try again…

Just for her.

“I promise.”

Some promise that fucking was.

I told Y/N I’ll be back later on tonight. Told her to get pretty so I can take her out to dinner. Unless I magically gain reverse cursed technique, I think my time on this earth and with Y/N has come to an end.

I should’ve never made that damn promise. Not because I didn’t think I couldn’t keep it. But because she’s holding onto something that’s never going to happen.

That smile. Her scent. The peace she gave me… all of it was temporary. I knew a fuck up like me didn’t have any true purpose in this world. Today is the day I atone to my sins.

I’m surrounded by grey, black, and white, where the only ounce of color I felt in years, is when I was with Y/N.

I’ll never see her again, so the least I could do is this.

After I told this little Gojo fuck about my kid, I attempted one more request.

“Actually, if you could go to these brown apartments in Shibuya outside of Ebisu Station,” —I cough up blood— “there are the only ones with that color, fourth floor, fifth door to your left. Tell her… Tell her I’m not coming.”

He looks at me with confusion.

It was worth a try.

“If you won’t, then what-”

“Okay,” he answers, flatly.

I’m sorry, Y/N.

I’m so sorry I broke our promise.

Again.

Fuck, why does my heart feel like this? It feels… broken.

NEXT CHAPTER

#jjk x black reader #anime x black!reader #toji x black reader #toji fushigro x reader #toji x reader #toji angst #jjk angst

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kittysdiary · 9 months

Text

Kitty’s Guide to Fall/Winter 2023

You’ve all LOVED my season guides so it’s only fair that I continue the tradition and make a fall/winter guide for 2023! In this guide I’ll be going over important topics that will outline what the kitty energy is going to be for the cold + cozy season. This guide will give you a month to prep for a bombshell fall/winter! 🍂🥧🎀

Kitty Energy This Fall/Winter

For this coming season I’m definitely going for that off duty supermodel look. Bombshell curls, doe eyed lash extensions, brown lipglosses and warm toned neutral eyeshadows with a pop of glitter. Layered looks are a must for these up and coming cold months. This years color palette will range from pink, cream, browns and dark denim.

Beauty

Pressed matte powders

Charlotte Tilbury + Patrick Ta are the makeup brand vibes for this up and coming season

Brown lip liners and neutral pink glosses

Long + fluffed lashes. Go for lashes with that seductive cat eye look!

New body butters, face creams, hand creams and face masks that draw in moisture. Weather change can cause dryness + irritation so focusing on products that hydrate is a must!!

French tip nails + toes

Fragrances with warm notes. Ex.) vanilla, cinnamon, spices + cashmere.

Valentino Donna Born in Roma Intense, Dior Poison & Mugler Alien Goddess.

Bellami hair extensions

Hair colors -> blonde, chestnut, deep chocolate brown + jet black.

Messy buns, high ponytails, curtain bangs + sleek styles.

Fashion

Fur coats + fur details that give off trophy wife energy.

Sterling sliver and pretty gold accessories

Bow details

Victoria Secret silk pajama sets + slippers

La Perla and Agent Provocateur lingerie pieces

Tote bags or top handle bags. Find bags with lots of space so you can fill it with travel sized lotion, moisturizer and hand sanitizer.

Knitted cashmere sweaters with a turtleneck to look elegant and cozy.

Velour tracksuits

Fuzzy lounge wear sets + lounge cardigans to wear around the house.

Ear muffs

Pearl + diamond statement pieces

Fluffy slippers

Pink, cream, brown, black + dark denim.

Cheetah and leopard print staple pieces

Small + thick gold hoops

Gloves with a fur trim

Ankle boots + luxurious high heels. Flats for busy days when you’re on your feet like at work.

Essentials

Booked spa, hair and nail appointments

Cozy comforter + blankets

Car maintenance

Snow boots

Invest in bubble bath soaps, bath salts + candles for a relaxing night in.

Buy new calendars, planners + stationary.

Purchase new dishes, silverware and mugs for holiday hosting.

Holiday decor

Thick tights, leggings, leg warmers + undershirts

Uggs

Thermo cups

Cold/flu medicine

Umbrella

Tea + tea brewer

Lip balm

#my post #tips #fall/winter 2023 #kitty’s guide

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gelus-ugs · 1 year

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Mori x Black, Fem! Reader

—————————————————————

Established relationship, the host club meeting Mori’s s/o they had no idea about 👀

—————————————————————

“Takashi~ Please!”

The short blonde whined as he clung onto the taller male’s leg. He responded with a mere grunt as his eyebrows were furrowed in frustration.

“Why not?! Takashi!”

Mori did his best to ignore his cousin as he trudged into the music room with the wailing male glued to his leg.

Mori was thankful that today wasn’t a hosting day, or else he would’ve been dreading the concerned looks from the guests as he had to come up with a lie to explain why Honey was throwing a tantrum.

“What’s up with him?”

Haruhi asked as she questioningly eyed the blonde. Mori let out a frustrated sigh as his expression was less than pleased - something that was way out of character for the black haired male.

“T-Takashi has a girlfriend, but he won’t let me meet her!”

Honey continued to cry as he stuck to the leg of his poor cousin in hopes to get him to change his mind. The rest of the hosts overheard the male - seeing as he wasn’t necessarily being quiet - and began to gather around Mori.

“You have a girlfriend?!”

“Since when were you seeing someone?”

“I wanna meet her too!”

“You never told us you had a girlfriend!”

Mori felt himself being overwhelmed as he was bombed with sudden questions left and right. Haruhi decided to step in and push the rests of the hosts - including Honey - away from Mori and gave the male a chance to breathe.

“Guys, let’s not overwhelm him. I’m sure he’ll be willing to answer questions one at a time”

“Is it true, Mori-Senpai? Do you really have a girlfriend?”

Tamaki eagerly asked. All eyes were on Mori as he felt himself become uneasy. His cheeks tinted a light shade of pink as his gaze drifted to the side, slowly nodding in the process. Gasps could be heard from the other hosts as Honey was quick to ask the next question.

“Does she go here, Taka-Chan? Could we all meet her?!”

Mori shook his head no, disappointment radiating from the hosts. Haruhi tilted her head in confusion,

“How do you know her then, Mori-Senpai?”

“Middle school”

“Do I know her, do I know her?!”

Honey eagerly asked, which caused Mori to think before shaking his head no.

“Could we meet her, Senpai?”

Mori hesitated as everyone eagerly awaited his answer.

“…Maybe”

~•~

It was a normal hosting day for the club, guests coming and going as the hosts entertained whoever they were assigned to. The day eventually came to an end as the last few guests took their leave.

“Taka-Chan! Aren’t you coming home?”

Honey looked up at his taller cousin, who shook his head in response. The rest of the hosts looked at the male in confusion, finding it odd that he wasn’t leaving - especially with Honey.

“What’s the matter, Senpai? Are you waiting for someone?”

Haruhi asked, to which Mori nodded. Before anyone else could ask questions, one of the doors to the music room suddenly opened. Everyone turned to see the most unique girl they had ever seen.

Her hair was an unusual texture, and in a unique style they had never seen. Glasses framed her face perfectly as her eyes peeked from behind. She wasn’t wearing Ouran’s uniform. In fact, she was wearing [outfit of your choice], which seemed to match her perfectly.

Although, what stood out the most was her skin. It was darker than any of them had ever seen. It was a beautiful shade of brown that lightened at the palm of her hands. Her skin was smooth and beautiful, it was almost like they were staring at a goddess from a fairytale.

The female questioningly scanned the room before locking eyes with a certain black haired male. Her expression immediately lightened as a smile made its was to her lips.

“Takashi!”

The female casually strode up to the tall male, wasting no time embracing him with a hug as he returned the gesture.

“Sorry I’m a bit late, I got lost. Your instructions were thorough, but I got a bit confused”

The female apologized as she removed herself from the hug, sheepishly looking up at her lover. Mori smiled, placing his hand on the top of her head to let her know that it was okay.

“Are you Taka-Chan’s girlfriend!?”

The female’s arm was suddenly yanked as she came face-to-face with a short blonde. The female hesitated, turning around to face Mori. The male gave her a reassuring nod, the girl smiling before turning to face the short boy.

“I am. I’m [Y/n] [L/n]”

“Woah! You’re so pretty!”

Honey enthusiastically complimented, which earned a light chuckle from [Y/n].

“Thank you!”

“So, how exactly did you and Mori-Senpai meet?”

The twins simultaneously asked, raising their eyebrows as their gaze shifted between [Y/n] and Mori. The male had a faint blush on his cheeks as he looked away, [Y/n] - on the other hand - grabbed ahold of Mori’s hand and smiled.

“It’s a funny story, actually. I had to bring some papers to the school’s nurse, but the nurse wasn’t there and instead I saw Takashi attempting to wrap a bruise on his arm with one hand. He was obviously struggling, so I helped him out. He’s been stuck with me ever since”

[Y/n] joked, playfully nudging Mori with the side of her hip.

“I can’t believe you’ve never introduced me to [Y/n]-Chan, Takashi! She’s so cool!”

The short blonde whined to his cousin, who let out a grunt.

“Agreed! Although, you and your accent are very unique. Where are you from - if I may ask?”

Tamaki genuinely questioned with a tilt of his head. [Y/n] smiled,

“I’m from [country of origin], but moved to Japan five years ago when I was thirteen. My dad’s Japanese and my mom’s black!”

[Y/n] explained. As she talked more about her origin and past to the club, Mori smiled at his significant other.

Maybe I should’ve introduced her sooner.

#x reader #ohshc x reader #ohshc #ouran highschool host club #takashi morinozuka #mori x reader #takashi morinozuka x reader #black reader

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heyysteven · 2 years

Text

Moon Nights

Summary: You wake up in the night and watch Steven sleep.

Pairing: Steven Grant x reader

Warnings: Fluff (like lots of it)

A/N: its my first fic! Loosely based on an idea i had weeks ago, let me know what you think!

Steven Grant couldn’t clean his apartment for shit.

Decked in dark décor, his apartment was filled with piles and piles of books, each one towering higher than the previous, his beloved one finned orange fish, Gus and some vintage furniture that you’ve seen him use occasionally. The brown hardwood floor was scattered with letters and dirty laundry and you were pretty sure you had seen him push his muddy shoes deep under his bed. Despite being the biggest homebody, it looked like Steven was rarely home.

The condition of his apartment would have really bothered you, if you weren’t so busy staring at his sleeping frame.

The beaming moonlight that poured in from the huge blue tinted windows illuminated Steven’s face. It was really impossible to look away when he looked so unbelievably magical. You laid there on his chest, slowly rising and falling, silently adoring his moonlit face. The sound of his light snores made you smile. Even while sleeping, he somehow managed to feel like a warm place you belonged to. He felt like your home.

You carefully reached for his forehead, and traced a small heart around the arch of his eyebrows with your fingertips.

“One of these days, I’m gonna marry you and this will be the favorite part of our nights.” You whispered a promise and gently pressed your lips on his cheek. You stopped yourself before you smothered his stupidly handsome face with kisses.

You knew you were in love with Steven. You knew that ever since you had caught him staring at you from across the museum. You knew that ever since with a shy smile and an awkward demeanor, he had asked for your name. You had been in love with him when he introduced you to his fish and every time he’d call you to say he missed you.

Every day felt perfect with him.

Every gust of wind felt fresh, every star placed in the perfect position, every beat of music was singing to your happiness. You were with the sweetest man alive and even though it took weeks, you finally even had the approval of his precious fish.

You turned to look at Gus at the thought. Deep in his fish castle, you could see him snoozing like his owner. It was strange how something so significantly small could make you feel so welcomed. You imagined coming home to the sound of Steven having long conversations with Gus talking about pyramids and pharaohs while feeding him chunks of flaked fish food. You imagined being a part of their everyday lives. The thought of having Steven be that one person you can always come back to filled your heart.

Steven made you feel every corner, every depth of your heart. His touches were golden, healing with its warmth, his laughter had the power to cast spells and capture anyone in its hold, and his eyes were pools of thundering ocean, striking your heart with each glance.

You wanted to lie on his lap and let him lull you to sleep. You wanted him to play with your hair and tell you stories of the heavenly Gods and Goddesses, you wanted him to hold you and never let go.

“Is it true?” his raspy voice pulled you out of your thoughts. You were so lost in the train of your thought that you didn’t notice him wake up.

“I’m sorry did I wake you?”

Steven simply flashed you his sloppy grin. He slowly propped himself up on his elbows and said, “Would you really marry me?”

Without missing a beat you replied, “Yes.”

He tilted his head slightly and asked in a playful tone, “Even if we were, I dont know, being invaded by aliens?”

You matched his head tilt and said, “Yeah, if you think that some one eyed, purple looking alien would stop me then you’re wrong.”

“Even if we were stuck inside a really creepy old haunted palace?” he challenged.

“Steven Grant, you understand this, I would marry you inside the world’s most explosive volcano, even if it was the last thing I ever did in my life. I would marry you in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with turtles crawling near my legs. I would marry you even in the blazing heat and the polar cold. There is no place or time, I wouldn’t marry you in.”

Steven didn’t say anything at that. He simply took your hand and placed a delicate kiss on each knuckle. He then slowly placed your hand on his heart and wrapped his fingers around yours. When you felt his heart practically hammering on his chest, you looked up to meet his eyes.

“Can you feel how much you drive me insane?” his voice now barely a whisper.

You stayed there, frozen in the moment, with your hand on his chest and his eyes shut close, as though he was experiencing something sacred. In that moment, you felt everything melt away.

“Y/n, I’m hopelessly, irrevocably, deeply in love with you and there is no force in this damned universe that could overpower the love I have for you. I’ve loved you since that rainy afternoon in the museum and every moment since.

You paint my mornings golden, my nights with rose tinted dreams and you burn my soul with desire. Every time you look at me and smile because of me, I lose my bloody mind. You are the sole reason of my existence and the answer to all my prayers and I-”

You placed your palms on his stubbly cheek and pulled him to you before Steven could finish talking. When you felt his smile on your lips, you pulled him closer, sparing no space to breathe and kissed him like there was no tomorrow.

When you pull yourselves back to breathe, you knew it then. You knew what it’s like to truly love someone. To love them so much that every inch of you screams for their touch. To love them so much that you find your favorites in the middle of the night. You knew in that moment exactly what it was like to completely love Steven.

In the beaming moonlight, you watch him smile at you. You hold his hand and it shoots fireworks within you. You take a deep breath and even though you don’t want to, you whisper, “We really should sleep.”

Wrapping yourself in Steven’s arms, you lie down with him and with the world’s biggest smile, you drift off to sleep.

#steven grant x reader #steven grant #steven grant fluff #moon knight #steven grant x reader fluff #marc spector x reader #jake lockely x reader #steven with a v #steven grant x you #moon knight x you #moon knight x reader #steven grant x y/n #moon knight x y/n #Moon Knight #Moonknight #marvel #oscar issac #marc spector #jake lockely

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artistsfuneral · 11 months

Text

The Road to Kaer Morhen - p.2 (there's an ao3 link now!)

Ultimately Jaskier decided on buying a long coil of rope and use the leftover coin to invest in a little Good Luck charm – not that he necessarily believed in the gods, but he liked the tradition. Given the fact that he had no idea what would await him on the path it really seemed like the best choice, but in the end only time could tell how much that was the case. Purchasing the rope went without any complications. The vendor clearly eyed the puffy sleeves of his favorite red and teal doublet, but decided not to comment on it further than a raised eyebrow.

The second stall though was tended to by a young woman, who had been staring at Jaskier for quite some time now. Like most sisters of the temple of Melitele, she wore a carmine dress and white shawl to resemble the goddess. Their eyes met and the bard immediately broke into the wide smile of a professional charmer. “A wonderful morning, isn't it, sweet lass?” She giggled, holding up her hand to hide how her cheeks reddened from Jaskier's gaze. “You're not from around here, are you?” she asked, busying her brown eyes by looking anywhere but Jaskier's face, who had yet to figure out if she was indeed as shy as she acted or simply a performer like himself. “Oh you are correct indeed, I am a humble traveler on my way south,” Jaskier lied with a flourish bow. “I certainly would have remembered the name of such a bewitching young lady as yourself, had we met before.” A delighted little sound escaped her mouth and she smiled down at her fidgeting hands. “My name is Josi. I was named after a cat.”

Each and every day Jaskier was reminded why he chose a life traveling the country over sitting in an estate all day and ruling over one. While he could very vividly picture Geralt's confused face in his mind, unexpected conversations like this brought him nothing but pure joy. Meeting new people, getting to know the most random facts through a conversation and being able to connect with them one way or another made the bard happy. “That is a wonderful name, Josi. I am Dandelion the Poet, I was named after a flower.” She giggled once more, “I like dandelions. They're yellow and puffy.”

“I like them too,” he agreed, imagining for a moment how he might look in a yellow doublet with puffed shoulders and a matching hat. It had been a while since he last tailored his own stage clothing but if he was spending an unforeseeable time in a fortress in the mountains it'd indubitably give him something to do during the awfully long summer days.

“Would you like to buy something?” Josi asked sweetly, pulling him away from his thoughts and back into the town, where he was standing at a market stall. “I'd love that,” Jaskier said, smiling when the young woman nodded her head in excitement. “Say, I've been eying that blue charm ever since I saw it, would you sell it to me?” Mimicking his smile she carefully held up a beautifully crafted sachet for the bard to inspect closer. Jaskier, who was drawn in by everything bright and colorful, gently took hold of the bag and openly marveled at it. It was a saturated, bright blue and had little golden flowers and a green vine stitched into it. The embroidery was of excellent quality and the little bag carried the soft smell of lavender and lemon grass. “You can pay less for it,” Josi offered, meeting Jaskier's eyes for a short moment as if to make sure he knew that she was being honest with him. Normally he'd accepted her goodwill in a heartbeat but Jaskier would have no use for coins if he was hiding away in the wilderness. “It is quite alright, dear, I can see that this was put together with a lot of care. It's only fair I pay you the full price.”

“You're very kind, Dandelion,” Josi spoke quietly, making Jaskier's stomach swoop.

“I try to be.”

After paying with the last of his coin, Jaskier bade Josi farewell with a gentle wave of his hand and the promise to think of her the next time he saw a colorful cat.

The way back to the inn wasn't extraordinarily long, but the streets had filled with the town's people and Jaskier had to carefully navigate his way through the crowd without bumping into anyone more than necessary. Meeting the eyes of the baker he winked at the man through his shop window, before opening the wide door to the inn and slipping inside. The air in the entrance was already warm and stuffy, promising an even warmer afternoon. Much like he did with everyone else, Jaskier greeted the innkeeper with a warm smile and a wave of his hand, before making his way up the stairs and to his room.

Upon entering the bard was met with a loud yawn and the view of his companion, sitting up in bed and arms stretched towards the ceiling. He chuckled, “Finally awake, sleepy head?”

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#the witcher #witcher #artistsfuneral about the witcher #road to kaer morhen fic #jaskier #jaskier the bard

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gemsofgreece · 7 months

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Do you have any reliable sources about beauty in Ancient Greece that you can recommend? Something that would help a person draw mythological characters with more credibility?

For example, something that would help someone draw a character described as beautiful or very beautiful (Helena, Achilles, Penelope, Aphrodite, etc.) and actually look like they would be seen as beautiful or very beautiful in the context of the work. Or even clothes and accessories! The popular idea of Greek clothing is kind of generic (you know, that idea of "just put on soft-looking white fabrics, put a laurel wreath on their head and they'll look Greek enough" and even women, even high-class ones, having rather simple hairstyles.)

I don't intend to post, it's more for practice. So if the source you know is very dense, it's okay because, as it is an exercise, the study part is important. In case you respond, I would like to thank you in advance for giving me some of your time.

Do I count as a reliable source? XD It's just that all the knowledge I have about this comes from snippets of information throughout my life and not so much a targeted study, the sources of which I would have kept.

I would argue however that most of the information you can find on the Internet (apart from ones manipulated by political motives, both western appropriation of the Greek culture AND wokism) is fairly reliable, because thankfully it is based on the very scripts and statues of the Ancient Greeks, so it's hard to go that wrong. Those are the legit sources.

For example, Homer uses two epithets to characterize Greeks again and again; καλλικνήμιδες and ευπλόκαμοι. The former means "with beautiful legs" and the latter means "with beautiful long hair". Both were apparently beautiful features Greeks took pride in. The leg one is particularly used for warriors, which means they had toned, long, lean and strong legs. The hair is used for both sexes, as both sexes had very long hair until the classical period, often worn in many braids. In general, up to the Archaic period, the beauty standards weren't dissimilar to the ones of Minoan and Mycenaean times. The long hair Greek men had before the classical era (and beyond it for some Greeks, such as the Spartans) is rarely seen in modern representations. I don't know if it was the beauty standard or the universal truth but Ancient Greek depicted themselves almost always with wavy or curly hair, almost never straight or curly with very tight rings.

The skintone difference between men and women was also a totally legit beauty standard - handsome men were tanned, which was a sign they were roasting under the sun doing tough, manly things, warring, sailing, farming etc Beautiful women are constantly called λευκώλενος which means "with white arms, hands". Women showed their noble demeanour or descent by staying at home being dutiful wives, avoiding the harshness of the sun, dust and dirt. Being fair was the beauty standard for women. This differentiation between men and women was ongoing from Minoan up to Classical times, and most likely beyond this as well.

Beautiful women are also described to have doe eyes or cattle eyes, meaning expressive and elongated almond eyes. Having quick-glancing, clever, shining eyes ("ελικώπις") was very valued too. Goddesses such as Athena are often called "γλαυκώπις" which means "bright, white eyed". Of course it doesn't literally mean "white", unless Athena was indeed imagined like that, but with bright, light eyes. Other than that, the eyecolour is not often mentioned. The majority obviously had brown and hazel eyes, however there were blue and green eyes, there is scant art about it. But it isn't clear what the beauty standard for eyecolour was - what interested the Greeks more was the shape, size and expression of the eye. They were charmed by spirited eyes. "The eye is the window to the soul" type of thing.

Being blonde was considered a sign of noble or even divine descent, therefore it was considered very beautiful and not very common. There are sources that Greek women in later antiquity died their hair with some dyes to make them appear a little lighter. So a beautiful Greek man or woman could be blonde, but not Scandinavian or grey blonde, more like dirty blonde, gold blonde, strawberry blonde.

Throughout all sources in existence, Greeks were very interested in the health and good physique. A handsome man had to be lean, strong and toned. I mean, there are countless six pack ancient statues at a time it was crazy hard to achieve this. Greeks weren't fond of the bear type of strong though, all male bodies in sculptures look lean, even the heracleian (herculian) ones which are sturdier are still lean compared to the modern very muscular or the bear type. Greeks also found proportions and symmetry very important.

On the other hand, according to statues of the Classical period and onwards a beautiful woman should have some fat on her, be juicy and soft, especially in the belly and the hips, signs of fertility. Nice arms were meaty and soft and nice breasts were perky and round. Legs were comparatively leaner and long, since as I said Greeks took pride in that. A beautiful woman could either be a little plump or toned, depending on the region again.

Based on the statues, ideal facial traits was a straight (not curvy), proportionate nose and medium or full curvy lips.

From the classical period onward it all became about the beard for men, in place of their earlier fascination with beautiful hair. A handsome mature man kept his hair neatly cut and had a strong, thick beard, not very long. Before a young man could grow a decent beard, the beauty standards for him were more feminine, with a boyish softer youthful charm (still ripped af though XD). Cheeks in young men and women are round, however the chin is usually well defined.

As for fashion. Fashion was indeed modest and somewhat plain after the archaic times, it is not a stereotype. What you could play with to make the outfit fancier is the accessories, jewellery, belts, pins etc. If you want something more special, draw early Archaic or Mycenean or Minoan women, whose clothing was very interesting and vibrant, with a lot of geometric cuts and bold colours.

Good make-up involved an emphasis in making the face appear whiter (chalk and lead hazard), charchoal for eye-liner and thickening of the eyebrows and red iron oxide for the lips.

Yes, please, skip on the excessive laurel wreath usage, not that it wasn't a thing but we can have enough of it.

Late Archaic kouros. Note the sixpack, the tall toned legs, the long braided hair.

Different skintone standards between men and women. Helen wears some fancy outfit here as well.

Large expressive almond eyes in a Minoan woman. Also the make-up. Minoans are pre-Greeks, but they had similar beauty standards and fashion sense with the Mycenaeans and then they mixed with them anyway.

Idea for elaborate Late Myceanean - Early Archaic fashion. Souce here, you're gonna like it.

The Caryatids in Amphipolis are IMO some of the prettiest female statues in Ancient Greek art. This is a relatively recent discovery and the monument has not yet opened to visitors.

Medici Aphrodite (Venus de Medici), Hellenistic era. Aphrodite was juicy.

You might as well reach fifty, the sixpack and v-line are ALWAYS there. Beauty wise, men might have actually had it harder than women in Ancient Greece XD

youtube

Ancient Greek jewellery with dates for reference.

The statue of Antinous in Delphi is a statue we definitely do not talk enough about. Even though the body is toned and the muscles are defined, a beautiful young man is portayed with cheeks and softer angles in the face.

This is what I know, I think it's a pretty safe summary, however any followers with specific sources can add them in the comments. Hopefully all this will help you out with your practice!

#greece #ancient greece #beauty standards #ancient greek art #beauty in ancient greece #ancient greek statues #ancient greek #greek culture #historical fashion #anon #ask #long post #tw long post #tw long #traditional clothing

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ramayantika · 1 year

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𝐓𝐲𝐩𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬: 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

(Apna apna sab choose karlo 👀)

Bharatanatyam

The girl in red and gold. Never steps out of the house without a bindi, loves the sun a little too much and gets the perfect golden hour photos. Will drag you out in the sun to prove that her hair is brown. Looks no less than a goddess in traditionals, rocks desi wear as well as western, always the best dressed in the room and sometimes the overdressed one. A walking saree encyclopedia, dreams to have a large wardrobe just for her sarees. Will also lend you some of her sarees and drapes them so well. If you are wearing a saree for a date, ask her for help. Reads a lot of detective books maybe, ranging from Sherlock Holmes to Feluda. Has learnt martial arts too, armed with wit, got the best comebacks and will fight for her friends. Highly intimidating when you meet her first until you get to witness the soft sunshine version of her. Photogenic, loves the camera, could also be a model. Her walk radiates power and confidence. Ambitious and full of ideas, commands attention easily with a snap of ger fingers. Heads turn at her when she enters the room, an eloquent speaker because she is well read. Tries to spread happiness in her own ways, knows everyone in her neighbourhood, is friends with everyone, right from the little kids to the oldies in the park, the Mother hen of her group. Loves puppies and will cry while watching cute puppy videos. Cooks delicious dishes and watch her lash out if she finds out that you skipped breakfast. A pure soul, too kind and generous for the world and does her best in spreading happiness around her.

'It's honestly a choice which we have to make. We can choose to see everything as cold and heartless around us or start seeing at the brighter side of things. Trust me, the latter is a better choice. Why would someone want to live such a miserable life laced with bitterness and resent. I know I cannot singlehandedly make everything right in the world, but I can surely make a difference in at least a single person's life? Why focus on things at the greater scale when we can make changes that should starts from us?"

Odissi

The shy girl next door, writes poetry in her rough notebook, hopeless romantic and a daydreamer. For her, outing means a visit to the temple. Ardent admirer of all types of art, stares at temple sculptures and statues, and is also a history lover. Pink lip gloss, jasmine flowers and a doe-eyed beauty. Makes flower jewellery and will gift you many of her own works if you are her friend. Wears light coloured clothes and minimal accessories, light feminine, crushes over book characters and will make you see the best traits in yourself but forgets to look at the good in herself. Recites romantic poetry in front of the mirror and pretends to be someone's muse, replaces herself with the characters in period dramas Has gorgeous hair but will always keep them in a messy bun, but god when she lets her hair down, she looks like an angel. Her social life includes playing with children and narrating them stories and fairytales.

'His lips gently follow the trail of the small dots of sandalwood paste on her back. It forms a serpentine path on her skin and ends on the curve of her waist where his lips gently caress her soft skin, delighted at the treasure gifted by the perfumed trail.'

"You haven't even held hands with a boy and yet you can come up with this? How?"

"Oh, it's nothing. You have to see my writing journal and you will definitely believe that I am well versed in the arts of love."

"Arts of love? Who uses that?"

"Me. Now come, let's watch Jodha Akbar."

"Again?!"

Kathak

Kurtis and Anarkalis. Has long hair that is half of the time braided. Might also wear a parandi at events. Shayari aur ghazalein, listens to old Bollywood songs late at night under the moon on the terrace. Star gazing, late night deep conversations, vintage clothing, would write you hand written love letters. Knows hindustani music, sings late at night and sometimes in the early hours of dawn. Aankhon mein gehra kajal jise dekh na jane kitne uske aashiq bann gaye, deep eyes that will stare into your soul, loves to wear red lipstick and will wear silver jewellery with every outfit. To win her heart? Take her jhumke shopping. She is the desi pinterest aesthetic. Bases her personality on Sahibjaan from Pakeezah, Anarkali from Mughal-E-Azam, Umrao Jaan and Chandramukhi from Devdas. Has desi aesthetic moodboards on Pinterest and lives like it too minus the havelis and lots of expensive jewellery. If you are a poet, she will end up proposing you.

'जो मेरा नाम अपनी शायरी में अमर कर दे

मरूंगी तो केवल उस शायर के नाम'

"Umrao jaan 2.0 apni pariksha ki taiyari kare aapke non existent premi kavi ya shayar marks nahi dilayenge"

"Tauba tauba sara mood kharab kar diya"

Kuchipudi

Was made to learn dance and music as a child, knows how to play the veena or the sitar well, cannot sing but will play the instrument for you if you ask. Gold jewellery? No. Silver jewellery? No. Pearls? Absolutely! An all rounder, academically brilliant as well as in extra-curriculars, perfectionist and will breakdown at the slightest inconvenience. Loves to go on long walks, sunset photography, has a collection of journals and hauls stationary items. Collects fallen flowers and keeps them inside her books. soft smiles, long artistic fingers that always have ink spots, a small but a close friend group, wishes on flowers, so quiet that you might not her speak at times, notices the minute things about her friends and the people she meets. Looks too long into the mirror and loses herself, has too many questions but will never ask. Has pretty crazy dreams that could become book plots.

"Do you ever stare at your eyes in the mirror for a very long time? Do you feel your reflection change? Those eyes that look back at you... they have so much to say, they carry so many secrets inside them even though at a superficial level, it might seem that your reflection and you are the same, but it's not. When I look at myself in the mirror, I feel it's not me. I am not her nor am I anyone else. I feel I am a part of the galaxies, of stars and planets and of souls -- that I have existed here a long time ago and I have been reborn again for unknown reasons, reasons that somewhere my would would know. Do you not feel the same?"

Kathakali

Athletic, into sports, highly dramatic, can and will recite film dialogues at every situation, has a larger than life attitude, grand gestures and celebrations for her favourite people as well as for herself, always brimming with energy even at 3am, colourful flashy clothes that make her stand distinct from everyone, make-up game on point, a HUGE foodie, takes you to the best eateries and restaurants, indulges in pranks and all sorts of harmless mischief that makes her endearing, expresses everything just with her eyes. You can't say no to her because she will conjure such a facial expression that it would be difficult to say no which is why she gets away with mischief. Will debate about literature and philosophy, has a lot of knowledge about historical texts and scriptures, can easily make you laugh by imitating characters from stories and tales. Will also spam you with her thoughts and opinions on text and if you are in her close friend circle, keep your phone on because she will immerse herself about the latest book she read. Races with kids from her colony and lets them win, gully cricket vali didi, street smart, procrastinates assignments until the deadline is knocking at the door. Knows the secret spots in the city as well as their stories, has the best horror stories to narrate at a campfire.

"I know it's 2am, but is it okay if-"

"Even if I say no, you will tell me, but I am interested. Speak."

"What if all the characters in our epics were us, I mean like us normal human beings who achieved greatness and such divine status because of their work and somehow maybe that was the truth, but with time, we began thinking that we are not capable of becoming like them so we decided that we would take the credit of their hard work and replace it with magical powers and worship them, but not try and become like them? And somehow so many ideal kings, queen, warriors and artists when then look at us from heaven want us to achieve the same level of greatness like them? But they are sad that we think so less of ourselves? I am not denying God's presence though, don't get me wrong on that. I am talking about all the great people from stories that have been passed down to us. I do appreciate the creativity and imagination of the writers and poets involved, but what if we are actually failing to look more deeper into it. What if they want us to go beyond the veil of imagination in those stories and find ourselves in them?"

Manipuri

One word: Ethereal. Doesn't look like she belongs to this world. You saw her first at a waterfall, dressed in white and red shades, mostly prefers pastel shades, makes beautiful flower bouquets, has got a very melodious voice and when she sings by the waterfall with the swans sitting beside her, she appears like a water nymph. Playful eyes, whispers words, will wink and smile at you before disappearing into a run. She walks as if she is floating, got the lightest feet, soft dewy skin, nature's daughter. Sings before the Gods in temples, always has a peacock feather with her, makes one wonder if she is a human or someone divine, wants to live in a cottage overlooking lush green hills.

"Ironic isn't it that beauty, riches, pride, nothing shall exist in the end because we shall go back to mother nature, Prakriti? I shall be ash, a small heap of ash in the future and my stories, my experiences, the beauty which people love to talk about, nothing will exist. Even when humans leave a piece of land, they think it shall be dead and decayed, but they have forgotten Prakriti's nature. She is nourishing and a healer. She shall be the only one remaining."

Mohiniyattam

Loves to sit by a riverbank, serenity, looks at you as if she knows everything about you even about the words you shall speak next, mysterious vibe, doesn't trust anyone easily, lotuses are her favourite. Who is the girl standing waist deep in the river looking at the moon? Loves to wear alta on her hands and feet, wears anklets, longing side glances, perfectly arched eyebrows, dances in the rain, photographs everything, a natural charmer, goes to museums and coffee. Date ideas? Boat rides for evenings. A very private person, doesn't reveal much about herself, contemplates about Life and the Universe, space geek, stars are her friends.

When I look at you, at your great depths, I marvel at the power you have subdued while flowing through the land of Man. Born from the great peaks of mountain ranges, like a young girl who is pulsating with energy, you flow down your father's abode. Were you aware of your strength then? You cut through rocks, found your way through dense forests, and finally emerged into our land. We took you granted, knowing you shall forever exist for us, that you shall always nurture our bodies, our minds and our souls, until we witnessed your dance of death.

I wondered how Lasya, the feminine style of dance, also known as Goddess Parvati's style of dancing could be destructive? You swirled to great heights. With each turn, your colour darkened, absorbing the green from trees, the white from clouds, yellow from the sun, blue from the dawn and purple from sunsets. In the end your colour changed to brown and grey as you engulfed everything we held dear. You ultimately showed your hidden strength that you possesses in the days of girlhood until you heard us wail and weep. Motherhood came back to you, and with time, you began nursing us once again. The city repaired itself, we began learning about the secrets of life and death on your banks and children played with your gentle waters. And then you longed for love, so you advanced towards the sea, merging with its grand form. Once, I used to see it as a way of losing your entire identity, but now I see it as being one. You nourish man in the city and then with your dear love, the mighty sea, you nourish the life that resides inside water. I would like to be something like that.

"Is that why you spend so much time at the river?"

"Yes."

Sattriya

Plays the flute, the most non violent human, will never get angry, calm voice that might lead you to deep sleep. Nobody has seen her even glare at someone. Gold jewellery, squints at the sun, sings devotional songs for Krishna, cannot eat spicy food, lives in the hills, will definitely win if you race against her in the hills, knows quiet spots to appreciate the valleys. Has a great deal of knowledge about herbal medicines, one touch and you will feel that the pain is gone. Has Diy skin care methods ready, gives the best oil massage, cold hands in winter, looks adorable when covered in a shawl, red cheeks that appear like natural blush, makes the best tea.

"Close your eyes, open your ears and your mind too. You might begin to understand the language of the hills. They will send you messages of rain clouds, soft kisses of wintery breeze, fragrance of spring and gently warmth of the sun. Sometimes, if you look closely enough, you might get to know who you are in this world in front of them."

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙ ⋇⋆✦⋆⋇　 ‧͙⁺ ˚*･༓☾　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙◌

I DID IT :D

Even though it's based on dance, but everyone isn't into dance, so i did try my best to make it inclusive and ofc i had to write these paragraphs because I felt more creative lol (just to sum up the vibes maybe that's why) It was a bit tricky to make for Sattriya and Manipuri. I looked up some articles and then some Assam and Manipur tourism videos and also some of theri dance videos too for this. Now I mentioned some of rhe traits and stuff based on the dancing history and the repertoire plus also from the place where it belongs too

Tell me your favorite one and which one you relate to the most.

Shoutout to @remen-nyoodless for the hindi lines

Tagging: @yehsahihai @swayamev @sanskari-kanya @navaratna @daddojanam @pulihora @inexhaustible-sources-of-magic @aapki-pyaari-sakhi @kuhuchan @arachneofthoughts @vedajananixx @pothosinpots @eugenephosgene @reallythoughtfulwizard @ma-douce-souffrance

#desiblr #danceblr #desi academia #dance academia #types of girls #aesthetic posts #desi aesthetic #classical dance

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