#also perhaps

Just a list for no reason whatsoever. Interpret as you will.

According to lore, long before the Toa Mata lost their memory and Takua had his wiped a thousand times, Takua was most drawn to Toa Gali and was awestruck by her.

Despite being hidden as a Ta-Matoran, Takua wore an ill-fitting medium-blue Pakari. No other Matoran or Toa of Fire in the entire series have blue as a part of their color scheme.

Takua never really fit in in Ta-Matoran society and was never able to fully conform to Ta-Matoran mannerisms or values. He was considered bizarre in Ta-Metru, and became an outcast in Ta-Koro.

When cast out of Ta-Koro, Takua finally found community for himself among the other members of the island who were considered abnormal or pariahs.

During the time after the Toa Mata arrived on Mata Nui, the Toa that Takua bonded with the most, and even forged a psychic link with, was Gali.

After the Bohrok invasion, when the Matoran were rebuilt into larger, stronger forms, Takua chose to replace his yellow with blue for reasons never stated, making his color scheme now mostly variations of blue with only a red torso and arms.

Takua having multiple blues in his color scheme isn't just abnormal because it's not an established Fire color, but rather because almost every kind of Matoran with heavy amounts of blue in their color scheme is exclusively female (Water, Lightning, Psionics).

Takua spends the majority of the Mask of Light movie chasing an ideal person whom he is convinced must be someone else, and when faced with repeated signs of who he truly is, ignores and hides from them until it's almost too late and his loved ones are pushed away and hurt by his avoidance.

Unlike all other Toa transformations seen in the series, Takua is only ever able to take action to physically change into who he was meant to be once he finally accepts who he is and who he is meant to become.

Also unlike all other Toa in the series, Takanuva is the only Toa to change their name upon self-actualizing into a Toa. Matoran change their names slightly at times throughout their lives, but Takanuva's name change is the only one known to directly tied to a change in body, presentation, and social identity.

Upon confronting the main antagonist of the series, Makuta Teridax, the Makuta immediately demeans and belittles the newly transformed and renamed Takanuva by reducing him to his past identity as Takua.

The canonical explanation for the form a Matoran will take upon becoming a Toa is that they will take on the form of what they consider an ideal hero. For the Toa Metru, that was Toa Lhikan. Takanuva is stated to have taken on the form of a Toa Nuva, but every member of the team had somewhat unique builds; Takanuva's build is the exact same as Gali Nuva's.

Later in the series, we learned Takua was never even a Ta-Matoran to begin with, but actually an Av-Matoran, and was simply made to think he was something he never was while constantly failing to perform that role.

Takua was meant to be an audience surrogate character for MNOG, QftT, the Bohrok animations, and Mask of Light, and did a fantastic job at that.

Unrelated, but a disproportionately large chunk of that audience has since grown up and transitioned into women, many of whom idolize or once idolized Gali. Funny, that.

you’d stumbled upon a tiktok about the scottish highlands. vast, open, windy, cold. grey and bleak and empty. rolling hills and crashing waves. tiny cottages scattered like snow before it gets chance to lay proper. it’s perfect.

you’ve been needing an escape for a while, somewhere to run off to and live out your sense and sensibility, pride and prejudice (2005) keira knightley fantasy. cooped up in a stone and mortar cottage on a storm beaten cliff and just exist. wander on the vast moors and skim stones across unsettled waters. light a fire in the huge stone hearth and curl up with a penguin classic and a bowl of soup with homemade bread each night. drift off to the sound of rain pelting on the shuttered windows.

so you book it. take a leap of faith and think- why the fuck not?

the man who greets you at the cottage is unlike what you expected. you’d talked to him briefly over text message to confirm the booking and payment details, few and far between messages that were scant of any personality, gruff and blunt. so you’d assumed this man- john price so the site claimed- was a weathered old man leasing out his old fishing cottage. some pensioner who was spending the rest of his days with his grandchildren. you didn’t expect this.

shoulders so broad the rolled up sleeves of his jacket strained with each movement. a thick salt and pepper beard, matching locks tucked under a woollen beanie. calloused hands flecked with faint scratches and wire-wool hairs. a cigar-gruffened voice with a slight scouse inflection. this john price was not the john price you’d anticipated.

but you weren’t complaining.

as per his (rather vague and unexplained) instructions, you’d met him in the nearest town to the cottage, from which you’d gathered the actual road to the house was far too hard to traverse for someone so inexperienced with country lanes.

sat in the passenger seat of his mudded up green land rover, the fawn seats cracked and riddled with marks, an old black ice little tree hanging limply from the rearview mirror, john’s scent of pine and sea-salt and something distinctly male- heady and musky, sweat from a hard days work, motor oil, the smell of rain on the air- flooded the car and your nose. a forgotten radio station droned quietly, filling the long gaps between the small talk you attempted, most of your questions being met by a monotone grunt- two words if he was being generous. the drive to the house must’ve only been twenty minutes, with you sneaking glimpses of the older man in the driver’s seat the whole way. watching with dilated pupils how he used his right wrist to steer, hand hanging despondently off the wheel, tapping a mindless beat on the dashboard, his other hand settled lackadaisically on the gearstick.

pulling up in the makeshift gravel drive, john hops out of the car without waiting for you, rounding to the boot to retrieve your singular suitcase and somehow meeting you at your own door to open it and give you a hand jumping down. a grumbling bear of a gentleman.

he gives you the world’s fastest run through of the house (considering it’s really only one big room with the bathroom the only separate space, it’s not too much of a feat) and saunters to the door, heavy boots resounding through the cozy space. turns back to you once he props open the front door, “d’keep this locked pet. hate for ‘nythin’ ta happen ta ya,”

with that, he takes his leave, as you stand slightly horny and slightly more confused in the open yet cozy space of the cottage you’re calling home for the next few weeks.

several days pass in the cottage, and you begin to form somewhat of a routine. you’ve scoped some of the most scenic trails, catalogued the bookshelf selection and unpacked your own, scanned the vhs tapes stored in the heavy wooden television unit propping up a mammoth brick of a tv, even taking a whole day to complete the walk to and from the town you’d arrive in to pick up some essentials.

yet you still can’t shake the feeling of john price. his energy, his smell, his voice. his hands.

it’s on your sixth day that you decide to try a different trail. this one is less sign-posted, the road less taken if the lack of a foot beaten trail is anything to go by. but you trust your nose, your senses. you’ll keep walking until it feels right, maybe go some more after that.

you don’t expect to end up on the very point of the island, jutting rocks and cliffs being pounded by heavy, frothing waves. gulls swooping and slashing through the air to fight for the fish bubbling to the surface of the maelstromous water.

a proud lighthouse emerging from the seafront.

glorious white, well-kept. foreboding, grandiose, leering and snarling and surrounded by the full forces of mother nature. crowned by a halo of a spinning bulb, its frothy and milky wings emerging each time the waves crest up to cliff height.

and then you spot him. john price, in all his glory. beanie still tucked to his ears, moustache thick and framing a slight snarl. watching you from the gallery, both hands gripping the railing in front of him and skulking down at you. it’s in the same moment you realise his stare is pointed at you that you realise he isn’t alone.

three men come to join him, resting against the chipped railing to peer down at you. three men. just as big. just as surly.

I cannot believe the response part one of this lil macaron fic got. You guys inspired me to write the smutty part two, so here it is. I am not thinking about parts three and four already. Absolutely not, that is not a thing that you just read. Honestly though I could keep going but will I? That's the real question. I do love them, so it's a maybe at the moment lol. Once again tagging @lonely-north-star as requested and also @silverrings-n-prettythings because I saw your tags on the last part lol.

Mammon x Barbatos - read part one here!

NSFW MDNI

Warnings: It's all smut!!! Okay okay but seriously, oral and biting and making out and a lil bit of hair pulling... who's giving to who? I'm not telling, you'll just have to read it to find out mwahaha.

Jason: *walking by* LANGUAGE

Damian: you literally swear all the time

Jason: no fucking cursing until you’re old enough to shave

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Sen, you say, be normal for one second. I cannot unfortunately, I'm a project manager in my soul. Welcome to Sen's Digital Comic Books! This is a quick how-to on using Airtable to more easily sort through my comics because I apparently cannot be stopped.

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I'm about to update my master posts to include this! Transcript is under the cut.