#I thought that background noise was me eating my sandwich while recording but thankfully it's just the ingame torches sound

[shmowder]

My favourite P1 Victor detail is how he always gets up from his desk to talk to you whenever you approach him.

Such a polite, well-mannered gentleman! It's a minor detail that's easily set up by that invisible trigger under his office door, but by god, does it pay off tremendously.

It's basic courtesy, showing you respect by getting up from his chair to have a face to face conversation on an equal level. He doesn't even wait until you're next to him; immediately standing up the second you walk into the room. No other character does that.

A simple act, but considerate all the same. He does it out of his own volition each time, to anyone who comes to see him. He makes himself seem as an affable approachable figure to all kinds of people despite being an aristocrat.

Too bad that the upside down fetus sculpture easily undoes all of his hard work, and puts him in the hard red negative to any sane person on earth who walks through that door, achieving a net zero first impression.

Having a hanged painting of his daughter both in his P1 and P2 offices is such a wholesome detail tho <3 until you remember that he also has a son and it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

[shewhowantsmouseears]

Since you're taking prompts, why not write something for one of your old weblena fairy tale aus

I was torn between SHE’S MINE inspiration from friendship hates magic, and a sweet, soft dance thing that is sort of based of a RP i’m doing with a pal, and the latter on out!

There were numerous reasons Webby hadto hide her wings, and therefore her origins – being a fairy, evena weak one, would have spooked the villagers and tempted the hands ofthose with dark hearts. At least, that was normally the reason herfriends encouraged her to hide them. Today had an additional reason –seeing a fairy gorge herself on the ball buffer would have destroyedthe reputation of faeries everywhere. Thankfully it didn't take muchmagic for Webby to make her wings invisible, so she could snack awayto her heart's content.

“So, do you guys have four stomachslike a cow, or...?” Dewey asked as Webby consumed what had to beher fifth sandwich. The ball was in full swing, and most of theattendants were dancing the night away, lost in romantic music andgentle embraces.

“Aw, gimmie a break.” Webby repliedafter an inelegant burp, reaching over to grab a fistful of...honestly, she didn't know what it was, just that it was different,which was good enough for her. “Creatures like me are supposed tosurvive on honey and dewdrops. You have any idea how good mortal foodtastes after years of bee goop and grass water?” She might havemade a comment on how lucky mortals had it, but this was difficult totell as she was speaking between hefty chews.

Dewey was beginning to have seriousdoubts about the plan he and his brothers cooked up, but he wasrarely one to change his mind even in the worst of circumstances.“I'm just saying you could stand to look a little less... messytonight.”

“What for?” Webby asked, lickingher fingers to make sure nothing had been missed. “I'm the fairygodmother!”

“In-training.” he reminded her.

“In-training,” she repeated, “Butstill! I'm the background character, I'm the one nobody notices untilmy help is needed. And my chosen ward doesn't need my help tonight,this is just practice – is that cheese?” She made a swipe forsomething sticky, just as Dewey noticed Huey giving him the signal –two fingers from each hand, twirling about.

“Practice for the 'big ball ofdestiny', right?” Dewey asked as he grabbed Webby by the shoulders,pulling her away from the table. “The one where Lena walks in withthat fluffy magical dress you make for her-”

“And that lasts for more than thirtyseconds,” Webby lamented, as that spell still needed a lot of work.

“And then she captures everyone'sattention just by walking in, and her chosen prince, or duke, orlord, or whatever, falls in love with her at first sight, and thenthey have that nice, long, slow dance.”

“... Have I told you all thisbefore?”

“About thirty-six times.”

“Well, yes, that's how the actualball will go. This one's just for practice, so when she makes herdebut, everything goes perfectly.” She paused, noticing she wasbeing lightly pushed away from all the yummy food. “What are youdoing?”

“Tell me more about the plan!”Dewey kept pushing, catching Louie's eyes – his brother winked, andset about meshing himself into the crowd, distracting the rightpeople with smooth talk and smoother cons. “Okay, so, Lena walksdown the big staircase that leads right here to the dance hall, isthat it? Hand on the banister, step by step, her other hand ever solightly holding into her dress so she doesn't trip, eyes gazing overthe crowd...”

“Boy, I really have told you thisthirty-six times. Why do you want to know, anyway?”

“Welllllllll.” Dewey stretched outthe word as much as possible before finally stopping near thestairway, and dabbing her cheek with a napkin. “I was justwondering if it'd look anything like that.” he pointed to the topof the stairs, and predictably, Webby's eyes followed.

“Look like what?” But she got heranswer in seconds.

Lena was still in disbelief she wasdoing this. She still had no intention of ever following theridiculous destiny Webby was convinced she had, and a girl like herhad no place anywhere near royalty, much less a party they werethrowing. She was the kingdom outcast, the witch's slave, scorned andhated by all if not pitied. She was not meant to have a happy life,not meant to have friends, not meant to feel beautiful, and severalmonths ago she was convinced none of this would change.

Now here she stood, at the top of thebanister, heart beating in her throat as she looked downward. Shedidn't belong here, and the temptation to run away still burned hotlyin the back of her mind. Despite this, she found the strength to takea step, moving quietly down the stairs, the dress not feeling asuncomfortable as she thought it would. As long as she kept it clean,she could return it to the tailor in the morning and have her aunt benone the wiser about any missing money.

Maybe the color would prove Webbywrong, she tried to joke in her mind – what princess would wear allblack? Black lacing on her legs, black heels on her feet, black silkroses forming a cursed collar around her neck, white lines markingacross her outfit like freshly-spun spider webs. She hadn't worn itlong, and she fumbled once, grasping onto the banister, her faceflushing with embarrassment. But the whole world didn't stop to pointand mock – it went on ignoring her. She took a deep breath andtried again, and as she walked downwards, she finally saw Webby.

Webby, for her part, hadn't dressed upat all. Why would she? Fairy Godmothers were supposed to blend inwith the crowd, be ignored and out of the way until they were needed.So she had on her usual pink dress, the one that seemed to sparklewith every giggle she made, ever changing flowers hanging around theedge so she always smelled like a newborn forest. So she lookedcompletely normal – save for her eyes so wide they threatened toroll out of her skull, and her jaw that hung open wide enough that alarge fish could jump inside. Dewey took care of the latter, calmlypicking up Webby's lower beak and closing it. “Looks nice, doesn'tshe?” Dewey said.

“Nuffhug.” said Webby, whichwasn't really a word, but more like her brain being squeezed tightlyand that puff of noise being the last remnants of rational thoughtshe had.

“Atta girl.” Dewey lightly slappedher arms. “You two have fun, 'kay?” Satisfied, he shot fingersguns towards Lena, and then quickly fled to join his brothers – itwas up to them to make sure the more snooty members of society didn'tget Lena kicked out, and that the girls could have a good timetogether.

At last Lena made it to the final step,and now she stood in front of Webby, who looked ready to tip over andpass out if one gave her a good enough poke. “Hey.”

The word managed to, somewhat, snapWebby back to reality. “Hey!You look... you look... you look...”She repeated it a few more times until she actually heard the recordskip of her own voice, and gave herself a hard mental slap. “GOOD!Good is the word I would use. To describe you.” It wasn't accurate,but to be fair to Webby, she believed a word had yet to be inventedto properly detail Lena's appearance in this brand new dress she'dnever seen before. Was there a single word to express the colors ofthe comforting darkness when the night sky began to envelop yoursight and began to glitter the sky with stars of confidence andacceptance? She didn't think so, nor did she believe she had themental fortitude to come up with it right now. She barely had themental fortitude to keep standing.

“Thanks, I think.” Lena smiled,tucking some loose hair away, feeling somehow a mix of humility andboldness. It was getting harder to remember, or care, that there wereother people around. “So what do people do at these things anyway?Just dance and eat, eat and dance?”

Webby latched onto information, sinceit gave her strength. “Technically it serves as a meet and greetfor King Scrooge and travelers from the north so they can have adiscussion about opening trade routes while in a relaxing atmosphere.But for the rest of us... yeah, pretty much just dancing and eating.”

“I'm not exactly in the mood to eat.”This wasn't entirely true, she was hungry but she didn't want to riskdamaging the clothes she couldn't afford. “And judging from thatpiece of lettuce sticking out your mouth, I think you're good.”

The young fairy blushed, and licked herlips to get rid of the evidence. “I guess that means we can dance.Huey taught me how!” It would take an embarrassingly long amount oftime before she was even close to realizing that had been part of theset-up. “See, you put your hand here, and I put mine there...” Onthe surface, it was just as easy as Webby said it was. Left hand toLena's hip, right to Lena's hand - Lena's other hand on her shoulder- step back, step to the side, step forward, step to the side,repeat."Afteryou do this for a while, you can do it without thinking about it!One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four."

Itwasn't picture perfect – Lena did step on Webby's foot a few times,but Webby laughed it off each time, regaling times she had been inmuch worse pain - remember when they were being chased by unicorns?How about that time with the knight's cursed armor? Then there wasthat whole atrocity with Doofus by the creek... the girls giggled andswayed as they repeated the stories they had lived through together,making up silly arguments and trying to spin the endings to suit thembetter. As Webby predicted, the simple movements soon becameclockwork, moving without thought in that small space of the ballroomfloor.

Theconversation died down little by little, but not due to awkwardnessor running out of things to say. It was something akin to beingcontent, if Webby had to put her finger on it – she who wanted anexciting life of daring action was quite surprised to find joy inthese quiet, slow times. She didn't understand it, and decided thatdidn't really matter. She could simply be with Lena all day long, notchanging a word, merely enjoy her presence and that would be enough.How funny, she thought, that before meeting Lena, she believed sheknew the extent of happiness. Those times were colorless and dullcompared to now.

Lenacould see herself reflected in Webby's big, emotional eyes, and wasslowly beginning to believe that Webby did in fact like her as morethan just her “chosen ward”. That they were friends by choice andnot chance, that they would remain close no matter what destiny hadin store. Of course, by virtue of being older and knowing more waysof the world, she knew exactly what her feelings for Webby were. Ithad become insane to deny them any longer, even though she had vowedto never say them in the waking world. This night would be like adream – happy, yes, but only temporary. A night of self-indulgence,granted by three boys who didn't know how to mind their own business.

Ifthis wasn't a dream – if there were no faeries or destinies orwicked aunts – Lena could imagine what she would have done. Maybetwirl Webby around clumsily to hear that charming laugh of hers, atickle or two before the younger girl begged her to stop, beforetrailing her fingers through those white locks that seemed softerthan petals and probably smelled even sweeter. If this wasn't adream, Lena imagined her cupping Webby's warm cheeks and taking areal first kiss, the kind that sappy schoolgirls dreamed of betweenprinces and doting young maidens, only here it would be real and pureand beautiful. Because, with Webby, because of Webby, Lena did feelbeautiful, and that every action she could do could be beautiful too.

Byfalling in love with Webby, Lena had been allowed to love herself aswell. For this, Lena felt gratitude that could never be repaid, soshe chose to never act on it.

“Lena?”Webby suddenly asked, her voice small and petite and ever sograceful.

“Yeah?”

Thefairy smiled, and Lena was sure that no matter how beautiful Webbymade her feel, nothing and no one could ever as amazing to look asWebby when she smiled.  “Thanks for coming.”

Lenasmiled in turn, and pressed her forehead to Webby's own. “I'm gladI came. But if I sweat through this dress, you owe me big time.”Deflect with a joke, deflect with attitude, deflect deflect deflectand never let her know how you really feel – because tonight was adream and Lena never wanted to wake up.

EventuallyCinderella's carriage would turn back into a pumpkin, the horses backinto mice, and the princess back into a slave in her own home – buthere and now, there was no magic, not even as their fingersintertwined and they felt sparks fluttering in their chest. It wasjust two girls, happy and in love, as the music carried them on.

[baesketballers]

iii. i need you darling

come on set the tone

ft. Himuro Tatsuya

I’m sad about the fact that Ed Sheeran’s two new singles dropped after I announced Cantabile—could’ve used one of those songs.

Semi-NSFW; sexy, basically.

“Photoshoots tomorrow. 10 a.m. for Metropolis and 3 p.m. for Junon.”

“Cool,” Himuro replies, sipping from his cup of latte.

“Need me to drive you around tomorrow?” You ask.

He seems to contemplate your offer for a few seconds before nodding a yes and saying a quiet “thanks”. You nod back, acknowledging his words as you walk down the hallway with him. Some of the recording studio staff are walking around hastily despite the time saying it’s a little bit past 8 in the evening—such is the life of an employee of the entertainment industry. 

“I really hope I’m not bothering you or anything,” he replies, “I think Alex is still using my car.”

“Oh,” the fact that his old basketball mentor is in town seems to slip out your mind in the midst of your hectic day, “right. You want me to clear up some space in your schedule so you can spend time with her?”

Himuro shrugs offhandedly. “Nah,” he answers. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Alex has her own thing to do anyway.” He looks at you from behind aviator sunglasses. “Thanks for offering, anyway.”

“Don’t mention it, it’s my job.” The two of you walk down some set of stairs.

“Oh, _________.”

“Yeah?”

“Wanna grab a bite or something?” Himuro says, his gaze unreadable through the black lenses of his eyewear, “you haven’t eaten dinner, have you?”

“Sure.”

“Burger?”

You smile. “I’m on.”

Being Himuro Tatsuya’s personal assistant and manager requires great patience and precision. He’s no ordinary man, despite how humble he carries himself around people—he’s a national star and has his face plastered all around big cityscapes on screens and papers. You’re willing to bet at least a thousand teenage girls in Japan has a poster of him in their bedrooms. The man is the face of a band, the engineer behind hit songs, and he’s notably the most humble among his fellow celebrities.

Thankfully, Himuro is not difficult, unlike the people you’ve worked for before being his manager. He’s aware of basic courtesy, like saying ‘good morning’ and ‘good night’ (yes, your previous employers were probably unacquainted with the concept of greeting other people). He also treats you like you’re his equal, and somehow, after being stuck with each other for work purposes, the two of you became friends.

That’s how you end up eating McDonald’s with him as you walk down to your car. He’s munching on a McChicken, and you get to tease him about how he’s going to ruin his diet. He chuckles in return, and even though his steel gray eyes are blocked by a pair of Raybans, you know that he’s not upset about that comment. 

“It’ll be worth the weight,” he jokes back, and you can’t help but laugh quietly, covering your mouth. 

He makes it very easy for you to fall in love with him, and if there’s a reason to condemn Himuro Tatsuya, it’s how his charm makes you (and many other people) unintentionally fall for him.

Himuro sighs as he closes the door to his apartment, locking it before venturing further in. Today’s recording session wasn’t as tiring—he’s had worse—so what is this unease and why is his heart heavy?

That’s right, it’s your fault, he ponders as he walks to the kitchen, inspecting the refrigerator for a cold drink. Himuro realizes that he actually misses you, even though you literally dropped him off less than five minutes ago with your car. The can of lemon tea opens with a distinct sound, but it’s not enough to wake him up from his train of thoughts.

Really, though… when did he start feeling this way?

“You want me to clear up some space in your schedule so you can spend time with her?”

Your voice echoes in his head. Since day one, you’ve been the kindest manager he’s ever had. Sure, you made sure that he’s actively participating in all sorts of work, be it photoshoots or promotional events, but there’s not one single time where you neglect asking his consent. “Are you okay with this”, “is this time alright with you”… 

You’re never unkind to him. Or anybody else in particular. Sure, you sometimes have those bad days where you seem like you don’t want to be involved in anything, but instead of being rude, you’re just tired. Himuro makes sure that it’s not some kind of farce you’re putting up because you want to impress him (he’s met people like that, which isn’t a pleasant experience), and he appreciates that. Then, he began to feel refreshed around you, as if he weren’t some worshiped idol. He was just him, completely comfortable and carefree. After that, he starts to pay more attention to how attractive you are—he tried not to dwell on that thought when he first met you—and how you smell so nice whenever you lean in closer to whisper some pointers into his ear.

Himuro grabs his phone, fingers hovering with uncertainty over the touch screen before typing his text nimbly.

Sent 20:57 [Thanks again for sending me home. Good night, see you tomorrow.]

A minute later his phone buzzes, startling him out of his stupor. The can of lemon tea, now half-empty, is loosely held in his hand, and Himuro’s lucky his surprised jolt didn’t spill the drink all over the countertop.

Received 20:58 [No prob. I’ll pick you up at 9 tomorrow, sleep tight! xo]

He smiles. He’s usually not a fan of internet slang, which is why he doesn’t really use much of them, but seeing the two letters at the end of your message and thinking about their meanings of affection… It’s harder because anyone can interpret the “xo” differently, and his lovesick mind just likes to play with him—he’s secretly hoping that you mean those two letters are more than just a friendly gesture.

A VIP room in a high-end nightclub and a tall glass of champagne isn’t part of Himuro’s schedule, you’re quite sure of that. If it were, you’d notice your own words scribbled in your trusty notebook or your mobile. It happened so suddenly—several models invited him to join their nightly activities after the photoshoot, and you noticed their lust-glazed eyes and sultry smiles, men and women alike. Himuro wanted to decline, as he isn’t one to be usually found in clubs or bars at night, but they were so insistent to the point where he agreed just to shut them up.

“I gotta bring _________ along,” he said as a requirement to the models, standing tall in front of him like a flock of cranes. You only agreed because you’re responsible for bringing him back home safely—the designated driver, or so you said, but the fire at the pit of your stomach tell you your real intentions: you’re jealous of how those people are looking at him.

So here you are, in a purple-lit room on the second floor of the club, standing against a wall with a non-alcoholic drink in your hand. Himuro’s surrounded by a few of the models on the sofa across the room, while the rest of them are busying themselves by making out at another secluded corner or dancing downstairs.

Unbeknownst to you, Himuro has been trying to get closer to you the whole night, but these people whose company he doesn’t really enjoy keeps getting in his way. They think you’re just a manager. They don’t know that Himuro sees you as a friend (and secretly more than that). They keep sending him flirtatious lines, asking risque questions, and acting to seduce him—alcohol is probably going to be their excuse, but he knows their true intentions.

[If you love me, come on get involved]

The only one that is allowed to do all that to him, even without the influence of alcohol, would be you.

You, sipping your drink while you endlessly scroll down your mobile phone as you lean against the wall. You, skin highlighted by the sultry mauve, the light creating a silhouette of your body. You, the object of his affection, obsession, desire, worship. He wants to do things to and with you. He wants to go on cute dates, buy you gifts, love you, maybe in bed too if you’ll allow him.

Call it intuition, but when he sees you glancing his way with a look on your face that is bitterness and pining, a zing runs down his spine, lighting a spark of hope inside him. You widen your eyes in surprise as your eyes meet his and, to cover up your true feelings, look back at the screen of your mobile. If you don’t let him see what’s in your gaze for too long, he’ll probably forget about it, right?

[Feel it rushing through you from your head to toe]   

The pulsing song from the rowdier setting downstairs and the chatter of people surrounding him are nothing but background noise in his ears. Himuro downs his fourth glass of alcohol, and although his tolerance for intoxication is considerably stronger than that, the drink gives him liquid courage to stand up from his seat and approach you.

His steps are slow and almost sensual, but also calculative. Some eyebrows are raised at how he looks like he’s predator stalking prey, and his… companions are not less than appalled when he stands extremely close in front of you, successfully switching your attention from the mobile phone to himself. 

You’re as surprised as those models with crane-like legs when he cups a jaw with his hand, leaning his face to yours, your lips dangerously close to each other. 

[Can you feel it?]

The sudden increase of your heartbeat. The way your lungs stop yourself from breathing.

“Can you tell me something, _________?” He asks, breath caressing the skin of your face and you shiver.

He has to be drunk, and this event shall not be remembered in the following morning. You will try your best to act like nothing has happened between the two of you in this particular nightclub, in this particular room, in this particular situation where you’re practically sandwiched by his body and the wall. And your efforts will fail, because you can never forget such a thing. He, however, will continue on with his life as per usual, with you as his manager.

Your eyes search his steel gray ones, only to surprise yourself once again by discovering uncoated want in his eyes, along with insecurity—one thing that he’ll only allow his loved ones to witness. 

“What?” You whisper.

Himuro swallows the urge to kiss you senseless down his throat. He needs to hear you say it.

“Tell me how you feel about me.”

[Found you hiding here so won’t you take my hand, darling]

“Tatsuya,” you respond, voice more hoarse-sounding that it usually is, “are you drunk…?”

“I’ve never been more sober,” he answers, “now tell me.”

What are you supposed to say to that? You’re not ready to tell him that you’ve actually liked him for a long time, that you’ve admired him from afar, and you’ve dreamed of having his affections for your own. He’ll retract himself and say that it’s creepy, that you’re supposed to maintain a professional relationship with him instead of fantasizing about him. He’ll say it’s disgusting.

—but when his lips touches yours, ghosting over your slightly chapped lips ever-so-slightly and moving slowly to cover everything he can get, you think that the chances of that scenario happening is very low, especially when his hand dips under your shirt like that��

[Before the beat kicks in again]  

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” 

Instead of answering the question, his lips press against yours fervently, capturing your bottom lip in between his as he nibbles and sucks. You moan at the contact into his mouth, which somehow spurs Himuro to be more intense in the kiss. The hand that was touching the skin below your shirt now pulls you closer by the waist, while the other that was cupping your jaw snakes to the back of your head, deepening the kiss. 

You can hear the sound of glass breaking, angry footsteps, and the bang of the door: one of the models is pissed, threw the glass of drink on the floor and exited dramatically. Neither you nor Himuro cares—this is something you’ve undeniably thought of before you went to bed, and drunk or not, this is still Himuro. Is he going to remember this in the morning? That’s the least important thing that is on your mind. Right now it’s the way his tongue begs for entrance to your mouth, the way he tilts his head, the way he tugs at your hair, the way his body is pressed against yours.

The remaining models, women and men alike, realizes that Himuro is not going to be available any time soon—especially not when he has his hand on your chest like that. So they leave in silence, the only sounds they make are produced by heels, articles of clothing, and the occasional clearing of throats. You’re now alone with the celebrity you’re managing, pressed against the wall of a VIP room in a nightclub, and you’re making out with him.

“Fuck,” he says in between kisses and grunts of your name, “there’s no way in hell I’m going to forget this tomorrow.” 

He’s abandoned your mouth in favor of your ear, sucking at your earlobe and breathing against your ear before leaving a trail of kisses down your jaw and your exposed neck. 

“You’re coming to my place tonight,” he purrs, and a surge of arousal immediately shoots to your core. He’s never sounded so dominant before. 

“We have a lot of talking to do.”