#but calmly. and it’s the fact that she’s that but also the glitter and the love of winter/baking/etc. and the extreme girliness

[itspileofgoodthings]

that Bobby Bones interview with Taylor where he claims that the cookies she gave him made him sick and she tells him to stop lying is my Roman Empire because I can’t stop thinking about how, while keeping it still lighthearted enough for interview etiquette, she unequivocally shuts down his gaslighting and despicable toad behavior.

[runawaycarouselhorse]

What made both her sacrifice for her team mates’ happiness in Pocket Monsters (2019)/Pokemon Journeys episode 95 and the fact that she thought this would be her end more poignant for me is that being completely alone is what Musashi hates the most. She lost her (single) mother as a child and was never adopted, going from foster home to foster home... ;_;

After many failures (like being unable to graduate from a school meant to train literal Pokemon Nurses, because she couldn’t do what Chansey do, despite studying hard and being adept at skills like bandaging…) and having her heart broken and being disappointed (she let a boy she loved go alone so she can pursue idol dreams with some friends, who all made it… without her, so she lost a possible love for an impossible dream)…

She couldn’t bond with her partners and left them to be injured, just to save herself, during her training days at Team Rocket. She’d become selfish and self-preserving… in the Japanese version, the others called her “shinigami Musashi” according to Yamato (Cassidy), likening her to a reaper of souls… but James refused to run away, sick of living a life where he ran away from all his problems. He’d sacrifice himself for her and Meowth’s safety, getting badly injured and nearly missing their final exam, hospitalized. The first time they uttered the beginning of their motto was when she believed she was all alone again, much like in this scene… the Rockets in the Japanese version repeat the last thing someone else says as if to answer a question (the “nanda kanda to kikare tara” = “if you ask us about this or that” is mostly filler that could be substituted with anything else.)

Musashi (Jessie): (dejectedly, as she walks away alone as the final exam begins, even being questioned by Nyasu/Meowth where she’s going): Is this all that there is…?

Kojiro (James): (answering while leaning posed against a tree, covered in bandages, but they were only wrapped over his clothes so he could whip them off dramatically) If you ask us 'if this is all that there is,' our answer will be the universe’s compassion!

She’s so moved, she turns away to wipe her tears. “A team mate who won’t run away…”

I think that’s the first time they ever see her cry.

Jessie desperately wants family, belonging, that’s why she falls in love so quickly, she wants a family more than anything—James had everything material growing up, but not love… Musashi had near to nothing material growing up, BUT she had her mother’s love… until she lost her very, very early. They contrast each other! They’re soul mates, eternal partners, whether you ship them or not. Meowth, too, was orphaned as a kitten, never even named, and an outcast his whole life. He's also always falling in love easily, seeking a home... the trio should never be separated, they are each other’s sought-for home.

I think the falling snow in this scene, where she runs off in tears, after wearing a brave smile and telling James it’s okay to stay with Cassidy, is a very deliberate choice, as Jessie loves snow. One of her few happy memories of her depressing childhood is being made treats made of snow to eat. She unknowingly lost her mother in the snowy Andes mountains, seeking Mew, put into foster care, while Miyamoto tried to make money to give her a better life... glittering snow and sparkling tears…

For Meowth too, she lets him go. She just wants everyone to have their chance at love.

So, her believing she’ll end up dying alone, as she’s always feared, Musashi here laments her luck, but also has a beautiful little dream of her friends saving her.

Once again, similarly to the break-up episode of DP, she was the one who calmly and gently encouraged James to pursue a possible love. She also broke Dustox’s pokeball, in tears, not wanting her to make the same mistake she did, giving up on an attainable love for an unattainable goal (and, indeed, Jessie did not win the Grand Festival, despite her skill at Pokemon Contests… she made the right decision for Dustox’s happiness.)

Jessie loves her friends. Sure, she’s caustic, rude, temperamental, bitter, and self-absorbed, but she prioritizes love and their happiness. She doesn’t want them to be alone and abandoned the way she felt as a kid. She loves them so much so, she’s satisfied to die alone and suffer her worst fear if it meant they get to be happy. That’s self-sacrifice.

She doesn’t resent them one bit, saying it’s a nice dream when she thinks she’s imagined them saving her life… she thought it was her mind comforting her before her death, accepting her fate, rather than realizing it’s effectively a premonition of what will be reality… and when she realizes?! She initially reproaches them, looking mad, because she thought they abandoned their happiness for her! But no, things didn’t work out… this is where they’re meant to be: by each other’s side.

James also knows how much marriage means to her, even though he’s so traumatized by it, the word “fiance” triggers literal flashbacks for him and he climbed up a tree to get away from a teenaged girl who called him that. Yet, in XY episode 63, where she fell for Dr. White...

Kojiro: (with head down, eyes shadowed) If Musashi (Jessie) wants to pursue her happiness as a woman, shouldn't we give her our blessing?

Nyasu also had his misfortunes in love... they sympathize and empathize.

"Let's show her we're men and leave without saying anything..."

As Kojiro runs away, he sheds tears, wishing her happiness and bidding her farewell, silently. The scenes in these two episodes are clear parallels.

But in the end (including the final episodes, as rushed as that plotline was although I still loved Wobbuffet acting exactly like a troubled child of parents going through a messy divorce), they’ll always realize their happiness is by each other’s side as a trio.

"Sometimes you get good pulls, sometimes you get bad ones. Sometimes they're good, even if you think they're bad. Sometimes they're bad, even if you think they're good."

[beecauseevan]

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December 2023

Once, probably as part of his medic training, Eddie read that shivering is the body's way of producing heat. That textbook lied to him. He's been shivering for at least five minutes now and he doesn't feel warm at all. It might help if he took off his wet clothes, but doing so would leave him not only cold but also naked, and considering that he's not only at work but also sitting in the engine surrounded by his coworkers, that would probably cross some kind of boundary.

If there is such a thing as a boundary within the codependent mess that is the 118. 

"Shut up," he says, to no one in particular. Well, he tries to. It's almost impossible to get the words out. His teeth are chattering so hard he's probably giving dentists everywhere prolonged night terrors.

"Nobody said anything," Hen says calmly, except it's a calculated, careful kind of calm, like she’s walking on eggshells. One wrong step, and she'll set off a chain reaction the team won’t recover from for hours. 

Eddie grits his teeth and pulls the shock blanket tighter around his trembling shoulders.

"It's just," Chim says, into the ensuing silence. His mouth twitches, but he keeps his composure. "It's just, this doesn't happen everyday."

Eddie levels a glare at him, its effectiveness somewhat impaired by all the shivering his body is doing. Chim gives him an innocent smile. Next to him, Hen looks away, staring out the window at LA's glittering streets, the lower half of her face hidden behind a very suspicious hand. In the corner of Eddie's eye, Buck bites down on his bottom lip. 

"It's just," Chim repeats. "I mean. What are the chances? First, you're right there when the pipe bursts, and then you accidentally get stuck in the walk-in freezer? All on the same call?"

Eddie glares some more and tries—and fails—to get his body under control long enough to tell him just what he thinks about that series of unfortunate events. It's no use. The worst part is this: Chim is right. What are the fucking chances? 

"It's just not your day," Buck says, voice shaking with forcefully repressed laughter. "It's not your day at all."

"F-fuck-k y-you."

"Language," Bobby calls out goodnaturedly from the captain's seat.

"Don't be like that," Hen says. "It happens to the best of us."

Chim chimes in, "Does it though?"

And Eddie sighs. "I hate t-this team," he says, as clearly as he can. "I'm going back to dispatch."

That sobers Buck up, at least a little bit. It's been two years since Eddie announced that he was leaving the 118, and nineteen months since he came back, but apparently it's still too soon for that joke. Eddie would feel bad, but the fact that he's currently freezing to death surrounded by a group of very unhelpful first responders, all under LA's beautiful blue sky, means he's really not equipped for that kind of sympathy right now. 

"Don't worry," Buck says, adjusting his mic to make sure Eddie can hear him. "When we get back to the station, I'm gonna make Cap's world-famous chicken soup."

"World-famous is a stretch," Bobby protests, although the warmth in his voice suggests he doesn't mind the compliment.

Buck ignores him. To Eddie, he says, "It'll warm you right up. You'll see."

The first thing Eddie sees when they get back to the station is the inside of a shower stall. When he finally joins Buck up on the loft, twenty or maybe forty minutes have passed and he’s sent a probably unsustainable amount of hot water down the drain. It helped a little, but what helps even more is the smell he's met by when he reaches the kitchen: delicious, salty, savory, warm. 

"Okay," he admits, "That smells amazing."

"It's gonna taste even better," Buck says, glancing at him over his shoulder. He's standing by the stove, stirring a large pot of bubbling goodness. "I used Cap's homemade stock."

"Homemade stock," Eddie repeats. "Right."

Maybe Buck has a point; maybe there is no such thing as too much effort, where Bobby is concerned. Not for the first time, Buck reads his mind.

"I got started on the guest list last night," he says.

"Uh huh," Eddie replies smartly, and heads for the coffee machine. It's almost seventy degrees outside and he just took a prolonged hot shower, but he still feels cold deep inside, in his core. Warm cup in hand, he joins Buck by the stove, leaning against the counter next to him.

"The team is on there," Buck says, "obviously. Uhm. Also, kids, spouses. Girlfriends. Boyfriends. Other significant others, siblings, uh, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins—"

"Everyone," Eddie sums up, smiling into his coffee cup.

"Everyone is welcome," Buck agrees.

That kind of defeats the purpose of a guest list, Eddie thinks, but he doesn't have the heart to tell Buck that. Instead, he asks, "You want to play Secret Santa with 200 people?"

"There won't be that many people." 

"There could be," Eddie says. "And most of them won't even know each other."

Buck pauses his stirring and frowns down into his soup. "Well," he decides after a moment, "they can bond over their bad presents. Who knows? Maybe they'll find friends for life." 

"Why don't we limit the Santa thing to just the team?" Eddie suggests. "Keep it in the family, as they say."

"I don't think they're talking about party games when they say that," Buck argues, "and who's they, anyway?" Eddie just looks at him, waiting. Eventually, Buck sees reason. "Fine. Whatever. Here. Try this."

He's holding out a spoon, filled with that world-famous chicken soup. A thin tendril of steam rises from it. They're standing so close that Eddie doesn't even have to move. He just has to bend his neck a little.

The soup is indulgent and rich, warm and warming. His eyes meet Buck's over the spoon and that warmth shoots through his body like lightning, sparking across his nerves and tingling on his skin. He pulls back slowly and clears his throat.

He’s not cold anymore. Not even a little bit. 

"You're right," he says. "That should be world-famous."

Buck's pleased little smile is almost as warm as the soup. He resumes his stirring. For a few minutes, they just stand together in comfortable silence.

"Hey," Buck says, sometime later, and Eddie's eyes, which were watching Buck's spoon make its lazy circles around the pot, snap up. "Speaking of family. Are you free tomorrow night?"

Written for the @911countdowntochristmas - this was supposed to be 24 drabbles but the Buddie NDE speculation going around pre 8x08 inspired me and now it’s a 24-mini-chaptered fic instead. And definitely more hurt/comfort than fluff. Oops.

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[chasingbluebirds]

Fracturing

Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Character(s): Vil Schoenheit Word count: 638 AO3 Version Written for this week's @flashfictionfridayofficial theme, "Fracturing Forms"!

Vil flicked his thumb down along his Magicam profile, glossed lips pursing thinner and thinner as he scrolled. Attention on his posts was dropping, however gradually, and Mira was reporting fewer comments than ever on his photos lately.

He'd known, of course, the risk he was taking by rejecting so many roles. Celebrities lived and died by their presence in the public eye. His agent was good - better than good, in fact, she was far and away the best he'd ever had. But even she couldn't keep him relevant forever on only high-heeled photoshoots and perfume ads. His stunning movie roles were what had earned him his fame, and here he was, refusing one audition after another.

It wasn't really a matter of his schoolwork, though it did make for a convenient excuse to the media. Between his talent and his work ethic, truthfully, Vil was more than capable of managing acting work alongside his other responsibilities. Besides, the teachers were well familiar with his work, and they would have undoubtedly accommodated any demands of his career as needed. And the magic mirror guaranteed that even the most remote filming location could be just a simple commute back and forth to the academy.

What he couldn't stand, however, was the crushing idea of another nine months of filming opposite everyone's beloved Neige LeBlanche.

As his eyes scanned post after post of the past few months, he could feel his jaw clenching with frustration. But no, he couldn't afford the wrinkle lines from making such unpleasant faces. No matter his feelings on the matter, he would never be the most beautiful if he ruined his own looks with his displeasure.

He closed his eyes, reminding himself to breathe deeply and relax his muscles again. He needed to be able to look at himself calmly and objectively. He had always put in the work, and if that wasn't enough, then he'd just have to figure out what piece was missing. He'd make himself enough.

The fractured forms of dozens of pictures of himself gazed back at him, each cleanly composed with perfection. In one, he showed off a gleaming golden watch on a dark violet suit, his expression focused distantly on some point just out of frame, surrounded by sleek, modern skyscrapers in a glittering city. In another, his carefully refined smile showed off the apple-bright shade of his red lipstick. From yet another, he glowered arrogantly in the background of a movie poster, mouth curled in an elegant sneer towards Neige, who smiled sweetly at the camera, oblivious to his fictional nemesis's disdain.

Sweet. It was a type of role he'd never gotten to play. He wanted to, desperately. He could do wonderfully at it, if someone would just give him the damn chance to. But why would they, when they could always get the adorable, endearing Neige LeBlanche for it instead?

Clicking on his rival's tag on the movie poster, he was taken to a new flood of images, all cohesively linked by the same earnest, friendly smile on the younger boy's face. It was an effortless-looking, natural sort of prettiness, bright like a spot of sunshine reaching through the clouds. It was the sort of beauty that people wanted to trust implicitly, and so they did.

It was also the complete opposite of that glamorous, blinding brilliance of Vil's, which shone more like the bulbs on his vanity, highlighting perfection from every angle but too bright to stare at directly.

He had spent his entire life refining himself into the perfect picture of beauty. He had worked towards it for as long as he could remember. But how could he possibly compete with that natural, lovable charm?

The bitter aftertaste of dandelion greens lingered on his tongue as he took another sip of his beauty drink.

[alastor-simp-page]

The Soulmate Curse: Chapter 3

Woweee! Sorry it took like three days! Welp its out! Yippee!

The GIF is a clue (Alastor and Vaggie have a fight. Surprise. Surprise. Over who? Hmmmm. Who could it possibly be?) I honestly love Vaggie and Alastor's beef in the show.

I have to shut up. Also don't hate me. The angst goes hard. I'm not holding back, people.

The supposed soulmates are at it again!

A snippet is underneath:

“Sir?” A familiar voice squeaked. Alastor slowly opened his eyes to see an intense yellow eye staring at him: Niffty. Wait…Niffty. Her single eye was creased with worry, “Um, you fell asleep…on the couch.” She pointed to where he was sprawled, “I need to clean it, um, sir.”

Asleep? Alastor’s eyes snapped wide. He had been…ASLEEP??? Good God, no. He swallowed whatever panic arose in his insides. He wasn’t dead, he wasn't chained, no, in fact he was fine. He couldn’t sleep, no, wouldn’t sleep. Somehow he had done so. “Was anyone awake last night? To replace me?” Alastor asked as calmly as he could.

Niffty shook her head and then let an ear-splitting grin creep on her face, “The King showed me a room that hadn’t been cleaned yet when you all had your argument.” She swooned, holding the tight little duster in her hands. “I spent the whole night cleaning away…”

“So…” Alastor faltered. He shot to his feet and smoothed out his wrinkled clothes. Alastor stared down at her, “No one was patrolling?” 

Niffty tapped her finger on her chin, “Well, the princess was!” Her eye narrowed, “Kind of. She was just pacing around mostly.”

Ugh. Alastor would have to deal with this whole soulmate thing shortly. A more sincere, petty smile touched his face. He did quite enjoy annoying her with those little pet names of his. However, it was no fun with this soulmate idiocy. 

“You could ask the princess, you know!” Niffty giggled and started idly dusting away at the couch, “You’re her soulmate after all! Ehehehe.”

Alastor stiffened at that comment and switched the subject, “What of yours, Niffty, hm?”

Niffty turned slowly to face him with a wild smile on her face. Something that Alastor would guess someone would see in a horror movie. He didn’t fancy horror movies much. Niffty said sweetly, “That whole cleaning that room thing was to get rid of me!” She pouted and folded her arms, “He’s hiding from me!”

“I couldn’t imagine why,” Alastor smirked. He waved his hand and Niffty scrambled up his leg, propping herself up on his shoulders, “I will assist you, dear Niffty. I’m sure the King will be pleased with a little visit from his destined soulmate.”

“Aw, thank you, Alastor,” Niffty hugged his head, an odd thing but Alastor didn’t mind at all. He had grown used to Niffty’s antics after half a century. It brought a little warm fuzzy feeling of…friendship? No, he could hardly call it that. He owned Nifftys’ soul for crying out loud! As Alastor walked down another winding hallway leading to the main lobby he asked, “How long did I sleep for, Niffty?” She would know, of course. It was a habit of hers to obsess over her friends.

Niffty hummed to herself, “Uh, four hours?”

Too long. Alastor grimaced. Who knows what could have slipped into the hotel during those four precious hours? The princess of Hell…Charlie was vigilant but she wasn’t used to providing protection. Alastor was sure she had been used to guards everywhere in her life in that glittering palace of Lucifer's. There were none here so he had to become one.

Why? He wasn’t sure himself. For his own safety, he was sure. For Charlie’s safety. It would be a shame if the Princess of Hell was harmed in her sleep.

Alastor reminded himself to do a sweep of the hotel after he sorted out this whole Niffty nonsense.

As Alastor neared the main lobby, hushed voices drifted down the hall. He stopped dead in his path, Niffty pulled at his hair to remind him to go forward. Alastor let a little warning growl escape him and Niffty ceased her antics. 

“Vaggie…” An Australian voice drawled, “We’re soulmates, doesn’t that mean something to you?”

Alastor creeped closer to the door and his ears tilted towards the commotion. It was no mystery who was in the lobby.

[hayleyhearts]

I wanted to share another cut scene from my 40k TimKon fic Take me to the airport (call me from the platform)

this scene is from the draft where Tim is pining over their FWB situation and Kon fully believes that they've been dating for weeks. Also featuring Damian, who just came out as gay and needs some advice.

Tim didn’t know what to do. 

He tried to think it through alone but his thoughts kept getting caught on the insane fact that out of everyone in the family Damian came out to him. It was too weird. It was probably a mixture of knowing Tim was gay, forced proximity, and the fact that Damian didn’t care about his opinion. He still felt pressure to be supportive. Now he was this wise older brother who Damian could come to for guidance and Tim wanted to crawl out of his skin. He’d barely come to terms with his own sexuality, how was he supposed to help a kid like the demon brat? 

Eventually he confided in Kon and Kon, well. Kon had ideas. 

“Let’s take him to a gay bar.” 

“He’s fifteen.” 

“Bribe the bouncers.” 

Tim had no other ideas and eventually Kon came up with some arguments.

“It’ll be great,” he said, “You can be the cool older brother who takes him to his first gay bar. That’s exactly what a cool older brother would do.” 

The Monastery was a gay bar in the heart of Metropolis. It looked grittier than it was with exposed brick and thick, red velvet curtains that made the whole bar feel like backstage. There was a stage and a runway in the back of the room where Tim, Kon, Bart, and Cassie had seen several drag shows. 

On a Tuesday night, it wouldn’t be too wild. No DJs, no drag queens, no karaoke. Only a little glitter. 

The Monastery was 18 and over. 

Damian was 15 but he could pass. 

Just not dressed like that. 

Tim looked through his coat closet for something Damian could borrow.

“I’m dressed business casual.”  

“You look like a kid who’s trying to look older,” said Tim, “You need to wear something that says college freshman casual.” 

He pulled out a Metropolis University Sweatshirt and handed it to him. Damian looked disgusted. 

“Is this the Clone’s?” 

“He doesn’t keep his clothes here.” 

Damian still had a wrinkle between his eyebrows. 

“It’s not my size.” 

“You’ll look like a college student. Instead of a kid at his middle school graduation.” 

Damian took the sweatshirt. But he wasn’t happy about it. 

Kon, Tim, and Damian, with his sweatshirt sleeves pushed up and a scowl, stood outside of The Monastery. They were behind a group of rowdy college kids who were either already drunk or theater majors. Tim had his arms crossed and his back against Kon’s side, only an inch between him. Close enough for his body heat and broad torso to block out the windy night. 

“You’re gonna love this place,” Kon said to Damian. 

“Tt.” 

“I already regret this,” Tim murmured, turning his face into Kon. 

“Relax,” Kon put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “This is gonna be great.” 

Damian judgmentally side eyed a girl fumbling for her wallet in front of the massive bouncer. She had a half shaved head and nose piercing. The bouncer wasn’t asking everyone for their ID, just people he found suspiciously baby faced, and Tim cursed himself for not taking the extra time to throw together a fake for Damian. He’d done it for himself countless times. 

“Stop glaring. It makes you look fifteen,” Tim said. Damian glared at him harder. 

Finally, they approached the bouncer. He let them inside, without a second glance— 

until he held out an arm in front of Tim. 

“I’m gonna need to see some ID.” 

Tim fished out his wallet and fought down the flare of annoyance that made him want to say something really douchey like do you know who I am or I’d like to see you stop me. Instead he calmly and with as much dignity as he could handed over his ID card. He even managed to keep his cool as the bouncer examined it closely with a flashlight and quizzed him on his birthday. Finally he was allowed to enter, though when he saw how thoroughly delighted Kon and Damian looked he wanted to turn back around and disappear into the night. 

“Stop frowning. It makes you look fifteen,” said Damian. Kon laughed. 

“I’ll get our drinks,” Tim snapped and pushed his way toward the bar. 

“Come on, it’s funny,” Kon called after him. “It—” Tim didn’t look back so he turned to Damian and said, “he’ll get over it. Let’s get a table.” 

They found a cherry red booth that circled around a small table. Rainbow lights were criss-crossed against the wall, casting everybody in a warm glow. The place was lively but not packed. Miley Cyrus played through the speakers but it wasn’t loud enough that you had to shout to be heard. 

The last time Kon and Damian were alone, it’d been super awkward. But at least Damian had talked to him more than one word at a time.

“Have you been to a bar before?” 

“Yes,” Damian said, like he was stupid for asking. 

“Have you been drunk before?” 

“No.” 

Kon leaned back in the booth. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not a cop. I won’t tell anyone. Not even Batman.”

Damian said nothing. 

Kon drummed his fingers against the table. 

“I went to my first gay bar when I was your age.” 

“You were never my age.” 

Kon exhaled. 

“Or whatever,” he said, his eyes drifting toward the bar. 

Tim was taking his sweet time. He used his super hearing but Tim wasn’t even talking to the bartender. He was casually leaned against the bar, looking devastatingly hot with his button up shirt and calculating gaze. His hair fell over his forehead in this effortless way that just dared you to run a hand through it. Someone would talk to him soon, probably offer to buy him a drink, and maybe Kon should go over there before they had a chance. 

“How is a gay bar different from a straight bar?” 

Kon turned back to Damian, who sounded really weird. It must be what he sounded like when he asked a genuine question. He didn’t want to look eager, so he took a second before answering. 

“There’s more gay people.” 

Damian scowled like he was making fun of him but that was Kon’s genuine answer. He hastily added. 

“I mean— also, it has a different vibe. Like, the energy and everything. It’s cool to walk into a place and know most people are gay. And it makes it way easier to hit on guys.” 

“Is that why we’re here?” 

“No.” He fought down a smile because then Damian would be really pissed. “Tim and I just wanted to show you there are cool places out there where you can be who you are.” 

“Who took you to your first gay bar?” 

Kon had to smile at the memory. 

“I was alone. And I didn’t know it was a gay bar when I wandered in, but it ended up being the best night ever. That’s where I hooked up with this hot guy who was like—”

“I didn’t ask,” Damian cut him off. “And I don’t want to throw up in these bathrooms.” 

“Okay, okay…You know, I would’ve killed— metaphorically—” Damian narrowed his eyes but Kon continued obliviously, “to have an older brother with a cool boyfriend show me around back then. I really could’ve used someone to impart some wisdom. And buy some drinks.” 

Damian raised an eyebrow. 

Kon deflated an inch. 

“Okay, so Tim won’t let me buy you a drink but maybe—”

“I don’t want a drink,” Damian said like he was stupid, a tone Kon was becoming more and more familiar with, “You called yourself his boyfriend.” 

“Uh, yeah, because I am.” 

Damian titled his head, taking his time to look him up and down, like he was really enjoying this. 

“That’s not what he told me.” 

Kon’s confident, laid back, façade cracked. 

“What did he—”

Tim appeared balancing three drinks and placed them gently on the table. 

“Okay, an Old Fashioned, a Manhattan, and a water for the teenager,” he stopped when he saw the look on Kon’s face. “What are you guys talking about?” He asked, ready to blame Damian. 

“Nothing,” Kon said. “Thanks for the drink.” He moved to make room. Tim sat, but Kon had scooted more than he needed to, leaving too much space between them. Tim wrapped a hand around his drink. 

“What’s the purpose of the stage?” Damian asked. 

“They do drag shows,” Tim said, glancing at Kon who still looked bothered. “If you don’t know, drag shows are—”

“I know,” said Damian. 

“Then, yeah, stuff like that,” he said before glancing at Kon’s drink. “Did you want something else?” 

“I’m fine,” Kon said. 

He picked up his glass then put it right back down. He didn’t want to do something just because Tim wanted him to. Even though he was thirsty now. Dammit. 

“What did you say to him?” Tim asked Damian. 

“He didn’t say anything. I told you, I’m fine.” 

“In fact,” Damian said, sounding innocent in a way that was suspicious, “the clone was just telling me about the first time he went to a gay bar and the man he slept with.” 

Tim’s incredulous look just made Kon defensive. 

“I didn’t tell him the good parts. When did you go to your first gay bar?”

“Probably in college,” Tim said and took a sip of his Manhattan. 

“You don’t remember?” 

“Memory loss is a common side affect when you consume too much alcohol,” Damian said, very matter-of-factly. 

“I wasn’t blackout drunk,” Tim rolled his eyes. “It was the summer before college and I went with a few friends from high school.” 

“Your friends from high school are gay?” Damian asked. 

“Some of them.” 

“Who?”

“You don’t know them.” 

Tim took another drink and Kon couldn’t sit back any longer while he looked so obviously uncomfortable. He leaned forward with his elbows on the table. 

“They say one in four people are gay.” 

“Who says that?” Damian asked the same time Tim said, “That doesn’t sound right.”  

“It’s true,” Kon stood by the statistic he totally pulled out of his ass. He raised his eyebrows, “Makes you think about the Justice League.” 

That pulled a short laugh out of Tim but Damian just looked at him like he was an idiot. Classic Damian. 

The latest Doja Cat song played through the speakers and a large group of friends standing by the bar started singing along. Damian sipped his water and people watched them with a closed off expression. His eyes betrayed his curiosity, sweeping his surroundings and soaking up every detail. After their drinks were mostly gone Damian excused himself to go to the bathroom. 

“Hey,” Kon said as soon as he was out of earshot. 

“Hi,” Tim said, feeling the pleasant buzz of his drink in his limbs. 

Tim looked so beautiful. The atmosphere of the bustling bar behind him made it look like an old photo, especially with the light hitting his face and softening all his features. It was the type of photo you showed your kids one day and said that’s what he looked like when we met. 

“Should I get a second round?” 

“Do you… Are we…” 

Kon had a lot of practice looking stupid, but the question kept dying on his tongue. When Tim was looking at him like this, he really didn’t want to feel stupid. 

“Are we what?”

A beat. 

“Nothing. Nevermind. Let me get you a drink.” 

[macabre-mangled]

Love Like Wolves

OBI-WAN KENOBI X READER (gender neutral)

WARNINGS: canon typical violence and innuendos, insecurity (on readers end), brief mention of small age gap

SUMMARY: Obi-Wan assures you you're his despite it being secret

A/N: hot dilf. I also don't proofread my writing so deal with it lmao

Satine was gorgeous. You'd admit that. She also was so kind which made it hard when she was clearly showing interest in your lover. Obi-Wan wasn't flirting back by any means, but that didn't stop the hands of that ugly feeling to take hold of your brain. You of course masked it with the force, knowing that he could sense it otherwise. He could definitely tell something was wrong, but didn't have any idea what. You excused yourself to go and lick your wounds like a cowardly youngling. If Obi-wan was concerned he didn't voice it.

In our quarters you didn't find much peace either. in fact you had been pacing, your lightsaber clinking in its holster as you did. You know Obi-Wan would never be disloyal despite no one knowing about you two. He's not the type. However; it also means he can't publicly claim you. Maker, you sound so primitive. Is that really what we are in the end? Just like animals? Are you the same as a loth wolf? They mate for life. Does Obi view you as his life partner? All These thoughts swarmed your head like wasps. Obi was older than you, surely he's smart enough to not throw away a good thing. At least you hoped so.

"They're a good catch, Master Kenobi."

saltines eyes glittered as she spoke, A knowing glint in her eyes. Obi took notice and looked around in panic.

"Relax, I will not speak of it to anyone."

"If I may ask; how did you know?"

Obi-Wan didn't think he was THAT obvious. Or was he? Maker, he hopes not.

"The way you look at them. Its not obvious, but if someone knows where to look they can tell. Now, I will be taking my leave."

He watches Satine go. He surely hopes no one heard their conversation. Maker knows how much trouble he'd be in if the council found out. he wouldn't be able to take it if they took you from him. You're his light in the dark. He NEEDS you. Although now he's picking up on your distress. How did he not notice before? He starts off towards your quarters. He knows how you get. He just hopes you'll be in the mood to let him calm you down.

Upon his arrival he knocks twice then three times; the secret knock you two have. When you open the door he's greeted with your glare. Oh maker, what did he do? He doesn't recall doing anything. Your strained voice startles him out of his reverie.

"How's Satine? You two have fun making eyes at each other?"

Your tone gave away your emotions, something Jedi are not supposed to do. But right now you didn't care. Realization hit Obi-Wan's face.

"Darling, we weren't doing anything of that sort. Satine knows about us."

He calmly said in something just above a whisper as he slowly moved to cradle you in his arms. You let your shoulders fall. you knew this was ridiculous. Of course he wouldn't. You knew that, but maker that feeling took you by the horns. So you gathered all your courage to ask him the one question you had in the back of your mind.

"Do you see me as a life partner? Like would you marry me if you could?"

If he hadn't been right next to you he wouldn't have heard it. But he did and it made his heart ache how small you sounded. He knew you had insecurities, but never had he heard you sound so unsure. The answer was obvious he thought.

"Of course my darling, It's only you. We're bonded like loth wolves. Nothing or anyone will change that."

You snuggled closer to him at his words but his hand held you softly by the chin to look into his eyes. His eyes held an unspoken question and yours held the answer.

[lolita-lollipop]

Royal siren erasermic family? They like adopt you after you hatch from an egg bc they found you or something idk and take you back to the castle and make you their little princess or something cute and fluffy like that.

YANDERE SIREN ERASERMIC FAMILY X BABY PRINCESS READER

Shinso was just out and about, swimming through some forbidden areas he wasn’t supposed to be in, avoiding sharks, when he found an iridescent little ball under some rubble of a shipwreck, it made his gills tingle at the sweet aura that it emmited, he knew, that this creature, was something to protect. It was up until he saw something moving inside that he thought it was just some ancient treasure that would’ve died with this ship, he examined it closer, squinting his eyes, that’s when he realized, it was a Siren. A baby one at that, usually they hatched out of boring white eggs, the royal family’s were gold, but a shiny color changing white that combated the finest of jewels? Never, this little pip was special, he could feel it.

So he brought it back home, through his “balcony window”, debating wether or not he should tell his parents. As you know, he was somewhere where he was not supposed to be, and they would throw a fit. Then again, whatever this thing was, he couldn’t just keep it to himself, something was living inside it, and he wouldn’t know if something was wrong, so he has too. When he did, it came as a suprise that his parents weren’t mad, they jsut kindof stared at the orb, inhaling the addictive scent it gave off, the three huddled around it, aizawa carefully picking the Small thing up, it was only about the size of a pumpkin, extremely easy to pick up, yet he could still feel the heartbeat of a creature inside, it just had to be one of the sirenfolk , there isn’t any other explanation. He stared at it in confusion, noticing the small cracks staring to form.

Then a little hand popped through, and scared the shit out of all of them.

———

As it turned out, you were in fact a siren, a rare subtype of them, thought to have gone extinct long, long ago. The opal-looking scales that littered your arms and tail showed proof of it, this species were intensely more fragile, and weaker, that’s why they went extinct, as they couldn’t hear, and a small crabs pinch could cause major bone breaks, they were just too weak, yet so beautiful. That’s why they were coveted among the royal family. It only helped their growing obsession taht you were so cute.

It might’ve been an act of I’mpulse, but they just needed to have you as their own, of course, their word is law, so they could’ve just kept you, but they felt the need to make it official, they’d already had two pips, you’re just their third! It was simple, of course, you specific species could be born into sirenfolk families, it was just so rare that it had only happened once. You were just so cute, so fragile, just something so breakable, they just

H a d

To protect this tiny lil thing, it was instinctual to feel a protective pull over their little pups, and boy were they feeling that right now, you were special, not just any baby, but you were theirs. Their special little pup, nothing would ever lay a hand on you, ever. It had only be a few days, and word spreads through the underwater kingdom like a wave, from the servant maid who showed them how to take care of you, to the head maid, to a citizen, to the fisher, and eventually, by the end of the week, the whole kingdom was eagerly waiting to get a glimpse of their new princess.

And boy were they shocked to find out it was an opalite, the most rare of rare sirens in the world. Immediately after they had shown you to the world, sitting in a large clam as it was pulled by sharks, the citizens fell in love with you, maybe it was the fact that you were related to their beloved royals, maybe because the royal family would intensely glare at anyone who made negative comments, maybe it was the fact that a few of those people went missing, but who knows right?

You still hadn’t been able to open your eyes yet, and you won’t be able to hear them for a very long time, your hands were about the size of aizawas eye, and you looked closer to a fish than a human, as you hadn’t even developed your face yet, another plus to being the endangered species, note the sarcasm. And guess what? They found it so adorable, just their cute little baby, their little pup who can’t even protect themselves from the water around them. They just loved every part of your little body, from your tails, to your tiny little hands, to your shiny gills. It was all just so perfect- you were so perfect, and you were theirs, they were gonna protect you at all costs.

So of course they did, you were just so tiny right now, they knows practically anything could hurt you, so they opted to be around you all the time, only leaving to hunt for humans that would suffice for their tastes, drawling them in, determined because of that little smile of yours. You motivated them to do it, they were doing this for you. It have them all a sense of pride to have you feel safe with them, to rite them you. On their own terms.

Eri was constantly around you, being that she was a young one just like you, and you were her little sister! So she wanted to always be around while you made those echoing gurgling noises, or flapped your hands around in the water, she didn’t have responsibility in the kingdom yet, unless being cute is a job, so she can be with you jsut as much as she wants. Always sitting with you while you played with the floating pearls that they had arranged over your play area, watching you feel new things, holding you while you dozed off with adorable little bubbles, she always was with you.

Like now, she’s been with you all day, giving you little snacks, glaring at the guards at the door who always had their eyes on you… creeps. The sun was almost setting, and when you’re low down in the ocean it goes pitch black after a little while, and that’s when the jellyfish come out, tonight was one of the most special days out of the year in the northern oceans, the jellyfish festival, the one night a year when the rare white jellyfish would come out to say hi, leaving trails of shimmering sparkle behind them, painting the upper levels of the ocean a shiny silver. It just so happened that it occurred on your first birthday, a very small increment to sirens, as they live almost a billion years, but still a big accomplishment in their eyes. Look! Their little baby girl is turning one! How amazing!

“Do you see them hon? Look, they’re just starting to appear” Aizawa asked both you and eri calmly, swishing his hand through the salty water to pint at the new appearance of white and purple blobs, slowly flouncing their way overhead. Eri smiled up at it, her pointed teeth displayed in full view, her eyes shined at the view, not only of the huge jellyfish, but also at you, who was placed delicately in mics lap, sat up against his chest. Little bubbles escaped your mouth as you blew raspberries into the water, just making the family laugh.

“Mm-hmmm! Look! Look! How pretty! I wanna touch em! Can I touch em!” She yelled at her parents, excitedly pointing towards the jelly’s floating towards the surface, her hair floated behind her as she swished around, shinsho just chuckled, knowing that she eventually would try to touch them, and get zapped, again, like last year, and the year before, and the year before.

“No hon. Don’t do that to us again, you wanna wish your sister a happy birthday? She’s probably really exited!” Mic cheered, distracting his daughter from touching the jellyfish, yet again, meanwhile, you were happily bouncing up and down on his lap, enjoying the freedom of your arms, swishing them all over the place, grabbing the beads around your neck, jsut anything.

“But dad! Why not! It’s not like it’s hurt me or anything I’ll be fi-“ she begged, throwing her hands up in a small tempter tantrum, clearly forgetting her previous events of pain, and idiocy.

“No- nope no no, we aren’t doing this again, please honey, just please, remember last time, we had to clean up your wounds OUTSIDE-of water, you hate going to the surface remember? “

“Yeah but-“ she started speaking, but was soon cut off with a loud giggle, resonating through your lips, kindof rare for you, you hadn’t been very vocal outside of a few gurgles here and there, so it had each and every ones heads turning. That’s when they saw it, your beautiful eyes, shin sing in reflection to the jellyfish. Those beautiful little eyes of yours mesmerized all of them, a pitch black (for protection from the salt), with a shiny silver-like pupal, immediately after they opened, a burst of color filled your vision. You giggled and clapped your hands together with a small toothless smile, watching as the floaty creates went overhead, glittering with the light.

The absolutely gorgeous splash above was admired by the family form their own viewing post, the blues and whites combined to make a heavenly display. You could feel the cool sprinkles of light they emmited hitting your skin, smiling at the feeling, you splayed your hands out and flailed them against the water.

“Ohhhhhh- oh wow. Honey! Honey look! Her eyes opened! Look at taht! Aren’t you just so magical! Look at you, my little pup.” Mic smacked Aizawa over the chest multiple times, pointing at your clearly opened eyes, you just remained oblivious, staring up at all the new things around you, like.. everything! He turned you around to face him, letting you actually see his face for the first time, taking in the long yellow hair, the (also) black eyes, the ethereal face dotted with shiny yellow gills, him, you could see him!

“She’s developing smoothly, I’m glad. Awww, that’s pretty cute.” Aizawa replied to him, holding in his emotions, as soon as he met those new eyes of yours it’s like everything else disappeared, like the world itself didn’t exist, outside of him, and his fmaily. You took his breath away, or what you could call breath, so cute and innocent, such a small thing, that brings so much joy. Your little tail swished back and forth as you stared up at them happily, taking in the features of the people you’d learned to recognize by touch. Blowing raspberries out of your lips with a stream of bubbles.

“Awwwww! I’m gonna cry, she’s growing so fast! Soon she’ll be swimming in her own! In like 200 years! Too soon, way too soon. Comers baby- mm hmmm” mic spoke, knowing full well that even if he did cry, his tears would get sucked in by the ocean. He pulled you close, moving your head I’ve this shoulde is it would rest in the crook of his neck while he hugged you, eventually, the others joined in, eri practically flopping ontop (with careful regard for you of course).

They all stared at you, while you stared up at the “sky”, oblivious to their stares, to the ways they would growl at anyone who came close, to how they kept you from seeing anyone other than what they personally approve. After all, you are jsut their little pup, of course you wouldn’t notice! Their little pup… feels right to say that, it isn’t like you have any family waiting, they aren’t ever gonna come here.

And if they ever did?

Then, well, a few mermaids are going missing

———————————————————————————————————

Thanks for requesting, this was fun to write!

Have a great day today! Goodbye.

[soulmate-game]

New fic *test*

New Bio!dad Bruce story? I’m testing out this first chapter, and if I like where it’s going I might add it to my growing pile of WIPs. If I have inspiration, I might as well use it. Because of life events stressing me the hell out, I’m throwing any writing plans out the window and I’m purely gonna write to destress right now. Whether that means updating THG or not, or continuing Maribat March, we’ll just have to see how this all pans out. Things are subject to day-to-day change.

I got inspiration from this from rereading my day 1 story for Bio!dad Bruce Wayne month from last year. I’m just gonna change a few things.

—*—*—*—*—*

For once, an unfamiliar face attracted the attention of everyone who caught even a glimpse of them. It wasn’t even because of the person themselves at first, but their dress. The skirt like the most fantastical of storybook ball gowns, fluffy layers of satin over a luxurious petticoat, with a stunning pink floral pattern whose busy appearance was tastefully offset by a shorter, sheer layer of leaf green tulle artistically weaved and somehow sculpted over the floral in order to tame it. The effect turned what should be a grandmotherly pattern into something softer, sophisticated and youthful and yet also reminiscent of fairytale princesses. Over top the short layer of green tulle was an even shorter later of white tulle, almost invisible except for the elegant embroidery of crystal-white vines that twined all over it, connecting the green below it to the bottom-most floral pattern and oddly adding a layer of childishness instead of maturity. At the waist of the dress was a dark plum pink satin ribbon, to separate the elaborate ballgown skirt from the bodice. Attached to the simple ribbon was a large brooch of fabric flowers, with a single plastic ladybug in the center.

The bodice of the dress came up into a cheongsam neckline, but was sleeveless. It was a simple design, of half green and half dark pink, with a white border separating the two. The white border had expertly done embroideries in a soft silver thread that would only be visible close up, the images the thread made being that of fairies and ladybugs dancing around one another.

It was, all in all, a stunning display that made the small eurasian woman wearing them look like absolute royalty. Perhaps a long lost fairy princess. Her black-blue hair was even done up in elaborate looping braids and a braided bun, with silver and green pins that further completed the regal ensemble. And yes, while the expertly done dress was what initially captivated her current audience, it was not what kept them from leaving her alone. That was all her personality, bubbly and bright as her blinding smile. It was a sunny disposition that very few people present had any exposure to at all, and it drew them like a sunflower to the daylight. They could not help but flock closer, or even just stand back and keep themselves turned to her presence. Already she had been at the gala for two hours, but there was no issue. She just kept proving her generosity, admitting she had donated both a dress and a suit of her own making to the charity auction that would begin soon, one of the main attractions of the gala. She skillfully charmed the more snooty of the attendants, and artfully twisted her words so that they felt compelled to donate more money that they truly had no use for. Later, they would remember their donation and wonder what compelled it, but come up with no satisfying answer.

And yet she was entirely unaware of her more silent audience, who stood back and observed. Truth be told, every one of them was glad to not be the center of that attention for a change, to have room to breathe for so long at an event where usually that commodity was so scarce that it demanded a fierce competition for. Compared to her garden of color, they were all shadows in shades of blacks and blues and whites, with a touch of red here and there that was entirely too thematic for their home city. The one who sported a royal blue suit tilted his head at the scene they were all calmly witnessing, his bright azure eyes glittering.

“She’s like magic,” he mused, clearly enchanted despite having not said a single word to the woman. “Perfect socialite. She’s kind, generous, she made that dress and the ones she donated to the auction herself so she’s obviously got an intimidating amount of skill for her age. She even tricks those old fuddy-duddies into spending money. It’s like a dream come true!”

“I don't trust it,” the one to his right said, a man just a few inches shorter in a classic black suit with a red dress shirt underneath. He absently swept his bangs away from his face as he narrowed his eyes at the woman. “It seems too perfect. She doesn’t have any identifiable character flaw, except maybe being a little clumsy and too energetic. She does babble a little… but nothing that actually suggests any depth besides her just being— good. That’s impossible, and I don’t trust it.”

“Tt. I agree with Drake for once. She seems entirely too comfortable with this setting, despite her blushes and rambles,” the one who spoke this like was taller, clearly a teen in the middle of his growth spurt. He, too, wore a plain black suit but his had subtle charcoal embroidery and he wore an emerald-green dress shirt under it that made his matching eyes gleam dangerously. “It seems almost playacted. Expertly so, but nonetheless not entirely genuine.”

“Wow, not many pick up on that. I’m gonna give your observations a solid eight out of ten. They’re all perfectly sound, but not quite complete,” a new voice made all of the silent group stiffen— somehow they had been snuck up on. The newcomer smirked at them as if having fully expected their reaction but still being pleased at being able to evoke it. This was yet another stunner; far too much color in her outfit to be a Gotham native, and far too much skill in the construction for it to signify anything less than extreme influence. She had bright golden-blond hair that was coiled into a low bun, with her bangs artfully curled and arranged to display her crystal blue eyes.

In contrast to the garden-themed dress of the Eurasian woman who had garnered their attention at first, this newcomer was wearing a pantsuit. It was all in a dark honey-gold, in a stiff fabric with construction that made it lay entirely in perfect, straight lines and hug her form in the right places. Black embroidery decorated the long, flared sleeves and pant legs and dripped around the square neckline like a faux necklace. A cape made out of the same material as the rest of the pantsuit was draped on one shoulder. It started out as the same honey-gold color, but it became a gradient as it faded to a solid black at the ends. Gold thread embroidery decorated the solid black bottom of the cape in delicate, deceptively simplistic swirls. The top half of the pantsuit was clearly inspired by military garb, simultaneously rigidly constructed yet fitted, with circular onyx buttons going down the center of the chest and a thick metal belt, all in swirling silver and black, sat perfectly clasped around her waist. It was far more solid-colored and simplistic compared to the fairytale dress in the center, but no less show stopping and luxurious. It simply showcased an entirely different attitude, almost as if the two women could never get along if their personalities matched their outfits.

“And who are you?” The man who had been the center of the group of shadow-like adults spoke up, back straightening to milk every speck of his generous six-feet-and-three-inches of height. This was none other than Bruce Wayne, the host of this annual charity gala. And normally, his current stance would either intimidate or utterly charm whoever it was directed at— but not this pantsuit-clad blond warrior. Her smirk merely widened, and her blue eyes took on a slight shade of teal as if trying to mimic the dangerous ocean depths.

“I am Chloe Bourgeois, the daughter of Andre Bourgeois, the mayor of Paris, and Audrey Bourgeois, the Style Queen. It’s nice to meet you again, Monsieur Wayne,” she introduced herself imperiously. “I also happen to be the best friend of the girl you were just staring at.”

Bruce nodded, but had trouble reconciling this clear powerhouse of a woman with the bratty and entitled preteen he had met years ago, at the last gala she had attended with her mother. “Of course, I didn’t recognize you at first Chloe. You’ve grown a lot since the last Gala I saw you at.”

Chloe wrinkled her nose, clearly not appreciating the reminder. “I was a bitch,” she admitted easily, seemingly not at all bothered by the confession. It caused not only Bruce but also the oldest three of his sons, who had all also met her in the past, to blink in silent shock. “Things have changed. Paris is apparently the perfect chaotic environment right now to promote emotional growth and smack spoiled kids over the head with reality,” she shrugged. Part of the reason her and her whole class had even been able to come to the Gala in the first place was the fact that Bruce wanted to offer the most attacked group of Parisians a respite and some support from their crazy lives. The fact that even Gotham seemed sane in comparison to Paris was a bit of a hard hit for both involved parties, but in the end everyone understood that “more sane” didn’t always equate with “less dangerous.” Considering all that, Chloe had no reason to sugarcoat the situation in her home city. “But it wasn’t easy at all, and Marinette was largely responsible for my improvement too.”

“Marinette?” The heathen who somehow got away with attending a gala in a black leather jacket over a dress shirt and suit pants asked, raising a brow. Chloe nodded.

“The girl you were just goggling at. Marinette Dupain-Cheng, the class president and resident workaholic. Does she ever sleep? Nobody knows,” Chloe shrugged.

The blue-suited man, Dick Grayson, shot a suspicious glance at Tim, who was standing to his right, as if he was worried his brother had made a female clone of himself just so he could continue to work hard and never rest. Tim ignored him and sipped from the thermos of coffee he had somehow snuck in.

Bruce cleared his throat to bring the focus back onto himself, and shot his most charming smile at Chloe. “They would have known who she was, if they had read the brief information I gave them about your class. But they never do listen to me,” he complained with good humor. “But back to the original topic, Miss Bourgeois, do you care to correct us on how our observations are lacking?”

Chloe laughed easily, smiling and nodding to indicate Marinette, still stuck in a circle of socialites and not seeming the least bit worn out.

“Of course. First; She is not completely acting. She really is like magic sometimes— disgustingly kind, generous, far too willing to help just about anyone for just about any reason. She’s one of the best people I’ve ever met, as much as it pains me to admit it. But she is exaggerating her personality a bit and hiding the parts she doesn’t want anyone to see, so there is a little acting involved. Just not as much as you seem to think,” Chloe then waved her arm in a flourish as if she were presenting Marinette to them. “In short; behold Mari Dupain-Cheng, the ridiculously likeable, disgustingly cute, extremely philanthropic mask that she shows everyone at public events like this. You don’t see any of the insomnia, or the anxiety, or the self doubt. Just the parts she wants you to see, accompanied with a smile to blind you to everything else,” her all-too-deep blue eyes settled back on Bruce then, a knowing glint shining in them. “Don’t you think that’s ridiculously similar to Brucie Wayne for you, Monsieur? Utterly, ridiculously, similar?”

Bruce grit his teeth. He hadn’t expected anyone else to know about his exceptionally well hidden secret, not even his kids had caught on or found his buried evidence yet. Yet his heiress comes up, nearly flaunting her knowledge in his face with all too many unspoken questions and criticisms.

And her cryptic words had succeeded in making all of his kids look at him with extreme suspicion. Shit.

“What are you saying, Miss Bourgeois?” he cautiously prodded. She hummed noncommittally before dropping the bomb all too casually;

“I’m saying I’ve seen her adoption papers, and you won’t be able to run from her for long Monsieur Wayne. As soon as she gets an opening, she’s going to pounce,” Chloe’s eyes glittered dangerously again. “And nowadays, Marinette doesn’t ever let people escape her. Your problem with adoption has created a rather unique problem, you know. You’re at fault for a large majority of her self confidence issues, and I want you to know that I am not going to forget or forgive that anytime soon.”

“Bruce,” Jason’s voice was dark and threatening. “What is she talking about?”

“Something we don’t want getting in the tabloids,” Yet another new voice popped up, allowing Chloe to smugly sink back into the background.

Somewhere during their discussion, Marinette had ambushed them.

“Chloe and I are very good at locating all the reporters in a room and distracting them, but we’re not infallible and this event has far too much coverage,” Her smile reeked confidence and charm, but this close all the Waynes could see the doubt hiding in her bluebell eyes. “Since I’m about to turn eighteen, I figured this would be as good a time as any to finally confront you. I want to make it clear that I seek nothing from you, except the occasional contact. I would like to keep in touch, if nothing else. But if you are adverse to that… then at least answer my questions after the gala,” her eyes developed a hint of carefully controlled desperation. “Please.”

Bruce met her eyes evenly, trying to read her. But she was difficult, simultaneously too many emotions to sort through in her demeanor and much too little. After an extremely tense moment of silence, his voice came out barely above a whisper:

“You do not want anybody to know?”

And hell, if she didn’t recognize the hidden vulnerability in his voice as the very same she heard in her own far too often. In a much tamer version of her own rambling, he went on:

“I can keep it silent if that is what you want. But I want you to know that I will not be adverse to you admitting it anywhere. I don’t expect you to change your name, but I would not be ashamed of the truth getting out. I am not ashamed of it, of you.”

Marinette’s smile grew a little watery. She had to clear her throat to keep herself from tearing up. “Maybe eventually, but not yet. I… I want to stay a little more anonymous for now. It’s one thing to be a well known designer with good connections. It’s an entirely different thing to be…”

“A Wayne?” Bruce finished, ignoring the daggers that were being stared into his back. “I understand completely.

“Father,” Damian’s voice was all sharp edges and rapidly suppressed panic. “What. Is going. On?”

Marinette shot him an apologetic smile. “Apparently, eighteen years ago, his prerogative was to put the child he actually knew about up for adoption when the mother died in childbirth,” her voice was once again only barely loud enough for them to hear, since she didn’t want any eavesdroppers. “Imagine my surprise when I find out he completely flipped sides only months later.”

--*--*--*--*--*

Hey, so please share your feedback on this. This is just to test out a possible new bio dad, multichapter fic and this is the opening scene I'm trying out. If you like it, please tell me what you like about it and please suggest titles for the story! I love you guys' feedback so much!

[caffeineforbucky]

As Time Goes By...(Chapter One)

Post-blip (five or six months later)

A/N: This is my first time writing on this website or anything public really, I usually just write for me, please just bear with me if it looks or sounds janky. Also, thanks for taking the time to read. I deeply & wholeheartedly appreciate you. Enjoy!

Summary: I suck at them but, I'll give it a shot. You- the reader, are surprised by 'old' friends when they show up out of the blue, asking for your help on a mission. (This is just the sum for chap. 1)

Word count: 2,760

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem! reader

Warnings: Angst, swearing, ex-boyfriend jealousy...

The day was coming to an end, a small heatwave conjuring up a sweat as you wiped down your last table for the night. You blew out a breath, brushing back a sheen of perspiration with your forearm, watching the last customer walk out of the restaurant as the bell chimed above their head.

You never understood why people chose to sit inside when there were tables out on the sidewalk. It was hotter in here than out there, especially since the air conditioner had gone out just a few days prior and the fans above the tables were only circling the air inside. It was an actual oven, but they contended.

Your hightops heaved across the tile, dragging yourself with the sufficiency of a person who was only working because they had to. You kicked up the doorstop, pulling the door towards you with a small amount of goodwill and vigor to finish locking up, flipping the paper sign over from open to closed. It wasn't as if you hated your job. You thoroughly enjoyed the atmosphere of it all. It was the only person working the night shift job you hated with every fiber of your being. You weren't completely alone in the restaurant, having a few cooks and the owner to keep you company, especially on busy nights like the one you just had.

"I'm clocking out, Mrs. Turner!" You call out, reaching behind your back to untie the knot of your apron, pulling it up and off your neck once the ties came undone. Trudging back to the table, you picked up the disinfectant wipe and toss it in the bin, making your way to your boss's office before hanging up your apron on the hook. "Mrs. Turner...?" You murmur softly, poking your head in through the doorway, only to see her counting the profits for the day. "I'm heading home," You chime, pointing behind your shoulder with your thumb as she glances up at you.

"Alright, Honey," She beams, a bright smile pulling at her lips as her eyes meet yours. "I'll see you tomorrow then?"

Working for the Turners wasn't supposed to be a permanent job, in fact, it wasn't even your original plan, as opposed to the small favors you would complete now and then for the people that were willing to pay a pretty penny for your...services.

But you figured having a stable job was smarter and safer than the alternative. And the help wanted sign was very persuasive, due to the pretty colors and splashes of glitter. It looked like it was made by a child, which you later found out, was decorated by Mrs. Turner's seven-year-old. "Always." You accede, tapping the doorframe as your goodbye before parading into the breakroom to gather your things from the lockers.

You take your backpack off the hook and swing the strap over your shoulder before time punching your card and going straight through the back door. The sounds of the city hit your ears as the heavy door slammed behind you. Traffic honks and tires treading against the grain while you walk further into the busy streets of San Francisco.

As you were about to turn the corner, you were met with the sight of your friend's van, followed by a trumpet rendition of La Cucaracha. You grinned widely, gripping your strap tighter as you jog up the 1972 Ford Ecoline, aka Big Bertha. At least that's what you called it. "Luis!" You rejoice, resting your palms on the ledge. "What are you doing here?"

"Scotty sent me out for a few things," Luis answers, his hands gripping the steering wheel, his head turned to you. "I was just about to go when I saw you. Thought you might need a ride." He shrugs, a cute smile playing on his lips.

You nod, reciprocating the smile at his answer. "Yeah, if it's not too much trouble..." You drag, your voice hesitant, as if he didn't offer at all.

"Nah, get in." He gestures, beckoning you with a wave of his hand. "Your place is on the way," Luis loosens his seatbelt, reaching over to the passenger side to pull up the lock, opening the door for you.

You climb in, plopping down on the tufted leather seats as you pulled the door towards you, closing it shut. "Thanks, Lu," You breathe, dropping your backpack below your feet, then you fasten your seatbelt. "How is Scott, anyway?" You ask as Luis changes gears and presses the gas, the van rolls onto the street.

"Ehh...he's...he's alright, know what I'm sayin'?" He answers, glancing at you before focusing back on the road. "I mean, he missed like five years of his daughter's life. He's just trying to spend as much time with her to make up for years they both lost."

You nibble at the inside of your cheek, nodding softly in agreement as the city lights passed you by. There wasn't much you could say to that, having lost so many people yourself. People you considered family just...gone.

"Yo!" Luis pipes up, snapping you out of your train of thought. "Didja see the news today?!" He shakes his head, whistling at the thought. "I can't believe they would just give some random dude the shield like that, ya know?"

You drew in your bottom lip in contempt, nodding once again at Luis. You had seen the news, and they couldn't have picked a better time to broadcast. If it hadn't been for Mrs. Turner asking you in, you would've hunted Sam Wilson down and kicked his ass yourself.

The van rolled to a stop, brakes squealing as Luis pulled up beside your apartment. You sighed heavily, glancing at the small apartment you shared with your Ex-boyfriend. By the looks of the living room light illuminating behind the curtains, he was home, and you absolutely dreaded when he was. It wasn't as if you wanted to live with him, but you had no other alternative. Ever since dropping your side job, money was tighter, and he was kind enough to let you stay, just until you found a place. "Thanks again for the ride, Lu." You mumble, unclicking your seatbelt as you took hold of your backpack. "You didn't have to."

"Don't even mention it, Y/N," Luis reassures, watching you as you pull at the door handle, opening it to get out. "I know how hard it is to get back into the norm."

You shut the passenger door, shooting him a sympathetic smile. "I'll see you around?"

With a smile, Luis waves goodbye and drives off into the night, the exhaust pipe blowing smoke as he rode off. You shook your head, cracking a smile at the honk of his horn. You turned towards the front entrance of the apartment, your stomach twisting as your smile dropped completely. You swallowed thickly, rolling the tension from your shoulders to prepare yourself before jogging up the small flight of stairs.

You fished your keys from the front pocket of your backpack, taking a breath before shoving the key into the lock, twisting as you pushed the door open with your shoulder. "Joshua?!" You voiced, calling out your ex's name to make sure it was him. You dropped your belongings beside the door, pushing your sneakers off before kicking the door shut with your foot.

"Yeah, in here!" He responds quickly, a slight tremor to his tone.

You frown softly, tossing your keys into the bowl on the console table before sauntering to where his voice was emanating from. "Josh, are you...?" Your voice came to a halt, your footsteps stopping altogether as you walked into the living room.

"Hey!" Joshua exclaims once your figure comes into view. "You wanna explain who they are?" He presses, his face crossed with fear as he gestures to the two men sitting calmly on your living room couch.

You remained quiet, your body tense, eyes wide as your focus shifted between the men on the couch and your ex.

"Well...?" Joshua demands, crossing his arms over his chest, shifting in his stance at the unsettling glare one of the men was sending his way. "I was in the middle of hosting game night-as you can see, when they showed up," Josh drops his arms, hands splaying out to gesture to the coffee table consisting of five different dips, two bulk-sized bags of tortilla chips, and a twenty-four pack of Blue Moon beer. "The guys were just about to come over."

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes to refrain from any and all insults towards your ex. That explained why he was home. "Um..." You utter, pinching the bridge of your nose, "Fucking hell," You curse under your breath, eyes fluttering open to look at Joshua. "Josh," You begin, clearing your throat as you start with the man on the left. "They are Sam Wilson and..." You hesitate, eyes settling on the man to the right, his sight alone bringing back the memories that you swore you didn't want to remember. "James Barnes," You finish, ripping your eyes away from his baby blues to look at your ex. "Aka-"

"The Falcon and The Winter Soldier..." Joshua finishes for you, his eyes flashing with amazement, head whipping towards the guys. "Shit!" He curses, smiling widely like a kid in a candy store. "Can I get you guys anything? A plate? Beer?"

"Actually," You grunt, interrupting before Sam or Bucky could answer. "Can you give us a minute, Joshua?" Insisting while your foot tapped impatiently against the hardwood floor.

"Should I be worried?" He inquires, eyes filled with confusion as he looked between the three of you, trying to piece together the situation at hand. The main reason you and Joshua couldn't work it out was that you kept a lot of secrets, mostly from him. He didn't like the fact that you wouldn't let him in. Sure, you lied to him, the biggest lie being that you were an Avenger, but that was just to keep him safe. There were other reasons why you decided to split up as well. Joshua knew...he knew deep down you were just with him to pass the time. He could see it when he looked into your eyes. There was someone else in the reflection and it wasn't him. If he was honest with himself, he could admit that it did hurt him. That he wanted a chance to make it work with you, but with the way you were staring at James, he finally recognized that reflection.

He should've noticed it early on-like that day he had somehow convinced you to take a trip to D.C for a tour of the Captain America museum. You were hell-bent on not going, trying to make up some elaborate excuse or an alibi of sorts, but alas, you still went. And for some odd reason, you couldn't stop coming back to the Bucky Barnes portion.

"No," You reply, keeping it short to dismiss him.

Joshua's mouth set in a hard line, a foreign feeling forming in the pit of his stomach-jealousy. He never had to worry about it before, especially when his friends used to come over, back when you were still together. Except for that one time, but how could he blame them? You were the kind of person that listened, laughed at the jokes being made, could lend a hand when needed, and your looks were just a bonus in his book. "Uhm, yeah," He coughed, frowning softly while nodding his head at you. "I have to go pick up the pizza, anyway," Josh brushes past you, fetching his keys from the bowl while slipping on his Vans that sat up against the wall ledge that separated the front door from the living room. "Are you going to be okay?" He mumbles, glancing over his shoulder to look at you.

You shoot Josh a smile, nodding reassuringly, his footsteps approaching closer before stopping in front of you, the palm of his hand landing gently on your shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. "Let me know if you need anything, m'kay?" Josh's voice is soft, the concern in his eyes making you feel guilty. You knew he cared about you, and there wasn't a time where you'd catch him staring at you for far too long, but you were well past that. "I'm just a text away," He notes, waving his cell in his hand.

"Josh, I'll be fine," You sigh, stepping away from his touch, the sound of his hand hitting his jeans as it dropped from your shoulder. "I always am."

"Right," Josh nods, looking over at the men on the couch before gazing back at you. "I'll see you in a bit, bug." And with that, he turns, opens the front door, and steps out, shutting the wooden door behind him.

You close your eyes, the pet name Josh had coined for you making you sigh. He agreed to stop calling you that all together and it only made you feel that more guilty for ending things. "So..." You pipe up, opening your eyes as you turned to look at the guys. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Bug?"

Bucky is the first to speak, his jaw clenched at the mere sound of the word. Indignant at the way Josh had touched you, even if it was just your shoulder. "I didn't know he knew you like that," Bucky flashes you a taut smile, nodding softly as he shared a look with Sam, but the falcon only shook his head. "How long have you been..." Bucky couldn't even finish the question, his glove-clad hands tightening at the thought of you being with somebody else...someone that wasn't him. Though, it was his own fault. If he hadn't done what he'd done-you'd have never found another.

"Wow," You scoff, padding closer to where they sat. "You don't miss a beat, do you? Just..." You sink into the sofa adjacent to the one they occupied. "-Right into the big stuff."

"I didn't bring you here to question her about her love life," Sam voices, his scolding eyes on the man beside him. "And she sure as hell isn't obligated to answer you, Bucky."

You smile gratefully at Sam before glancing down at your leg that had begun to bounce in anticipation. "What are you guys doing here? And how'd you find me?" You ask, tilting your head in curiosity as you look up at the guys. "When I resigned from the Avengers initiative, they ensured me that I wasn't able to be traced, not by your or any other remaining member. I was supposed to be scot-free," You declare, hitting your thigh with your fist.

"Oh, come on, Y/N," Sam chuckles, shaking his head at the naivety. "We both know that's a bunch of bullshit. The government is always going to have its eyes on us. Especially free agents like you and us."

You draw in your bottom lip, biting down, eyes flickering between Sam and Bucky. You knew it was too good to be true, and part of you sensed the bullshit when the government explained it to you. You just didn't want to believe it.

"You were an ex-assassin. How could they not keep tabs on your whereabouts?" Sam recounts, emphasizing that it was in the past. At least, that's what they thought. "And I had some help from Redwing as well." He shrugs nonchalantly.

You choke out a laugh, shaking your head at the smug demeanor emitting from Sam. "Redwing," You whisper, smiling thinly. "Of course, nothing could ever be hidden from your personal P.I, huh?"

"I hate that thing," Bucky grumbles, folding his arms across his chest. in annoyance. "Invasion of privacy, I'm telling you."

"You love redwing," Sam jokes, playfully jabbing Bucky's arm with his elbow, "It's okay Bucky, you can admit it."

"Can we get back to the issue here?" You interject, "Not one of you has explained the reason you're here. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's great to see you...one more than the other," You whisper that last part but, completely aware that Bucky could hear it. "But, you both showing up out of the blue...? That's almost a bad omen."

"I didn't ask him here, by the way," Sam acknowledges, raising his hands in defense, "I just want to get that out of the way. Bucky came because he wanted to. I'm here," Sam gestures to himself, "-For one reason and one reason only..."

"And what's that?" You ask, leaning forward in your seated position.

"I need your help, Y/N."

[l0vegl0wsinthedark]

Holding Hands

Just dipping my toe into the "faking a relationship for a holiday party" trope. (And blame @shealwaysreads for this cause she was like do it and so I did it.)

This is unbeta’d. Please be gentle with me.

*

Draco waited. The silence that had fallen a couple of minutes ago was still loud. The fire in the hearth kept spitting threateningly instead of just crackling quietly and sweetly like it should. The fairy lights around the tree twinkled gently, slowly, throwing golden patterns over Potter's skin, his dark hair.

They were sat across from each other in front of the hearth, Draco in his armchair upholstered in silver-grey velvet, and Potter in the plushy green armchair he had conjured when he'd arrived. Their drinks were sitting on the spindly-legged table between them.

Potter looked very politely confused, a tiny smile on his face, a thin line between his brows. He was leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, his long, strong fingers clasped together neatly, his full attention focused on Draco. He looked...like he was waiting for Draco to finish speaking, to...explain.

Draco licked his lips and tilted his head a bit. "Erm...?"

Potter's smile widened a bit. "Yes?" he said eagerly. Draco blinked and shook his head imperceptibly. Potter's confusion deepened. "I'm...waiting for you to...you know--" he waved his hand vaguely and then grinned, "--laugh," he finally said, a tad lamely.

Draco frowned. "What's funny?"

Potter's mouth fell open on a stupid gape. "I mean... I thought..." He pushed his glasses up his nose and then scratched the back of his neck. "So, what was it you were saying? What are you asking me?"

"Did you not hear me, or are you feigning stupidity?" Draco asked coldly.

Potter frowned, bristling a bit. "I heard you, Draco, and I feel like you're taking the mickey."

"I'm doing no such thing. I explained my predicament and asked you a simple yes or no question. Would you be so kind as to grace me with an answer?"

Potter shook his head irritably. "Stop talking like that!"

"Like what?"

"Like... Like a fucking ponce. That's how you used to speak to me." Draco just looked at him. "Can you just be normal, please?" Potter snapped.

Draco spread his hands out. "I am being normal."

"Uh huh." Potter was still frowning. "So, you're saying--" He broke off and shifted in his seat, straightening up. "So, you're saying..." Trailing off, he just sat there looking like a fucking idiot. "What are you saying?" he finally asked.

Draco picked up his brandy and took a sip before leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs, lifting his chin high. "Fine. I will ask you again. Since you're a bloody troglodyte, apparently." He had to gather the will and courage all over again to repeat himself. "Will you accompany me to my parents' Christmas party as my boyf- partner? Meaning, they'll think you're my partner. We’ll just have to pretend."

"You...said something before that earlier."

"Oh. Yes. Well, when my mother asked me if you and I are lovers, after she read that article about us in the Prophet, I simply said yes." He'd managed to say it without displaying any emotion the first time. Now, however, Draco could feel heat rising up his neck and face.

Potter was looking particularly stupid as he stared with his mouth open. "Your parents think we're dating?" Draco nodded. "And they want to...meet me?"

Draco brushed imaginary lint off his trousers. "If you consent."

Potter leaned back, slumping in his chair, knees spreading, his arms hanging over the sides of the chair. He blew out a long breath with a whooshing sound, his lips very pink as they formed an 'o'. Then, rather abruptly, he chuckled, rubbing his face and making his glasses jump onto his forehead.

"Which bit did you find amusing?" asked Draco with feigned politeness.

"The whole thing."

"Oh?"

"Draco," Potter said on a laugh, "can you stop talking like that, please? It's fucking hilarious right now. Especially because that's not how one talks to their 'lover'."

Draco knew he was probably purple in the face by now. It was embarrassing. He ought to have told Potter right after he'd confirmed the rumours to his parents. They'd have laughed about it, and then asking him to go to this fucking party now wouldn't be such a fucking task.

Because they're friends. Close friends even. And Potter was probably going to say yes. He never denied Draco anything. He was always indulging Draco; taking care of Draco. Siding with Draco when that fucking Weasel ragged him. Always promoting Draco's label in his interviews, endorsing his little boutique. Trusting Draco enough let him dress him for important events even though Draco knew Potter had the most basic, unadventurous sense of fashion.

Draco wanted to roll his eyes. Potter was the softest, most indulgent person and he was probably going to say yes. But that didn't make any of this any easier. Because obviously Potter thought it was funny that the two of them might be lovers. He found this whole thing really amusing.

There was a thin strain of hurt somewhere in Draco's chest but he ignored it.

"So how long before you say yes like we both know you're going to?" Draco drawled.

Potter grinned widely. "What am I going to be wearing?"

*

The Manor was an absolute wonder to behold. Draco was sure even Hogwarts was never this heavily decorated for the holidays. Fairy lights, glittering icicles, ice sculptures, wreaths, ostentatiously decorated Christmas trees, more lights - the whole house, inside and out, was dripping in red, green, gold and white.

Potter stared around in silence, his expression very serious. He was dutifully holding Draco's hand (just like a lover might) and was taking in the sight of the gigantic ballroom they were in, guests milling about sipping golden champagne from crystal flutes, house-elves trotting around between people's knees holding up trays of hors d'oeuvres; the four gigantic, glittering Christmas trees in each corner of the room, the ice sculpture of a delicately carved fairy, her wings spread, in the centre of the room, sparkling fairy dust falling from her hand and disappearing mid-air.

To Draco this was just about normal, if a tad bit overdone (for the enjoyment of the guest of honour he'd brought along with him, he supposed), but he still blushed in embarrassment when he looked around with Potter's eyes; he was probably convinced now that his parents were pretentious or something. Feeling a bit timid, he glanced sideways at Potter.

He was looking very, very handsome tonight. He had on robes of deep, royal violet - dark enough to nearly pass off as black - with intricate gold embroidery that Draco had spent hours working on himself. He'd let Draco clip a matching cape, embroidered and lined along the hem with fur, onto his shoulders with matching brooches that glittered under the light of what had to be at least a thousand candles hovering above them. He'd made a decent attempt at taming his hair - not a successful attempt, but Draco gave him credit for trying anyway. He'd switched his usual clunky glasses out for the vision correcting spells that Draco knew he hated but it meant his eyes were shining so bright and green that it made Draco's stomach clench a bit with something he’d always staunchly ignored.

Then, his parents spotted them. Lucius was in black as usual - the material expensive, but still black - and Narcissa looked decades younger than she was in robes of pale lavender and silver. Draco smiled as she beamed at them, gliding over alongside her husband.

"Darling." She feathered her lips over Draco's cheek. "Fashionably late, I see. And fashionably dressed," she added, turning to Potter and holding out her hand, her smile small but her eyes warm.

Potter bent over her hand and brushed his lips over the back of her hand briefly - just like Draco had instructed him to - before straightening up and smiling politely. "Thank you for inviting me to your wonderful party, Mrs. Malfoy."

"You are very welcome - literally. And please call me Narcissa."

Lucius had watched and listened in silence, his hands clasped behind his back, his serious gaze fixed on Potter. When Narcissa stepped back, he slowly extended a hand to Potter.

Draco held his breath. They hadn't discussed this. He had no idea how Potter was about to behave with his father but he knew he wouldn't blame him for anything he said or did. Potter was a much better man than his father. This was fact.

But Potter simply shook hands with Lucius and nodded. Draco felt his shoulders relax.

They mingled. Draco had to repeatedly 'introduce' Potter to people as though they all didn't already know who he was, who his fucking parents were. It was laughable. But this was a stupid fucking formal Pureblood soirée and Draco still had his manners. What surprised him was how well-mannered Potter was being.

Potter was also being very loyal to his role as Draco's partner.

"He was such a little terror as a child, bless his heart," said some old crone, patting Draco's cheek with one wrinkled hand. Draco wanted to hiss at her like a cat.

"Aren't we all, at that age?" Potter said calmly, smiling.

"Oh, you're very dedicated to him, I see" she simpered. "Such a pleasure to see. You hardly ever find this in you youngsters these days."

"He doesn't give me much reason not to be dedicated to him."

Potter was still holding his hand.

"Draco doesn't tell us anything about how the two of you put your rather unhappy history aside in order to accept your...softer feelings for each other." Narcissa looked like she'd been bursting to ask Potter this all evening; she'd finally gotten a chance now that she was done making the obligatory rounds amongst her guests.

Potter looked at him, and Draco, his face hot, returned his gaze, trying to apologise wordlessly. But Potter just grinned.

"Well, I don't know about him but," Potter smiled down at Narcissa, looking handsome and charming and, well, fuck, "it was just a natural, automatic thing for me, really. The more I got to know the real Draco Malfoy the deeper I fell in love with him."

Draco felt his eyes widen a bit. He wanted to look at Potter to figure him out, to try and discern just how much he was bullshitting. He wanted to read Potter because Potter was supremely easy to read. The man wore his heart on his sleeve. Draco could always tell, just from one glance, the kind of mood Potter was in.

Trying to appear casual, like Potter hadn't said anything that made Draco's breath catch, Draco looked sideways at him. Potter was smiling, his eyes honest and soft and crinkled at the corners. He was nodding along to something Narcissa was saying.

And he was still holding Draco's hand.

"Very well done," Draco muttered, once his mother had wandered away into the crowd.

Potter smiled and squeezed his hand. "You said you'd give me a tour of the gardens," he said. Draco nodded and led him out.

They strolled in a leisurely manner. It was snowing but there were charms in place which meant that the snow never actually touched them, instead disappearing about a foot over their heads. The gardens were decorated too, lights twinkling everywhere, lighting up the paths.

"This must've been a great place to grow up," Potter eventually said.

They turned the corner and in the distance was the turret-shaped gazebo, hung with white-gold lights. Narcissa, when the weather permitted, loved to paint in the gazebo. Draco smiled.

"It was." Then, guiltily, "I mean... I don't mean to brag or any--"

Potter laughed. It was a low, deep, familiar sound that made Draco break out in gooseflesh.

"Draco," he said gently. "You don't have to feel guilty every time you talk to me about your childhood."

Draco lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "'m not guilty," he mumbled.

"No? You're still that insufferable, obnoxious little shit you were in school?"

Draco actually felt his face fall. He turned to Potter, unbothered about sounding vulnerable. "That's what you thought of me?"

Potter laughed. "Can you blame me? Do you remember you back at school?"

Draco slumped a little. "I suppose." They were nearly at the gazebo now. Together, they turned onto the path that led to the steps leading into it. Then, "That's...not what you think of me now, is it?"

"Draco," Potter's voice was gentle, yet teasing, "Everyone thinks you're a prat. You have to know this."

"Yes, but you?" They climbed the two steps and walked into the gazebo.

"I think you're a prat too." They were still holding hands. "But you're my prat."

Draco turned to look at him but Potter, with a sharp yank, was pulling Draco to himself. With a soft 'oof', Draco hit Potter's chest. Now they were holding both hands.

He quickly pulled himself together although Potter could probably feel his heart galloping in his chest. "Am I, now?"

"Isn't that what we've just spent the last hour and a half proving to people?"

"Well," Draco said slowly, "I was under the impression that it was an act."

"Well," Potter said quietly. "I'd rather it...be real."

They were standing pressed together in the centre of the gazebo, fairy lights surrounding them, Potter's green, green eyes reflecting them as he stared intensely at Draco. He looked like he was challenging Draco, like he was daring Draco to laugh in his face and carelessly brush aside what he'd said. Because that's what Draco Malfoy would do when Harry Potter declared something like that, right? He'd stomp on Harry Potter's proffered heart and revel in it.

Draco couldn't even imagine doing something like that. Especially not when Potter was holding his hands and smelt so good and looked at him like he was promising him so, so many things.

"You were very convincing tonight," said Draco.

"It was really easy," said Potter.

"You held my hand throughout."

"I wasn't about to give up the chance I had."

"Thank you for coming with me tonight."

"I wasn't about to give up the chance I had."

"Potter?"

"Shouldn't you be calling me Harry if we're together?"

"Would you like that?"

"I would love that, Draco."

"You've called me Draco for years now."

"I have."

Draco looked down at the lines of gold thread on Harry's chest, gleaming against the violet silk. "I think I'd like to call you Harry," he admitted.

When his gaze lifted back to Harry's, he was smiling at Draco. Then he looked up above them.

"Mistletoe," Harry said simply.

Draco's ears were ringing as though he'd been struck.

"Oh," he said, his voice quavering.

Harry just smiled again, and slowly let his head drop forward so that their foreheads touched. Then he brought his mouth up to Draco's brow and kissed it.

"Oh," repeated Draco.

They were just gazing at one another now.

Damn it, thought Draco as he broke first and kissed Harry full on the mouth.

They were still holding hands.

*

[dainty-fingertips]

a forever thing. ||kars x fem! reader

wrote this one a few weeks ago bc a friend said i should write something with kars,, ended up being too long and i don’t think she ever finished reading it;; also, spoilers for if you haven’t finished battle tendency !!

word count: 2233

summary: training alongside caesar and joseph, you end up being kidnapped by the remaining two pillar men after the death of esidisi. a closet bookworm, you end up spending most of your time cooped up in the library of the rundown hotel, though most of your time is spent thinking of the leader himself. after kars drops some undeniable hints, you decide to test the waters.

trigger warnings: none :)

||

          Being taken for a sort of ransom by aztec gods wasn’t exactly on the agenda today. 

          After Joseph had killed Esidisi, the remaining two were -- as expected -- on edge. Wamuu, the youngest, and Kars, the eldest. You could grasp a fleeting understanding on why they chose you specifically, but nothing enough to make complete sense in your brain. It could have been Caesar, it could have been Lisa Lisa, but no. As of now, they were treating you quite well, actually. You figured Wamuu was the only reason you weren’t bound by rope and eating out of a dog bowl right now. Instead, you were perched upon a plush reading chair in a rundown library, clad in a comfortable robe (thanks to Wamuu, you weren’t stuck in your sweaty outfit from before). You had planned on touring to Switzerland one day after the war, but being trapped inside a rundown hotel with no real access to vitamin D was really taxing your health (mentally and physically) and never intended to be something you spent your time doing while here.

          In your rough-skinned hands, you held a worn copy of In Search of Lost Time. Your reading comprehension had improved over the past few weeks, at least. A rough knock on the door pulled you from your thoughts. “I’m here.” You said calmly, hoping it was the younger Pillar Man. Of course your desires were not met. Kars stepped into the library, his headscarf absorbing some of the light from the candle lit on the table next to you. He eyed you in what appeared to be mild distaste. “Why are you awake?” You looked up from the book with an odd expression. “What do you mean?” You asked him. The god huffed softly, motioning to the boards on the windows. “The sun has gone down. Are you not tired?” You pulled your gaze over to the covered windows. “...Oh.”

          You had failed to notice the absence of flittering rays much earlier. “Wait, what time is it?” You mumbled to yourself. You looked at the grandfather clock on the wall to your right and your expression dropped. “It’s 1 am.” he mumbled, crossing his arms. You pursed your lips and quietly closed the book. You uncrossed your legs and set it back on the shelf. Kars watched you slowly make your way back and forth. “What about you?” You asked, wrapping your fingers around the candle tray. He stared at you. Were you asking why he was up? “What do you mean?” He asked with a sigh. “You’re still up, but you aren’t tired.” You stated while approaching him. He didn’t move. “I’ve told you this. Neither me nor Wamuu need sleep, human. Es-” He stopped himself mid sentence and his cold expression seemed to falter for only a moment. You had learned, in your three weeks here, that the pillar men deemed it inappropriate to show emotion to anyone other than family members or mates. 

          Kars had never slipped up around you before. 

          The gears in your brain began turning. Kars wouldn’t show something like that to Wammu even, at least that’s what you’d been told. Why, even if for a split second, would he let you see that? Did he see you as someone close? The mere idea was laughable. Kars’ cold exterior soon returned, though. Simply brushing aside the sight, you continued to listen to him. “Esidisi didn’t need sleep, either.” He continued, his voice almost strained. Was Kars trying to hide his pain? You looked at him with soft eyes. Kars seemed to get minorly flustered and removed his gaze from you.

          You sighed gently and gazed cautiously into his blooming red eyes, the simple sight of them making your stomach twirl a bit. He made you feel floaty when he looked at you. Your cheeks flushed and you looked away. You saw in your hazy peripheral that he had furrowed an eyebrow. “What?” He asked hesitantly, looking back at you. “Hm?” You couldn’t look back at him. “I was just wondering about something, that’s all.” You begged that the bluff worked on him, but you knew that Kars was smart. He didn’t respond for a few seconds, his eyes flickering across your face and body, looking for a hint of something in your body language. 

          He sighed and motioned for you to follow him. You stood there and glanced at him curiously, his back turned and footsteps echoing. He turned his head to look at you. “I’m taking you to your chambers. Come.” He said with a bored expression. “O-Oh, right.” You whispered. You jogged up to him, but slowed your pace once you were next to him. “What was it?” He asked. You furrowed your eyebrows and looked at him without moving your head. “What?” He sighed through his nose. “You said you were wondering about something.” Your mouth opened to the shape of an O. “Right. I was just curious, uh, Kars. Do you think you could sleep if you tried?” You queered hesitantly, avoiding your original thought of Kars’ sadness. You looked back ahead of you. Kars gazed to his right, thinking. “An odd question, human. Why do you ask?” You shrugged slightly. “I dunno. Curiosity, I guess.” Kars aired out a small ‘hm.’ and inhaled sharply.

          “Curiosity is a dangerous fault in humans. No matter how long I sleep, that will forever remain a constant.” You cocked your head to the side a bit, working up the courage to turn to him as you both walked. “What do you mean?” He looked down at you, a strand of his hair tufting out slightly. “It’s what got that damned Joestar wrapped into this mess. If not for him, we wouldn’t need to deal with this. Our mission would be far less… complicated.” You nodded your head. “And that’s been a forever-thing?” He squinted his eyes. “A what?” 

          “Well, that’s what my dad used to call it.” You said with a gentle chuckle. “Y’know, a forever-thing. Something that’s been around for forever. Literally and figuratively.” 

          “A forever-thing?” He pressed.

          “Mhm.”

          “Humans and their idiotic names for simple terms.” he spat.

          “Oh really?”

           He scoffed. “Yes.”

          “Then what would you call it?” You joked, putting a playfully heavy emphasis on your words. Kars groaned, but deep inside his old bones, he felt something. He could admire beauty when he saw it, especially for a human, but this was getting out of hand. You were completely oblivious to the fact that Kars had taken an especial liking to you, which he was grateful for. His cold demeanor felt almost immoral around you. You were similar to that Joestar boy, but you were somehow more tangible. He could… stand you, sure, but he didn’t know why. He had been surrounded by nothing but cold glares and serious attitudes his whole life, and he magnified it in the way he lived. It’s what earned him the highest rank in what now remained of the tribes, being merely him and Wamuu. 

          Though, having you around was a strangely acceptable change of tone. He began finding himself seeking out your attention, like 10 minutes ago. You weren’t in your bed, so he came looking for you where you normally sat; the library. You were propped in that chair, now claimed as yours, with your knees to your chest and a book in your hands. You seemed almost magnetizing, you seemed almost… well, he wasn’t sure. He’d never felt this way. Why did you grab his attention? You held him in your fingers like putty, rubbing him in all the right ways. Maybe, because of you, his opinion on the human species wouldn’t be so dire. Maybe, in your toothy grins, your glittering eyes, and your gentle hands,  you would change his mind. 

          Only then, did he realize you had taken his hand in yours.

          He quickly pulled it away. “Don’t touch me.” He spat, eyeing you. You chuckled and shrugged. “Sorry, force of habit. Whenever my dad was deep in thought, I’d grab his hand to pull him back to Earth.” Kars scoffed, rubbing his hand as though trying to get the feeling of your rough hands off of him. They were hard and calloused from training, he presumed, though it added to his simple adoration. He had never met a woman like this. His eyes lingered back to your hands for a moment before looking back ahead. “Well, I’m not your father.” You simply smiled ahead and didn’t respond.

          Kars let his hands fall to his sides and the two of you make it up the set of stairs to your room. The door sat closed, and you looked at Kars. “Would you mind, Kars, if I told you something?” You questioned casually, entering your room and looking at him from the inside. He nodded once and silently asked you to continue. Your face grew warm and you looked to the side, unable to look at him for a moment. “You…” You began, unsure how to tell him. He raised an eyebrow. “I what?” He said. You knew he was an impatient man when it came to things like this; you had heard it from Wamuu whenever he’d bring you food. “Spit it out.” You sighed and looked at him, your gaze wavering and nervous. “You aren’t half bad, Kars.” You said with an awkward tone of voice. You knew you were treading on thin ice, but you didn’t know when you’d actually be able to tell him alone.

          Kars’ stance was unmoved. The meaning behind your words didn’t fully strike him until after the two of you silently stared at each other for 20 seconds. His face, twisted in mild confusion, soon loosened up. Realization clubbed him like a wooden baseball bat behind his knees. His maroon eyes darted across your face and his lips parted slightly. “What -- What are you saying?” He said quietly. He was sure his brain was playing tricks, but your face, it seemed so fearfully genuine. Sweat accumulated on the back of his neck in his headscarf. Kars was a god; the most powerful pillar man. He was above this. Why did… Why did it feel wrong to act that way around you? Why did he feel almost guilty when he acted superior?

          You stood motionless. “I mean, y’know. I enjoy… your… your company.” You stumbled over her words. Were you being intimate with him? He’d never seen this side of you. You noticed Kars slipping up on his own standards again, as well. His surprised emotions were clear as day, etched cleanly into his chiseled features. His fangs poked out onto his lower lip, a simple protrusion which you had wished you didn't find cute. You genuinely thought that Kars was attractive.

          Then again, who wouldn’t? He stood tall, around 6’8”. He towered over most all he came in contact with, but that was simply second nature to you now. You were used to craning your neck to get a better look at those blood-red eyes that almost seemed to despise you. A dark loft of his hair would make its cameo every now and again. He’d always get flustered whenever you’d mention it, telling you that he didn’t need the approval of a human. He’d then, a minute or so later, slyly tuck it back in. It’s not that he didn’t know, of course; it’s just that he only cared enough about it if you took the time to tell him.

          Wamuu had noticed his growing infatuation with you and the thought brought him a smile. After sitting down with Kars and listening to him do nothing but wax poetic about you earlier tonight, he told him to go find you. Maybe take a walk with you, if he felt like it. Kars kindly took up the offer; it seemed you had humbled him in that department, too. Normally he wouldn’t bother taking anyone’s advice, but here he was. Pulling him from the crevasse of his rushing brain was your hand, humbly wrapping your fingers around his.

          Kars stared at his hands, fingers being separated by your own, in blatant shock. “You aren’t as bad as I thought you’d be.” You whispered, barely audible to him. He locked eyes with you and without thinking, going against everything he’d ever stood for in the past, he curled his fingers around yours as well. You smiled softly and looked down, avoiding his gaze. Kars’ lips pulled back together, his lips twitching, desperately wanting to smile. “I suppose.” He said hesitantly. “Why are you being nice to me?” He soon asked, turning his gaze back to your face.

          He pulled his hand away, taking a step back. “I…” You murmured, retracting your hand as well. He looked between his fingers as though he’d touched gold, small glittering remnants still freckled along his palm. “I don’t know.” you finished with a heavy sigh. He closed his hand into a fist and looked at you with nervous confidence. “Well, if there’s nothing more, then I will take my leave.” He said quickly, nearly stuttering his words. He turned on his heel and began going the way he came. You gazed at his back as he swiftly left the hallway and sighed in disbelief. You had just grabbed his hand.

          Kars, it seemed, had fallen in love with the enemy.

          The enemy, it seemed, had felt exactly the same.

[sugar-petals]

♡ måneskin scenario: getting to know ethan 

↳ NOTE. by popular demand and because i’m entirely enthralled by the phenomenon that is ethan torchio myself, here we go givin’ the gorgeous drummer some love.

word count. 5.5k

TAGS. no warnings all fluff, fem!oc, slice of life, photographer!reader, first date-ish, shy flirting, ot4 is part of the plot, ethan being sexy in heels

Jacob had enough of that twilight bullshit and joined a glam rock band. At least that’s what you thought seeing Ethan around for the first time. Setting up the kit, carrying his whiny band members around, fixing his ruffle shirt, chugging some water: Big gig tonight, extra long setlist. Five minutes later, complaining about his brocade shoes being hard to kick the bass drum with. Even later, silently nodding along to an impassioned Damiano speech crafted to boost the morale, and posing for your camera in his silver jumpsuit. Friendly to approach all the way, but without initiating stable eye contact even once.

One thing’s for sure. As your favorite professor said back at university: Someone may be photogenic and unearthly as hell in terms of looks, and even be intimidating — but also so damn shy, you won’t see their eyes a single time. „Gotta work with it and not against. Then it gets interesting“. In essence, the takeaway from that course. Which does come in handy now. Ethan seems like the kind of guy you really have to get into for a more intimate-feeling picture.

Sure, many people in front of your camera have all kinds of introverted personalities anyway, wearing sunglasses in particular. So much about eye contact in the first place. And the aesthetic is priority, not studying character. Although you really are a fan of that, it’s a huge part of photography if anything. Alas, you’re here to „capture nothing more but the spirit of italo-rock, the attitude, the hedonism!“ (the exact words of your boss) for a music magazine after all. Really, nothing more? You paid attention to how he worded it. Fair enough. Rock spirit, that’s all, the exciting parts.

Ethan surely has it. Drumming on everything he can find during rehearsal breaks („music is everywhere“) with his sticks, even Thomas’ amplifier. He’s actually dorkier than you thought, less composed when he’s in his element. First impressions do deceive. The hair’s hard to miss, too. It’s the central motif that attracts you. You may or may not have taken over 50 shots of it just because. Ethan is a bad bitch and he better know. You climb around the venue to get any salient angle of Måneskin you can think of. Even from all the way back, last row. You don’t want to annoy them being all up in their face constantly. You’re hired to get all the good shots, they’ve been a band for seven years already, professionals in the making. Doesn’t mean you have to stand below the edge of the stage and never change position.

Even from back there, the silver reflects beautifully at the back of the stage. The fashion’s all designer and it shows, but Ethan couldn’t look bad in any of the shots even if he tried or wore the plainest black suit (hell, that would be just as beautiful in fact). Just how long is that hair anyway. All the way down to the solar plexus, must be 24 inches or more. 25, even. Many rockers would wear it that way, but Ethan seems particularly interesting with how he touches it, how he behaves with it. There we go again with the character study, you can’t help wondering.

But really. It’s any photographer’s dream when someone moves their hair around so damn naturally. Gives a great variety to how it frames and shades the face. You like to play with light all the time. And hey, why ask for eye contact when he does even better posing in other ways. The body, too, Ethan’s posture is great. Victoria and Thomas often bend to really get into their power chords, Damiano frequently hunches forward for a belt. But Ethan’s throned at his kit like some royals taught him to be a good boy. Back straighter than a pole, how the hell.

No glance in your direction still, even if you return from your last row spot to move around on stage with the camera. Which gives the band a motivation boost and chances to try out gestures up close, too, so even better. Hey, maybe it doesn’t annoy them. You can actually get used to it, this way of photographing them is all dynamic. Nearing the end of the first rehearsal, you’re all busy maneuvering between Thomas and Damiano to get a nice semi-profile from Ethan’s left side. Gotta work with it not against, you chant to yourself as a mantra, and it seems easier to stick to than you thought.

How glossy all that hair is commands all the attention of your shutter release in and of itself. That he takes good care of it and has been growing it since forever shows a dedicated guy. It’s actually quite wavy. The band arrived in the pouring rain and Ethan’s curly strands at the crown and nape of the head were definitely showing — super cute. An army of stylists took on the resulting humidity frizz. They whipped out the straightening iron and protective spray, and even now before the big performance, Ethan brushes his hair out in front of you, and sweeps it around with his fingers anyway. You take pictures of the bits you find most candid, and decide to rather perfect single shots instead of making several in a row. The more you photograph him, the more you want to discover his essence in one picture. His sheer presence almost begs for it, it’s ridiculous.

Victoria on the other hand has no problems with rapid-fire releases and comes close to your lens to pull funny faces. She’s got some of the coolest poses you’ve ever seen with her bass, and hops around the stage like a bunny to the beat. Thomas is a virtuoso and pro who keeps on doing what he does when you make him pose, and Damiano can flirt with any camera ever. He even lowers his red leather jacket off his collar bones for you to have a great shot. He’s promising and most definitely a born divo, your boss will be happy with those pictures most definitely.

Then again. Behind that supposed hedonism is so much hard work and thought. Damiano even gives you ideas for angles during the second rehearsal. „Hm, maybe stand on the amplifier?“ Eagle perspective, not a bad idea at all. After trying out said suggestions with the help of triggered stage security making sure you don’t fall off the construction („eh, Damiano always suggests the most reckless things to staff, don’t mind him“), you find yourself concentrating on what goes on at the back of the stage all over again.

Ethan is busy practicing a new solo which has you curious about whether it’s for an upcoming album. Though again — the shoes cause trouble. Ethan complains again, the music stops. That could very well be the reason why he seems so preoccupied today, or is it? The manager tells the stylist, and the stylist hurries, voilà, Ethan has a new pair of shoes brought in. Ones with a thicker sole, bit of a chunky heel, and laced up rather than being slippers, a drummer’s worst nightmare as you have learned today.

You wait until he changed. Then snap some more pictures how he continues practicing calmly, and the sound did improve since he can kick the bass drum better now. Now you position yourself across the stage all over, in the empty audience ranks. Ethan is the most radiant and confident when you just take a step back. But well, he still sweeps his hair around a whole lot and looks even more tense-looking than Damiano who’s doing vocal warmups and jumping jacks, „Come on guys, come on, we’re starting in 30 minutes!“.

You can tell he does it more often when he’s nervous. And that means he does it very often. People would probably assume it’s vanity, or the fact that the hair gets in the way. You can see that for him it’s a place of distraction, maybe safety. A gesture like an anchor. He’s used to it being long just like his eye shadow being dark and smoky all day. He knows the drums by heart, if it falls in his face no need to shake it away. And besides. The strands reach below his shoulder blades, it stays down his back if he doesn’t move around too much. He could easily tie it up as well. All those things go through your mind without you even knowing why.

To switch things up a little, you photograph Thomas fooling around with Victoria at the snack bar, stuffing fries up their noses, and already see the lighting technicians do their final check. Some of them you know briefly, you made shots at this venue before, last year for a Shakespeare theatre play. You did some freelance work in the scene, but now you’re put to the test for more involved jobs. Hard to complain though, Måneskin are amazing in front of the camera. If Damiano is not the ideal Hamlet, you don’t know anymore.

Something new happens all the time, the expressions are priceless. Ethan’s in particular, when he does his wide-eyed surprise faces learning that there’s actually healthy food at the snack bar. „Vitamins, how nice.“ — Thomas, pokerfaced, reacts with eating a mayonnaise-dripping sandwich. Ethan, unfazed. Headed straight to the fruits. You’ve never seen a tall silver glitter tower like him walking around biting a bright red apple. Well, you can take Jacob out of twilight, but not the twilight out of Jacob. Snap, another picture. Clash of words, that’s a nice theme.

The concert of this evening seems particularly energetic and leaves your camera roll with some brilliant, tweet-worthy material. Damiano covered in confetti, eyeliner running. Victoria on the shoulders of Ethan while he’s playing her bass.  Thomas, stagediving. Fans waving banners and chanting along to Seven Nation Army. Your ears are ringing when the light technicians close down the stage two hours later. Thomas really played his soul out with the solos, and your feet seem to vibrate. That’s your body thinking Victoria’s bass is still playing, but the magazine is very happy with how the pictures turned out after you send the whole batch to them as soon as you can.

Little to no retouching, zooming, or cropping necessary. Ethan is just perfect as he is, you feel like you captured him well. After swiping through the gallery on your tablet, you think Victoria has some great ant’s eye perspective shots as well. Those go right on your own blog, she’s just amazing. The magazine has an enthusiastic article typed out already. Damiano’s mid-air split on beat for the final song makes the cover story on Monday, and Måneskin’s manager comes back to you a week later. „What would you think about doing some behind the scenes stuff for us? We’re planning a music video!“

And that’s how you end up in a Sicilian restaurant with Måneskin and crew a week later, stuffed with Calzone and mind filled with Damiano’s inspiring words (and the occasional catchy freestyle rap). The MV is as good as finished. Thomas had shown you around the mansion they were shooting at, and you could convince a taciturn  Ethan to walk between the marble statues and boxwood trees in the garden. With his black cape on, a rhinestone choker, and the low-cut lacey blouse that the MV director was obsessed with as well, asking you to focus on it. Your best shot even ends up in the thumbnail of the Youtube video without you even expecting it would.

All the garden pictures turned out mindblowing. If not iconic, the best project you had so far. Gets to show you the best things are often improvised. Ethan, stoic as always, sat at the base of armor-clad Emperor Augustus twisting into the blue sky in a large gesture. The marble was a perfect contrast. Ethan ate a ripe pear from a tree, even that was aesthetically pleasing, then leaned against a hunting Apollo, and you also framed him from the back next to Aphrodite and Cesar. He put on his sunglasses underneath Achilles, and knelt at the feet of a Pietà replica. Marvelous panorama shots, with him the shining center. Well, we know since Queen that the drummer is the unrealistically pretty one.

The whole picture series is blowing up on your blog for the whole afternoon. „Count Dracula on a stroll in Versailles — eugh, begone sunlight!“ is what a comment neatly sums it up as. People seem to especially like the shot where Ethan playfully put his cape over Pallas Athena’s spear with a blurry Thomas having a laughing fit in the background. Well, even Count Drac gets photobombed sometimes. Your phone buzzes with notifications every other minute, you do notice it against your thigh. But the insalata of the restaurant is good and the night is young. Victoria and the manager tell old stories of Thomas snapping a guitar string while he was trying to serenade a highschool crush. Ethan scolds them for making fun of it.

Damiano gets drunk and dances on the table, the MV director discusses new ideas, some walk-in fans take pictures. The temperature is still unbearable. You order a dessert to share with Victoria and Ethan. A large tiramisu that the waiter cuts in three pieces, and it’s truly delectable. The chocolate, so crunchy, melty. The cream, fluffy and cool, making for a funny white beard that makes Ethan look like an arctic scientist returning from an expedition.

Of course, you take pictures, all the food is documented. As are late night restaurant shots with Damiano’s heels peaking into the frame when you photograph the band’s friendship bracelets, hand-made by Victoria on a tour bus last year. Damiano’s back down on the table soon, singing, while Ethan creates a beat with two forks. Thomas also agrees to take your camera for a while so you’d be in the frame for a change, too.

You pose for a group picture, or rather a group hug, and being in the middle …Ethan’s arm wraps around your shoulder loosely, hair dangling into his face, but also brushing yours. He focuses on the camera, facing away from you. The schooled eye could catch you breaking a sweat in the resulting photo. Ironically, the tiramisu doesn’t cool you down the way you thought. Thomas is too busy trying to figure out your camera dials and yelling „hey eyebrow king, smile!“ at Ethan.

A round of even more gelato goes down in spoons and spoons. The band members eat like they ran a marathon. Ethan clinches a third round because he can, unhealthy be damned, he needs some sugar and refreshment. And it’s true the MV shooting was strenuous in the heat, and had lots of intense performing parts. Even an invisible rope suspension were Thomas would descend from a ceiling during the chorus with little cherub wings attached to his back because why not. If the manager agreed to recreate this on tour some day, the pictures would be amazing.

You can’t help but think what kind of special effect would suit Ethan the most, and you come to the conclusion that a bridge lift would be the coolest thing ever. A rising part of the stage letting him emerge like an elevator from the underground.  Maybe using smoke machines, too. The idea twirls around in your mind so intensely, Damiano asks if you’re wasted. You’re always getting carried away with all kinds of fantasies like that for over a week now. A dreamy photographer? Not unusual, but it’s seriously distracting you from the present moment.

The crew slowly heads home, and the band decides (translation: Victoria’s mood is) to head to the movies. Just when the waiter arrives with the bill, Damiano spills panna cotta all over Ethan by accident. So bad he’s all sticky from the shoulders down, making Ethan opt for the hotel instead. Besides, he’s been drumming his soul out, sleep is so needed now. Since the group is already gone and there’s still a forgotten cymbal left to carry back to the equipment bus by the hotel, you help Ethan maneuver it around. The heat is making either of you sweat, even with the full dark of the night coming up.

The gaffer lady you’re sharing a hotel room with is already fast asleep. Damn it. You want to cut a video and make screenshots with the laptop being decently bright. And with some volume if possible, you don’t find headphones in the darkness of the room. Ethan clears the desk in his own room for you after removing his make-up. He looks so young and beautiful and tired.

You type and drag and double click yourself through the video and do some last blog updates to deal with all the notifications. Ethan lends you some headphones, but you only keep them on one ear. The humming is too nice to ignore. Nor do you know what to even expect. The bathroom door is open, Ethan is topless washing the lace blouse by hand. Only wearing bellbottom pants and his lace choker — nothing else. He’s fully immersed in his task. He even adds some other shirts and silk scarves into the soap water along the way while he’s at it.

You’ve never seen someone do their own laundry so systematically. Ethan looks like Prince Caspian at the sink, wielding the almond soap bar like his weapon of choice against the enemies of Narnia (the devious panna cotta that’s still sticking to everything). He might be all mysterious, but he’s well able to curse all kinds of things. You tease Ethan for dropping his gentlemanly behavior for a stain of dessert. Ethan insists you sound like Thomas trying to test him with his slick comebacks, which makes you laugh. The blog has calmed down a little and your eyes hurt from editing, so you call it a day and send one last e-mail.

Ethan is drowning in bubbles at this point. The whole room smells like fabric softener. He thanks you for helping him carry around the equipment earlier. In return, you say grazie for him being your perfect muse in the garden today. Philosopher he is, Ethan remarks how Måneskin is usually the one searching for muses, now he ended up one himself — „Maybe not a bad thing, eh. Become the thing you want or something.“ That’s way too deep for a summer night in Sicily, and both of you need a huge portion of sleep. Tomorrow, lots of schedule. You do find yourself wanting to help lick that dessert off his chest. No way you’d tell him.

Ethan waddles off to shower after a crooked, reserved smile for a good night departure. When you close the door to your room and start brushing your teeth, the other members’ voices emerge in the hotel corridor — they’ve returned from the movies. Damiano is even more wasted than before and audibly sings. „You’ve looked at the photographer lady in a certain way earlier, huh. I saw, I saw!“ Victoria does a loud ‚shh‘ noise, and the stoic reply is a simple „Sleep, Damiano, you’ve had too much.“ Thomas giggles, and four doors click shut. Damiano’s singing is now muffled for two minutes until it’s silent. How the fuck can you even sleep after hearing that.

You assumed that Ethan would treat you differently the next morning, in whatever shape or form. But he doesn’t. The greeting is short as it would always be, and he informs you that he did manage to wash out the sugary clay from his clothes as he puts it. Damiano says nothing, adjusts his rings. Thomas randomly pulls zippers at his packed-up equipment. Victoria headed to the car already. Downtown to a studio it goes. The group gets styled to perfection, twenty minutes later they make a reaction video to the newly released MV teaser. Ethan talks about enjoying the sculptures in the garden.

Three hours down the line, you shoot some promotional pictures of them at a pool. Thomas has the time of his life perfecting his diving board skills, and Damiano creates the musical background, singing and prancing. The aerials would make literal perfect editorial-in-VOGUE material. In the meantime, Victoria dozes in the sun. Ethan dives. Sometimes just sitting at the bottom of the pool, othertimes swimming back and forth. The art director suggests you to go into the water, too. He’s right, the perspective works out well this way.

You’re basically standing in there with your flowy pantalon pants and camisole, using a waterproof camera. Your bikini is back at the hotel. It doesn’t matter, everything will dry quickly, the others went in the pool with clothes as well. And you’re all too wrapped up in your passion in the first place. You marvel at how fun the whole scenery looks through your lens. Their outfits are cropped and luminous, today’s color is bright red. You order the lighting assistant back and forth, get some more great Thomas frames where he tosses around a volleyball that the manager brought along. Less rock than usual, but it works. Måneskin at a pool in Sicily.

Damiano splashes water around like crazy. Victoria joins the fun as well, splashing right back. It’s infernal. Well, those are going to be dynamic pictures, you think, and the cameraman never dies, so. Ethan resurfaces every other minute, wiping the chlorine from his eyes. He slicks his hair back with both hands, looking down his body learning how his shirt has become completely transparent. He covers his chest with his hair, quickly, then submerges again. It’s strange. Being topless is usually no big deal in Måneskin.

Almost 12 o’clock. Thomas and Damiano wander off to work on some lyrics, probably the title that the drum solo is part of. All top secret. Victoria returns to her sun lounger, checking her phone. The crew heads for lunch, but you stay in the water, gladly you put sunscreen on earlier. You ask Ethan to try some seated or floating poses at the bottom of the pool that you saw him practice earlier. „No worries, keep your eyes closed.“

What unfolds before you is the most beautiful thing. Ethan’s shirt fans out like a red jellyfish underwater, playing around his body. His figure is just enviable. He gets the hang of it and knows quite how to move. Or rather, to remain stable when the pose is perfect. Hands above his head, horizontal, or seated, only one foot  lightly sweeping over the pool floor, or on one knee, as if he proposed.

Raising his arms helps him sink down and settle, as if he immersed himself in deep meditation. Although the purpose of meditating is to be present, isn’t it. And that’s what he feels like. Ethan would normally switch on autopilot for most of his public interactions, now he’s alive and fully in the concentrated movements of the photoshoot. So much about improvising all over again. The hair creates the most incredible shapes like a black, wide brushstroke, clearly outlined. Thank god you have the waterproof camera. These are moments you’ll never forget.

Your blog notifications keep on bleeping throughout the afternoon. The promotional pictures are a hit. Måneskin’s manager is basically waving five new contracts in front of your face at dinner, but you’re kind of spaced out again. The cozy, rose-ranked atmosphere of the street café you went to is inspiring, and the members dressed up in the most fancy suitwear. Men in Black? Måneskin in Black. It’s almost as if fate read your mind. Ethan is looking at you very intently from across the table when the minestrone is served.

Pasta shells, parsley, vegetables and basil leaves. The scent surrounds the entire table. Damiano, in serious mode tonight, is too busy finding new rhymes and an alternative chorus with Thomas who wildly brainstorms. Victoria drinks, loudly chats with the gaffer lady that you share a room with, and they use a leaf of a palm tree pot plant to tickle Damiano. Thomas plays the acoustic guitar. Ethan and you end up smiling briefly at another. „Bon apetit,“ you say. It’s almost 34° celsius. That’s going to be an entire pile of cheesecake gelato tonight.

Five signed contracts later and halfway through a hefty caprese cake, the title song is finished. An ode to Marlena, fierce like the Mediterranean sea. The piece certainly sounds exactly like this place. Strangers listen to Damiano performing bits and pieces, but you decide to disperse when too many cellphones come out. Damiano wants to go to a bar, Thomas and Victoria carry home their guitars, or to the hotel to be exact, and bags of newly shopped vintage clothes. You ask Ethan if there are any cinemas around the area. „We missed out last time, remember.“

The Palazzo Theater is a small and hidden insider tip far from the main street with its busy beach tourists. Under bulbous metal balconies and peach-colored facades, a small entrance with lanterns on each side guides you inward. Ethan almost hits his head, it’s so low. He’s wearing glossy red bottoms under his suit pants, you’re out and about with a 6’2 giant after all — a statue by himself. A small man with a pipe sells you cheap tickets for a Mads Mikkelsen movie and lemonade, Ethan picks up an XXXL caramel popcorn bucket. You think he’s flexing, but you get a sudden heureka by looking at it twice.

Unlike the S, M, and L bags, it’s thick cardboard and drum-shaped. Oh my god, obviously. Which fine percussionist could ever resist such temptation striped in red and white, the sound deep and dull? It makes you smile how Ethan pursues his instrument even when he seemingly doesn’t, it really has to be a hobby at heart. That’s how a job becomes a profession, and a profession a vocation, your uni professor’s other favorite words all over again. The latter’s words have gotten you far so you again trust the insight that came to you through that quote.

Seeing Ethan standing there, you can almost see the childlike joy at imagining it being empty and ready to get turned around. A tuxedo Italian with Louboutin heels and a ginormous popcorn drum, half past eleven somewhere in Palermo: Ingenious combination, you snap a picture. Ethan makes a cute face, posing like a pinup of the 50s. Who knows how many vintage store posters he’s seen during tours, he must have picked it up there. And— Is he blushing? Must be the dim lights in here.

Off you go to the auditorium. Ethan, who balance the popcorn with all care in the world like it’s his baby, walks the aisle slower than you. The slim steps don’t have any floor lighting. Not very heel-friendly, but since it’s not a huge budget theater and few people dare spike heels on those cobblestones outside anyway, the stairs shall be forgiven. You take out your phone and offer your arm. For every gentleman it takes a gentlewoman, duh. Like rock’n’roll and the camera staff, chivalry (or shevalry as Damiano calls it when Vic holds the door open) never dies. He mumbles a thanks, you climb upward to the fourth-last row, Ethan holds on tight.

No ankles twisted and not one popcorn spilled, you get seated on red velvet. The chairs are dated, but nevertheless ultra comfortable. Nobody else is here. The adverts roll, Ethan cracks open the lemonade bottle caps with his chunky golden lighter because he can. You toast to Mads Mikkelsen’s bone structure and good minestrone, Måneskin’s finished title track, the promo pics, and the discovery of Ethan’s favorite new drum. A whopping five things to toast about? The night’s going to be great.

Damiano catwalking across the screen, wearing a Versace skirt in the middle of otherwise-boring commercials does shake you up. He was picked as a testimonial recently. Though, your pulse is high enough. Ethan’s hair is brushing against your shoulders, not to mention his goddamn massive arms. He can’t get out a single word either for the entirety of the ads, avoiding eye contact all over again. Just how much suspense can starting to eat the first popcorn have. Well, you pick two  from the very top and start munching.

Mads does a great job opening the movie as one would expect, but you just can’t concentrate. Instead, you stress-eat popcorn. Which makes Ethan do the same thing, at least he’s somewhat fixated on the screen. After the first ten minutes, he shakes his head. „That makes no sense at all,“ he clears his throat. „Yeah, yeah it  clearly doesn’t,“ you agree, basically on Torchio-autopilot yourself for the lack of a better reply. You were too busy figuring out the components of his aftershave rather than the thin plot. Shifting in your seat, chugging lemonade…

The air conditioning is scarce, but at least the screen is quite large and proper. You try to focus on the cinematography and do small talk about it. If there’s something you can comment on without having followed the string of action, it’s at least this.  You might be nervous, but you’re still a photographer. „Um, isn’t this chainmail nice in the closeup?“ — „Hm, I guess it works. We should ask Damiano to request something like this from Versace.“ — „Medieval Måneskin Rockers?“ �� „Something like that.“ — „Hilarious.“

By the twenty-minute mark, the popcorn drum is almost empty. Gladly, that stuff just shrinks to bits in the stomach. The lemonade just has to galvanize it. You might be able to distract yourself with the camera shots and the last caramel chunks, but that doesn’t change Ethan’s long legs and Acqua di Parma perfume next to you. Yep, you finally figured out what it was, it wasn’t the aftershave. And well. Ethan smells like hotel soap from Milano to Napoli and back.

That scent basically dominates all the others besides a hint of cigar and basil and citrus-y deodorant mixed with runny sweat. God fuck, you can barely stand it. And the almond scent. You take a chance to at least jokingly point it out to him. The random movie flashback sequence is boring — and just as nonsensical as before, no offense to Mads though, he’s just walking around in chain mail — enough to deviate from whatever choppy convo you had going on before.

„I actually washed it twice,“ Ethan pulls off the silky scarf that functions as his current tie, and you recognize it. „The strawberry sauce was hard, but the cranberries… God no, I’ll never go near pana cotta again. Nothing against cream desserts.“ You take the scarf, smell it. Did he literally just hand it to you? Figures, he’s sweating bullets, too. And oh shit, he hasn’t talked that much all evening.

You slowly shift from bodies turned to the screen to facing each other. So up close, so up front, only God can help you know. His eyes are dark and reflective of the film’s flickering lights and changing scenes. You wish you could photograph them on sight. It would be as glimmering as your view from the hotel room, overwatching the unobstructed stars of the Mediterranean bay down the boulevard.

But it’s like you’re stuck in your position this way, feverishly thinking about a reply. What to pick up on, what to pick up on. You think about today, the evening where you edited things in his room. „Uh well, drop your laundry in the pool next time,“ you laugh, more than tentative, with your fingers randomly curling around the scarf. „The chlorine stuff will do the job for you. It’s so aggressive, it bleached by pants one shade lighter.“

Saved. Smooth transaction. Phew. „Oh, the pool was horrible. Not the photos, I mean… I don’t know how you can poison water that way.“ — „I know right? It’s still in my nose. But yeah, was a good idea with the underwater thing. The photos turned out really well.“ — „I really haven’t done something like that before but I guess it turned out hm, nice?“ — „Come on! Nice is understated. Are you fishing for compliments?“ — „No no, by all means!“ — „The one kneeling. It’s my favorite. I don’t even know what to do with all these pictures.“

„I don’t know. Maybe keep them?“ — „Keep… for what?“ — „It’s a separate series, right. The art director didn’t request it. Maybe they can be used for something later on during promotions.“ — „Yeah. We’re always a little extracurricular,“ you laugh again, tense in your voice, and empty your lemonade completely. „This, too,“ Ethan points at the theatre in general. „You’re good to talk to. The better version of alone time.“ — „Thank you. You’re great to go out with. I… really like it.“ Beautiful nature scenes show on screen, but they’re nothing but a blur. You take Ethan’s hands in the dark and smile. „Maybe we should do it more often.“

masterlist | bookmark/read it on ao3

© submissive-bangtan 2017-2021. all rights reserved. do not repost or translate. all depictions fictional.

[crimsonbastard]

Okay, Time to deal with this Slut-Shaming thing once and for all!

'Ah … reading magazines under the table as well?' Snape added, snatching up the copy of Witch Weekly. ‘A further ten points from Gryffindor … oh, but of course …’ Snape’s black eyes glittered as they fell on Rita Skeeter’s article. ‘Potter has to keep up with his press cuttings …’ The dungeon rang with the Slytherins’ laughter, and an unpleasant smile curled Snape’s thin mouth. To Harry’s fury, he began to read the article aloud.

“… Harry Potter’s well-wishers must hope that, next time, he bestows his heart upon a worthier candidate. How very touching,’ sneered Snape, rolling up the magazine to continued gales of laughter from the Slytherins. ‘Well, I think I had better separate the three of you, so you can keep your minds on your potions rather than your tangled love lives.”

“You might be labouring under the delusion that the entire wizarding world is impressed with you,’ Snape went on, so quietly that no one else could hear him, ‘but I don’t care how many times your picture appears in the papers. To me, Potter, you are nothing but a nasty little boy who considers rules to be beneath him.”

This Part clearly states that Snape was trying to rile up Harry alone. He was clearly directing his attention towards Harry and was trying to embarrass him.

Also this is not the first time someone read that Article. Witch Weekly is a popular article created for witches so of course it would've circulated around school and many students and staff might've read it and started forming their own opinions.

To Snape it was disobedience, instead of paying attention to his class the trio were reading magazines. Yes it was unnecessary to read it out loud but calling it Slut Shaming?? Even though he was directing his attention towards Harry?? It is ridiculous.

Molly Weasley herself believed that Article and sent Hermione the smallest Easter Egg there is.

Also it's Snape's job to Protect Harry and he knows that Voldemort is returning as his Dark Mark has started to burn, so his stress was elevated. And now that Harry has entered the Tri Wizard Tournament either Voluntarily or In-Voluntarily, In which chances of getting killed are high Snape got even more fed up, thus explaining his nasty mood in Book Four.

In fact the only incident where a character's Supposed Promiscuity was pointed out was when the Weasley Twins and Ron accused Ginny, their own sister for allegedly being a Slut:

HBP Chapter 6:

Ginny raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Do they work?" she asked.

"Certainly they work, for up to twenty-four hours at a time depending on the weight of the boy in question--"

"-- and the attractiveness of the girl," said George, reappearing suddenly at their side. "But we're not selling them to our sister," he added, becoming suddenly stern, "not when she's already got about five boys on the go from what we've--"

"Whatever you've heard from Ron is a big fat lie," said Ginny calmly, leaning forward to take a small pink pot off the shelf. 

And this is not the only instance,

HBP Chapter 14

“Right,” said Ginny, tossing her long red hair out of her face and glaring at Ron, “let's get this straight once and for all. It is none of your business who I go out with or what I do with them, Ron—”

“Yeah, it is!” said Ron, just as angrily. “D’ you think I want people saying my sister’s a—”

“A what?” shouted Ginny, drawing her wand. “A what, exactly?”

“He doesn't mean anything, Ginny—” said Harry automatically, though the monster was roaring its approval of Ron's words.

“Oh yes he does!” she said, flaring up at Harry. “Just because he’s never snogged anyone in his life, just because the best kiss he’s ever had is from our Auntie Muriel—”

“Shut your mouth!” bellowed Ron, bypassing red and turning maroon.

“No, I will not!” yelled Ginny, beside herself. “I’ve seen you with Phlegm, hoping she’ll kiss you on the cheek every time you see her, it’s pathetic! If you went out and got a bit of snogging done yourself, you wouldn’t mind so much that everyone else does it!”

Ron had pulled out his wand too; Harry stepped swiftly between them.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Ron roared, trying to get a clear shot at Ginny around Harry, who was now standing in front of her with his arms outstretched. “Just because I don’t do it in public—”

Ginny screamed with derisive laughter, trying to push Harry out of the way.

“Been kissing Pigwidgeon, have you? Or have you got a picture of Auntie Muriel stashed under your pillow?”

“You—”

A streak of orange light flew under Harry’s left arm and missed Ginny by inches; Harry pushed Ron up against the wall.

“Don’t be stupid—”

“Harry’s snogged Cho Chang!” shouted Ginny, who sounded close to tears now. “And Hermione snogged Viktor Krum, it’s only you who acts like it’s something disgusting, Ron, and that’s because you’ve got about as much experience as a twelve-year-old!”

And with that, she stormed away. Harry quickly let go of Ron; the look on his face was murderous. They both stood there, breathing heavily, until Mrs. Norris, Filch’s cat, appeared around the corner, which broke the tension.

[furikakyo]

a return to roots | 4

pairing: kita shinsuke x f!reader

summary: y/n is a rising star in the music industry, having almost everything you could have ever hoped for as a small-town country girl. now after releasing two triple platinum albums in consecutive years, you face the dreaded artist’s burnout… in order to recover, your manager suggests, you should return to your hometown in hyōgo for a long-deserved break. 

genre: socmed/smau, slice of life 

warnings/tags: timeskip!, mutual pining, slow burn? more like rekindling, slight canon divergence

masterpost 

If you were to be completely honest, you'd wanted to wear a dress you’d been allowed to keep after a photoshoot. However, it wasn't a good look for someone of your status to re-wear outfits, especially statement pieces. You couldn't remember who had designed it, but it had been mostly tulle and made you feel like a princess... all things that could not be used to describe what you were wearing now. For your dinner plans, you chose to wear a simple yet smart-looking bodycon dress, one that you were regretting as you stepped out of the car. You pulled at the hem from over the long coat you wore, conscious of the fact that there could potentially be paparazzi waiting to snap a photo of you from an unfortunate angle if you weren't paying close attention. Unlike American paparazzi, reporters here didn't flock at the entrances of exclusive clubs or restaurants, but it never hurt to be cautious.

"I won't need a ride home," you told Ichiro, who nodded stiffly and then shut the door of the car after you got out, “I can get a ride home."

You adjusted the sunglasses on the bridge of your nose, aware that you looked out of place in the nightlife, and then walked to the doors of the hotel. A concierge opened the door to greet you and Ichiro, who trailed behind, scanning the area. "Welcome, Miss. Your party called ahead and made us aware of the arrangements to be made. You can follow me to the elevator, where I will escort you to your destination."

"Thank you," you said coolly, then took after them. While in the elevator, the concierge spoke nervously, emphasizing how much of an honor it was for someone like you to visit their establishment. You smiled politely, silently willing the elevator to reach the right floor faster.

A restaurant specializing in molecular gastronomy, Kuroo had explained to you on the phone the night before. He'd sounded probably the most excited you'd ever heard him. You had looked it up yourself after the call had ended. It was on the 29th floor of a luxurious hotel, one that you had never been to yourself. Only eight people max were allowed to dine in, and the chef made all of the food in front of you, four courses.

You were dragged out of your thoughts when the elevator finally dinged and the concierge guided you to the glass doors of the restaurant, where Ichiro recognized the occupants and left you alone to be greeted by Kuroo, Lev, his sister Alisa, and, surprisingly, Kenma. You took off your sunglasses and slipped them into the pocket of your coat before that too was taken by a waitress, who calmly swept them away from you and into a closet, presumably.

"Hi, guys!" you gave a bright smile and then slipped into the empty seat in between Kenma and Alisa.

"We thought you might want to sit next to Alisa," Kenma explained quietly, tugging on the collar of his dress shirt.

You smiled again, settling into the chair. "Thanks," you nodded your head. "You look nice, too, Kenma! You're all dressed up!"

Kuroo leaned back to make eye contact with you, laughing. "He almost cancelled on dinner plans with us when he heard that he couldn't wear his sweatpants. He lives in sweatpants exclusively."

Kenma sighed, muttering under his breath, "Maybe I wouldn't if you didn't make a big deal about whenever I'm not." Only you heard his comment, since he was on the edge of the table, but you didn't have any time to reply because the head chef came out of the kitchen, accompanied by a couple of workers behind him, holding the ingredients.

One by one, each round of dishes came and went. Earlier, you'd been worried about wearing a bodycon dress because of the impending food baby you were sure to conceive, but with only dessert left, your stomach felt hardly filled with the sizes of the previous dishes. The process of making each one was mesmerizing to watch, and the flavor profile of each small bite was beyond anything you could have initially imagined when the plates were gently placed in front of you-

You watched the chef spoon generous amounts of black caviar onto the dish. Not dessert, you corrected yourself. Why did you assume to get a deconstructed piece of fried dough when they had called the dish "Donut"? You eyed the tweezers which carefully placed tiny, delicate flowers on top of the spread. A single waiter poured out flutes of champagne and then distributed them to you and your friends, the only noise in the room the fizzing of bubbles in your drink. In fact, the entire affair had been silent aside from the head chef, who explained each meal to your group.

Once the waiter and chef cleared the room, Lev was finally the brave soul to break the silence, who cleared his throat and then, turning to you, asked, "So Y/N, you're moving back home, huh? Is there anything to even do there?”

You knew Lev didn’t mean to say anything offensive, but it still stung a little. He was just blunt to a fault sometimes, you reminded yourself, instead giggling and sending some witty remark back at him which made everyone burst into laughter. You shivered a little, finished the last of your remaining champagne in one undignified gulp, then stared out at Tokyo's skyline, shining and glittering like stars. It was cold in the room, you decided. Ridiculously air-conditioned to the point where you would be glad when you got your coat back and could leave.

The rest of the get-together flew by, only spending a little longer in the restaurant before exiting into the lobby. Kuroo had agreed to drive you back to your apartment, since he'd taken his own car and hadn't drank a lot. Lev gave you a bear hug and told you he would miss you, and that he would try to visit if his modeling schedule worked out in favor of it, but he wasn't sure. Alisa also hugged you tightly, telling you to take care of yourself in the countryside, to which she wrinkled her nose at playfully. When it came to Kenma you refrained from a hug, knowing that he didn't like physical contact. He gave a small smile, appreciative. "I might visit sometime; we can play Animal Crossing."

Then, just like that, the three of them left, Lev and Alisa taking the same car and Kenma having a driver. Kuroo turned to you and raised an eyebrow. "Well? Ready to go?"

You nodded, following him to the front where a valet had already pulled Kuroo's car to the curb, waiting for the two of you. Once inside, you pressed your forehead to the cool window, your breath fogging up the glass. Kuroo made no comment, the only sound to be heard the traffic in the streets.

For what seemed like a few minutes later, you felt yourself being gently shaken awake. "Y/N?" Slowly, you roused, rubbing at your eyes sleepily. You froze, sitting up. Shit, you'd had mascara on.

"Y/N?"

You turned to see Kuroo looking slightly concerned, but you just waved your hand at him. "I'm awake now. Thanks for the ride."

He stared at you, opened his mouth, then shut it promptly, stopping you from opening the car door. You rarely saw him speechless or without something to say. "What's wrong?" You frowned, trying to think of what could be worrying him or making him act like this.

Kuroo shook his head then leaned back in his seat. He scratched the back of his head and looked down. "I'm not sure how to say it, so I'm just going to say it." Immediately you felt dread in the pit of your stomach. Oh, god. Did he have, like, a middle-school crush on her? Was he tongue-tied? You did not want to lose one of your closest guy friends; plus, if you weren't friends with him anymore then you couldn't really be friends with Kenma-

"I'm worried about you, Y/N. Just... take care of yourself in Hyōgo, alright? You're there for a reason; to take a break." He ran a hand through his hair again, nervously. "You know what I'm saying? So just take care of yourself. Don't eat junk food all the time, it's not good for you. Also don't stay indoors all the time, it's good to get outside. You need to synthesize vitamin D," Kuroo rambled, "it's good for your skin, too-"

Finally you broke your silence, smiling and laughing at him. "Aw, Kuroo, you nerrrd," you socked him on the arm, evoking an 'ow' from him. "You're so sweet, what the hell? And don't worry, I'll be fine! I'm great at taking care of myself!" You gave him a thumbs up. When he looked at you dubiously, you added on, "Kaa-san and Tou-san don't live too far from where we used to live, so I can go to them if I need to, too." After a pause, more giggles bubbled out. "I thought- I was really scared that you liked me," you cackled, going into hysterics when he made a face. "I know, I know- I just got worried because I didn't know what you were going to say."

Kuroo rolled his eyes. "Uh, no, I don't like you. Not even platonically, after this," he grumbled, already getting into his theatrics. "I can't believe you're harassing me for caring. You're awful, Y/N!"

You opened your car door, still laughing. "Ok, ok, I'm awful, I'll admit it." You shut the door, and Kuroo rolled down the window.

"Whatever. Just make sure Osamu is driving safely. And text us when you get there. And," he levelled his gaze with yours, "do whatever you feel is best about Kita. Hopefully you take this break to sort through your feelings." Without giving you any time to retort something, Kuroo peeled off in his car, leaving you alone.

Quickly, you made your way into your apartment and finally took off your heels, leaving them near the entrance and sighing when you could walk flat-footed on the cool floor. Next you took off your coat and threw it on the couch, and instead of getting ready to sleep, jumped into your bed and face-planted into the pillows.

You fell asleep in less than five minutes.

You sent your Hyōgo address to Kenma and then flopped on your bed, accidentally banging your head on the headboard. “Fuck,” you hissed, clutching the back of your head. You sat there for a few moments, lamenting why you had to jump onto the bed and how the consequences of your action hurt so bad.

Then your stomach rumbled, begging to be filled, and you forgot everything you had been thinking about, making your way into the kitchen. You opened the fridge, peering in at the contents- or rather lack thereof. At least you didn’t have to worry about clearing your fridge by tonight, right?

Your stomach growled again as you shut the door, instead looking to the freezer. What did you have in there…? It slid open and you were glad to see that it wasn’t as empty as your fridge, rummaging through the frozen meals you had for a late-breakfast-early-lunch.

You pulled out a twelve pack of frozen gyoza and set it aside on the counter, pushing all of the other stuff back into the freezer. When you finally slid it shut again, you sighed in relief, and turned back to the food in question. You read the instructions on the back even though you were pretty sure it was easy to heat them up, and then turned the stove on. Pulling out a pot from your cabinet, you filled it with water and then set it on the stove, topping it with a lid to make the process faster.

Then you got to cleaning. Your apartment wasn’t all that messy since you didn’t spend a lot of time in it before going on hiatus, just a few stacks of paper filled with lyrics: some you’d tried working out, others hadn’t fit your two previous albums, but most you just didn’t like.

You checked on the pot of water to make sure it wasn’t boiling, and after seeing it wasn’t, you continued cleaning, moving into the kitchen once more. You scrubbed the plates and bowls you’d left in the sink for a couple days. Most of the stuff in the sink was silverware from eating takeout or having frozen meals, though.

When you heard and saw that the water was boiling, you added the gyoza and lowered the heat before going back to drying the dishes. By the time you were done with the task, your dumplings were ready, and so you turned off the stove and took the pot off. With a pair of chopsticks, you scooped up the gyoza and placed them onto a plate. You’d eat six and then leave the other half for dinner, you decided, putting them in a bento box for storage and then the fridge.

“Ah…” You sat down on the couch with your food and then turned on the TV, watching mindlessly and eating your gyoza one by one. After a couple of hours, you got up, washed and dried the dishes you’d just used, and then finally went to your room to pack.

Should you take all of your clothes with you? It’s not like you knew how long you were planning to stay in Hyōgo, so should you just pack everything, then? You opened up your closet all the way, clearing out the sections of your regular clothing and placing them on your bed. You turned back to your closet, now significantly emptier. All that was left were things you’d worn on tours or designer pieces you’d been allowed to keep. Most of them you could look at and remember the venues you’d worn them to; recall the quality of your performance and how big the crowd was. It would be pointless to take them with you, right? You couldn’t wear a custom Versace piece to the middle of nowhere.

You sighed and shut the closet door with a resounding thud, and then turned to face the monster pile of clothes you were going to try to fit into two large suitcases…

Ah shit, and you hadn’t even begun to think about shoes.

a/n: help the chapters keep getting longer even though i outline for this fic????? h o w

taglist (pm me to ask to be added): @papiibuprofen​, @duhsies, @succulentmom​​

some ~fun facts~ 

- lev and alisa are models, as in canon

-the food was served in test tubes and other scientist apparatuses LMAO (kuroo got really excited because he’s a chem nerd)

- i based the restaurant off of an actual one in japan but changed some things about it... so for legal reasons™️ all similarities are a coincidence 🧍‍♂️

- i hope y/n doesn’t sound whiny but i find molecular gastronomy to be super esoteric,,, reminds me of that bar scene in parks and rec lmao

- kenma tucks his sweatpants into his socks like the wrestlers at my old high school do... this is unfortunately also canon... 

- yaku couldn’t make it to the dinner event because he’s still in russia, playing volleyball there. he will be coming back to play for japan in the olympics!

- kuroo drives even though he drank a little... don’t do this

- kuroo is NOT interested in y/n romantically 

- i made two kita shirts with my friends during a haikyuu watch party we had… my favorite one got a little messed up and i’m sad 😃 edit: i fucking hate it here they got put in the dryer without my consent and now they’re both ruined ❤️

[pseudofaux]

Pseu, may I ask for an SLBP Hanzo/MC/Ieyasu as teasing or as spicy as you want? Please?

YESSSSSSSS 😍😍😍 This has been on my mind since your ask popped up, I feel like my SLBP life has lead me to this moment. Thank you very much for asking for this, I really really hope you will enjoy it!

(Requests are closed, readers, but there are a lot to be filled in May and likely June, too! Feel free to follow along or just check in and enjoy as many as you like. A masterlist will go up when they are all completed.)

“If you are going to be here, you must sit very carefully. See that you do not disturb his lordship,” Master Masanari says. She nods immediately and is already thinking of ways to use her pestle quietly when Ieyasu snorts.

“I’m not worried about her at all, snake. See that you don’t ‘disturb’ me for once.”

Her eyes go so wide she feels the air on them. She will never get used to the venomous way Lord Ieyasu speaks to Master Masanari. They serve him, and he is lord here, but he is just a man, and she would have though no one in the world stupid enough to speak that way to someone as ceaselessly dangerous as her master. But that master does not seem the least bit bothered, and now she wonders if the reason he comes home to his room at night looking so very pleased with himself is because he is returning from time spent with someone who does not simper.

Or maybe he smiles so much because he has dangled something over Lord Ieyasu until the younger man snapped at him to get out. He does take a singular pleasure in vexing the young lord. She is a little worried, based on how they each slide their eyes to her when they think she is absorbed in her work, that she is something being dangled over Lord Ieyasu tonight.

Her mind may be nothing compared to theirs, but she would be a fool indeed to have missed all the Tokugawa lord’s looks over the last few months. They’ve changed from distrust to something she suspects is desire. It’s not her place to act on that-- and she does not have any wish to find out what her master would do if she ever made the slightest attempt-- so she has been polite and deferential. Only polite and deferential.

“Hey,” Lord Ieyasu says, and she can tell he is talking to her mostly by the way she can see how widely Master Masanari is grinning.

“Why do you work for that bastard?” he asks. Master Masanari only grins. It doesn’t even sharpen, really. Being a lord must mean being very bold, she thinks.

“Master Masanari is very good to me,” she says carefully. “He’s taught me many things, and keeps me safe from many harms.”

She prays he does not press, but the heavens are not listening. “Who keeps you safe from him, huh?”

“I have no desire to be safe from Master Masanari.” Her voice and the room are both very, very quiet. Until her master laughs in complete delight.

“I thought you would manage to hold out longer, Lord Ieyasu. I will ask Sakai to teach you patience, it seems you have a lot to learn.”

The Lord of the Tokugawa goes red in the face and jabs his writing brush in Master Masanari’s direction. “Listen here, you viper—” but then he gasps and trails off, and when she looks at her master’s beautiful face there is a splatter of ink on his flawless cheek.

She goes to him immediately, clean cloth in hand. But he grabs at her wrist and slowly shakes his head. “No need to dirty your supplies, darling,” he says mildly, and pulls her into his lap while she frets over his face. “This is Lord Ieyasu’s doing, and it should be his responsibility to clean up.”

She spares a glance for the lord of the Tokugawa, who is still red in the face but has sat back down in a way she might call (if he were not there to hear) vaguely meek.

“Sadly, I am repulsed by the idea of making his lordship attend to my face, so you must do it, little mouse. And be quick, please, you must help me avoid a stain.”

She reaches for the cloth again but his grip on her has no give. He smiles and gently shakes his head again. It seems he is trying not to move the ink too much.

“Please forgive me,” she says quietly, before she raises her thumb to his face, thinking if she can get the wet ink on herself it will at least be less on him.

“You are as stupid as you are sweet-natured,” Master Masanari says kindly. “Even maids know you must clean wet with wet.”

“It is the job of maids to know so!” she retorts, and looks around the room for some other idea. Lord Ieyasu is watching her in Master Masanari’s lap with very wide, wet eyes.

Wet. Ah!

She looks Master Masanari in his own merry eyes and slowly brings her thumb to her mouth. And she licks it.

“Clever mouse,” he says. “But not clever enough. You are so very close to it, my love. I promise you have everything you need.”

She stares at her thumb in a way that feels as dumb as he must think she is.

“Remember that you must hurry,” her master says calmly.

She jerks her hands up to cup his face. He does not hold her back. He smiles right into her face, close to his. She whispers “Forgive me,” and he smiles even wider and says “We shall see what I shall do,” before she closes her eyes and licks the ink from his face.

Bitter! It’s so bitter and cold! It tastes like ash and sadness. She pulls back to see how much of it she got. The splatter is gone but the ink had already begun to stain him while she dithered. “Pardon me,” she says before bowing her head, and then she comes back up to lick him again, trying to be gentle but somehow manage to scrub him clean. When she checks again it’s fainter but stubborn, set in his skin like venom.

Later, she resolves, when she is alone, she will go over the events of this evening very carefully and see if there was a sign that he planned this. But for now, she asks for his forgiveness once more before she sets her mouth over the stain and sucks to pull it out of him, same as she would if he’d been bitten by a snake. As if a snake would ever bite one of his brothers.

His cheek is so pliant under her. This would be something like pleasant if they were alone and she were not scrambling against a force she has so little control over. But, she admits to herself, Master Masanari probably wouldn’t be having so much fun if she weren’t scrambling.

She pulls back after several effortful sucks at his skin and looks closely.

“Bring me my little glass,” he tells her, patting her bottom in full view of Lord Ieyasu. She is already hot in the face, and she’s certain the young lord’s discomfort is apparent. She crawls out of her master’s lap (without any help, naturally) and takes the polished circle out of his case and hands it to him.

She thinks she managed to do alright. His face is pink where she sucked out the last of the stain, but she can’t see any traces of ink on him. It’s all on her tongue now, making every swallow taste dreadful. A part of her knows they could have all three been spared this trouble if he had just told her what to do, but even that part knows the idea of Master Masanari being direct is even more frightening than the way he toys with people.

He hums as he regards himself. “You were very enthusiastic,�� he observes, touching the flushed spot gingerly. “But you were also every effective. Good girl,” he tells her. She nearly collapses on the spot. When he tells her to show him her tongue she does so immediately.

“Now for you,” he says, turning toward the desk in the room. “Since Sakai is not here to teach you a lesson, and I would be remiss in my duty if I did not address your lack of patience, I will show you the error of your ways.” His eyes glitter. “You must always be prepared to clean up your messes, Lord Ieyasu.”

That lord sits there stiffly and says nothing. Her jaw would drop if she were not so sure she will be told how to involve herself in the very next minute.

Indeed, Master Masanari says to her (without any of the ice that was in his voice when he addressed the highest ranking person in the room) “As I said, decorum repulses me from having Lord Ieyasu himself attend to the face he attempted to paint.” His smile for her is so real and warm she almost, almost believes she is safe. “And you did such fine work,” he adds, thumbing the spot on her own cheek where his is red. “Eventually.”

She feels her face go up in flames behind his hands, and he laughs and pinches her cheek. He is gentle about it, at least.

“I have no such compulsion to keep Lord Ieyasu from cleaning up your mess, sweet. Go sit next to him.”

He smiles at the worried look she shoots him, and that is so commonplace it is very nearly comforting. She goes on her knees with her head down and ducks it lower when she sits beside the Tokugawa lord. Up close he smells pleasantly like green things and expensive incense. A lord indeed. She does not dare to look at him.

“Show him your tongue,” Master Masanari says, and it is not kind, though it does not feel like the edge is aimed at her. She bows her head once more before coming up and opening her mouth for the Lord of the Tokugawa, averting her eyes completely.

“Did you get a good look at that, Tokugawa Ieyasu,” Master Masanari says like a silk-wrapped sword, “Did you see the mess I am talking about?”

“I could hardly miss it!” Lord Ieyasu snaps. “What of it?!”

Master Masanari tilts his head at the two of them and hums like they have amused him. She supposes somehow they have. “We’ll have to work on making your mind more nimble at some point, Lord Ieyasu. “Now you,” he enunciates clearly like he is talking to an idiot, “are to take care of that mess that you made. And I hope you’ll show us both that you are in fact a brilliant mind of our time and can do so more efficiently than my silly little assistant.”

Her face is downcast again, so she sees the way Lord Ieyasu’s hand clenches so tightly in rage that it trembles.

“I don’t think anyone has missed the way you look after her when she leaves a room,” Master Masanari says quietly. “You might be grateful for this private opportunity to correct your mistakes.”

He has never shown much possession toward her, but she has only heard him use that tone on enemies. It makes her feel very cold and alone.

“I am the lord of this castle, and your employer,” Ieyasu seethes. Master Masanari says nothing, seemingly content to leave the statement to stretch into the silence until it goes so long without being dignified by anyone else that it seems as though it must have been a pout.

“Oh, damn you to hell,” Lord Ieyasu says, and then turns to her and nudges up her chin. “Be still,” he says tersely, as though she could do anything else when his mouth slams down on hers.

Master Masanari claps three times in the quiet of the room and cheerfully-- cheerfully-- says, “The ink is inside her mouth, Lord Ieyasu. It will take a very long time if you do not vary your approach.”

“Shut. Up.” Ieyasu snarls, and he grabs her arms like she is the one who taunted him and pushes his tongue, wet and warm, against her mouth. She tries to apologize for the taste as she opens for him, but her words are lost against the press of him, and her eyes frantically seek out her Master.

Who sits serenely. There is a tiny glitter in his eyes as he watches, but his smile is not false. As best as she can tell.

Lord Ieyasu keeps his bruising grip on her upper arms, but he pulls back and makes a show of spitting nothing out of his mouth. “What did you do to my ink, you bastard. I’ve had it in my mouth before, it doesn’t taste like this.”

“Master Masanari!” she cries.

“Why would I have done anything to your correspondence?” he asks, the picture of innocence. “More importantly, did you say you imbibe the ink on your stone? Lord Ieyasu, there are much more pleasant--”

“ENOUGH,” Ieyasu shouts, loud enough that she flinches in his grip. His eyes flit to hers angrily but he relaxes his hands. He does not remove them.

“Open your mouth,” he says, the tension rolling off him like an avalanche. “Please,” he mouths.

She nods and parts her lips. This second time, his entry is slow enough that she would slump if he were not holding her by the arms. Who knew this man, with all his sharpness, could kiss so softly, so warm? His tongue is tentative but unharmful, and when it curls gently with hers she gasps and knows the pleasure of his smile against her mouth.

Master Masanari must have heard or seen or both, because he chimes in with a patronizing, “My goodness, is a simple girl better at this than you are? What will become of the Tokugawa?”

Lord Ieyasu’s fingers dig right back into her arms and he uses the grip to push her away like she has bitten him.

“You ask as if the Tokugawa depend on how well I can kiss your whore!” Ieyasu spits.

That hurts a little, but it’s not really of any consequence. His fingers shake where they hold her. She wishes she could offer him some comfort, or at least commiseration, but that would, without a doubt, make it worse for him. So she looks away from him and tries to breathe evenly. Her heart is beating very fast from everything that has happened. And from the gentle skill of his kiss. That was devastating. Why does he have no woman?

“Oh, but it does,” Master Masanari says calmly. She sees that there is a very long, sharp needle in his hand. “When I am vexed by an opponent, little lord, I throw a weapon, not a drop of ink. I’m disappointed you did not know this basic difference.”

The men stare at one another for a very long time, Ieyasu’s grip on her as tight as his glare is fierce. But animals know when they face a foe that can gut them, and if they want to live they show their bellies and slink away. The mighty lord of the Tokugawa lowers his eyes and screws them up tight when Master Masanari laughs, never one to let a belly go untickled.

“And I’ll need you to apologize to her,” he adds, clearly providing an afterthought. “Only I may call her whore.”

“That’s really not necessary!” she exclaims, trying to spare Lord Ieyasu the notion by waving her hands in her lap, but he snaps “Don’t pity me!” and she is silenced.

“Snake,” Ieyasu says, with impressive calm for someone whose body shakes from fury, “One day I will make you regret this.”

“I very much doubt you could, when ‘this’ makes me so happy,” Master Masanari says. “But I look forward to all your growth, Lord Ieyasu, as a servant of the Tokugawa and your friend.”

Tokugawa Ieyasu tches so hard she worries for his front teeth, but then he is turning his face toward her and she feels as pinned by the rich brown of his eyes as she often is by deep purple. Her lips naturally part to take in a deep breath as he looms closer, then fits his mouth to hers with finesse so stunning she squeaks.

Like a mouse. Which may be why Master Masanari laughs. But he does not interrupt them.

Lord Ieyasu sweeps his tongue over hers, recoiling at first from the taste but tutting into her mouth-- the warmth of his breath makes her chest tingle-- and coming back again, better prepared. He gently, gently licks her tongue, swallowing quietly every few times to take what bitter ink he manages to dislodge from her back into his mouth. Slowly his grip slackens again, and his thumbs stroke the sides of her arms above where he holds her. One is rough from archery, the other more supple. Both are very pleasant, a secret she resolves to forget immediately as soon as she leaves the room.

One hand lets her go entirely and strokes down her arm so pleasantly she does not know if she will be able to forget it. Certainly not the way he chuckles, deep and pleased with himself, into her mouth as he finds one of her hands and slowly curls over it just as he coaxes her tongue into his mouth so he can suck on it. The command in him, and the way she so immediately wants to follow where he guides her, say very promising things for the future of the Tokugawa. Even if Master Masanari is around to give him so much trouble.

“Show me your tongue,” Master Masanari whispers behind her ear. She startles with a cry and Lord Ieyasu parts from her with a curse. She had been so involved she was not even thinking about him in the room.

“Both of you,” he adds. “I do not want you to work too hard, of course.”

“I’m not showing you my mouth, you degenerate,” Ieyasu declares. “See for yourself if there’s anything left on her tongue.”

She can only turn her head so far, but she turns it that far and shows him her tongue, eyebrows up to show how she seeks his approval.

He hums and puts a fingertip on her tongue, rubbing lazily. “I suppose that will have to do,” he says. “Come now, little mouse,” he tells her as he gently presses her jaw up and closed. “Let us leave the Tokugawa lord to his work, he has not been very attentive to his letters tonight.”

“And whose fault is that, I wonder,” the Tokugawa lord grits through his teeth.

“Let us hope he works more tidily from now on,” Master Masanari continues as though he has not even heard. He pulls her back and to her feet. “Come, come. We will gather your things later.”

“So much for the virtue of tidiness,” Lord Ieyasu says. “Pick up after yourselves.”

“Oh, young lord,” Master Masanari says indulgently. “Do not worry. As your humblest servant I can tell you need some time alone to think over all that’s happened tonight. It is my pleasure to give you such time.”

Ieyasu sucks in a deep breath and sighs it out, but says nothing.

She bows and bids him good night on a whisper. He says nothing to her, either, but he nods. Twice. Abrupt little movements that make her smile and want to stay beside him. But Master Masanari has a hold on her arm and is pulling her out the door and then shutting it silently behind them.

“What a night for you,” he whispers as he pins her to the shogi. His hand protects the back of her head but does not muffle the thump, which Lord Ieyasu undoubtedly heard. “How does your mouth taste?”

“Fine,” she says in a small voice. “Normal.”

He puts his nose to her lips and breathes in like he would be able to catch the scent of ink inside her. He hums unquietly and she begins to fidget, worrying they are disturbing the lord he said they were leaving to allow to work.

She is unquiet when he tweaks one of her nipples, his knowledge of her body unerring and direct.

“Shh, shh,” he says, perhaps a touch louder than his usual speaking voice. “He’ll hear. I think that would distract him, don’t you?”

He kisses her before she can answer, and his kiss is surprisingly soft, the gentlest he has ever worked his tongue with hers. The familiarity of it to the kisses she had just received makes her weak, and the surprised moan it pulls out of her is nearly as embarrassing as the wickedness of his smile.

“You’re right,” he declares, not quiet at all. “I shall take you to bed at once, pet, do not fear.”

“Master Masanari,” she whispers, “That’s not what I--”

“SHHHHHHH,” he says like a performer, and she can feel her body deflate when she sighs between his body and the shoji. Why does she even bother?

“Come along now,” he whispers-- actually whispers-- right by her ear, tone silky and pleased as she has ever heard him. He must have thought this was great fun. When he pulls her by her wrist, she goes.

“Good night, Lord Ieyasu,” he whispers, and she is confused until she looks behind her and sees a shadow retreating from the other side of the lattice and paper wall.

She keeps her mouth shut, because she knows he does not like pity. But there is pity in her heart when she looks over her shoulder at the spot on the wall where he was standing, listening to them. She thinks of him each time Master Masanari kisses her that night, always gentle, so gentle, with tiny sucks of her tongue and all over her limbs. He strokes her arms and takes her hands and curls his long fingers around them. She thinks he is trying to keep Lord Ieyasu in her mind even as he pushes into her body and makes her call his name, helpless in the bliss he gives.

She dreams of red-brown eyes and the gentleness they hide, and the next time her master orders her to attend him in Lord Ieyasu’s office, she bows her head to hide her face in case it shows him any of her dreaming. Not that he wouldn’t know. Not that he wasn’t the one who put it there.