#not sure if his lips are actually thinner or if that's just me/the comparison photos

[aaravos-answers]

AARAVOS WHAT DID THE ANIMATORS DO TO YOU AFTER S3 I'M CRYING-

WHERE'S THE JAWLINE, WHERE'S THE SHADOWS ON YOUR FACE, WTF-

😭😭😭

Your guess is as good as mine, starling.

[justmaybee]

The Phantom’s New Clothes

(Alternatively: ‘I Like Ya Fit, G!’)

A/N: Yes, the spam is gonna end in a dumb fic. No, I’m not confident in posting it. But honestly? I don’t think I’ll ever be when it comes to Fling Posse. So I’m doing it anyways! Because Gen looks like a whole prince, and if I don’t start somewhere I’ll never be able to write them!

Summary: Fling Posse photo shoot time! ~ ☆ and Dice has taken a special interest in Gentaro’s outfit for the day….

Of the many things required by divisions during battle season, one ‘checkpoint’—so to speak—is the creation of promotional materials. A Chuohku-designated event, ‘asked’ of the representative teams from each district.

This is Fling Posse’s second time representing Shibuya, so Gentaro is more or less acquainted with the roadmap ahead of them. And as a group member—and friend—of one Ramuda Amemura, he’s quite used to the mild discomfort of modeling clothes far outside his comfort zone.

Though it had at first been a point of contention in the group—due to some very polarized creative decisions—Gentaro has grown into his role, just a bit. He may never go so far as to call himself a ‘model,’ but he’s done much stranger tasks for the sake of his posse.

Thankfully, this shoot leans decidedly into Gentaro’s style of choice. Unlike Ramuda’s last artistic venture, which had involved a bright yellow top in an aquarium of all settings, this outfit could be described as almost tame in comparison.

The blouse is a loose and flowing white number, tucked into a similar style of black pants. A little tighter to his waist than he’d prefer, but the fabric is soft and stretches down to his ankle—for the most part—so it’ll do. The addition of some colored cords to secure an ash grey cape around his shoulders finishes the look, and Gentaro hums an appreciative note when Ramuda shows him the full look in a mirror.

Ramuda seemed pleased, smoothing out Gentaro’s cape and tucking stubborn hairs back into place before flashing him a grin and bouncing off to help Dice finish dressing.

It’s comfortable, fashionable, and well-suited to his tastes. Gentaro must say, it’s one of his favorite designs from Ramuda so far.

That being said—there’s…one small thing he could recommend be changed.

It doesn’t occur to him until the picture taking is about to begin.

———

“Ya think Ramuda will let me keep it?” Dice asks, impish grin flashing his canine. He pops the collar, striking small poses as the dressing room around them clears out. Gentaro humors him.

He takes his time, stepping forward from behind Dice, peering over his shoulder at their shared reflection. His hand comes to rest on his chin, scrutinizing the tropical pattern with a deliberate trail of the eyes. He continues until Dice’s gaze lowers, until his hands start fidgeting in front of him.

Gentaro finally breaks with a smile, resting his chin on Dice’s shoulder. He can feel the way Dice sags with relief.

“It’s very likely that he will,” Gentaro muses. “This outfit was made specifically for you, and I’m not sure anyone else would wear it willingly.”

Dice nods in a small repetitive motion, absentmindedly checking his reflection in the mirror. The moment he comes to recognize Gentaro’s backhanded confirmation is both visible and audible. His body jolting upright with a pitchy ‘hey!’ tossed back over his shoulder. Gentaro hides a smile behind his hand.

“Oh, Dice. There’s no need to be insecure,” He coos. “From what I’ve heard, sustainable fashion is on the rise! This set may have been a curtain at some point, but your confidence in it is very admirable.”

Dice has that tight-lipped smile on, the one that pushes his cheeks up and makes his squinty faux-glare even more endearing. It says, ‘I know I’m being made fun of,’ but he continues to endure it anyways. Because it makes Gentaro smile.

Still, he’s come a long way since the early days of Fling Posse, and he won’t take things lying down if he can help it. So he sneaks his hand behind him, aiming a light pinch to Gentaro’s side; his comeback of choice since learning of Gentaro’s…sensitivity.

Unlike those recent times, Gentaro quickly back steps, pulling his head off Dice’s shoulder to smother a gasp behind a well-timed fist. Dice blinks, hand still hovering behind him in the empty air where Gentaro once stood.

Then he spins around; the biggest, toothy grin on his face.

Gentaro can feel the butterflies slowly flutter to life in his stomach. His free arm moves subconsciously, to wrap around his front and hide his torso. The longer they hold eye contact, the more his face begins to burn.

And then the photographer can be heard, calling Dice for photos.

They stay in place, gazes locked for a moment longer; then Dice shoots him a wink and jogs off.

Gentaro breathes a shaky sigh, rubbing away the phantom touch.

———

So yes, while it was obvious the outfit had less layers than Gentaro was accustomed to, he hadn’t realized just how much thinner the layers he wore were.

Photo shoots don’t have a lot of downtime, in his experience. There’s always group shots, touch ups, individual shots. While it’s undoubtedly ‘Posse Time’—as Ramuda would put it—he doesn’t get more than a passing word to either of his group mates at any one time.

Which make the times he runs into Dice all the more memorable.

Slipping past one another in the hallway when it’s Gentaro’s turn for solo shots. Gentaro feels a distinct skittering of nails over his flank. It has him stumbling, tripping on his own feet. He can hear Dice laugh as he straightens up and continues walking.

Getting his hair touched up, making sure his pesky bangs stay out of his face. Dice comes to watch for a while, leaving Gentaro with a quick pinch either side of his waist. He jolts so hard, the hair on his left side falls out of place. He mumbles an apology to the poor stylist, eyeing Dice’s retreating smile in the mirror.

In a moment to himself, Gentaro tries to retuck his blouse, smooth out the uneven bunching of ruffles. He doesn’t notice when Dice slips behind him, when he grips onto Gentaro’s hips—too easily accessible through these pants—and squeezes. Gentaro yelps, drops to a crouch to dislodge the ticklish pulses. When he turns with narrowed-eyes, he finds himself alone.

Although Dice has been able to startle a reaction out of him several times today, calling these occurrences ‘uncommon’ would be nothing short of a lie. In his extended stay at Gentaro’s apartment, Dice has been very — thorough in his exploits of Gentaro’s unending sensitivity. One could say that once he got a reaction, he couldn’t will himself to stop.

Also a lie. Well, a half-truth to be more precise.

While it had been Dice’s curiosity and willingness to take a chance that led to the discovery, he didn’t act on his newfound information much at all. While a very physically affectionate lover, he would never go so far as to touch Gentaro in a way that caused discomfort or distress.

No, absolutely not. And so despite many implicit hints and invitations, Gentaro found himself having to get very explicit.

He didn’t dislike Dice’s teasing touch.

No, quite the opposite actually.

It was flustering to a degree Gentaro couldn’t imagine, but…Dice got the message.

He got it loud and clear, and now here they are.

In a game of cat and mouse; Gentaro’s eyes darting toward every movement, hands enveloping his torso at the slightest noise. The fabric on his skin is light, breathable, and silky to the touch; impossible to ignore. His stomach swoops nervously, broiling with anticipation—borderline excitement.

Oh, the monster he’s created.

———

After two hours of lights, cameras, make up, hair, and such; things are finally starting to wrap up.

Gentaro can see the end’s approach easily due to experience. It always comes in the form of Ramuda’s name. Called out by a weary photographer and followed in turn by their leader’s sing-song reply, skipping happily out of the dressing room and into the limelight.

Ramuda’s solo shots are always saved for the end. One must save the best for last, of course.

That being so, it would be a good idea to begin making preparations to leave.

Gentaro can feel the pinpricks in his legs as he slides them off the dressing room couch, uncurling from his seated position. He kicks out, pointing his toes in a stretch, arching his back and spine. The relief pushes a quiet sigh from his lips, leaves him sagging back into the cushions for a moment, suddenly drained.

Time spent in the presence of others can already be tiring, but the looming eyes of Chuohku make things far more intense. Gentaro can find peace in having his posse with him, but the sooner he can get these clothes folded, the sooner he gets his regular attire back—the sooner he’ll be home and out from under the Party’s prying gaze.

It takes Gentaro a few attempts to rise to his feet. His center of balance equals out as Dice makes his way into the room. The timing is very lucky, Gentaro gets barely a greeting out before his arm is in Dice’s hold. Before he’s swung around, in a blur of cobalt blue and floral print.

His back hits the wall with a dull thud. Not hard enough to hurt—Dice would never—but enough to have his breath catch in his throat. The way Dice leans into Gentaro’s personal space—hand still firmly gripped around his wrist, pinning it to the wall beside his head—makes getting air back a bit difficult.

“Hey Gen,” Dice breathes, a soft smile on his lips that completely contradicts the situation, and makes Gentaro melt all the more for it.

“Hello, Dice.” Gentaro’s hesitation is hardly noticeable.

“Whatcha up to?”

It’s so casual — the way Dice speaks, despite their position which has Gentaro’s brain buzzing like radio static. Strangely, it’s somewhat placating, in a way.

“Well — I’d intended on tidying up while Ramuda’s away…” Gentaro musters up a teasing smile, a lighthearted jab. “If you’re attempting to have me fold your clothes for you, I’m afraid I’ll have to stop you right there—”

Dice laughs. The sound does strange things to Gentaro’s heartbeat. Difficult to miss while it thrums so vividly in his ears.

“No, not that.” Dice smiles. Gentaro can’t help but return it.

“But could I—uh—do one thing? Before you go?”

Gentaro can take a fairly good guess at what Dice is referring to.

He shuffles, wrist rotating the smallest bit in Dice’s hold. His grip is strong, warm, and noticeably firm. Dice hasn’t moved, not an inch from his close lean over Gentaro, but he’s suddenly all that Gentaro can see, smell, feel.

He’s trapped.

It’s invigorating.

Gentaro is somewhat proud of the light, careless hum he gets out. A flippant roll of the eyes before his gaze meets Dice’s.

“Oh fine, if you must.”

Dice laughs again. Gentaro feels that familiar swooping sensation.

“I’ve been dyin’ to do this all day.”

Despite the unaffected air Gentaro puts off, his body is already tensed up in wait. Free hand poised to the side, ready to fend off Dice’s experienced fingers. His waist, hips, stomach; they’re all compromised in this outfit, leaving him more vulnerable than even his home loungewear would allow. It’s anyone’s guess as to where Dice may strike.

Which makes it extra shocking when Dice suddenly drops Gentaro’s wrist. When he slips both hands, with a pre-planned speed, into the gaps of Gentaro’s billowing sleeves and under his outstretched arms.

Gentaro is able to clamp his lips together before Dice’s fingers make contact. It makes muffling his surprised shout marginally easier. The same can’t be said for his limbs.

Before he can even think about it, Dice has found his rhythm, spidering feather-light strokes beneath his arms. His fingertips are gentle, calloused, and so very effective in their unpredictable movements.

Gentaro’s shoulders lock up. He chokes back the bubbling wave of laughter, then clamps his arms down in attempted self-defense.

Immediately after, his spine snaps off the wall. Thrusting his torso flush against Dice, leaning in to cover him. He tosses his head back, a squeaky cry pathetically stifled as the feelings grow exponentially.

It takes all of Gentaro’s remaining brainpower to lessen the pressure of his arms against his sides, to bring his elbows a centimeter out from his waist. Because when he tries blocking Dice’s fingers—

Gentaro bites his lip against a particularly loud squeal; Dice using one finger on each hand to vibrate into the center of each hollow. Oh, please.

—when he tries to guard himself, he just pushes Dice’s fingers deeper.

“Mph! D-Dice!”

It’s debilitating. Dice rarely has access to his bare skin in most situations, but this may very well be a first for both of them. The skittering touch under his arms has Gentaro squirming, shaking. Every time his arms twitch down to stop it, he’s stuck muffling louder laughter at the added pressure he’s made for himself.

It’s all Gentaro can do to hold as still as possible; minimize the jerky, impulsive movements. But it’s so hard, and he’s quickly losing the battle with his volume as well.

What were once small, nondescript sounds are now squeaking—almost whining—noises. As Dice continues his careful track, sweeping soft fingers around and around and around each twitching hollow.

It takes Dice vocalizing aloud to get Gentaro to lift his head from the wall, blink one teary eye open and get a look at him.

Dice is smiling sweetly—no doubt a much nicer look than the hot flush and wobbly smile Gentaro’s trying to control—with his head tilted to the side. It leaves his neck and shoulder open, right at Gentaro’s head level.

He takes the invitation for what it is.

Gentaro quickly buries his face into the side of Dice’s neck. If he had the mind to think and the hindsight to see, he might have considered if this was well-meant aid or a well-sprung trap. It really depends how much credit Gentaro decides to give Dice. His scheming side is somewhat lacking.

Either way, it makes things much more manageable, and far less embarrassing when Dice’s fingertips turn to nails and Gentaro finally breaks, spilling surprised giggles into the other’s skin.

“Dihihice! What—whahat are you—ahahahaha! Wait! Th-that isn’t fahahahahahair!”

Dice had never kept his nails long before, not for so long as Gentaro has known him. He had no use for them, and it was much easier to keep clean with nails as short as can be. But he’s taken to growing them out, just a tad, for…special situations.

Situations where Gentaro is foolish, careless. Usually in the comfort of his own home, in clothes that make it too easy for Dice. To touch, caress. Warm hands over soft skin that finds another’s touch one part foreign to ten parts addictive.

Situations where the small scratch of a nail can amp the feeling of a tingle to a spark.

“Dihice, pl-plehease. I—aha! Oh no, oh pleheheHEHEHEASE!”

It’s so much easier to hide; in the warm, familiar grip of Dice’s embrace. Where he can smother his keening laughter and sudden gasps. No care in the world for his pink cheeks and ruffled hair, so embarrassingly genuine after the painstaking process of making him ‘modelesque.’

Where all he has to focus on is the rippling movement, scratching up and down the dips beneath his arms. A constant, offset graze on hypersensitive skin; gentle as can be but more than enough to drive Gentaro past the point of composure.

All too quickly, Gentaro feels his knees go weak. His back slips down the wall a fraction, hands gripping onto Dice reflexively.

Dice responds in kind, keeping him stable, then going the extra step forward. Literally.

He steps until there’s no space between them. Until Gentaro can be held up with no need for his own legs; just the cool, sturdy wall behind him and Dice’s chest against his own. He’s surrounded by Dice’s warmth, by his scent. It’s been only minutes, but Gentaro is panting for breath.

“Hey,” Dice mutters, softly, once Gentaro can focus on him. He tugs his hand free, chuckling along to the author’s stray giggle, before reaching up to cup his cheek. His thumb strokes habitually, eyes staring deep into Gentaro’s — searching. Always searching. Making sure he’s okay.

And he is. Better than okay. That’s not a lie, it can’t be, and the way Gentaro narrows his eyes, sends a challenging smirk Dice’s way — makes that abundantly clear. Dice drops his gaze, laughing to himself. Then he straightens up, thumbs the moisture from the side of Gentaro’s face.

“As I was saying…” Dice trails, locking eyes with Gentaro as he speaks. Watching the way they widen, lips pressing together, when his remaining hand flexes.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

[caerwynherondale]

Wedding Bells

Caerwyn bounced on the toes of her stockinged feet, unable to stay still as she walked the length of her bedroom and back again, steps muffled by the carpet. She wrung her hands together, peeking up at the blue, cat shaped clock on her bedside table, the hands drifting silently across the face of it. She hated ticking clocks, the noise drove her batty, so this one had been a blessing when her parents had found it for her when she’d been about six. They could have simply gone with a digital one, but Caerwyn liked the classic look of the numbers and hands, in this case, each minute increment was marked by a tiny paw print and the numbers white on top of black cat head silhouettes. It was super cute, making her smile in that way girls who liked cute things did when they saw them. Most wouldn’t have pinned Caerwyn for liking adorable things like that, but she did. She supposed the only people who knew were her family and Rose, though, Louis may have picked up on it by now considering her usual go-to purse was shaped like a bunny.

“Winnie, I swear to fucking god...” Cleo, the girl’s sister spoke up from where she laid on her bed. The pair couldn’t have been any more different from one another. Caerwyn’s hair was inky and her body shapely while Cleo’s hair was light and she was skinny. At the moment, Cleo was on her stomach, knees bent, legs swaying as her ankles crossed and she perused whatever magazine she was currently interested in. She was on spring break from her school was well, but it wouldn’t have mattered either way considering she went to one of the local high schools and lived at home throughout the year instead of boarding like Caerwyn did. She had actually been quite excited to see Caerwyn when the girl had gotten off the train, showing it with the way she grabbed at her sister’s hand and dragged her along to the car without a single word. The past winter break had been the first they’d ever really spent apart and while they didn’t get along on a regular basis, Christmas time had always been a very important thing for their family. Not having one of them home had been kind of a big deal actually.

Carnegie had been even more thrilled to have Caerwyn home, clinging onto her the moment she walked through the door and refusing to leave her side even at bedtime for the first couple of days. She’d let him sleep in her bed, curled up against her stomach, a little warm package of heat. She loved it, his blond hair smelling still of newness and baby shampoo, his fingers slightly sticky in that way all little kids seemed to be. He was five now, having had his birthday a couple months back and he had even more to talk about now than ever. He’d jabbered on about everything under the sun. His favorite toys, his friends and teachers at school, all of the new things he was learning, and showing off how he could read simple worded books now.

As far as Caerwyn’s parents went though, things were still… strained to say the least. She was happy to see them, to have their loving arms around her and hear her dad’s dry jokes, but there was still that lingering sensation of worry underneath. The discussion they had had over the winter break was still fresh in her mind, but they had promised her that it wouldn’t be a subject they talked about this time. They would simply enjoy the holiday together. Both of her parents had been a bit on edge though, when Caerwyn told them she’d been invited to attend Victoire’s wedding. They knew who Victoire was, the nurse at the school Caerwyn attended, but she was also the cousin of their daughter’s best friend, Rose. Caerwyn had, conveniently, left out the information that she was actually going as a date for Victoire’s little brother, who also happened to be her boyfriend. She had thought it better to tell them it was Rose who had invited her along, easier to get them to agree that way. It had taken a bit of convincing, but her parents had finally conceded into letting Caerwyn spend the remainder of the break with the Weasleys.

“They’ll be along fucking soon.” Caerwyn shot back, but she flopped down anyway, sitting on the window seat between the two large built in bookcases. The bedroom was split evenly in two, everything matching, picked out by a mother who didn��t want her daughters fighting. Whites, light yellows, and laces decorated most of the room. White satin bed covers dotted with little silk roses sat upon the twin beds, curtains of tulle hanging down over the curved, white headboards, fairy lights intertwined into them. A bench sat at the foot of each bed, serving as both seating and storage, matching nightstands and lamps beside the beds. The walls were decorated with yellow wallpaper dotted with a small, pretty floral print. Each of the girls had taken over their own side though, adding their own touches to create a kind of drastic separation. Caerwyn’s bed boasted more throw blankets and her wall décor consisted of several of her own paintings and a limited amount of photos displaying friends and family. Her half of the bookcases was filled with old school texts, empty potion bottles, broken quills, and fairy tales. Cleo’s side of the room was nearly bursting in comparison. Posters, photos, a cork board and sticky notes plastered the walls. Clothes were scattered here and there on the floor and her bookcase held more girly items, like perfume, jewelry displays and magazines. There was still a faded bit and sticky residue on the carpet from the long piece of duct tape they had run across the floor years ago to make sure the other stayed on their side.

“You’ve got at least another hour.” Cleo chided, sitting up on the bed and tossing her magazine down in frustration. She stared at Caerwyn, eyeing her up and down. The way she kept tugging at the front of her baggy sweater, how she’d put on a pair of thigh highs instead of her usual tights, though, one wouldn’t be able to tell under her dress, and the little bit of make-up she’d used to accentuate her eyes and lips. She had even taken time to really brush out her hair, sitting down and running through it over and over again until she was certain all the knots were gone. “So, are you going to tell me who the boy is or not?”

“What boy?” Caerwyn asked, glancing up from where she had started picking at her finger nails. They were clean, the blue polish upon them fresh, but she swore she could still feel some dirt underneath them. She followed Cleo’s gaze to the newer photos by above her bed. The ones Louis’s aunt had taken on Christmas. She had kept the ones of just her and Louis hidden away in her things, but she’d hung up several of her, Louis, Rose, and Albus that she hadn’t noticed being taken on Christmas Eve. She didn’t look too terrible in them, with her hair all pulled back prettily and in the outfit Fleur had helped her pick out. She was particularly fond of the one where she was turned, drinking from a glass as Rose spoke to her and Louis was sat beside her, looking down at her as he tugged a loose bit of confetti from the Christmas crackers from her hair.

“The redhead.” Cleo pointed, her eyebrows raised in question. It wasn’t the first time she had asked, nor would it be the last. The answer was the same though, as it always was.

“None of your goddamn fucking business.” Caerwyn shot back, pushing up from the window seat. She snatched her duffle bag from the floor where it had been stuffed with the things she’d brought home from school, but also things she would need while she was staying with the Weasleys.  She dug through it, double checking the contents. Extra pajamas, her clothes for the wedding, a toothbrush… Last time she’d shown up with nothing but the clothes on her back, a book, her cat, and Louis’s Christmas gift. This time she was prepared. She already had Manson’s wicker carrier by the front door, his favorite cushy blanket inside of it for when it was time to go.

Cleo was, unfortunately right about the time. It took an hour and then a little bit before the doorbell was ringing through the house. Little feet scampered, slapping across the wooden floor of the downstairs portion of the house as Carnegie raced for the door. He loved answering it, though, there was usually always someone coming right behind him in case he didn’t know the person there, which was rarely. He reached up with both of his small hands, grabbing hold of the knob and twisting it, tugging the big white door open, a giant smile on his little face. The little boy was dressed in nothing more than a pair of overalls and a red towel tied around his neck as a cape. He’d refused a shirt that morning, saying superheros didn’t need them.

“Creoso!” The little boy stepped back from the door, his bare arms spread wide, eyes closed for a moment as he greeted the three teenagers standing on the front porch. He finally looked up at them, his head tilting back in wonder as his eyes moved up, and up, and up. The redheaded girl wasn’t too tall, but both of the boys standing behind her were quite a lot bigger than anyone Carnegie was used to seeing on a regular basis. He gaped for a moment before turning his little head and calling over his shoulder. “Mama! Da! Mae ffrindiau Winnie yma!”

“Ydw, ydw, Carnegie.” A woman’s voice called back. Her heels clicked against the floor as she appeared in the front room, her brown hair falling in curls around her shoulders as she stopped behind her son, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Hello there. How do you do? You must be Rosie and... I don’t believe Winnie mentioned your names. Come in, come in.”

“You fucking bitch!” A scuffling from above sounded as both Caerwyn and Cleo made for the door of their room. There was a small battle of pushing and shoving, the door banging against the wall as they both tried to get through it first. Cleo won as she tripped her sister, using her thinner frame to squeeze through. Caerwyn was right on her heels though, both of them using the corner of the banister to turn rapidly on the landing before they were heading down the stairs. Cleo skidded to a hault beside her mother, her hair pulled back into it’s usual messy bun on top of her head. She stared at the three strangers and then laughed, pointing with a victorious ‘ha!’ at the sight of Louis. The boy from the photo. He’d come along with Rose to get her sister, as well as a dark haired fellow.

“Rhosynie!” Caerwyn called brightly as she finally hit the bottom of the stairs. She laughed, reaching out to snatch at her best mate, hugging her tightly as Carnegie moved to close the door behind her friends. He took a few steps, his tiny hand reaching up to tug at Louis’s much bigger one, gazing up at him with big blue eyes.

“Ai chi yw'r dyn talaf ar y blaned?” The five-year-old asked curiously.

“Nac ydw, Carnie. Yw'r dyn talaf dw i.” A man’s voice filted into the living room as he came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a tea towel. Carnegie laughed, releasing Louis’s hand to race to his father, arms outstretched so he could be scooped up properly.

“Albus!” Caerwyn grinned, hugging him as well before she released him and stepped back a bit. Her eyes fell on Louis and she stared up at him, a small smile pressing at her lips, cheeks a bit pink at the sight of him. God, she’d missed him so much. It had only been a week away. She sighed, closing the distance between them more rapidly than she had with the other two. Her arms came up around his waist, face burying against his chest as she breathed him in. Fuck, he smelt so good. “Fuckface.”

*Welcome! Mama, Winnie’s friends are here.

*Yes, yes.

*Are you the tallest man on the planet?

“No, Carnie. I’m the tallest man.