#not to say that there aren’t some men that decide she’s pretty enough to court anyway but none of them are prepared for her chatter

[chryzuree]

oswald doesn’t like to dance at balls, but if genevieve is continually ignored by suitors & visibly upset, he’ll offer to dance with her for a song… or two.. or three… or they spend the rest of the night dancing and gen’s laughing into his shoulder and oswald’s stoically moving through the steps he’s memorized and they’re the center of attention the whole night…

[scuttling]

Long Time Coming

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 6,664 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Dad Bod Hotch, Oblivious Hotch, Flirting, Reader has a few one night stands, Semi-public sex, Unprotected sex, Blow jobs/Face fucking, Hairpulling, Fingering, Praise and degradation, Dirty talk, Accidental reveal of feelings, TW blood/cut Summary: You have been in lust (and love) with Aaron for a while, but his new look sends you off the deep end, and it's enough to make you do some pretty crazy things. *Inspired by @ssamorganhotchner and these three pics. Link to A03 or read below! You are fresh off yet another unsuccessful first date when Aaron wears the new suit. You, Emily, JJ, and Penelope are standing by the coffee maker, complaining about the pitfalls of online dating and how people are never they way they seem when you actually meet in person; you have the carafe in your hand, filling your mug, and when he walks in, face in a case file, his pants so tight you can make out his hips and thighs as clearly as if he were naked… You kind of lose your shit. And your grip.

The carafe shatters when it hits the tile floor, spraying shards of glass and hot coffee everywhere; Emily gasps, Penelope jumps back to avoid the splatter, JJ runs for a broom, and you just stand there, staring at Aaron—at his tight slacks, at his belt, at his shirt, tucked neatly inside, then at his dangling tie, and finally, his worried face.

“Are you alright?” he asks, because you have literally not moved a muscle since he arrived; your boots are covered in coffee—you are thankful you dressed casually today and aren’t wearing heels, or you’d be in a lot of pain—and your heart is racing, but otherwise you feel frozen, unable to move or look away.

You’ve wanted Aaron for a long time, and everyone knows it but him. It’s part of the reason you’re smothering yourself with online hookups and blind dates and one night stands: because he is off limits, and you’re desperately horny for him, and you need to have him fucked out of your mind one way or another.

The new suit further complicates things.

“Fine,” you say after a few more seconds, and JJ comes back with the broom and dustpan, so you bend down to help her clean up your mess. It wasn’t your brightest idea, because you are now at eye level with the tight crotch of his pants, and all you can think of is working the zipper open, pulling him carefully past the fly, sucking him off until those big hands slip into your hair and tug roughly when he comes.

God. You’re going to have to go on another bad date. Or ten.

“New suit?” Penelope asks conversationally, as if you aren’t having a sexual crisis about it three feet away. “Looks good, boss.” Aaron runs his hand down his body self-consciously, but all you see are thick fingers and stomach and hnnngg…

JJ pinches the back of your arm hard, makes a face that screams get it together!!, and you take a deep breath.

“I took some of my old ones in for alterations and the salesman convinced me they were severely outdated. Do you like this style better?”

For some reason, it feels like he’s looking right at you, and you nod, dreamy-eyed, sweep your tongue over your lips.

“Better,” you rasp, and Emily and Penelope agree, probably to take the emphasis off of your slack mouth and dopey one-word answers. You try to help JJ clean up, picking up the larger pieces of glass and dropping them into the dustpan despite her protests—because you are very unfocused, shouldn’t be messing with sharp objects—and when you cut your finger on a piece, she just sighs. Such a mom.

You wince, and Aaron frowns, comes toward you, putting you not only at dick height, but a manageable dick distance, if you were so inclined; really, it’s more if he were so inclined, because you are actually fully prepared to swallow his load right here in front of your friends—all he’d have to do would be snap his fingers and point to his crotch, and the FBI would be suing you for mental distress and using the money to pay for therapy for Emily, Penelope, and JJ.

“Let’s get this cleaned up,” he says, snapping you out of your very elaborate fantasy (typically your fantasies don’t involve court costs, but this is Aaron, so anything is possible.) He wraps his hand around your injured finger and pulls you up to standing with the other, and you just follow along as he leads you over to the sink, turns on the tap to let the water run over your cut. The way you’re looking up at him like he’s the best thing you’ve ever seen has to be painfully obvious, but he just reaches over for the first aid kit, takes out a bandage, and wraps it carefully around the tip of your finger. You sigh.

It may have started out as lust, but you’re pretty sure you’re also in love.

You have got to find a way to get him to notice you as more than just an agent, a teammate, a friend, and so: Operation ‘Get Hotch Out Of His Tight Pants’ begins. You fill the girls in on your master plan, and they fill in Derek and Spencer just so there are more people to laugh at you when you crash and burn, probably. But you’ve got a plan, will be pulling out all the stops, so you might not fail horribly after all. Hopefully.

God, you absolutely cannot fail. You can’t go out with another software engineer with the personality of a peanut or another investment banker who thinks buying you an appetizer means you owe him a blow job in the front seat of his Tesla. You will go fucking insane.

Today’s plan is T for tits, because yours are pretty awesome and almost no one who is attracted to women can resist them. You wear your usual white button down top, but you leave the top two buttons undone, and you add a red, lacy bra for a little additional temptation.

“Here are those consults you asked for,” you say after knocking lightly on the doorframe; Aaron waves you inside. You set them down on his desk, then glance over the open folder in front of him, make a curious noise. “What are you working on up here?”

You walk around his desk, so you’re standing next to him, and lean forward to look over the case file with one hand on the back of his chair and the other pressed against the desk. If he would look over, he would see right down your top, your breasts high and smushed together thanks to the lacy push up… but he looks straight down at the file, taps his pen against it.

“Murders in Detroit. I don’t think we’ll go—they look like mob hits to me, so I’m going to refer the case to Organized Crime.” You hum, turn the file toward you and lean in a little closer, letting your hair spill over your shoulder, the neck of your blouse fall open. Boobs and perfume are usually a one-two punch that is capable of bringing any man to his knees, and while he does turn to look at you, it feels entirely too respectful for your liking. You sigh softly, give up for today, and turn the file back.

“Well you know best, boss. Any time I don’t have to go to Detroit is alright by me.” You flash him a smile, and he reciprocates, and you head back downstairs for a cup of coffee and maybe a stale shame pastry.

The team looks up at you when you approach, and you shake your head.

“No luck,” you mutter, and Derek laughs, crosses his arms over his chest.

“Maybe you’re not very good at flirting. What did you do?” You roll your eyes—your flirting is not the problem, it’s Aaron’s morals and manners or whatever—and walk over to Spencer’s desk, demonstrate with him what you did to Aaron; you put your hand on the back of his chair, toss your hair over your shoulder, lean in, and Spencer swallows hard, licks his lips, and looks abruptly down at his hands. That reaction, you would have gladly taken.

Derek clears his throat, and so does Emily. Hmm.

“I’m good at flirting,” you say, straightening up; Spencer is blushing, and it’s super cute, so you pat him lightly on the head. “Maybe he’s an ass man. I’ll wear a skirt tomorrow and we’ll see if that gets the job done.”

“Good idea,” Derek says, and when you walk past him, he gives you a once over that makes you feel pretty damn good. “In the meantime, why don��t you come and demonstrate on me?”

There’s no denying he is one of the finest men you’ve ever seen in your life, and earlier on in your career you might have taken him up on it—it would have to be better than Marty McTesla, that’s a given—but you know he’s mostly teasing, even if there is a thin layer of actual desire beneath it all. You just fluff your hair and take your seat and mentally flip through your closet to try to come up with an outfit Aaron can’t refuse. You decide on a pencil skirt, because that’s got to be every boss's fantasy, right? You have one you never wear to the office because it’s a little sexy, tight on your hips and ass, with a zipper up the back that you can open a little and use to your advantage. When you walk into the bullpen that morning, JJ whistles, and you grin, do a little twirl.

“Thank you, thank you. This has to work, right?” You turn to face Emily, then turn away from Emily, butt right in her face. “Emily? This will work, right?”

“That’s... definitely going to work,” she murmurs, tapping the cap of her pen against her teeth, and you have to admit you have a good feeling about this one. For as great as breasts are, your ass is your best asset, and if the open top and red bra didn’t work, this has to be your ticket to some sweet, dirty loving, it just has to.

You all head up for the morning meeting, filing into the briefing room, and you give Aaron a soft greeting and a smile just like every day, and then offer to help him pass out whatever stack of papers he’s holding in his hands—fire drills and emergency protocol, or something boring like that. He accepts the help, and you take the fliers, but instead of walking around and handing them to each member of the team like he would, you bend over the table, reach across, and drop the pages in front of everyone.

JJ is the furthest away, and you practically have to climb onto the table to reach her; you grin and wink when she takes the papers out of your hand, and she shakes her head like you’re too much, but when you stand back up to hand Aaron the extras, he doesn’t seem the slightest bit interested.

He thanks you for your help, and you take your seat and listen to him go on about emergency exits and fire extinguishers and seriously start to contemplate moving to Europe to start a new life, or something else equally dramatic.

Because you don’t give up easily, you orchestrate one more attempt to get him to show some interest in you. You know he usually goes downstairs to the cafeteria for lunch, and that the elevator is a jam-packed nightmare because the main stairwell is currently under construction (which is probably why you needed to go over safety protocol, now that you think about it; shutting down the stairwell seems very unsafe.) You usually pack your lunch, but you can go buy an overpriced salad for the sake of your sex drive, so you wait for the elevator when he does, making small talk about your mornings until it dings and arrives on your floor.

He tries to let you in first, gentleman that he is, but that won’t work with your plan, so you insist, earning eye rolls from the other passengers on the elevator. You give Amy from Forensic Accounting a dirty look and then step in after him, lean back against him because there’s really no fucking room to even take a breath.

He’s taller than you, but with heels on your ass still fits pretty nicely against his thighs; a little too nicely, you think, as you get wet just from standing near him in the elevator, the heat of his body through your skirt. You really are a mess.

There are two more floors to go before the cafeteria, and no one gets off, but more people manage to cram into the elevator, which means you press more tightly against him to make room. Someone bumps into you roughly, which makes you unsteady on your feet; Aaron puts his hands low on your hips to keep you from wobbling, and your eyes literally roll back in your head, but he just leans in to mutter, “sorry” into your ear. You say nothing, because you’d probably moan if you opened your mouth, but you shake your head so he knows it’s not a problem.

When everyone gets off downstairs, you hurry to the restroom and don’t look back, turn on the faucet and splash some cold water against your overheated neck and chest. So much for that plan. All you managed to do was work yourself up into a fury.

While you’re in line to pay for your overpriced salad, you open up your dating app and secure yourself drinks with a hot lawyer for tonight. Seduction is clearly not working with Aaron, he’s clearly not interested, and you have to find a way to move on before you have a spontaneous workplace orgasm and get fired from the job you love—all of his tight new suits have been dark so far, but if he shows up in gray, you’re not going to have the will to survive anymore. You have to plan for the worst.

The lawyer is nice enough, but he’s too short, too thin; it’s hard to imagine Aaron’s body weight on top of you when he’s fucking you, but you’re nothing if not resourceful, so you move your hands to his head of thick, dark hair and focus on that—that, and his hot breath against your throat when he comes a little too soon and mutters “sorry” into your ear.

“It’s okay,” you pant, reaching between you to rub your clit. You close your eyes, tip your head back, clench around him; you imagine it’s Aaron inside you instead, and bury your face in his shoulder when you come.

He’s willing to stay, but you explain why it’s better if he leaves, and then you fall back into bed, fumble for your vibrator, and get off again so you’re not too distracted by reality to really enjoy your fantasy.

It’s a little twisted, but it is what it is. You’re standing in the breakroom a few days later, swiping through the dating app and bullshitting with Derek and Penelope, when this guy pops up on your screen. He’s not your usual type, younger and blonder than you prefer these days, a pilot, but something about his profile makes you pause; when it hits you, you blow out a breath and look up at your friends.

“So you guys know Operation ‘Get Hotch Out Of His Tight Pants’ is officially dead in the water,” you begin, and they nod, “and now I’m focusing my energy on trying to get over him. I went on a date with a guy that kind of looked like him, and that didn’t really help, but what if…” You turn your screen to face them; Derek nods like it might be crazy enough to work, but Penelope grimaces.

“No, I don’t think that’s going to work. It might actually be crossing a line,” she says with a frown, and you look to Derek for his input.

“It’s more of a coincidence than anything, right? It’s not like he’s unattractive and this is the only reason you’re going out with him. He’s a good looking guy,” he admits, and you’re really grateful he’s willing to help you rationalize this probably terrible idea into a potentially decent idea.

You send the pilot a message, and he wants to meet up; he suggests a bar near the both of you, and you know it’s risky, but you tell him you happen to make a great gin and tonic and that you have everything you need at home, if he’d like to meet you there instead.

He does, and you don’t even make him that drink, just take off his clothes, get him into your bed.

“That’s right, babe—wanna hear you lose it for me. Say my name, gorgeous,” he groans, fingers digging into your hips as he fucks you from behind, and you close your eyes, fist your hands in the sheets, and give him what he wants.

“Oh, fuck, Aaron. Fuck me harder.” His thrusts are already rough and punishing, but this is the best you’ve felt in a really long time, so you’re eager, desperate for more. “Yeah, Aaron, just like that.”

“Tell me my big cock feels so good in your pussy.” He slaps your ass, and you moan involuntarily, press back against him, panting.

“Your big cock feels so good, Aaron, so good in my pussy. Fuck me, Aaron, destroy me.” He grunts, tenses, and moves his hands to your shoulders, slamming your body tight against his as he comes. “Yes, don’t stop, Aaron, don’t stop,” you plead, hips working together, and when he smacks your ass again you come gasping his name, collapsing against the bed with a breathless sigh.

You feel a lot dirtier than you expected you would, even though it was kind of awesome, and ultimately Penelope was right; it was fun while it lasted, but it didn’t do a damn thing to help you forget about the only Aaron you actually want in your bed. Monday morning, Aaron comes into the office wearing a tight navy suit with a striped white shirt and a navy tie, and you follow him with your eyes from the glass double doors all the way up to his office, mouth open a little. Your eyes get heavy and your breathing picks up, which is the dumbest biological reaction to a man’s ass you’ve ever had—but god, it’s a perfect ass—and JJ has to actually lightly slap your cheek to get you to snap the fuck out of it.

“Are you horny right now?” she asks, a little grossed out. “I can’t handle you.”

“I know you guys all call him a tightass, but I mean, if the pants fit… and god, do they fit.” You pick up a case file and fan yourself with it. “He’s so fucking hot. What am I supposed to do? Getting railed by fake Aaron didn’t do shit; I think I might actually have to transfer.”

“You’re not transferring. You just have to get over it.”

“Are you kidding? She’s like a cat in heat when he’s around,” Derek says with a smirk. “I think I’m getting horny just because she’s horny.”

“Okay, so why can’t I have that effect on him?” you ask with your arms open. “Do you think it’s the pheromones? Maybe they’re incompatible. Smell me—does it turn you on?” you ask Spencer, presenting your neck, and he looks like a deer in the headlights, then leans in to sniff you.

“Uh… you smell nice?” he says with a shrug and a half smile. “I think it’s just your perfume, though.”

“Put your face near her boobs,” Derek says, and Spencer starts to lean in again. “I think the pheromones are stronger there.” He pauses about halfway to your chest.

“Actually, they’re stronger near the genitals, but I don’t think that’s appropriate.”

“What’s going on down there?” You freeze and then turn to look up at Aaron’s office, where he leans against the doorframe; Spencer stands up comically fast, and you take a step back, clearing your throat. Aaron’s scowling—it’s really sexy and it’s making your heart beat in your stupid, traitor pussy—and then he sighs visibly. “We have a case, come on.”

The case is only a half hour away, so you drive, which is horrible, because you are with Aaron and Derek, and Derek lets you sit in the front just to watch you squirm.

It gets bad before you even pull out of the parking garage, because Aaron puts his hand on the back of your headrest to look behind him and reverse the SUV, and you look over at his body—his stomach, his lap, his thighs—and then quickly face forward when he puts the car into drive. You’re flushed, breathing heavily, and when he looks you over quizzically, asks if you’re alright, you just clear your throat and nod.

“Allergies,” Derek supplies from the back, and you mentally thank him for the save, but you kind of also want to smack him for putting you in this position in the first place.

You’re practically turned on the entire ride, even as you go over the details of the case, because his legs are spread and your eyes keep moving to his crotch; at one point, you think you notice his already unfairly tight pants getting a little tighter, but it’s just a trick of light.

By the time you arrive at the precinct, you are more than ready for fresh air, to put some distance between yourself and Aaron. You’re out of the car almost as soon as he turns off the engine, which probably looks weird as hell, but for your sanity you can’t give it too much thought.

The head detective and a junior detective give you a run down on the case while the other half of your team meets with officers at the crime scene. The head detective, a tall, handsome man in his forties, is looking at you like you’re a juicy steak and he hasn’t eaten in months; Derek notices, turns to you with a raised eyebrow and mouths ‘pheromones,’ Aaron is clearly unhappy about the detective’s lack of professionalism, and you couldn’t really care less about the attention. You just want to do your job and go home and touch yourself to thoughts of your boss… as one does.

The local police already have a board made up, so the three of you travel to speak with some witnesses, head back to the precinct, work the tip lines. Aaron seems to be looking at you more than usual, and when you get up to stretch your legs, he’s right behind you, following you out into the hall.

“Are you sure you're alright today?” he asks with a serious expression, hands on his hips. Your mouth waters. “You’ve been acting a little strange.”

“Stranger than normal?” You try to smile, to lighten the mood, but as oblivious as he’s been about everything else, he’s always been able to tell when you try to hide your emotions with humor.

“The last couple weeks? Yes.” He moves a little closer, and you try your best not to let it affect you—or at least not to let it show when it does. “You know by now that you can come to me anytime, for anything.” He doesn’t present it as a question, but it’s clear on his face that he’s looking for an answer.

“I know. I’m going through something… stupid,” you say with a shrug. “Something I should be able to handle, but it’s harder than I imagined.” He frowns, flicks his eyes over your face.

“Let me help you.”

“You can’t; trust me, you can’t,” you say, pleading with your voice, begging him to drop it. “I’ll get through it.” You shut your eyes briefly, exhale, and he reaches down to take one of your hands in his.

“Are you in trouble?” This is the most intimately he’s ever touched you, and it’s not just your body that sings; you know you’re in love with him, have been for a while, but focusing on the horny feelings is easier. It makes it feel like you have less to lose.

“No, it’s nothing like that. I just need some time. Thank you.” You squeeze his hand, and then Derek pokes his head into the hall behind him.

“We got a tip about the unsub barricading a house downtown; the detective is mobilizing SWAT,” he says; when he glances down at your hands, you pull yours softly out of Aaron’s grasp.

“What do you want us to do, boss?” you ask, effectively ending your conversation, and he tells you to get suited up with comms and Kevlar so the three of you can head to the new scene. Aaron is, unsurprisingly, a complete badass, storming the house along with SWAT, you at his side; it’s his way of reminding you that he trusts you, that it can and should go both ways—he is so perfectly predictable, reassuring with gestures over words even in a situation like this one. It does nothing to help you stop wanting him.

He’s a little rough with the unsub (and that doesn’t help either,) looks ruffled and kind of pissed when you climb in the SUV to head back to the precinct. Spencer, JJ, and Emily meet you there, and you take the opportunity to vent about how indescribably good Aaron has looked all day—Spencer bows out of the conversation early, but JJ and Emily are kind enough to listen to your insane, horny ramblings.

“He’s just so hot—he always has been, but the new suits? They’re so tight, and his shirts show off his tummy, and his pants show off his thighs… You guys will never understand the things I want to do to him.”

“Okay, he’s handsome enough, but you’re nasty about it—I can’t handle you,” JJ says, not for the first time. You groan in response.

“How can you say that? Have you fucking seen him? I’m not supposed to think nasty thoughts when he walks around looking like that?”

You feel yourself getting a little out of hand, and Emily and JJ look like they’re trying to shut you up, but you can’t stop yourself. It’s like the floodgates have opened.

“He’s never going to know what I want to do to him… what I want him to do to me. I tried so hard, and he didn’t even look at me. All I wanted to do was get on my knees for him and grab his ass so he could fuck my throat as hard as fucking possible—is that so much to ask for?” You pause, but neither of them say anything, just look scandalized. “I guess I’m going to have to name my vibrator Hotch now, since that’s clearly the closest I’ll ever get to him giving me an orgasm.”

“Do you really mean that?”

You jump a fucking foot, spin around, almost knocking Emily and JJ over in the process; Aaron is in front of you, his brow furrowed, arms crossed over his vest (he hasn’t taken that thing off yet? You threw yours on the table like the minute you got back), and your mouth opens and your eyes close at the same time.

Oh fucking fuck.

“We’re gonna… go,” Emily says awkwardly, and you open your eyes abruptly when Aaron speaks again.

“No, we’re going to go; come with me,” he tells you, and he turns and heads down the hall; you look back at Emily and JJ, swallow hard, and follow him, your heart beating fast.

He steps into a small room with a copy machine, table, shelves of paper and envelopes and other supplies, and closes the door behind you, engages the lock. You are torn between being very worried he’s going to fire you and super turned on, because this is definitely a fantasy you’ve had before.

“Aaron,” you begin, running a hand through your hair. “I’m sorry. I think it was the adrenaline; it makes me run my mouth and I can’t stop it, you know that.” He’s facing away from you, his hands on his hips again, and you can see the way his body moves when he sighs.

“Did you mean it, though?” When he turns to look at you, he doesn’t look angry, he looks… nervous. “Do you want me?” His reaction is unexpected—not great, but not necessarily bad—and you bite your lip, nod.

“Yeah. So fucking bad. And I’m sorry—” That’s as far into your apology as you get before his mouth is on yours, his hands on your face, lips pressing against you for a rough, eager kiss. Your hands move to his waist, pulling him closer by the vest, and he lifts you up onto the table, tugs down the v-neck of your t-shirt, mouths at your throat.

“You think I didn’t look at you?” he says when he pulls away for a breath, tipping your chin down so you’ll look into his eyes. “You think I didn’t see that lacy red bra, your perfect ass bent over in the tight skirt? You think I didn’t feel it pressed against me in the elevator, that I didn’t want to push that skirt up and sink inside you and take you there in front of everyone?”

You moan, chest heaving, twist your fingers in his hair and pull him in for another kiss, dripping and trembling at his admission.

“I would have let you,” you murmur against his lips, and there’s no doubt in your mind that you would have, if that’s what he’d wanted. “I would let you do anything: not just let you, but I’d want it, beg for it. I meant what I said—I’d get on my knees for you, anytime, anywhere, do whatever you want me to do. I want to be yours.”

He catches your mouth in another rough kiss, then puts his hands on your waist, guides you off the table, and flips open his belt, the fly of his pants.

“Oh god. What are you doing?” you ask, and he slides down his zipper, pulls you with him until his back hits the door.

“I’m giving you what you asked for,” he rasps, staring into your eyes, his gaze smoldering. It’s so fucking hot your pussy clenches.

You lick your lips, drop to your knees on the tile floor so hard it hurts, tug his pants open and pull out his thick, hard, veiny cock.

Your dreams and fantasies did not do it justice.

“Fuck. Thank you,” you mumble, looking up at him, and he wraps his hands in your hair, pulls tightly. You moan just from that and the heft of him in your hand. “Thank you.”

“Shh.” He scrapes his fingers over your scalp, hums as you start stroking him, licking the head. “Don’t thank me—I should be thanking you, beautiful, perfect girl. In what world do I get this?” There are lots of things you want to say to that, but you’ve waited long enough, will have to say them later.

You lick your lips, collect lots of saliva, and take him into your mouth, get your hands on his ass and dig your nails in. Aaron groans, tightens his fingers in your hair, and when you look up at him it feels like a fever dream, like it’s not real but a delicious figment of your imagination.

For a minute or two, you stroke him with a tight, wet mouth, and it’s got you aching between your legs, but he’s supposed to be fucking your throat, technically, if he’s giving you what you asked for. You pull off, tell him that, and he tugs your head back roughly, guides you back onto his cock and starts thrusting into your mouth, earning vibrating moans around it.

“God, you’re so perfect. How long have you been thinking about this? How long have you touched yourself to the thought of me fucking your pretty face?” He picks up the pace, pushes deeper when he sees you can handle it, and you squeeze his ass, feel your eyelids flutter as he uses your mouth, pulls your hair. “Are you a whore for me?” he grinds out, and the moan that rips from your throat is inhuman, embarrassing, and absolutely accurate. “Yes you are, baby, yes you are. My pretty whore, on your knees, mouth stretched wide and filled with cock.”

You’ve never been so turned on from a blow job, but this is Aaron, hot and dirty and forceful, everything you imagined and more. You squeeze him tighter, encourage rougher treatment, and he presses his hands against the back for your head, slams his dick in so deep it aches; you don’t gag, but it’s a near thing, and when he pulls you off you gasp for breath and whimper at the loss at the same time.

“Enough of that, baby. You were perfect, so good for me, almost choking on my cock, but I bet your pussy is wet and aching. Do you want me inside it?”

“Holy—yes, fuck, please. Please,” you breathe, and he helps you to your feet and then pushes you against the door, gets your pants down. His rough treatment has you whining, gripping the hair on the back of his head, and you kick off your boots and socks so you can step out of your pants completely. “Keep all this on,” you tell him, pants and shirt and tie and Kevlar vest and all, and he nods, kisses you deeply, presses two fingers inside you.

“Fuck,” he groans when you receive him easily, soft and wet and open, and he uses his free hand to sweep down your top, slipping the buttons loose so he can get a better view of your tits and black lace bra that’s holding them. “So beautiful, and finally mine,” he mutters against your throat, and you whine, let your head fall back against the door, and give in to the pleasure of his thick fingers moving inside you.

“Finally mine,” you murmur, tugging his hair, slamming down against his hand, and when you come it’s like a miracle; you cry out, clamp down, and wrap your free hand around his bicep and squeeze until you’re lightheaded, dazed, desperate for another.

You kiss, deep and passionate and filthy, and Aaron slides his fingers into your mouth, pumps them a few times, then kisses you again.

“Good girl. Are you ready for my cock now?” You pant, gasp, and nod your head, and he pushes your shirt off your shoulders, lifts your legs so you’ll wrap them around his waist, and pushes inside you. You both moan, kiss, moan again, and then you wrap your arms around his broad back, hook your fingers in his vest, and hold on while he pounds your body roughly against the door.

“Oh, Aaron, fuck. Yeah. Want you to slam your body against mine; want to feel it, want to feel all of you.” He looks into your eyes, breathing hard, fucks up into you, hands on your ass, his hips and torso pinning you in place.

“Sweet, pretty, slutty girl,” he pants, spreading you open and shoving himself inside your pussy. “You tried tempting me, and oh, did it work. I might not have shown it…” He ducks in to kiss the base of your throat and you cling tighter, rock against his hips. “But it worked. You dressed like a whore just for me, just so I’d notice you; do you I know went home and stroked my cock and came with your name on my lips?”

“Holy shit. That’s so hot.” You move a hand to his hair again, can’t not thread your fingers there now that it’s allowed. “Could have fucked me like this then. Could have come in my pussy, not your hand.”

“We’ll make up for lost time,” he promises, and he thrusts up with his whole body, so you can feel it pressed against yours—shoulders, chest, stomach, all the very best parts of him. “I’m not too much for you? Can you take it?”

“Perfect for me,” you gasp, holding tightly to his vest at his shoulder and his shirt at his hip, bouncing into his thrusts. “So perfect, want you. I can take it. I can take it, Aaron.” Your mouths meet for a messy, hot kiss, lots of tongue, and you groan. “Give it to me, give it all to me.”

He bends his knees a little more, fucks you so rough and hard your mouth falls open and all you can do is whimper, clutch him, gracelessly kiss back when he presses his lips to yours.

He comes first, holds tightly to your hip and pumps inside you, fills you and then some, so it drips out while he’s still inside. It feels sinful, even after everything, and with a few rough drags of his palm over your lace covered nipple, you tighten and grip him and gasp out his name.

You both slow, and then he turns you, leans back against the door for a little relief after holding you up for so long. He nuzzles into your hair, and you bury your face in his neck, and you kiss soft and sweet until you’re feeling stable enough to hop out of his arms and put your clothes back on. He rights his as well, and when you’re both put together he wraps you up in a hug, kisses you, holds you with soft hands on your cheeks.

“I really have waited so long for this.” He brushes his lips over yours, and you sigh. “You never indicated… I was trying to be professional. Then out of nowhere you were leaning over my desk and bending over the table, and I was a little blown away.” You nod, can see that, pull him down for a kiss.

“It’s the goddamn suits,” you say with a half smile, and he gives you a curious look. “Your new, better fitting suits? They fit you so fucking well it’s almost illegal; I’m thinking of pursuing charges against your tailor for reckless endangerment on behalf of my libido, and the coffee carafe, and my poor, worn out vibrator.” He chuckles, hugs you closer, squeezes you so tightly against his body you almost pass out from all the good things you feel.

“Maybe we can strike a deal,” he murmurs, pushing your hair back behind your ear, and you bite your lip, nod.

“Yeah, I’m sure you’ll think of something you can do to make it worth my while.” After a little more hugging and kissing, the two of you figure it’s time to emerge from the supply closet; you don’t see your team anywhere, which surprises you, but when you get to your phone and pull up your texts, it all makes sense.

Derek: Congrats on the sex. The four of us headed home because no one wants to ride with the two of you and your pheromones.

Emily: Yay, you did it!! Drinks on me next time we go out!

JJ: You guys are loud; don’t make a habit of that.

Penelope: I hear congrats are in order! And by hear, I don’t mean hear. There’s NOT an audio clip or anything, so don’t worry about that!!

Spencer: Emily took an audio clip. Is it normal for girls to enjoy being called a whore? You don’t have to answer that.

You take a very deep breath, give him the gist of the messages—you’re on your own, they heard at least part of it, there is some potentially damning evidence that needs to be destroyed—and you leave the precinct to head home in a better mood than you’ve been in in a very long time.

Aaron takes you out for a late dinner, and he spends the night at your place, falls asleep warm and solid and very naked in the middle of your bed.

Taglist ❤️: @thaddeusly @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc @wishuhadstayed @averyhotchner

[kingandfireheart]

Lucien Vanserra Sass Appreciation Post

For more serious Lucien content see my other posts:

What the fuck is happening in the Autumn Court series Part 1 (Eris) and Part 2 (Lady of the Autumn Court)

What stories are left: Lucien

When Lucien introduces himself:

"Lucien," my captor said quietly, the name echoing with a hint of a snarl. "Behave."

Lucien went rigid, but he hopped off the edge of the table and bowed deeply to me. "My apologies, lady." Another joke at my expense. "I'm Lucien. Courtier and emissary." He gestured to me with a flourish. "Your eyes are like stars, and your hair like burnished gold."

When Lucien is intrigued by Feyre:

"Well," Lucien said, his remaining russet eye fixed on me, "you don't look half as bad now. A relief, I suppose, since you're to live with us. Though the tunic isn't as pretty as a dress."

When Lucien wants to know if Feyre thinks he's hot:

"Thank you for the meal," I said. It was all I could think of. "Won't you stay for wine?" Lucien said with sweet venom from where he lounged in his seat. I braced my hands on my chair to rise. "I'm tired. I'd like to sleep." "It's been a few decades since I last saw one of you," Lucien drawled, "but you humans never change, so I don't think I'm wrong in asking why you find our company to be so unpleasant, when surely the men back home aren't much to look at." At the other end of the table, Tamlin gave his emissary a long, warning look. Lucien ignored it. "You're High Fae," I said tightly. "I'd ask why you'd even bother inviting me here at all-or dining with me." Fool-I really should have been killed ten times over already. Lucien said, "True. But indulge me: you're a human woman, and yet you'd rather eat hot coals than sit here longer than necessary. Ignoring this"-he waved a hand at the metal eye and brutal scar on his face-"surely we're not so miserable to look at."

When Feyre leaves their first dinner together:

He gave a distant nod and motioned for me to leave. Dismissed. Like the lowly human I was. Lucien propped his chin on a fist and gave me a lazy half smile. Enough. I got to my feet and backed toward the door. Putting my back to them would have been like walking away from a wolf, sparing my life or no. They said nothing when I slipped out the door. A moment later, Lucien's barking laugh echoed into the halls, followed by a sharp, vicious growl that shut him up.

When Lucien notices Feyre checking him out:

Lucien paused, and I found him smirking at me, making the scar even more brutal. "Were you admiring my sword, or just contemplating killing me, Feyre?"

When Lucien is a sarcastic motherfucker:

“So is this what you do with your lives? Spare humans from the Treaty and have fine meals?” I gave a pointed glance toward Tamlin’s baldric, the warrior’s clothes, Lucien’s sword. Lucien smirked. “We also dance with the spirits under the full moon and snatch human babes from their cradles to replace them with changelings–”

When Lucien describes Amaratha perfectly:

"What happened to the magic to make it act that way?" Lucien let out a harsh laugh. "Something was sent from the shit-holes of Hell," he said, then glanced around and swore. "I shouldn't have said that. If word got back to her-"

When they run into the Boggee:

"I heard its voice in my head. It told me to look." Lucien rolled his shoulders. "Well, thank the Cauldron that you didn't. Cleaning up that mess would have ruined the rest of my day." He gave me a wan smile. I didn't return it.

When he gives Feyre a title:

"Are you a warrior, though?" Would you be able to kill me if it ever came to that? Lucien huffed a laugh. "Not as good as Tam, but I know how to handle my weapons." He patted the hilt of his sword. "Would you like me to teach you how to wield a blade, or do you already know how, oh mighty mortal huntress?

When Lucien just needs someone to spar with:

“Do you ever stop being so serious and dull?" "Do you ever stop being such a prick?" I snapped back. Dead—really, truly, I should have been dead for that. But Lucien grinned at me. "Much better.

When Lucien and Feyre spend quality time together:

Over the next three days, I found myself joining Lucien on Andras's old patrol while Tamlin hunted the grounds for the Bogge, unseen by us. Despite being an occasional bastard, Lucien didn't seem to mind my company, and he did most of the talking, which was fine; it left me to brood over the consequences of firing a single arrow. An arrow. I never fired a single one during those three days we rode along the border. That very morning I'd spied a red doe in a glen and aimed out of instinct, my arrow poised to fly right into her eye as Lucien sneered that she was not a faerie, at least. But I'd stared at her-fat and healthy and content-and then slackened the bow, replaced the arrow in my quiver, and let the doe wander on.

When Lucien diagnoses Faerie problems perfectly:

A brush of ice slithered across my nape. "He would be that brutal?" Lucien studied the wine in his goblet. "You don't hold on to power by being everyone's friend. And among the faeries, lesser and High Fae alike, a firm hand is needed. We're too powerful, and too bored with immortality, to be checked by anything else."

When Lucien is told to Back Off, so he exacts his revenge:

Lucien's russet eye was bright, though the smile he gave me didn't meet it. The face of Tamlin's emissary-more court-trained and calculating than I'd seen him yet. "I'm unavailable today," he said. He jerked his chin to Tamlin. "He'll go with you." Tamlin shot his friend a look of disdain that he took few pains to hide. His usual baldric was armed with more knives than I'd seen before, and their ornate metal handles glinted as he turned to me, his shoulders tight. "Whenever you want to go, just say so." The claws of his free hand slipped back under his skin. No. I almost said it aloud as I turned pleading eyes to Lucien. Lucien merely patted my shoulder as he passed by. "Perhaps tomorrow, human."

When Lucien hides:

"I had to go sort out some hotheads on the northern border-official emissary business," he said, setting down the hunting knife he'd been cleaning, a long, vicious blade. "I got back in time to hear your little spat with Tam, and decided I was safer up here. I'm glad to hear your human heart has warmed to me, though. At least I'm not on the top of your killing list."

When Lucien and Feyre become friends after he tells her how to trap a Suriel:

Another riddle-and another bit of information. I said, "It's a good thing that while you have superior hearing, I possess superior abilities to keep my mouth shut." He snorted as I took the knife from the table and turned to procure the bow from my room. "I think I'm starting to like you-for a murdering human."

When Lucien is day drinking and living his best life:

“Would you like me to grovel with gratitude for bringing me here, High Lord?" "Ah. The Suriel told you nothing important, did it?" That smile of his sparked something bold in my chest. "He also said that you liked being brushed, and if I'm a clever girl, I might train you with treats." Tamlin tipped his head to the sky and roared with laughter. Despite myself, I let out a quiet laugh. "I might die of surprise," Lucien said behind me. "You made a joke, Feyre." I turned to look at him with a cool smile. "You don't want to know what the Suriel said about you." I flicked my brows up, and Lucien lifted his hands in defeat. "I'd pay good money to hear what the Suriel thinks of Lucien," Tamlin said. A cork popped, followed by the sounds of Lucien chugging the bottle's contents and chuckling with a muttered, "Brushed.”

When Lucien is incredibly casual for a guy going to an orgy:

What?”

Lucien laughed. “Yes—all those female faeries around you were females for Tamlin to pick. It’s an honor to be chosen, but it’s his instincts that select her.”

“But you were there—and other male faeries.” My face burned so hot that I began sweating. That was why those three horrible faeries had been there—and they’d thought that just by my presence, I was happy to comply with their plans.

“Ah.” Lucien chuckled. “Well, Tam’s not the only one who gets to perform the rite tonight. Once he makes his choice, we’re free to mingle. Though it’s not the Great Rite, our own dalliances tonight will help the land, too.

When Lucien is the mom friend:

"You look . . . refreshed," Lucien observed with a glance at Tamlin. I shrugged. "Sleep well?" "Like a babe." I smiled as him and took another bite of food, and felt Lucien's eyes travel inexorably to my neck. "What is that bruise?" Lucien demanded. I pointed my fork to Tamlin. "Ask him, he did it." Lucien looked from Tamlin to me and then back again. "Why does Feyre have a bruise on her neck from you?" he asked with no small amount of amusement.

When Lucien loves drama:

"Accountable?" I sputtered, placing my hands flat on the table. "You cornered me in the hall like a wolf with a rabbit!" Lucien propped an arm on the table and covered his mouth with his hand, his russet eye bright. "While I might not have been myself, Lucien and I both told you to stay in your room," Tamlin said, so calmly that I wanted to rip out my hair. I couldn't help it. Didn't even try to fight the red-hot temper that razed my senses. "Faerie pig!" I yelled, and Lucien howled, almost tipping back in his chair. At the sight of Tamlin's growing smile, I left.

When Lucien bolts:

“I had to keep my hands clenched at my sides to avoid wiping my sweaty palms on the skirts of my gown as I reached the dining room, and immediately contemplated bolting upstairs and changing into a tunic and pants. But I knew they’d already heard me, or smelled me, or used whatever heightened senses they had to detect my presence, and since fleeing would only make it worse, I found it in myself to push open the double doors.

Whatever discussion Tamlin and Lucien had been having stopped, and I tried not to look at their wide eyes as I strode to my usual place at the end of the table.

“Well, I’m late for something incredibly important,” Lucien said, and before I could call him on his outright lie or beg him to stay, the fox-masked faerie vanished.

When Feyre goes to a party:

"Cauldron boil me," Lucien whistled as I came down the stairs. "She looks positively Fae." ...

I squared my shoulders, disinclined to let him see how much his words or voice or sheer well-being impacted me. Not yet. "I'm surprised I'm even allowed to participate tonight." "Unfortunately for you and your neck," Lucien countered, "tonight's just a party." "Do you lie awake at night to come up with all your witty replies for the following day?" Lucien winked at me, and Tamlin laughed and offered me his arm. "He's right,"....

"So there's singing and dancing and excessive drinking," Lucien chimed in, falling into step beside me. "And dallying," he added with a wicked grin.

When Lucien plays a prank:

"I also remember you telling me how witchberries were harmless, and the next thing I knew, I was half-delirious and falling all over myself," I said, recalling the afternoon from a few weeks ago. I'd had hallucinations for hours afterward, and Lucien had laughed himself sick-enough so that Tamlin had chucked him into the reflection pool...."

When Feyre gets drunk of Faerie Wine:

“Tam would gut me if he caught you drinking that.”

“Always looking after your best interests,” I said, and pointedly chugged the contents of the glass. It was like a million fireworks exploding inside me, filling my veins with starlight. I laughed aloud, and Lucien groaned.

“Human fool,” he hissed.

But his glamour had been ripped away. His auburn hair burned like hot metal, and his russet eye smoldered like a bottomless forge. That was what I would capture next.

“I’m going to paint you,” I said, and giggled—actually giggled—as the words popped out.

"Cauldron boil and fry me,” he muttered, and I laughed again.”

When Lucien is hungover and third-wheeling:

Lucien kept rubbing at his temples as he ate, unusually silent, and I hid my smile as I asked him, “And where were you last night?” Lucien’s metal eye narrowed on me. “I’ll have you know that while you two were dancing with the spirits, I was stuck on border patrol.” Tamlin gave a pointed cough, and Lucien added, “With some company.” He gave me a sly grin. “Rumor has it you two didn’t come back until after dawn.” I glanced at Tamlin, biting my lip. I’d practically floated into my bedroom that morning. But Tamlin’s gaze now roved my face as if searching for any tinge of regret, of fear. Ridiculous. “You bit my neck on Fire Night,” I said under my breath. “If I can face you after that, a few kisses are nothing.” He braced his forearms on the table as he leaned closer to me. “Nothing?” His eyes flicked to my lips. Lucien shifted in his seat, muttering to the Cauldron to spare him, but I ignored him. “Nothing,” I repeated a bit distantly, watching Tamlin’s mouth move, so keenly aware of every movement he made, resenting the table between us. I could almost feel the warmth of his breath. “Are you sure?” he murmured, intent and hungry enough that I was glad I was sitting. He could have had me right there, on top of that table. I wanted his broad hands running over my bare skin, wanted his teeth scraping against my neck, wanted his mouth all over me. “I’m trying to eat,” Lucien said.”

When Lucien drops one of the best lines in the book:

"I see," I lied, not quite seeing at all. Lucien chuckled, sensing it, and I glared sidelong at him. "You've been noticeably absent again." He used the dagger to clean his nails. "I've been busy. So have you, I take it." "What's that supposed to mean?" I demanded. "If I offer you the moon on a string, will you give me a kiss, too?"

When Lucien doesn't know what is coming in the future:

Downstairs, Lucien snorted at the sight of me. "Those clothes are enough to convince me I never want to enter the human realm." "I'm not sure the human realm would know what to do with you," I said. Lucien's smile was edged, his shoulders tight as he gave a sharp look behind me to where Tam was waiting in front of a gilded carriage. When he turned back, that metal eye narrowed. "I thought you were smarter than this."

When Lucien admires Feyre's attitude:

“Don’t you understand what Rhys is?” “I do!” I barked, then sighed. “I do,” I repeated, and glared at the eye in my palm. “It’s done with. So you needn’t hold to whatever oath you swore to Tamlin to protect me—or feel like you owe me anything for saving you from Amarantha. I would have done it just to wipe the smirk off your brothers’ faces.” Lucien clicked his tongue, but his remaining russet eye shone. “I’m glad to see you didn’t sell your lively human spirit or stubbornness to Rhys.”

When Lucien is a fashionista:

Lucien had gifted both to me—the dagger during the months before Amarantha, the belt in the weeks after her downfall, when I’d carried the dagger, along with many others, everywhere I went. You might as well look good if you’re going to arm yourself to the teeth, he’d said.

When game recognize game

“Cursebreaker,” some murmured. “Blessed,” others whispered.

I made a show of looking surprised—surprised and yet accepting of the Cauldron’s choice. Tamlin’s face was taut with shock, the Hybern royals’ nothing short of baffled.

But I turned to Lucien, my light radiating so brightly that it bounced off his metal eye. A friend beseeching another for help. I reached a hand toward him.

Beyond us, I could feel Ianthe scrambling to regain control, to find some way to spin it.

Perhaps Lucien could, too. For he took my hand, and then knelt upon one knee in the grass, pressing my fingers to his brow.

When Lucien is scared of Amren:

“I think Amren would probably deny that she feels any affection for us—”

“Amren is a bedtime story they told us as younglings to make us behave. Amren was who would drink my blood and carry me to hell if I acted out of line. And yet there she was, acting more like a cranky old aunt than anything.”

“We don’t—we don’t enforce protocol and rank here.”

“Obviously. Rhys lives in a town house, by the Cauldron.” He waved an arm to encompass the city.

When Lucien is a little murderous:

“You’re working with that prick,” Cassian cut in, whatever catching-up now over, apparently. He moved to Mor’s side, a hand on her back. He shook his head at Azriel and Rhys, disgust curling his lip. “You should have spiked Eris’s fucking head to the front gates.”

Azriel only watched them with that icy indifference. But Lucien crossed his arms, leaning against the back of the couch. “I have to agree with Cassian. Eris is a snake.”

When Lucien volunteers to go on a quest:

“You will be going into the human territory,” Rhys warned. “I can’t spare a force to guard you—”

“I don’t need one. I travel faster on my own.” His chin lifted. “I will find her. And if there’s an army to bring back, or at least some way for her own story to sway the human forces … I’ll find a way to do that, too.”

My friends glanced to each other. Mor said, “It will be—very dangerous.”

A half smile curved Lucien’s mouth. “Good. It’d be boring otherwise.

When Lucien makes a friend

“Not for long—not if Vassa has anything to do with it.”

“You sound like an acolyte.”

Lucien blushed, glancing at Elain. “She’s got a foul temper and a fouler mouth.” He cut me a wry look. “You’ll get along just fine.”

[sunnyville36]

Mamihlapinatapai {part 4}

We're almost to the end!! Much love to all of you for reading 💜

Need to catch up? {overview} {part 1} {part 2} {part 3}

Pairing: Bang Chan x Female Reader

Themes: royal au, medieval au, court intrigue, arranged marriage, original characters, mutual pining, slow burn

Warnings: mentions of death/war/murder, mentions of torture (brief), mentions of physical abuse (brief), emotionally abusive parents

Rating: Mature

Word count: 5.4k

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mamihlapinatapai - (noun, Yagán origin) a silent acknowledgement and understanding between two people, who are both wishing or thinking the same thing (and are both unwilling to initiate)

Instincts  |  Kingdom of Gu, present day

You’d slept maybe a total of twelve hours in the three days since the poisoning attempt.  Things were still tense between you and Chan after your outburst at the pond.  The king didn’t want him leaving the safety of his chambers, not knowing if there would be another attack on his life, which meant you only really saw him at mealtimes.  You’d tried to apologize for raising your voice at him a few times but could never manage to look him in the eye, always leaving the room before he could say anything more than a thank you for the food.  You were also avoiding him because you felt you’d revealed something in those words, a small part of the way you felt about him, and you weren’t ready to confront any of the implications from that just yet.  At night, you couldn’t sleep, your thoughts full of fear for Chan’s safety and concern for what would happen between Gu and Lajor.  So you’d spent the hours wandering the outskirts and corridors of the castle, lingering especially in the wing where the prince’s room was.

It was on the third night of your rounds, as you were walking the eastern side of the castle that faced the forest, the air humid and suffocating on your skin, that you spotted a flash of gold hair headed for the base of the closest tower.  You turned and followed the hooded figure as they approached the castle entrance, and the growing sinking feeling in your stomach was confirmed when their face caught the light.

You had to hand it to her, she either had a death wish or nerves of steel to show up here again.

Korenna was attempting to break through the bolt on the door when you pulled up behind her, bringing a hand to her mouth and a knife to her throat.

“I could kill you where you stand, and no one would protest at my decision.”

“You could, but I don’t believe you will,” she responded, voice calmer than you expected.

You whipped her around to face you, snarling in a whisper, “Don’t you dare use my own words against me.  I said that to you when I thought I could trust you, and you’ve made it blatantly clear that was a misjudgement on my part.”

“Y/n no please listen it wasn’t.  I know I was rude and standoffish - “

“Rude and standoffish?!” you repeated in disbelief.  “Sure that’s definitely what we’re talking about right now.  You know, I always thought maybe it was because you were a shy person, or because you were jealous, but, as it turns out, you just aren’t one of those people who likes to get really close to the person she’s trying to murder.”

Korenna looked like she was about to cry, leaning forward as if to grab at your arms despite the knife still pointing at her throat.  “Please, Y/n, that’s not what I meant, I can explain!  Do you really think you were so wrong about me; do you really think I could kill a man in cold blood?”

You shouldn’t even be entertaining her excuses, you thought to yourself.  She was trying to use your pride against you, to trick you into letting her explain herself so you didn’t have to admit you were wrong.  But, like always, as you watched her, trying to discern any ounce of deceit or malice, you found none.

You lowered the knife, stepping back and motioning for her to continue.

“You know that my father was crazy enough to try to invade Gu all those years ago.  What you don’t know is that he’s only gotten more delusional and power hungry over all these years, hell bent on taking down your kingdom as revenge against King Bang and completely disregarding the well being of his own.  Last year, I had been trying to gather support from the ministers, to show them just how corrupt, how evil he had become.  That was when my mother died and my father finally snapped, leaving me and my nine year old sister completely at the whim of his wrath.  He locked Paige away at some secret fortress and told me that if I didn’t agree to his plan of killing Prince Chan and wreaking havoc on your kingdom, he would leave her alone to starve to death.  He gave me three weeks to decide and I searched for her desperately, but at the end of it I was no closer to finding her and was forced to agree to the marriage he had arranged to initiate his plot.”

“Why should I believe any of this?”

“Because she’s here, right now.  We crossed the border with a small group of knights who are sympathetic to our position.  They wanted to help me, and I want to help you, but I had to make sure my sister was safe.  Now that she is, we can work together to protect your kingdom and hopefully preserve mine.”

You were silent, taking her and her story in.

“If you could just bring me to Chris, let me tell him all of this, apologize for what I did,” she pleaded, eyes begging even more than her words.

“Fine.  I will bring you to His Highness, and he will decide what to do with you.”

***

You led Korenna past the guards, neither of them giving you a second look when they saw it was you despite your concealed companion.  Chan was known for burning the midnight oil, and tonight was no different.  You could see the light drifting out from beneath his door as you knocked lightly, and were met with his quiet, “Come in.”

You opened the door, remaining in the door frame as he turned to face you.  “Your Highness, there’s someone here to see you,” you said, stepping aside and pushing Korenna in front of you before you followed in and shut the door.

Chan sat still for a moment, then leaned back in his chair, legs and arms crossed in his most casual yet intimidating pose.

“Unless my oldest friend has decided to kill me tonight, which I certainly hope is not the case, you must have had a pretty convincing reason for her to bring you here.”

Korenna remained silent, looking between you and the prince nervously.

Chan rolled his eyes, clearly frustrated.  “Well?  Let me hear it.”

She told him everything, about her father’s plot and her involvement, the threats against her sister, how she had support from the knights and probably a fair majority of the people as well.

“I know you could never forgive me for what I did, but I am truly, sincerely sorry,” she said, head bowed.

The prince seemed to be contemplating her story just as you had.  Finally, his voice broke the silence.

“Show me this sister of yours and then I will decide how we proceed.”

***

You walked next to Chan as you followed Korenna into the forest where her sister was supposedly waiting with the Lajoran knights.  You didn’t like this plan, knew if Korenna’s description was true, you and Chan would be severely outnumbered should things turn south, but Chan had insisted on only taking you with him.  He looked unusually pensive as you walked, and you decided to take this opportunity to give your apology, in case it happened to be your last.

“Your Highness,” you said quietly, “I’ve been meaning to tell you how sorry I am for how I spoke to you by the pond.  You were only trying to comfort me and I took my insecurities out on you and you didn’t deserve that.”

He put his arm out in front of you, stopping you in your tracks.

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?  Y/n, I’ve been trying to ask you for three days if you were alright and all this time you’ve been feeling guilty?  Please, please don’t feel that way, I would never blame you for what happened and I was never upset about our conversation.  Promise me you won’t keep anything like this from me again?”

You looked at each other and you nodded, both silently agreeing not to touch on the part of that previous conversation where you revealed something else you’d been keeping from him.

The two of you jogged back up to where Korenna had stopped at a small, raised hill surrounded by rocks.  It certainly was a good vantage point and hiding spot.  Once again, you hoped your instincts about this woman and her intentions would be correct.

Korenna led you around the corner of one of the rocks, and that was when you saw the young girl.  She was lying wrapped in a blanket despite the heat, and her hair looked dirty and matted.  The men sitting around her straightened as Korenna approached the group, but she held up her hand to show them you were on their side.  The girl lifted her head when she heard your footsteps, her gaunt face morphing into a smile at the sight of her sister.

“Korenna, you’re back,” she rasped as the elder knelt and wrapped her in a hug, and your heart broke at the sound of her barely there voice.

“Your Highness…”

“I know,” he said, reading what you were going to say from the tone of your voice, “we need to get her to Felix.”

You both approached the pair and you knelt down next to Korenna, speaking softly to the younger princess.

“Hello Paige.  My name is Y/n.  I’m a friend of your sister.  She’s brought you a really long way to make sure you’re safe, and we’re going to get you some help now so you can feel better.  Would that be alright with you?”

The little girl nodded, and you looked up at Korenna, silently asking permission to pick her up.  Korenna nodded as well, so you gathered Paige into your arms and began the trek back to the palace, some of the knights following along with you.  You looked behind you to see Chan place his hand on Korenna’s shoulder.

“Thank you for showing me.  Together we’re going to make this right.”

Conscription  |  Kingdom of Lajor, present day

“Your Majesty, the villagers are reporting they have no more men to send, and those in the city have been rioting for two days since the conscription announcement went out.  The knights can barely keep the peace and we have more and more deserters every day.  I’m just not sure we should continue hounding the people - ”

King Eunther looked up from his seat in the throne room, cutting the man off with a steely, impenetrable gaze.

“Sir Bavrard, do the people control this kingdom?”

“N-no, Your Majesty.”

“And do the knights?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“Then please explain to me why you are suggesting we listen to the complaints of those ungrateful, insubordinate traitors over my own direct orders?!” the king shouted, Sir Bavrard cowering beneath him.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I just don’t know what else we can do to compel such a large uprising - “

“I’ll tell you what you can do,” King Eunther snarled, rising from his chair, “you can tell them that if they don’t cooperate, you will bring them to stand in front of me and I will personally remove their head from their body.  Do I make myself clear?!”

32 men died that day.

Checkmate  |  Kingdom of Gu, present day

You entered the infirmary, walking over to where Prince Felix sat at the bedside of a much healthier looking Paige.

“Y/n!” she called, her head peeking around Felix’s shoulder to smile at you.

“Hello little princess,” you said, returning her smile as you came to stand beside Felix.  “I’m glad to see you doing much better.  Do you mind if I borrow your companion for a moment?”

“Nope!” she pronounced, going back to the book she’d been reading as Felix followed you to the corner of the room.

“You were right, her condition is much improved,” Felix said.  “I’m still a little worried about her malnourishment, but as long as she remains well fed and warm, she should be alright.”

“That’s good news; Princess Korenna will be glad to hear it.  She wanted me to thank you for tending to her, Your Grace.”

“I’m delighted to!” he exclaimed quietly.  “She’s got quite the personality in that little body of hers, kept me on my toes the last few days.”

As if on cue, Paige piped up from behind the two of you, “Felix, could I have that glass of orange juice you’d said you’d bring me?  I waited ten minutes like you said.”

“See?” he said with a smile and a raise of his eyebrows, turning to leave the room.  You followed after him, sending a wave and a wink to the princess on your way.

You headed back to the throne room, where King Bang, Chan, Korenna, Minho, and the rest of the head knights were gathered.  They’d been discussing their plans for the imminent Lajoran attack for a few days now, Korenna and her knights filling in any gaps of knowledge or speculating on Eunther’s strategies when they could.  You’d been in attendance as well, taking notes, marking maps, and giving suggestions every once in a while.  Battle planning had never been your favorite task; you couldn’t help but think about all the senseless loss that came from two men getting into a pissing contest over who should control what land or trying to ‘avenge their honor.’  Surely there had to be a better way, especially in this situation where it was clear the Lajoran people were not exactly in support of their ruler, to defeat a rogue king without the death of innocent people.

Entering the room, you caught eyes with Korenna, who walked over to meet you in the far corner.

“Prince Felix says she’s still stable, Your Grace.  As long as we keep her here and watch that she’s getting enough food, she should recover just fine.”

“Oh thank god, what a relief,” Korenna sighed, placing one hand on your arm and one over her chest.  “I can’t begin to thank you all enough for what you’ve done for us.”

Your ears perked at that.  Korenna seemed like she also despised the loss of innocent life, considering she hadn’t even been able to kill her father’s enemy despite her own sister being in danger.  Maybe you could suggest your proposal to her and she could advocate for it, as a way of repaying you all and preventing more death.

“Actually, Your Grace, if I may, there is something I was considering.  There may be a potential way to prevent an all out battle between our two peoples, if what you’ve told us is true about your father’s current standing amongst your citizens.  If you were to propose it, the others might take more kindly to it than if it came from me.”

Korenna didn’t say anything, so you took that as a sign to continue.  You explained what you had been turning over in your head for the past few days, checking a few of the details with her.  When you finished, the princess looked a little apprehensive.

“I am in total support of that plan, Y/n,” the princess explained.  “But I worry that if it comes from me, King Bang is going to reject it outright.  I can tell he is not as convinced of my intentions as you and Chris are.”

She had a point.  If the plan were to come from her, it would probably seem more suspicious, more likely to be a trap.  However, you feared the king wouldn’t consider you proposing such a plan to be much more trustworthy.

Korenna seemed to be reading that exact thought on your face as she said, “Why don’t you angle it towards Chris; I know he holds your input in high regard.”

You felt your heart tug at her statement, but pushed those thoughts to the back of your mind.  Korenna was right; you could do this.  You nodded at her and you both returned to the table.

The men were talking, so you tried clearing your throat, but that seemed to do nothing to get their attention.  Noticing your hesitation, Korenna interrupted.

“Gentlemen, I believe Y/n has something to say.”

You smiled gratefully at her then turned your attention to Chan.  If you could just remain focused on him you were confident you could explain your plan and maybe even convince them to buy in to it too.

“Your Highness, I’ve been thinking of a way that we could perhaps avoid any direct conflict with Lajor.  We already know that Her Grace has many supporters, as evidenced by our friends here.  And according to their reports, the people are in no position to support a war; this is all one man’s doing.  So if we can eliminate that one man, our problem would be solved.

I propose we arrange a meeting with King Eunther.  Somewhere neutral, away from the majority of our armies.  We frame it as a truce meeting, have him go into it thinking he will get some concessions from our side in order to prevent a fight.  In reality, we use it as a chance to capture him unawares.  Her Grace can confront her father, and if our information is correct, the knights and soldiers will take her side and we can end this situation with zero loss of life and a new friend on the Lajoran throne.”

You glanced at Korenna and saw she was smiling brightly at you.  Looking back at Chan, you could tell he was seriously considering what you had said, head pressed together with Minho in quiet conversation.  The Lajoran and Guan knights were murmuring to each other, indicating agreement with what you’d proposed.  The only person who appeared to be against it was King Bang.

“Using deception and ambushing a man has always been considered dishonorable,” the king spat, as if you had insulted the very foundation of the kingdom.  “Wars are meant to be fought on the battlefield and our army could easily outpace Lajor’s; there are expectations and traditions that should be upheld.”

It took everything in you not to scream at him, to unleash a lifetime’s worth of anguish caused by his ignorance and arrogance.  You’d had enough of hearing this man talk about all the noble pursuits of battle without ever having to face the consequences of one.  You turned to him, your chin held high.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but this is not about the “honor” of taking him down on the battlefield.  This is about not sacrificing the lives of men to maintain your own sense of righteousness.”

The room went silent at that.  You kept your eyes on the king, could feel him seething under his impartial expression.  Under any other circumstances, the punishment for what you’d just said would be severe.  But everyone in the room was starting to come to the realization that your plan had merit.  It would be faster, easier, less costly, and less deadly than simply bracing for an attack, no matter how “dishonorable” it might seem.  And even the king knew now was not the time to berate you, though you were sure it would come back to haunt you later.

You felt Chan press his hand to the small of your back, the sign of support giving you more strength.  “Y/n is right.  Even if we would be likely to take a victory in battle, her plan has the best chance of rooting out the cause of our problem here and now and placing both our kingdoms in a better position for the long term.  If anyone disagrees, they should speak now.”

Everyone kept silent, some nodding their heads in agreement with the decision.

“Then we shall prepare to execute it.”

***

You avoided the throne room as much as possible for the next few days as preparations were made, wanting to have as little interaction with the king as you could.  Chan had praised you after the meeting, had said he was proud you’d spoken up to his father.  You knew the prince had the best of intentions, but you also knew he could never understand what it was like to know that by doing what you did, you’d surrendered yourself to whatever punishment the king saw fit to assign after this ordeal came to an end.

A rider had been dispatched to Lajor to deliver the terms of your meeting.  In the letter, Gu had agreed to secede the western most portion of its territory as well as deliver half its military forces to Lajor.  The only stipulation was an in person meeting to sign the documents.  As suspected, King Eunther was too tempted by power to see through your guise, thin as it may have been.  The meeting was set for today at noon.

Armies from both sides were prepared, in case this peace offering did not go smoothly.  The plan was to bring you, Chan, Korenna, King Bang, Minho, the Lajoran knights, and a few members of your own royal guard to the meeting place, which was designated to be the same spot in the forest where the earlier attempt on Chan’s life took place.

Hours before the meeting, you were making your way through the forest as quickly and quietly as you could, bow strapped to your back and dressed in your most inconspicuous woodland attire.  You were to arrive at the grove early so you could take your position prior to anyone else arriving, or, in the worst case, report back if an enemy agent was attempting to do the same.  It was decided earlier that you would walk there alone, in order to leave as little trace as possible.

You didn’t mind the solitude as you meandered through the woods, trying not to leave an obvious trail behind you.  Before you’d left, Korenna had come to confirm with you the signal for your part of the plan.  Then, just as you were about to enter the forest, a voice called your name.

“Y/n!”

“Your Highness, you should be preparing with the others.”

“I know I-I just had to see you before you go.  To tell you goodluck.”

You looked at him and, steeling yourself for what you were about to do, tugged him into a crushing embrace.  He returned the hug, his head close enough to hear you whisper, “You too.”

Both of you were well aware of the hundreds of unspoken things behind the brief words you exchanged, but they were all that needed to be said for now.

You reached the clearing and found the tree with the best camouflage that had the vantage point you wanted.  Climbing up, you settled in for the long wait until the rest of the players arrived.

***

After about two hours, you heard the distinctive clopping of hooves coming from the direction of the Gu palace.  A few moments later, your friends came into sight of the clearing.  Remaining hidden, you watched as they fanned out into a semi-circle facing the direction of Lajor, King Bang and Korenna in the center.

Minutes passed and the Lajorans were nowhere to be seen.  It felt eerily quiet in the forest, and you began to worry King Eunther had caught on to your plan and was in the midst of attacking the city as you all stood here waiting for him.  However, after another few tense minutes, the Lajoran party arrived, consisting of King Eunther, his most trusted advisor Sir Bavrard, and thirty or so additional knights on foot, far more than the agreed upon fifteen.  You surveyed them as they formed a group behind Eunther.  Most looked anxious, like they weren’t quite sure what they should do in the event they were told to act, others seemed outright bored, and they all appeared to be sorely lacking in food and armament.  Just as Korenna had predicted, and just as you’d counted on for your plan to work.

“Sir Alfrey,” Eunther began, spotting Korenna’s biggest supporter on his horse beside her, “I should have known you’d be behind all this.”

Your friends remained silent, their expressions blank.

The king seemed slightly unnerved at the lack of response, and decided to try another tactic.  “So, am I to believe you brought my daughter here as a gesture of good faith, an additional item to be returned to me in the terms of our... arrangement?”

Chan’s even tempered voice rang out.  “She is not our prisoner; she came to us of her own free will.”

“And what of my younger daughter, Paige?”

“Don’t.  Speak.  Her name,” Korenna gritted out.

“Oh Korenna, you stupid girl; you’re the whole reason we’re in this unpleasant mess, so just stay quiet and let the men do the talking.”

You felt an angry coil rise in the pit of your stomach at his words, more resolved than ever to execute your plan and free Korenna from this abuse for good.  Taking your stance, you kept your eyes trained on the Lajoran king.

“No, father.  I will not stay quiet,” Korenna spoke again.  It had been agreed she would do most of the talking; the more riled up the king became the more reckless he would be, and his daughter talking back to him seemed to do the trick perfectly.

Eunther opened his mouth to say something, but before he could speak, Korenna continued.  “We did not ask you here today to sign a truce or give you any concessions to appease you.  We came here to put an end to this feud and an end to your rule.  You have irresponsibly and unjustly led our people, going so far as to torture and kill them when they do not agree with your machinations.  It is my obligation to remove you from the throne for the sake of our kingdom.  You will surrender to us now and I will walk our men off this battlefield and home to their families.”

You knew it would be your cue soon, your arm pulling back to anchor an arrow at the corner of your mouth.

“I think you can see my forces far outnumber yours at the moment,” the king said, gesturing to the knights behind him.  “And sadly you seem to believe our people are as disloyal as you are, an unfortunate misjudgement.  Why would I ever agree to your weak-minded, insolent little proposal?”

You let the arrow fly, and watched as it sailed just past Eunther, nicking his ear and drawing the tiniest drop of blood.

In the ensuing chaos caused by the seemingly rogue arrow, your team of knights rushed the Lajoran side, many of them laying down their weapons immediately in the face of the much healthier, much better armed Guan force.  You looked to see Minho drag Bavrard out from where he was crouched under the legs of his horse, lest an arrow attempt to find him as its target.  The other royals from your party remained safe in their position below and slightly to the left of your own.  Satisfied, you notched another arrow.

King Eunther put his hand to his ear, feeling the cut, and rose his gaze to find you perched in the treetops above.  “You missed.”

“I assure you,” you heard Chan say, “if she’d wanted it, you’d be dead.”

“I don’t want to kill you father,” came Korenna’s softer-edged voice.  “But if your choice is not to surrender, well, I’m afraid you’ve forced my hand.”

The smug look finally left the king’s face, his eyes darting around to see his companions abandoning him.  He got down from his horse, arms open wide in a begging posture mirroring his attitude that had shifted on a dime, hoping to win over his daughter with fake apologies and promises.  Damn, you thought, this man really doesn’t have a principled bone in his body.

“Korenna, daughter, please don’t do this.  I’m sure we can - “

An arrow landed in the grass between his feet.  He’d taken one step too close for your liking.

“Sir Alfrey,” Korenna instructed, “please take my father into custody.”

The king blanched as the knight dismounted and stepped forward, a steady stream of curses leaving his lips.

“I will get my revenge on you, you impudent little girl!  How do you think you will succeed in this plan of yours without me; you know nothing of running a kingdom!  You should watch your back, dear daughter, for I will always be lurking; I swear to you, you will never be rid of me!”

“Actually, father,” Korenna said, riding past him on her striking white mare, “I already am.”

Reign  |  Kingdom of Lajor, present day

Standing outside the palace gates hand-in-hand with Paige, you couldn’t keep the smile off your face.  You’d just exited the carriage that had carried King Bang, Chan, you, and the little princess back to her kingdom.  Korenna’s coronation was happening today, and luckily Paige had recovered enough to travel just in time to make it for her sister’s momentous occasion.

After Korenna had successfully confronted her father, she had made her way to the waiting Lajoran army and proclaimed there would be no battle.  They’d rejoiced and, unlike her father’s deluded assumption of the opposite, the kingdom had welcomed her as their ruler with open arms.  You and the others had returned to announce the good news to your own citizens, and to Paige, who was ecstatic at her sister’s triumph.  The last few days had been spent drafting amendments and additions to your trade agreements and foreign policy documents; with Korenna on the throne, Lajor and Gu’s relationship would transform from one of hostility to one of cooperation.  In all the bustle, you’d somehow managed to avoid a confrontation with King Bang over your behavior at the war table that day, but you couldn’t help thinking it was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped.

You were ushered inside, hundreds of people weaving in and out amongst the beautifully decorated corridors as you found your way to the throne room.  You left the royals to take their seats at the front of the crowd while you went in search of your mother.

Many attendees from Gu, knights, servants, and citizens alike, had come to observe the ceremony, as a kind of display of support and camaraderie for your kingdom’s newly found ally.  You found your mother along the left side wall in a relatively uncrowded spot and took your place to watch your friend as she approached the priest who would bestow upon her the title of Queen of Lajor.

Between the hum of the clergymen reciting holy texts and oaths, you heard your mother whisper, “She knows not the sacrifice she makes to hold this position.”

You thought back to every conversation you’d had with Korenna, how in each and every one she demonstrated a profound devotion to her kingdom and her people.  “I think she does,” you responded.

“It must be daunting, knowing that responsibility sits on your shoulders from the very beginning.”  She saw your gaze shift from Korenna to Chan, seated at the front of the room next to his father, looking proudly up at the princess.

“I can only imagine.”

She paused, then continued, “Do you think you could bear that burden?”

Your mother was well aware of your feelings for the prince, had been since you tearily confessed to her the night of your one and only kiss.  So you knew what she meant.  Knew the question she was really asking, the question you’d pondered yourself more times than you could count.

Would you sacrifice the relative freedom you enjoyed now, agree to be beholden to a people and their wellbeing, in order to be with Chris, the man you loved?

Surprised at this line of questioning though you were, you answered honestly.  “If given the chance, I would bear it a hundred times over.”

Your attention was drawn back to the ceremony then, the priest announcing in a booming voice that Lajor had a new queen, Queen Korenna Dormio, first of her name.

The crowd erupted in applause, and you saw Paige dash up the dias steps to wrap her arms around her sister.  You felt the presence of eyes on you and looked to see Chan, his head turned to smile at you in the crowd.  You smiled back, and the answer you’d given your mother rang in your mind, as true as you’d ever felt it.

You would give anything for him.

{part 5}

[mae-gi-writes]

Pretty Smitten | Kuroo Tetsurou

Harry Potter x Haikyuu!!

Summary ◇ it's like second nature for Slytherin's beater Kuroo to always find something to tease you about, until his best friends Bokuto and Tsukishima make him realize it might hide something more.

Genre ◇ hogwarts au! Slytherin! Cocky Kuroo x Hufflepuff f!reader, mentions of Bokuto,  Tsukishima, Hinata, Oikawa, Daichi etc...

◇ ◇ ◇

Thwap!

You duck out of the way just in time to evade the bludger that zips across your head, so close you feel it brush against your ear as your broom zooms you out of the way. The wind isn't making it easier as it tugs at your clothes, weighing you down while you keep on flying around the court with eyes as alert as a Hawk's for the disappearing snitch.

In truth, you don't really enjoy Quidditch all that much. It was merely due to the captain of the Hufflepuff Team, Daichi, who cornered you upon having accidentally caught sight of your flying skills one winter afternoon. He'd grown to be one of your close friends though, which always makea it hard to pull out and whenever you do mention that maybe it is time for the team to take in a new Seeker, he'd instantly change the subject.

And you wouldn't have been so adamant on trying to force your way out of the team. If not for a particular raven-haired Slytherin Beater.

Speaking of the devil. There he is, that familiar crooked smirk dangling upon his lips as he lazily flies over to you.

"Y/N, aren't you a little laid back!?" He calls out and you roll your eyes, pushing yourself forward to fly as past away as possible.

Too late. He catches up quickly enough, grin widening as he continues, "I know we said it's a practice match but come on, could've put some more heart into it."

Throwing him a scowl that would've scalded anyone but himself, you accelerate your speed. As expected, he follows, "so I heard from Kenma that you failed your Potions midterm. Not that I'm surprised really, you never really had a talent for--"

"How is that any of your business?" You mutter, adamantly fixing your gaze on Daichi so as not to accidentally push Kuroo off his broom.

What a nice thought indeed.

"Aha, that's where I come in. Fortunately for you, I am quite adept at Potions see. I could teach you," from your peripheral you notice him wriggle his brows and you roll your eyes, "for free."

Your knuckles turn white as they tighten around your broom handle.

"No thanks."

"You sure wanna pass this up?" He suddenly leans a little closer, smirk widening, "you could totally exploit this sexy brain of mine."

"What do you want from me, Kuroo?"

"Nothing much, just your dear old grumpy self," he replies cheerfully.

Your scowl deepens. But the offer is tempting. Potions is the only subject that you cannot get your head around and while you are aware of Kuro’s ginormous, self-inflated ego, you also know from a few of his classmates -- Daichi and Suga-- that he is quite the prodigy at Potions. 

But you don’t want to give him that satisfaction. You don’t want to give him more reason to get cocky and start another round of endless teasing where you’ll never hear the end of it. 

So you just press your lips together and mumble out a, "we'll see."

"Atta girl," and he waves a goodbye, but not before reaching over to ruffle your hair until your ponytail is barely hanging together, and you yelp in anger, having half a mind to really push him from his broom this time only to see him fly away just in time, that crooked chesire cat smile on his face. 

Idiot. 

◇ ◇ ◇

"Hey hey hey,” Kuroo knows without looking that this voice belongs to none other than one of his two best friends, Bokuto Koutarou. It was a surprise really, that him and Bokuto had stuck together throughout all these years, considering that Bokuto was a Gryffindor, and him a Slytherin.

An arm drops onto his shoulder, his best friend’s grey strands tickling Kuroo’s cheek, “I saw Y/N today. She looked cute.” 

The Slytherin Beater snorted, “Cute is an overstatement.” 

“Ah Kuroo, seems you’re as oblivious as always,” Bokuto let out a heavy sigh as he plopped himself onto the library bench next to him, “do you realize that you spend more time in the library just so that you can see her?” 

“Bullshit. I come to the library to study,” the raven-haired man gestures towards his Defence of Dark Arts book currently sprawled out before him, which causes Bokuto’s eyebrow to raise in curiosity, “like hell you’re actually studying. Now tell me,” he leans closer, voice dropping to a murmur, “do you like her?” 

Kuroo’s brain actually backfires. He bursts out laughing, “what?!” he exclaims so loudly that it earns the pair a few glares thrown their way, to which they silently bow their heads in apology. 

Bokuto turns back to him, “Wow, Tsukki was right. You are thicker than you seem to be, despite that brain of yours.” 

"What?” Kuro frowns as he protests, “I’m not thick. And--you guys talk about me behind my back?!” 

“Of course we do,” Bokuto rolls his eyes as if it’s obvious before settling his chin into his palm, “especially since we’re curious as to why you enjoy spending your time with that little Hufflepuff mouse of yours--” 

“She’s not mine, and I definitely don’t enjoy spending time with her,” Kuroo can feel the heat travel all the way to his face, blossoming through his cheeks as embarrassment curls in his stomach, “I just--”

“You just like seeing her face.”

Both men turn towards the new alto to see the Ravenclaw prefect, Tsukishima, pull out a chair to sit himself opposite Kuroo before taking out his piece of parchment and ink. 

“Not you too?” Kuroo groans, head dropping to his book.

“Also, you might want to stop flirting with her while we’re on the Quidditch pitch,” Tsukishima continues nonchalantly without looking at him, long fingers turning through the pages to find the section he’s looking for, “I almost got my arm torn off by that Bludger, no thanks to you.”

"I wasn’t flirting with her.” 

“I don’t care. Just don’t do it during practice. It’s annoying,” the blonde smirked at Kuroo’s frustrated expression. 

“I was only asking whether she’d like some help with potions. Kenma told me she failed her last midterm. I was trying to be nice.” 

“Oh? Not because you actually wanted to spend more time alone with her?” Bokuto wriggled his brows suggestively, cackling like a crow when Kuroo responded by shoving his shoulder, “no! I don’t even see her that way. She’s not my type--”

“Oya oya oya, speaking of the devil,” Bokuto’s hand plonks onto Kuroo’s hair before twisting it in the direction of the library entrance. A second later, you appear looking a little disgruntled, if not mad.

Realizing that Bokuto’s hand is still weaved into his hair, Kuroo bats it away with more violence than necessary, which gets him a pointed look from Tsukishima’s golden orbs that he responds with a scowl of his own. But before he can voice out how annoyingly invested the pair seemed to be in his love life, he feels a hand tapping him on his shoulder.

Surprise causes him to frown at the sight of you. 

“If it isn’t my dear little Hufflepuff,” Kuroo’s mouth widens in that signature smirk while crossing his arms over his chest, “what can I help you with?” 

“Kenma told me that you’d be here,” you say.

“Mhm?” 

“And I--” you bite your lip before averting your eyes and something in Kuroo stirs because goddamn he’s quite excited about what will fall from your mouth next. But he keeps his silence, waiting for you to battle it out with your pride, “I was wondering whether the offer still stands. For--tu--tutoring.” 

Your cheeks are blazing red at this point but Kuroo finds it somewhat adorable, what with the fact that you are dressed in an oversized Hufflepuff sweater that basically swallowa you whole. 

He forces his expression into a somewhat amused smirk, a little coy, just enough for you to get flustered, “what made you change your mind?” 

“My grades.” 

In the background, Tsukishima snorts. You flush a deeper red if that’s even possible.

“Alright, sure,” Kuroo grins up at you, mischief swimming in those golden feline orbs, “but on one condition.” 

“I thought you said it was free.” 

“I decided it’d be more fun to have you indebted to me.” 

Letting out a heavy sigh, you press your lips together, “what then? What do you want?” 

“I’ll let you know the details later,” he grins at you, “still haven’t figured it out yet.”

A few beats of silence pass between the two of you as you consider his offer, and he can certainly see the way your own pride measures up against your desperation, the way your orbs display your uneasiness as clearly as crystal water. It’s impossible for you to lie, but Kuroo hasn’t noticed how endearing it is, up until now.

And then, he hears Bokuto’s voice in the back of his mind: 

Do you like her? 

Kuroo blinks. Of course he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. 

He doesn’t. He does not.

Right? 

“Fine,” your voice brings him out of his inner turmoil, “we have a deal.” 

◇ ◇ ◇

If someone had ever told you that one day you’d be sitting by Kuroo’s side to spend more than three hours sticking your noses into your Potion’s back, and actually enjoying it, you would’ve burst out laughing in their faces.

But that is exactly what you are doing right now. And no one is laughing. Definitely not you.

To be fair, Kuroo is not that bad of a tutor. He actually gets pretty into it once he calms down from his teasing high, which is quite a surprising feat considering that you have never seen him serious whenever you were around. It’s always about pricking you with his comments, saying stuff that will get under your skin just enough to get a reaction out of you. 

The first time you met up in the library, you had mentally prepared yourself so that you wouldn’t murder him halfway into the lesson. Your Hufflepuff counterparts had definitely been surprised, not just because your personalities and houses couldn’t have been more different if they tried, but because Kuroo had a reputation of a playful troublemaker, the kind that you usually stayed away from at all costs. 

“Are you sure this isn’t a trap, Y/N?” Your other close friend and classmate, Nishinoya Yu, had lifted his knife into the air with an aggressive swipe, “I can come with you and stab him if ever he does something--”

“Noya-kun I think I can stab him myself,” you reassured him through a mouthful of cereal. 

“Kuroo’s not all that bad,” Daichi had suggested tentatively, though you’d snorted in response. Yeah right, not all that bad? That was a word you could not associate with Kuroo Tetsurou. 

“If he pisses you off too much just ignore him,” Kenma had simply stated when you sought out his point of view on the matter, which seemed quite logical, a suggestion that you definitely took into consideration as you’d marched towards the library doors.

But all your efforts had been in vain. Sure, Kuroo had been his usual teasing self, ruffling your hair too many times that you could count and constantly snickering into his palm whenever you got your potions and terms all mixed up. But to your ultimate surprise, he’d been quite attentive to your needs and constantly fact-checked whether you’d understood the concept before continuing his explanation. More often times than none, you had found yourself gazing at his features as a realization settled deep into your mind; that Kuroo wasn’t all that bad looking after all, and that there was some kind of charm to his messy bed of raven hair and that smirk that seemed to infuriate you to no end. 

He’d even accompany you back to your dorm whenever you ended late albeit the fact that Slytherin and Hufflepuff weren’t that far apart. The chivalry touched you, despite it coming from the Slytherin Beater.

“Who would’ve thought the almighty Kuroo would be walking me to my door,” you comment on the first night it happens as you reach the said portrait leading to the Hufflepuff dormitory, “how surprisingly romantic of you.” 

You look up at him and your eyes can’t help but trace the span of his shoulders, taking note of his height and-- has he always been this tall? He’s a giant in comparison to your tiny figure of one hundred and sixty-three centimetres.

He merely chortles at your statement, “please, romance comes naturally to me,” he gestures his hands with extravagance to prove his point.

"Sure, big guy. If reciting off science puns at me counts as being romantic.” 

“Oi! They’re funny okay!? You laughed.” 

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re pitiful.” 

He shoves your head to the side playfully in response and you yelp, hands flying up to fix your ponytail for the nth time that night, “stop touching my head or I might think it’s your fetish or something.” 

“Even if it was, yours would be the last I’d be attracted to.” 

You chuckle, “try harder Kuroo. Your comebacks suck.” 

“Oh shut up midget.”

“Who’re you calling a midget?!”

Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve been spending a lot of time in Kuroo’s presence that he grows on you, or maybe it’s the fact that he might not be as bad as you thought he was. But it turns out to be more comfortable to spend time hanging out with him, familiar in ways and yet exciting, thrilling. He’s a jungle of adrenaline and filled to the brim with jokes that are more lame than funny, and yet there’s some kind of comfort to know that he isn’t as unapproachable as you first thought him out to be. 

True to his word, Kuroo is quite brilliant at potions, and quite brilliant at sharing his knowledge in a way that actually makes sense. His natural flair of leadership and sympathetic understanding -- minus the jokes and the incessant teasing -- makes you wonder why he hasn’t been chosen as Quidditch Captain. 

When you ask your question out loud during one of your study sessions, Kuroo only smirks, “are you complimenting me?” 

“Just answer the damn question, Kuroo.”

"Jeez, aren’t you a little aggressive for a Hufflepuff?” he peeks at you from behind his raven bangs, “or should I call you..huffie puffie?” 

You flick his forehead and he yelps, “lame,” you deadpan, “answer me.” 

"They did ask me,” he says, leaning back to stretch out his long arms while you try not to focus on the sinewy veins of his forearms, “I refused.” 

His answer surprises you, “Why?” 

“Because Oikawa wanted it. You know him right?” 

Who didn’t know of Oikawa? He’s a walking prince, struts around Hogwarts like its’ his private garden with his endless servants in tow. 

"That’s it? That’s your reason?” 

“He’s my friend. Wouldn’t be fair to him if I stole the limelight.” 

“...are you sure you’re not secretly a Hufflepuff?”

“You mean a huffie puffie?” 

He ducks just in time to avoid your slap, cackling like crazy until one of the prefects swat you with one of their books upon passing by.

“No, I assure you I’m not a huffie puffie,” his smirk mellows out into a grin before his chin comes to a rest upon his palm, “and plus, I’m not cute enough to be in that house.” 

Heat springs through your cheeks. Is that a compliment or an insult? You’re not quite sure. 

You decide to play along anyway, “yeah you’re right. You’re not cute enough.” 

That does nothing to deter him however, as he keeps gazing down at you with those molten gold pupils half-closed with tenderness, almost lazy, which makes you feel like squirming in your seat. 

“What?” you bark out as you look away, “stop staring. You’re acting like a creep.” 

Chuckling and clearly not flustered by the fact that you’ve just caught him red-handed, the raven-haired Slytherin leans even closer, relishing in the way your face turns a bright scarlet. You lean away, slightly panicked, "wh--what do you think you’re doing?!”

“Oh nothing, just...” and with movements too quick to comprehend, you feel his fingers gently brushing against a stray strand of hair previously stuck to your lip. 

“So, as I was saying before you interrupted me,” and Kuroo proceeds to drone on about the equal amount of hair needed for the polyjuice potion, not minding the fact that you are practically burning as red as a fire engine while your heart seems to be racing like you’ve just an entire lap around the Quidditch field. 

I’m tired, you chant inwardly, I’m just tired. 

There’s no way your heart can be beating for someone like Kuroo Tetsurou.

◇ ◇ ◇

Kuroo is in deep shit and he knows it.

To be fair, he wouldn’t have been if not for an annoyingly stubborn Gryffindor paired with the dry sarcasm of a particular Ravenclaw that would constantly pass him subtle remarks about the indefinite amount of time he seems to be spending with a certain Hufflepuff Seeker.

“Did you tell her yet? When are you gonna tell her?! Can we be there?! Can we--” Kuroo groans and hides his face a little deeper in his arms at the breakfast table, knowing full well that reprimanding his friend will only cause the latter to double his volume. And granted, Kuroo does not want an audience, not this morning. Especially not when he is minutes away from facing you in the Quidditch field.

And as if that’s not bad enough, Tsukishima has this obnoxious smirk on his face ever since he’s joined them at the table, eating his cereal with unreasonable gusto for someone who finds eating troublesome.

"I’m surprised you figured it out this fast,” the said blonde had stated last evening as the trio sat, huddled around a makeshift magic fire in the Boy’s Prefect Bathroom. It had become their usual hiding spot over the years. 

Kuroo had opted for sipping onto his beer as he recalled the particular moment where he’d felt like he was floating on cloud nine. It had been that very morning itself where you had just gotten back your Potions test and without an ounce of hesitation, had bounded up to the Slytherin table during lunchtime, for once not minding the fact that there were a troop of Slytherins engulfing the raven-haired man on each side.

“Kuroo!” You’d shouted with such enthusiasm that your voice was almost unrecognizable, “Kuroo!” 

But Kuroo had recognized it, turning just in time to catch your excited figure in his arms. Surprise flitted over his face at your bold move but it didn’t seem like you cared at that particular moment, practically squealing while shoving your test in his face. 

“I did it! I got a B minus! That’s the best I’ve ever done in Potions so far!” you babbled in excitement, “you should’ve seen Snape’s face!” 

“Uh--that’s great, Y/N--” good lord, his hands had slipped onto your waist, right along your hip bone and his breathing stuttered at how close you were, “g--good job.”

At this point you had probably realized your compromising position but before you could scramble out, a teasing alto rung through the air:

"Got yourself a girlfriend, Tetsurou?"

Both your heads snapped at none other than Oikawa, whose eyebrows were raised in amusement, a smirk painted over his lips. You pinked as Kuroo barked out, "shut it, Oikawa."

"S--Sorry," you moved away so quickly that coldness swooped in through Kuroo's fingers, though he wished he could pull you right back.

And that, that had been like a slap in the face. Cold reality rushing through him as his heart throbbed.

Uh oh.

"Don't be such a wimp Kuroo," Bokuto'a alto brings him back to reality and Kuroo blinks, faced with none other than his best friend's grin, "where'd your confidence go now that you actually have a chance?!"

Kuroo doesn't bother replying. It's hard enough to face you without melting in a puddle of heat, how is he supposed to confess at this rate?

As the trio make their way to the Quidditch pitch, the Slytherin Beater’s eyes easily found you amidst the swarm of Green and Mustard yellow and he raised his hand up in mock salute, heart melting slightly at the shy nod you replied him with before looking away, cheeks flushed.

So cute.

“Now now, Tetsu-chan, not the time to be flirting with your girlfriend,” he feels a hand slap him on his back a little too harshly, causing him to throw a scowl at his Captain. Oikawa merely pulls out his tongue in response, before motioning him to take his place.

He forces your face out of his mind while climbing onto his broom, momentarily closing his eyes to focus on the cheerful chants coming from the bleachers. The Quaffle is thrown into the air, followed by the whistle. 

He kicks off so quickly from the ground that he’s a mere blur of silver and emerald zipping through the air, bat at the ready while his eyes dart back and forth. Kuroo spots a Bludger heading straight for one of his chasers and quickly veering off in the same direction, he swings his bat back, lunges forward--

Thwap!

The distant ache reveberates through Kuroo’s arm, but the smirk of satisfaction is obvious on his face. He proceeds onwards, forcing himself to keep his concentration on the balls so that his thoughts aren’t invaded by your presence, by the way you smile, or the blush on your cheeks--

Focus! He shakes his head. He swears he could use a good bashing on the head. He’ll never hear the end of it with Oikawa if he doesn’t do his job right.

A yell tears through the pitch.

“Watch out!” 

Kuroo’s head whips around on instinct. He doesn’t even have time to react as he spots the Bludger flying from the other end of the pitch and heading straight towards--

You. 

No. Blood drains from Kuroo’s face. He doesn’t think, doesn’t even second-guess his movements. He pushes forward onto his broom against his protesting muscles, against the voices that shout out his name in protest as the entire pitch turns into a cacophony of horrified yells and cries to get out of the way, get out of the way before--

A sickening crunch is heard and horror strikes him straight in the chest the moment he sees your body crumble, lips parting in a silent scream. 

Kuroo’s heart shatters into a million pieces.

◇ ◇ ◇

Warm.

It’s so warm. You don’t feel like waking up. But instinct kicks in and you groan, an echo of pain jogging through every muscle in your body. It feels like you’ve just been run over by a truck and forcing your eyelids to peel open against the drowsiness, it takes a few seconds for you to register that this isn’t your room. 

Fresh laundry sheets, the sound of disinfectant in the air...This is no doubt the Hospital Wing.

You try to sit up but a muffled groan echoes through your throat when pain flares up on your right side. Jesus christ, you did really get run over by a truck. 

That’s when your gaze suddenly falls upon a mop of dark raven hair, feel the warmth of a calloused palm holding onto your free hand. 

And suddenly, you’re wide awake.

With the dark emerald cape hanging off his back and with his tousled bird’s nest of hair, it’s almost shockingly obvious that this is Kuroo. His face is currently buried in his other arm, which gives you the courage to reach out to gently rest your hand upon his head.

As if sensing your movements, the said raven-haired Slytherin lets out a soft groan of his own. Your hand instantly whips away and you watch, with a mixture of confusion and surprise, as his golden orbs blink away the sleep before they slowly come to focus. 

His breath hitches as you murmur out, “hey?” 

"Y--You’re awake?” He murmurs so low you barely make sense of his words, and before you can respond, the man has grabbed hold of your hands before bringing them to his lips, “Jesus christ, Y/N, I--I seriously thought--”

Your pulse only quickens, heart tugging with emotion when you catch sight of the wetness in Kuroo’s golden orbs. What? 

What is going on?

This Kuroo is not the one you are used to, looking like he’s unraveling at your very feet. In any normal circumstances, you would’ve definitely taken this advantage to tease him mercilessly, but that’s clearly impossible. You can’t do that to him, not when he’s gazing down at you like you’re worth a thousand paintings.

The thought makes your heart quiver in your chest. Warmth curls through your stomach.

“What...” you rasp out, “happened?”

“A bludger. Came out of nowhere. Headmaster thinks it got tweaked somehow, some stupid prank,” he is searching your eyes, reading your facial expressions like he’s worried you might drop dead any second. 

“Kuroo," you call him gently, “I’m fine.” 

And to your utmost surprise, the raven-haired Slytherin’s eyes flutter towards your hands, lips peppering a rain of kisses along your knuckles. They leave a trail of heat that causes your breath to hitch in the back of your throat, “Wha--”

“I thought I'd lost you, Y/N. Don't--" his voice chokes up, gaze running up to lock with yours, "don't ever scare me lile that. Fuck, kitten, what would I have done--"

Your own breath hitches. Your eyes grow wide.

Kuroo seems to realize the same thing, hand slapping over his mouth in shock.

"What--" you splutter out. Suddenly, all your pain is forgotten, "did you call me?"

Kuroo swallows thickly as the silence settles between you two.

Then, he breaths in slow and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, before opening them back to lock eyes with yours.

What swims in his golden feline pupils makes your breath catch.

"I like you," he murmurs, "I've liked you for a while but was too much of a coward to say it. And I guess-- seeing you so hurt scared me. I don't think I've ever been so scared before."

Your skin is basically burning at this point, a volcano of feelings bursting inside you that makes you want to crawl into a hole and hide there forever. But Kuroo's eyes, despite having the slightest tinge of blush littering his cheeks, is still latched onto your features. Unwavering, probing. Questioning.

He likes you.

He likes you.

"You mean--like? As a--"

"More than a friend," he simply says.

Your mouth opens into a small silent Oh.

You don't know what to say. What to do.

Because in truth, if you really have to be honest with yourself, your heart definitely beats for this particular Slytherin. For god knows whatever reason, he’s been on your mind and in your heart for a few weeks now. 

You wish to say something. Anything. But your throat is dry. You cough it out, swallow and slowly let out a soft breath before your orbs slowly flutter to your lap, to your hands that Kuroo has grasped so tenderly in his hold.

“The feeling--” you gulp back your pride, “the feeling is mutual, I guess.” 

You don’t have to look at Kuroo to know that there’s a huge grin that blossoms across his face and not even a second later you’re rewarded another rain of kisses upon your knuckles. Gasping slightly at his boldness, his grin mellows out into that teasing smirk you know so well, though it does bring about a few butterflies roaming through your stomach.

“Ooh, mutual now is it?” Kuroo’s smirk broadens like a cat about to go for a chase and you squirm in your bed, hating how quickly the tables have turned, “weren’t you the one blushing like an idiot just a few seconds ago?!” you splutter out as a miserable defence.

He merely cackles though, leaning in so close that you yelp, “remember about my condition for tutoring you?” 

He’s so close that your noses bump into each other. It doesn’t help your heart from running an erratic race inside your chest.

You scramble for coherence, “w--what about it?”

“I figured out what it is.” 

"What?” 

You try -- and fail -- to lean away when Kuroo’s hand slips up to cradle the side of your cheek, and your body reacts like wildfire, troops of butterflies erupting in your stomach at his tender caress.

“Let me kiss you?” Kuroo mumbles out with a hoarse alto, so hoarse it makes you shiver and your toes to curl in delight, spurred on by the words that have just left his mouth.

Gold pupils meet yours. Then, your head dips into a shy nod.

Kuroo’s mouth is warm, and soft, and pleasant. He kisses you slowly, gently, like he’s afraid you’d run away if he pressed on too quickly. You’re not used to it, but you feel like it can grow on you. The way your body relaxes into the kiss has the raven-haired man more confident. His thumb traces your cheek while he slants his head a little more to capture your bottom lips with his own, sucking slightly. 

You gasp at the sensation and he smirks -- just barely -- and proceeds to kiss you a little deeper. Deep enough, firmly enough that you can’t help the whimper that escapes you.

“Cute,” Kuroo mumbles against your lips, retracting so that you can breathe. You haven’t realised up until now, that your hands have made their way to the back of Kuroo’s cloak to tug him closer, or how the said man is literally half-sprawled across your hospital bed. 

That is, until you hear a certain voice shout out:

“Oya Oya! What do I see here?!” 

[qm-vox]

So You Want To Play A Fairest

(Portrait of Erin Peters by cantankerousAquarius. The character originally appeared in Night Horrors: Grim Fears, published by White Wolf; catch my take on her in New Avalon)

Previous Articles: So You Want To Play A Beast, So You Want To Play A Wizened, So You Want To Play An Elemental, So You Want To Play An Ogre, & So You Want To Play A Darkling

You ever wonder, flipping through a Monster Manual for D&D, or a Bestiary for Pathfinder, why nymphs and hags are both always, always, women? It’s older than you know. Dig into the sordid history of tabletops and you’ll find sylphs that Gary Gygax wrote, Chaotic charmers who use mind control to reproduce with non-sylph men; you’ll find the legacy of the matriarchal drow, who follow a mad goddess, and you’ll find the medusae, whose sexual dimorphism is so complete that their men are beautiful and can turn stone into people.

Dredge deeper and you’ll find the tales that Gygax and his wretched ilk based such creatures off of.

You ever wonder why we assign such powerful Gender to creatures of beauty and horror?

Fairest don’t. They know, every time they wake up from a nightmare that is also a wet dream. They know, every time they get hit on at the bar and have to decide how they’re playing this. They know, every time they look in a mirror and see not their own face, but the ten thousand horrors that made it beautiful.

If you are very patient, and lucky, and kind, they might tell you why.

If you aren’t, they may show you.

This article draws primarily on Changeling: the Lost and Winter Masques, as well as Swords at Dawn and Night Horrors: Grim Fears. Other sources, when used, will be cited. It requires Content Warnings for sexual violence, sexual slavery, abuse, gaslighting, addiction, substance abuse, self-harm, self-image problems, mentions of fascists & fascist ideology, and just, so very much incel bullshit.

Bonus Material Part Two: The Seeming Part

The end of this article, just past the customary Sample Fairest, will include some additional material intended to help you select a Seeming for your character and otherwise build them up as one of the Lost, much as So You Want To Run A Spring Court included material for Courts as a topic.

Take Me To Wonderland - Fairest Overview

Fairest is the fourth Seeming presented in Changeling: the Lost and possibly the most confused about its own identity. Its sections in Winter Masques present depths and nuance that are completely absent in core, essentially making Winter Masques required reading for Fairest players in a way that no other book is - especially since Fairest keep getting written in a particular way alluded to in the Ogre article, which I will expand on later in this article. Fairest is numerically well-represented in canon and popular in the fanbase, home to many memorable character concepts, but its bones with folklore and tradition are weaker than it fronts as.

Ogres and Darklings claim an innate relationship to physical violence; so too do the Fairest claim a relationship to violence. The violence of Perception and its dark twin, Judgement; of Rumor and its mad dog, Prejudice, the violence of Lies and their merciless master, Truth. Fairest, alone among the Lost, have casual access to the resources of a society that refuses to service or acknowledge Changelings, and with access to that society comes both opportunity and temptation. To be Fairest is to wield power that many other Lost cannot, but the opportunity that power offers is a lie; a Fairest can smile until her face breaks like a mirror, but she’ll never be “sane” enough for the masses to see her as anything but a useful pet.

Life’s Lush Lips - Homecoming As A Fairest

Fairest can make the dubious claim of having the least clear memories of Arcadia amongst all the Lost, with Darklings and Beasts jockeying for second place. This isn’t to say that the experiences Fairest have are necessarily more intense or more inherently traumatic than that of other Lost, but rather that the abuse Fairest suffer is so emotional, so targeted at their perception of their selves and their situations and their self-image, that the memories which do form are inevitably colored by those emotions, coloring the dreams they have of Arcadia with both the emotional resonances they had at the time and with their later attempts to grapple with their own trauma and transformation. For many Fairest, who cannot trust even their strongest memory dreams, attempts to understand their own Durance must rely either on the word of their Keepers (and Faeries lie, oh, how they lie), or on reverse-engineering their own behavior to try and conceive of a trauma that could cause it.

Inevitably, however, some things are seared into their minds. For almost all Fairest, their Keeper is high on the list of things they remember with absolute clarity. Other facts, shattered and scattered, vary more widely. Erin Peters remembers stretched years kept in a cold, dark room lit only by her own hatred; every detail of her cell is scorched onto the back of her eyes, but the otherworldly balls her Keeper took her to blur together like food coloring in syrup. The slaves of the Candle Countess have terrible nightmares of the choices they were confronted with, the decision, offered over and over again, to become complicit in the Countess’s cruelty or to be victimized by it. Metallic Flowering from the Shining City struggle not to use drugs to mimic the rush of pleasure they’ve grown used to receiving for performing their jobs well; they also scream in terror if people touch them. A Draconic and a Shadowsoul both remember being used for the sexual pleasure of alien horrors; the one dreams of coiled scales and terrible teeth, the other a lifetime of lurking in an alien maze, tasked to perform the duties of a living trap for the “wicked” and “unwary” who had not yet shed the last vestiges of kindness.

There are no “wild” Fairest. For worse and worse still, to be Fairest is to have been defined by the inescapable and all-consuming attentions of your abuser, and it is this more than anything that other Lost so often fail to understand about the Fairest. Their Keepers heap them with reward and punishment, manipulating the Fairest with honeyed praise, godly wrath, gaslighting, neglect, withholding food, wondrous rewards, drugs from beyond the realms of earthly pleasure, and other hooks and crooks designed to make the Fairest dependent upon their abuser. It is hideously effective, and the first obstacle, maybe even the mightiest, that a Fairest faces to their escape is the simple horror and joy of being alone again. Their masters will try other tricks to keep them in place - tempting them with pleasures, horrific punishments, oh-so-sincere apologies - but before a Fairest can escape into the Hedge she must face, in her mind’s eye, the lonely flight back to the Iron Lands.

The memories that draw Fairest home often have parallels to their experiences in Arcadia. A slave in the Shining City bites into an otherworldly pastry and recalls her grandmother’s pie in its place; the bride of the Demon Lover, curled up under the sheets, thinks about the broken smile of the boyfriend she left behind at home. A Dancer remembers the roller rink where he fell in love with skating, while across the endless tides of the Fairest of Lands, a Shadowsoul holds on like grim death to years of work at haunted houses, scaring kids for fun and for Halloween. Fairest, so famous for their skill at words, struggle to articulate to other Lost why this should be so. Darklings assume it’s because these memories are less intense than Arcadia, and that the Fairest are fleeing to safety. Beasts get it a bit more right by thinking that these memories taste like home. The truth of the matter is that those memories have an intrinsic and nameless meaning; the highs and lows of Arcadia are divine, flawless, absolute, and therefore worthless. They are the proclamations of merciless gods. What draws the Fairest home, more than pain and pleasure they can have on their own terms, is the understanding that those gestures - for weal or for woe or for anything else besides - were made because someone cared about them, personally. Once they fully internalize that their abuser views them as disposable, the Fairest comes home to someone who won’t.

Three Kiths And Flowering Is One And A Half Of Them - Fairest Kiths

Yeah we’re about to be like that about it.

All Fairest can excel in the social arena; their Blessing can be used to flare almost every social roll in the game, and Fairest can never be caught off-guard in a social context (they suffer no untrained penalties to social rolls). With the sole exception of Empathy (usually rolled with Wits) and sometimes Streetwise, there’s no time a Fairest can’t fall back on their words and expect to win through or at least buy time. This is, as you might imagine, a godsend when it comes to attempts to pass in mortal society; Fairest can usually front, charm, bluff, or Manners(tm) their way through things like renting an apartment, nailing a job interview, asking their roommate to do the FUCKING DISHES, or getting stopped by a cop, but both the books and the fanbase miss something here. While Fairest are superb at active social events, they’re no better at keeping a lid on themselves (Composure-based rolls) than mortals are - and given both the nature of their trauma and the fact that they are, you know, Lost, Fairest have a lot more to keep a lid on day-to-day than the human society they’re trying to blend into. Thankfully, Fairest are pretty good at being able to politely leave a situation and go somewhere else to scream, shout, cry, or have a psychotic break, as appropriate.

Of course, Fairest can’t make something from nothing. As discussed in So You Want To Play An Ogre, you can’t win a social game someone else refuses to sit down to, and social rolls shouldn’t be mind control. All the Glamour in the world can’t make your roommate do the FUCKING DISHES if they’re deep in the throes of executive dysfunction, nor can it make the cashier at Walgreens fail to card you for wine when their computer literally won’t advance without an ID. People who are keyed up about honeyed words or whose own trauma came at the hands of manipulators and abusers might refuse to play that game on the terms the Fairest is setting, which makes it hard to, as it were, turn this problem into a nail. Lurking down this path as well is the specter of becoming like the masters who made you this way; if you get used to saying what will get people to listen to you, eventually you start seeing people as enrichment puzzles that dispense the things you want. Madness waits down that road, and it waits for Fairest with a giant spiked bat, thanks to their Seeming Curse.

There’s no pretty way to say this so I won’t: Fairest are always on the verge of losing their minds. Their curse hits them with a flat penalty to all rolls against losing Clarity, which means that Fairest lose Clarity faster than other Lost and they do so more consistently. This necessitates a balancing act with avoiding becoming heartless manipulators; Fairest must engage in control-seeking behavior in order to stay mentally well, must be able to trust and rely on people close to them, structure their lives, and anticipate important changes or they end up on the fast way down. Other Lost often don’t understand this need or the Fairest curse to begin with, and so Fairest end up in unofficial support groups for one another, similar to those run by Darklings except no one will admit it’s a support group even at gunpoint. Woe fucking betide the friend or life partner who gets between a Fairest and her “book club”, “girls’ night”, “D&D campaign”, or other excuse for this vital community support.

Fairest Kiths are...bad. They’re bad. This is the part of the article where I’m supposed to talk about thematics and symbolism and metaphor, and I cannot do that here, because they are bad. Fairest has three viable Kiths that are actual Fairest Kiths, one that’s a Beast Kith who got lost and wound up here by fucking mistake, and a pile of garbage bigger than my self-esteem problems. I’m almost tempted to only talk about those four Kiths and save myself the time but I suppose I should show the work like I’ve done for all the other Seemings, so here we fuckin’ go I guess.

Flowering - This is it. This is the Fairest Kith. If you want to roll any other kind of Fairest you must first pass the trial of justifying why you’re not playing Flowering. In theory, Flowering draws its mythic heritage from nymphs and dryads, charming flower sprites, Knights of Flowers, and the like, but in practice Flowering’s only mechanical effect is 9-again on Persuasion, Socialize, and Subterfuge with no qualification or requirement, which doesn’t just make you better at everything Fairest is good at, it makes you better when you spend Glamour to flare it too. Want to represent a biobahn sith’s hypnotic dance? Flowering works. Want to create a vampiric Fairest with a sultry voice? Here comes Flowering. The siren at the bar who smells like sea air and gunpowder? Flowering. Everything is Flowering. Even the things that aren’t Flowering are Flowering because all Fairest Kiths have a social focus, which is Flowering’s undisputed arena of mastery.

Bright One - In theory, Bright Ones represent beings of light in the vein of Victorian fey (which...ugh...Victorians), but their Goblin Illumination is, how you say, useless, only becoming vaguely useful for a total of 2 Glamour as a passive defense that took you 2 turns to set up. Anything you want to represent here can be found in Flowering and with Elements or Communion (Light).

Dancer - You know how Flowering gives you bonuses on all social rolls? Would you like those same bonuses but on 1 less skill and only on rolls that “involve physical grace”? No? Run Flowering here and give your character a Dance specialty in one or more skills.

Draconic - One of the game’s premier melee options and a Beast Kith who took a wrong turn and ended up getting a free makeover intended for someone else. Draconic in theory represents Fairest as dragons, monster girls, demons, and in general at their most physical, but that idea sorta...falls down a bit? Draconic’s bonuses are all about Brawl and all the sample Draconics are swordsmen, which might suggest to the discerning reader that someone in the office wasn’t reading their own fucking game. Draconic Fairest don’t make bad melee boys if you invest in Lethal Mien, but honestly this is Dual Kith bait; slap it on your Hunterheart or your Razorhand and go apeshit.

Muse - Close but no cigar. In theory Muses are, well, muses; figures of inspiration, mentorship, teaching, creative fire. Their Kith Blessing is strong but requires access to mortals, which is complicated and roundabout on the best of days. If you have an idea that you think is Muse-shaped, use Playmate instead.

Flamesiren - Behold, we enter the realm of Okay(tm). Flamesirens are what Bright Ones wanted to be, and their hypnotic aura is actually a pretty neat tool; with cunning you can make it a one-sided penalty, and even if you don’t it’s an interesting method of de-escalating a social or combat situation by subjecting everyone to the tar pit that is your presence. If your concept involves light and color and you’re resistant to Flowering, Flamesiren will do more than nothing.

Polychromatic - Polychromatics don’t have a lot of roots in mythology; their modern inspirations are, well, Manic Pixie Dream Girls. But they get a shout-out here for being the only Fairest Kith who can muster up decent emotional defenses; not only can they magically boost their Composure rolls (and non-Composure rolls to resist magical and mundane emotional attacks for that matter), but others get a flat penalty to Empathy rolls against them, which makes them talented dissemblers. You’re still probably better off with Flowering - in a world of passive Kith Blessings, Polychromatic’s is extra passive - but I can see this Kith passing muster, and even being worth the two dots to Dual Kith in-house.

Shadowsoul - This one’s insane. Ostensibly Fairest Does Darkling, Shadowsouls get their Wyrd to Intimidate rolls which could be the whole Kith on its own and still be worth the slot, but in addition to that they get 9-again on Subterfuge (matching Flowering and Darklings there) and access to Contracts of Darkness, one of the most powerful in the game line, as an Affinity Contract. Is your Fairest spooky? Would you like them to be spooky? Here’s your one-stop shop.

Telluric - This is a Kith made of ribbon bonuses. In theory related to stars and celestial light, Telluric’s bonuses to rolls “with precise timing” isn’t...really worth considering. Run ‘em as Flamesiren and move on.

Treasured - In theory also able to muster emotional defenses, Treasured are Fairest who are literally made into works of art. They’re Okay(tm) but in their niche are beaten out by Polychromatic with a better effect for less resources.

Playmate - The last Real Fairest Kith(tm), Playmate appears in Night Horrors: Grim Fears where White Wolf tries to sell it as Peter Pan, but its powerful team-oriented bonuses mean that Playmates are useful anywhere Muse is wanted and more places besides. The front woman of an indie rock band could be a Playmate; so too could be an idealized baseball captain, the director at your local theater, the middle manager of a sinister conspiracy, or the night shift lead at a research lab. Do people do a thing in teams? Playmate does that thing.

And She Had Huge Titties, I Mean Massive Badondadonks, Absolutely Enormous Bazoggahoggas - Lost’s Canon Fairest

Remember when I said we had to get back to this after So You Want To Play An Ogre? Now we’re getting back to this. I’m not gonna re-state my caveats from that article and I’m not really gonna go back over the bit about So White Wolf Was Run By Fucking Nazis because, in all honesty, I do not have the fucking time to restate all of that in new words. Give thanks that OPP got out alive and let’s get right down to it.

Fairest have a very consistent characterization in canon that is only really challenged in Winter Masques; the narrative put forth in Lost is that Fairest, being attractive, have an uncomplicated power which privileges their lives. Which is a rather bloodless way to describe how White Wolf kept writing and publishing Fairest as heartless abusers and manipulators getting their jollies and emotional needs met by casually destroying their fellow survivors, manipulating them through sex appeal, outright lies, cattiness, cruelty, and betrayal. Much as simply queering Ogre does not help Ogre in and of itself, queering Fairest only takes you from incel and Nazi propaganda about women into...incel and Nazi propaganda about twinks, femmes, & in general anyone with the temerity to be found attractive by straight white people.

I’m not bitter, you’re bitter.

So what do you do at your table, with your Fairest concept? Lemme open up by saying that like, Fairest qua Fairest is perfectly solid, and if it wasn’t there wouldn’t be an article here; Fairest has a lot to say for itself about feminized violence, about your personhood being reduced to a product for the consumption of others, about emotional abuse & neglect, gaslighting, and sexual assault, but the conclusion White Wolf arrives at (”Fairest have unalloyed power over mortal and Lost society and they abuse that power”) is super fucking obtuse and betrays a serious lack of concern for what the Fairest undergo. It ignores the way a Fairest’s ordeals will force her to confront her relationship to her own gender and alter her willingness and ability to be consumed, disconnect her from her former society while also isolating her from her new one, and these questions are important for you if you’re looking to play a ‘classic’ Fairest.

But that leaves some hanging questions. Male Fairest face the almost inescapable fate of “failing” maleness on patriarchal terms; even the most strapping, broad-chested, athletic Adonis of a Fairest has become a man of layered words and reflexive empathy, whose Manly Stoicism(tm) is a cracking facade at best and entirely abandoned in a more typical circumstance. Men who become Fairest thus face a second journey after their escape from Arcadia; confronting what being men means to them and building their gender identity back up from the rubble it’s become. The temptation to accept success on society’s terms is always going to be present, and it’s always going to be offered like it’s possible, but it’s a losing game for these Fairest; they simply cannot be the men that other men demand they become.

Now, the discerning and loyal reader is surely about to ask, hey Vox, where’s the butch Fairest I was promised back in the Ogre article, to which I respond WE’RE GETTING THERE but I gotta use this as a bridge to talk about something that cuts across Fairest of all genders, be they cis or trans. Lost 1e makes a lot of hay out of the idea that Fairest “are rarely conventionally attractive”, and core even provides some interesting written concepts for that...which make it into exactly none of the art. Every published Fairest is conventionally attractive for various definitions of conventional, be it as a supermodel or a waif, but that leaves the question of Fairest who genuinely are not - and, tragically, Fairest who were not, and were then made into someone more easily consumed by their Durance. You know what I’m about to say, and I know you know I’m about to say it, but I’m gonna say it anyway: all bodies are beautiful, but Fairest know well that beauty and attraction aren’t the same, and neither are beauty and happiness. All Fairest, from the roundest bear to the most wide-eyed waif, are the products of Keepers who valued their bodies in that state, and that idea is going to haunt them day in and day out for the rest of their extended lives. There is no such thing as a Fairest with an uncomplicated relationship to their body, and that White Wolf seems to think that an uncomplicated relationship is their default state is...disgusting, frankly.

Which brings us, at long last, to butch Fairest (also bear Fairest but I’m gonna stick with the one set of terms or I’m going to go mad and this will never be published), who have a complicated journey ahead of them. On the one hand, the assertion of control and ownership over their own bodies, their own identities, cannot be overstated. On the other hand, elements of those bodies are going to be completely out of their control; a nascent butch Fairest may well hit the gym to get swole only to discover that she literally, physically cannot, that she has been Assigned Dex Build At Durance. Hauling your corpse out of Arcadia with an extremely feminine appearance shaped by your Keeper might complicate attempts to present in a more masculine manner or even just to appear androgynous, and those complications can be discouraging. For those that stick to it, this journey will take them two places; one is the bared-teeth, bloody-knuckled assertion that this life is theirs and you can have it if you can fucking take it, and the other is into the ranks of the Freehold’s retained warriors, usually in Summer or Autumn, though a vibrant representation of Spring knights will make it seem as if Spring has more butch Fairest than it actually does. These Fairest are aware, or will become aware, of how much of their job involves de-escalating or pre-empting violence; a focus on Physical stats or skills is not necessarily common, but hyper-specialization therein likely is. A butch Fairest is a lot more likely to have, say, Brawl 4 (Multiple Opponents) and no other Physical skills than she is to have Brawl, Weaponry, Athletics, and Stealth, in part or in whole because her first weapon of choice is going to be an Intimidate roll.

At every turn you’re able to, challenge White Wolf’s narrative about Fairest by asking yourself what your Fairest wants, why they’re this way, what they’re frightened of, and how the way they behave relates back to these. They’re not products; they’re people, just as hurt and Lost as the rest of their peers.

Princesses And Pastries - Fairest In The Courts

Fairest have a complex relationship to the society of their fellow Lost. On the one hand, they have the same need for community, support, companionship, understanding, honesty, and material aid as all Lost; a Fairest is not magically proof against being homeless, against starving, against the dangers of existing in the modern world without things like a photo ID or car insurance, and Freeholds provide all of these things. On the other hand, the thing most Fairest fear most, even if they can’t articulate that fear, is their own power - social influence, emotional trust and betrayal, status, political power, and authority. Fairest are all too aware that being good at this game does not make them immune to it - after all, that’s the lesson they learned at the hands of their Keepers.

What follows from this is a complex dance of interactions that each Fairest in some ways has to feel like she’s managing on her own, even if she’s not (and she rarely is; those support groups exist for a reason). If you give a Fairest a doughnut in a social setting, she will lick that doughnut even if she doesn’t intend to eat it right away, solely to hear someone else say something along the lines of “well it’s yours now”. As Fairest filter into Freehold society and take up social roles at all levels of power - officers, messengers, ‘ambassadors’ to mortal society, secretaries, pledge-smiths, teachers, monarchs - their responsibilities and rewards become their doughnut. That Fairest make a big deal out of both their job and the benefits that come with it is rarely, as other Lost sometimes think, about aggrandizement or reveling in power for its own sake; it’s about the sheer relief and assurance of hearing someone say, to the Fairest’s face, that this is her doughnut and no one is going to take it from her.

Younger Fairest tend to flit between two or three Courts; their initial selection may be based entirely on friendships, Vibes, or a gut-check decision based on an initial pitch by that Court, and Fairest can go quite far even in a Court that doesn’t quite actually fit their needs. Eventually, though, those Fairest who survive their youth will gravitate towards a Court whose ideals speak to them, even if its current social order isn’t living up to those ideals. If they’re going to be condemned to live as exiles in the world of their birth, the Fairest can at least be the person she wants to be, god damn it. Fairest aren’t any more or less vulnerable to a toxic Court environment than other Lost, but they’re good at detecting it beforehand. Unfortunately they’re also good at telling themselves they can change it.

Spring - Though early Spring joiners are of course rare in general, Fairest are among those Lost who more commonly choose Spring as a first Court. Spring’s highly social focus and chaotic internal organization is almost tailor-made for the skill set of your average Fairest, but therein too lies a sense of threat; for many Fairest, Spring can remind them of their Durance, and their joining of the Court is as much motivated by fear of a powerful cultural body as it is by any genuine Desire, maybe even more so. Many such Fairest end up caught in Spring’s middle-road trap, spinning their wheels without recovering or worsening more or less until they finally die, but when Autumn can sniff out the fearful ones it puts a lot of work into cooperating with Spring to get them out and where they can be helped.

Summer - More Fairest dabble with Summer for dreams of glory, or because they want to believe in Summer’s apolitical sales pitch, than ultimately stick with Summer. Those that do stay often serve as officers, as the Sun’s Tongue or the Arrayer of Distant Thunder, and as Court sorcerers. Fairest skilled in Contracts of Separation can make for surprising Jaegers, hounding their prey down more like a private investigator or a serial killer than a traditional hunter, but while striking this is fairly rare. Fairest who stick with Summer are those who are looking for its high ideals and are often among those rare Summer Courtiers who can competently articulate both those ideals and their pitfalls without falling prey to cynicism and bitterness.

Autumn - For those Fairest who hurt others to feel safe, Autumn is waiting. The Leaden Mirror can be attractive to young Fairest because it’s easy to perceive Autumn as atomized, defined by personal relationships rather than webs of political influence, but when the Fairest discovers those webs the existence of Option Two: Resort To Violence as an acceptable tool to the Ashen Court is perversely reassuring rather than threatening. The image of the Fairest as a witch, tempting and threatening, clings to them in Autumn but it’s honestly not their most common role; Autumn employs its Fairest as rumor-mongers, the Other Woman who seems a little too familiar with your husband, therapists & counselors, oneiromancers, and ambassadors to Hedge communities. The work Autumn does is harsh on Clarity, and Fairest are especially vulnerable to that harshness, but if the Court invests the time in helping its Fairest members, the self-awareness and self-confidence it offers can be a godsend that no other Court can give them.

Winter - As the Court which is actually selling what Fairest think Autumn has - to wit, the ability to simply say “no” to all social interactions with no justification required - Winter has a strong undercurrent of Fairest membership at all tiers of its power. Fairest often end up directly involved in Winter’s money-making enterprises, and flourish as Squires and Armigers with their fingers on the pulse of the Court’s morale. Winter’s hands-off approach displays a tremendous amount of trust in its Fairest from their perspective, and the demeanor of the Coldest Court - Winter’s indifferent equality - has a potent, merciless appeal. The trap of drowning in Sorrow sucks more than a few Fairest under, but if their peers can be there for them there’s always a way back out.

This Is Not A Pipe - Fairest And Lost’s Themes

My many thanks to Izzie M for her extensive help on this section. I’m not sure I’d have been able to grapple it down, emotionally or intellectually, otherwise.

Fairest go through some intense shit, and the shit they go through can never fully be addressed, never fully be recovered from. It’s no mistake that Fairest, like Wizened, are among those Lost likely to never fully gain resolution with or from their Keeper, and this is because they embody the dark truth that no matter how much progress you make, how much you heal, your trauma has changed who you are as a person and you will be dealing with it until you die. But, as alluded to extensively above in the discussion of Fairest and gender, Fairest also embody the way in which society will attempt to stamp you, mold you, turn you into a product to be consumed or an archetype to be placed into its churning machine, and its attempts to reshape who and what you are and can be are, in themselves, a form of trauma and abuse.

Fairest deal a lot in expectations. They’re expected to be perfect victims, they’re expected to be happy (because they’re beautiful and attractive, because they can front as Doing Okay, because they have a form of access to ‘normal’ society), they’re expected to want romance and sex (since everyone else wants those things out of them), to perform emotional labor, to be available, intimate, understanding, to keep up appearances. Fairest escape the chains of their Keeper only to be clapped in the chains that extend into the eyes and minds of their peers, and they cannot move without hearing the clink of them.

Fairest are primed to represent victims of ongoing emotional abuse and neglect; sex slaves and victims of child abuse might find themselves in Fairest, as might husbands or wives of abusive partners (and boy, re-living my bullshit there was a bonus prize I didn’t want to receive for writing this article), children pushed to over-achieve (here overlapping with Elemental) until they break, pastor’s daughters and cult kids (here overlapping with Beast), and others. However, Fairest also hit their thematic stride when talking about trauma from a society that will not give you an exit. A trans person is first punished by society for “failing” to perform their assigned gender, then made to perform their new one to expectations that they cannot set, do not control, and do not consent to; such a person might easily be Fairest, as might a man breaking under the expectations of Maleness, a college student losing their mind in finals week with no one to help, or even more ‘ordinary’ sex workers expected to perform emotional and physical labor for a society that rewards their work with violence and dehumanization.

Fairest are people with complex internal worlds and they damn well know it, but the temptations to let others define them are numerous; society promises all manner of rewards for being who and what it wants you to be, for wanting the things it tells you to want, for being the kind of person who wants and does those things. To be Fairest is to know at any time you can start faking it and receive those rewards insofar as they’re actually on the table, but it is also to know, every second of every day that you’re performing that role, that it is fake. If you can’t find a community with which you can be genuine...well. You can always get more hurt, and in this way Fairest also bring another theme of Lost into focus: that the Lost owe compassion and understanding to their fellow victims, because failure to care can only hurt both them and everyone in their blast zone.

Feet Pics For Legos - Coping As A Fairest

Fairest are among those Lost who are most concerned with their day-to-day social interactions and safety rather than their immediate, very physical environmental safety. They are perhaps the Seeming most likely to live in a group setting (in an apartment with roommates or romantic partners, in a house shared between multiple households, splitting the bills in a condo, with their parents), and are definitely the Seeming most comfortable with the idea of living with mortals who aren’t ensorcelled. Indeed, Fairest don’t tend to do well living alone; even a Fairest who wants or needs a private place to be, choosing to keep a home in which others cannot lay a claim, will likely crash at friends’ places, sleep over at the Freehold commons on some pretext or another, stay the night with a lover, or otherwise have a place to flop down while surrounded by other people. Having other people - their greatest reality check - around the place helps keep the Fairest centered in the real reality, better able to pick apart the mortal from the Wyrd from their own unrelated hallucinations, and a Fairest who is isolated - or who is permitted to isolate herself - quickly begins to dissociate and may soon be incapable of caring for herself until someone can get her back into the present.

Those invited over as guests to a Fairest’s home may note a lot of concern for those she lives with. She likely schedules the event well in advance, is clear about the boundaries of those she lives with (”That’s Brenda’s room, the door stays shut.”) and in general treats her communal home with a lot of respect and love. Respecting these boundaries and in turn having her own respected is very validating for the Fairest and is vital to be able to feel safe and at ease in her own home, and impressing their importance on guests further reinforces that this is, as it were, her doughnut. While not dismissive of their own literal physical safety per se, a Fairest’s anxieties rarely center around her body being violently attacked by strangers. For those that do have such anxieties, they may choose to solve that problem by simple expedient of rooming or living with someone large and scary.

Another detail of note which is touched on in Winter Masques is that Fairest tend to seek out life’s little pleasures. Though they are not necessarily wealthier than other Lost, how a Fairest chooses to spend her money tends to follow particular patterns. Rare is the Fairest who doesn’t have clothing they like, a phone that works, a wallet or purse that can actually hold all of their stuff, and in this regard most Fairest without a special interest in fashion as a hobby in and of itself will have an aesthetic that is self-expressive but serviceable and hard-wearing, but any place the Fairest haunts, frequents, or lives in will get little touches everywhere. Fairest spend the little bits of extra money for good toilet paper, soft soaps that won’t hurt the skin, good shower supplies, high-quality razors, boots that won’t wear through - and they spend their serious money on their hobbies and preferences. A Fairest with a passion for cooking scrimps and saves to get a fully-stocked kitchen; a Fairest who likes building and connecting invests in Legos or Hot Wheels and creates elaborate environments for them. A gamer Fairest has headphones that can vibrate your constipation away and a fiber optic connection to ensure that lag will not stand between her and your doom. The reasons for this are manifold, and Lost’s canon writing suggests that Fairest seek pleasure to alleviate a desire to return to Arcadia. This is, to put it mildly, a stupid assertion; rather, the Fairest provides her own pleasures in part because it is one of the most emotionally clear ways to lick the doughnut, and in part because it reminds her that she can be happy under her own power, can seek pleasure, stimulation, engagement, without placing herself at another’s mercy - ironically making it easier to go out every day and do exactly that as a member of her various societies.

As a Fairest settles in she tends to look for “her” people, and quite often they’re good at compartmentalizing this, wearing different hats and having different feelings about those hats without feeling fake or distressed about the bare fact of that. She’ll have her personal friends and family, like her housemates, her girlfriend, maybe her mortal family, her neighbors, and then folks like her Motley (which are like her personal friends and family, but In The Know), her fellow Fairest and the Freehold broadly, her work friends and fellow hobbyists. A Fairest who does, say, sex work, thinks of herself as a Sex Worker and understands herself in the context of that broader social group. It can be a lot! Many Lost barely have a handle on being a member of both the Freehold and a Court, and the way Fairest flit to and fro between many communities, slipping seamlessly from one role to another, can be exhausting to watch - but by doing so the Fairest also builds bonds between those communities, highlights their common needs and interests, draws them together over their similarities and strengths. Darklings and Wizened get a lot of the work on the ground done, but it’s often a Fairest in the role of whistleblower, figurehead, and champion all at once.

After all, this, too, is her doughnut.

Example Fairest - Clara Belltower, Spring Playmate

Clara Belltower is a mime.

Well, no, not exactly. Clara Belltower is a self-employed porn actress, erotic script writer, and director, whose primary thing is mimes, clowns, and more broadly circuses and performance venues. She came back from Arcadia eight years back fleeing life as her Keeper’s Stepford Wife, and ran face-first into the money issues that haunt the Lost in general. What started out as a practical choice in new career - and an attempt to find and express an identity not created for her by her abuser - became a creative passion that has stayed strong with Clara and propelled her to status in the Spring Court, which retains her keen eye for decoration, direction, and theatricality in service to its high rituals and revels. Clara’s livestreams and online presence are also a convenient avenue for the Freehold to launder its less legal revenue streams, which has endeared Spring’s “silent siren” to the Winter Court and cemented her as a mover and shaker.

Clara’s ambitions reach beyond erotic miming, as talented as she is at both creating and purveying such. She has her eyes on four different strip clubs in Freehold territory alone whose owners and operators need to fucking go, and she wants Winter’s help making it happen; further, she wants the Freehold to take over operation of those establishments for the benefit of the workers. Clara’s vision is popular in Spring and has its supporters in Summer too, but the Declining Seasons have been cool on the concept, citing a need to maintain subtlety and avoid entanglements with the mortal world that might invite the eye of, say, the IRS - or mire the Freehold in a protracted war with local police departments. Clara’s passion burns with a righteous simplicity, envisioning a Freehold that is active in improving the city around it - if the cops want to throw down, bring it on! Her influence over Winter means the Coldest Court cannot simply dismiss her desires, but neither is it willing to go to war. Something is going to have to give, soon.

This concludes the Fairest portion of the article. Some additional thoughts on Seeming follow.

Bombing Your Own Position - Choosing Your Seeming

So it’s been six articles and I’ve talked about the ways various Seemings can represent responses to the things which traumatize us; neurodivergences for which society abuses us, the machinery of capitalism, violence, prison, and more. But how do you go about choosing your character’s Seeming? The obvious choice is to make a character that puts a lot of yourself at the table; to seek out a Seeming that reflects your own traumas, your own issues, your own anxieties and struggles, and then grapple with them in this fictional context. But RPGs can be an emotionally challenging medium, and you may well not want to deal with your own bullshit during your magic trauma fairy game. That’s valid!

Now, the second obvious piece of advice is to think about your proposed character’s themes and traumas and then select a Seeming from there, but this can get complicated. Many Lost players feel as if they need two Seemings, and to those players I say: no the fuck you do not. But it is true that people are messy and do not fully resolve, that the broad spectrum of the world of sorrow and loss is not easy to fit into 6 discrete categories whose creation was often managed by, not to keep repeating this point, fucking Nazis. I have found in my experience that it can be helpful, when you’re torn between two Seemings or you have a character you’re sure is this Seeming even though they look like or could be that one, to ask yourself why the character is not the other option. Why is this alluring and sensual Darkling not a Fairest, what makes this brutal and violent Wizened not an Ogre? This question naturally leads to others about their abuse and their reaction to it, and can start your momentum for writing your concept out.

As an addition, while I’ve spoken of various Seemings as being well-equipped to represent specific traumas, they don’t own those traumas. Elementals are metaphorically autistic, but there’s nothing stopping you from running an autistic Fairest or an autistic Beast instead. Rather, those Seemings outlined as being “for” or “about” certain traumas are those whose selection will make those traumas thematically central, cause you to return to them as a topic over and over by virtue of being who and what they are. Real people have complicated problems which intersect with one another, spawning new problems that are more strange than the sum of their parts, and it’s both valid and interesting to write your Lost that way - just keep in mind that it’ll still be complicated at the table too.

Van Helsing Hate Crimes - Seeming Politics

White Wolf spent a lot of time waffling back and forth on whether or not Seemings represent distinct cultural and political identities in a given Freehold, drifting towards ‘yes’ when the writers thought about the way Blessings and Curses create consistent, measurable differences between Lost of various Seemings, and towards ‘no’ generally whenever they were asked to actually outline a Lost society such as a sample Freehold or Entitlement. Some Entitlements are locked to specific Seemings, often times with little thought as to why, while other times Seeming-based power blocs are alluded to as worldbuilding elements (such as in Lords of Summer) without much in the way of supporting detail. Why should these things happen, when, how, what does the buildup of this violent fracture in a Freehold society look like?

On the whole, I have taken the stance in these articles and in my own worldbuilding that some amount of fantastical prejudice exists amongst the Lost, but that the systems of oppression have not taken root. Maybe it’s idealistic of me to view the Lost as unwilling or unable to produce internally racist power structures that create an underclass for the benefit of an appointed elite, but in general I feel as if Freeholds are too small, each individual member too precious by simple dint of being a living being in a physical body, for this kind of evil to flourish. That said, you may have also noticed that I identified two Seemings - Darklings and Fairest - as explicitly self-uniting and in some senses self-governing on the basis of common traumas that they often cannot fully explain to outsiders, and indeed community with people that understand your bullshit without you having to say it aloud - that is, those who share a Seeming with you - can be invaluable to all Lost. Ultimately, however, I want to advise against looking at Seemings the way that, say, Vampire: the Requiem looks at Clans, and instead to treat them as reactions to trauma rather than a kind of alternate racial identity.

Next up: So You Need To Write A Fetch

[honeysidesarchived]

WHERE THERE IS NO TEMPTATION, THERE IS NO GLORY.

⊱ a santino d'antonio / oc short-fic

interlude i ( read on ao3 ) ( masterlist )

words: 3k

warnings: clown to clown communication! dassit.

rating: m/t

notes: little flashback/interlude chapter where we can all pretend we don't know the inevitable doom that euphie and santino are hurtling towards at breakneck speed ♡ thank you everyone for your love and support on this fic!!!

and thank you to my beta @starcrier who has been reading this content and proofing it not for the first time, but now for the SECOND time, after beginning this fixation for me from the start. you are an angel and ily! ♡♡

Two Years Earlier

It’s the second time that Euphemia meets Santino that she realizes some things in her life have been decided for her, by Fate, and against her will.

Down the road, it will be come a hallmark of their love. Santino will say it against her mouth, her jaw, her neck; il destino, he’ll murmur, you are my destiny. But Euphie will have felt it, that inevitable pull of him, long before he says it.

It’s a black tie even at his museum. She’s been here once before, for a different event he’s thrown, with a different man as a date. That one had been Italian; this one, tonight, is Russian. She would try to remember their names if they mattered, but they don’t.

Admittedly, it’s not quite a date for her, but it is for the Russian. He’s been courting her well and good for the last week, has taken to calling her my girl, is unaware that just two weeks ago she had let another man call her that (or if he knows, he refuses to acknowledge it). She won’t think about it very much; if there’s a little bit of her that hates it, she is reminded that almost all of the money goes home, and that’s what matters.

So, yes—the evening she meets Santino for what is, technically, the second time, she’s on the arm of another man, and Santino walks by with what she’s sure is every intention of ignoring her date for the evening. Her partner says his name, bright and friendly, and the Golden Boy stops and turns with a smile planted on his face that only thinly veils his annoyance at being detained.

“Buonasera,” Santi greets, hands tucked into the pocket of his slacks as he drags his gaze once over her date and then turns his eyes to her. The linger, longer than Euphie might like—men, she thinks, nothing they do doesn’t feel intrusive—and then turn back to her paramour for the evening. “Thank you for coming. Are you two enjoying the evening?”

“Yes, thank you,” the Russian says, and then with a pleased little smile, he plunges on to introduce her. “This is my Euphemia.”

The words leave a sour taste in her mouth. My Euphemia, this fucking gangster says, like he hasn’t paid for her attendance in expensive gifts that she promptly turns around for profit, like she won’t slide his credit card out of his wallet when he isn’t looking. She knows what he expects out of the evening—but he won’t get it. It wouldn’t be a party if he didn’t end up sorely disappointed and thoroughly vexed.

“Euphemia,” Santino repeats, looking more than pleased to savor her name. “That’s Greek, isn’t it? And your last name is...”

“Volpe,” she supplies, despite the warning bells going off in her head. She immediately regrets it. Idiot, she thinks to herself viciously, monsters love to know your name.

Santino’s expression warms. “Italian, then.”

“Yes,” Euphie replies, even though it’s not a question. She’s unaccustomed to being the center of attention at these things. “My parents have a taste for elaborate, long-winded names that people are prone to stumbling over and mispronouncing.”

A smile—one that does not look strained in the least—drags the corners of his mouth upward. He says, “It suits you,” his eyes flickering over her admiringly before he looks back to her date, feigning a grin at a joke that he makes.

They begin discussing niceties that Euphemia doesn’t care about; business, that which goes on under the Table, and yes, Euphemia is there too, but not really. She belongs to no organization, no man. She doesn’t contract work, necessarily—she gets picked up by mafiosos and gangsters that want a pretty slice of arm candy, finds ways to bleed them out just enough that they consider her an inconvenience and not a threat, and gets on with it. She’s selected by word of mouth alone, which means she has spent more time with the regulars of the underworld more than she would like.

As the old adage went, if it’s not broke...

And because she does not care about what they’re discussing—this and that, him or her, the gossip and annoyances of life under the Table—and desperately wants to get out of this dragging social obligation, Euphemia exhales a little sigh and sets her empty champagne flute on a passing tray and says, “Excuse me, I’m going to go freshen up.”

Santino’s gaze lands on her, heavy. There is something sly in his voice when he says, “Let me show you where to go, bella. It’s easy to get lost if you’ve never been here before.”

She knows where the restrooms are, because she has been here before; Santino must know this, she thinks, must be aware that this is not the same man she was with the last time they met in passing (although last time, her date had hardly deigned to introduce her, instead bustling right on to the business portion of it).

Her date is look at her expectantly, displeased that Santino has taken an interest in her but insistent that she not embarrass him by refusing a polite offer. She cannot afford to say, it’s fine, I know where to go, because men don’t like to acknowledge that Their Girl might have also been courted to attend an event with another man, once. The Russian will be in a bad mood all evening if she says that. Unfortunately for her, her particular brand of clientele are especially tedious when they’re in bad moods.

Euphemia stifles a sigh. “That’s very nice, thank you,” she murmurs, wishing desperately that she could just leave. It’s almost not worth it anymore to keep going. It would be a net loss; maybe she would be better off just eating crow and taking it.

Santino plants a hand on the small of her back and guides her out of the conversation, through the crowd of people and toward the back of the room. The low, scooping back of her dress allows him purchase to the skin there, and he takes a lot of care in guiding her—one hand on her back, the other occasionally taking her hand to wind her through the crowd, almost in a sort of waltz. Any excuse to be close to her, he takes, and even if he stops to talk to someone, his hand stays on her. A permanent fixture.

A marking of territory.

It’s always a pissing contest, with men.

She knows that the restrooms are, in fact, not this way, and for a second, she thinks about saying so—but what would be the point? To kick up a fuss now would be almost worse than breaking the magical illusion that she is there for her companion and not for his money.

“You can imagine my surprise to find you here again,” Santino says when the sounds of the party are drowned out by a closed door behind them. The quiet stillness of the hall seems to enshroud them, almost womblike; dulling out the roar of incessant chatter and elbow-rubbing and peacocking.

She keeps walking down the hall despite knowing that it’s not the direction of the restroom. A part of her hopes that if she continues to play dumb, Santino will tire of her more quickly.

And then he prompts, from behind her, “It is again, isn’t it? I could have sworn I saw you here just a few weeks ago, but you were here with...Abarca, wasn’t it?”

“Is there a point to the little thesis you’re writing out loud?” Euphemia asks coolly, not bothering to hide her irritation. She stops walking and turns to face the man, who seems quite pleased with himself; it’s his turn to move, an attempt at closing the gap between them, and each step he takes forward is a step that Euphemia inches backwards until her back hits the wall.

“My point is, Euphemia Volpe,” he rumbles, “that you might be breaking my poor friend’s heart. Can’t I be concerned about that?”

Her eyes narrow. “Your dear friend? Do you know his name?”

“Do you?” Santino replies evenly. He props a hand up on the wall beside her head, blocking her in—but while Euphie’s knee-jerk reaction is to throw up a red flag and bolt, there is something lovely about the gesture, as though he’s made their conversation that much more intimate by one single movement.

It’s dark in the hallway, dimly effused in an amber glow from lowered lights. They cast eerie, handsome shadows across Santino D’Antonio’s face. Absently, Euphie wishes she was more drunk, but she’d been taking the evening slow in preparation of disappearing from her Russian benefactor.

And no. She doesn't remember his name.

Santino seems to take her silence as affirmation, and he grins.

“Don’t worry, I won’t spill your secret,” he purrs. “If you do something for me.”

Euphemia’s mind races. She jumps to the worst case scenario immediately; but she can’t afford to think like that, can’t afford to sweat in front of the man who leans into her with all of the deadliness of a jungle cat. He’ll eat her up if she does, gnash his teeth and sink his claws in and grind her up between his molars. She’s sure of it.

Her predatory conversation partner arches a dark brow at her. He is handsome, Euphie thinks—pretty, the way an oil slick is, dark and iridescent.

“Do you agree?” he prompts. She stifles a grimace.

“Tell me what the favor is first.”

This drags a laugh out of him. “Sei una piccola volpe, aren’t you? Let loose in a hen house of idiot men.” He sounds particularly delighted by this revelation, like maybe he was worried she wouldn’t live up to his expectations. “The favor is just your favor.” He pauses and tilts his head, gauging her. “Go to dinner with me.”

It feels like a trick. It probably is a trick. She’s thinking of all the way that she can turn him down, squirm her way out of this trap that Santino—because she’s not stupid; she knows who and what he is—has laid out for her.

She’s trying to, anyway, but then Santino’s hand comes up to cradle her jaw, fingers slotting through the hair at the base of her skull, and he brushes their noses together.

“Gorgeous little fox,” Santino murmurs, his voice a pleasant rumble, crushed velvet and the sticky, dark-wet of blood. The air bubbles with a strange, hypnotic emotion, lulling her. “I think that I just have to have you. Say that you’ll come to dinner with me.”

The words send her heart fluttering. This is not the first time that a man has said such a thing to her, but it is the first time a man has said it to her this way—as though he is swallowed by his want of her.

Euphemia impulsively says, “Yes,” before she can turn the acquiescence over in her head forty times and smooth the edges down. The second the word comes out of her mouth, Santino is kissing her—electric, demanding, impatient. She’s been kissed by men many times before, and none of them like this; starved for her. She has never known she wanted someone to be driven insatiable by her presence until Santino D’Antonio is kissing her like a man incensed in a dark hallway.

I am always hungry for someone else, she has thought time and time before. I want someone to be hungry for me.

Satino bunches a fistful of velvet in his hand, gathering the fabric between his fingers at her hip and sighing, almost ruefully, like he wants to do more but he won't.

“I should take you from the idiot right now,” he says against her mouth, and he sounds almost breathless. “But I imagine you’re not through with him yet.”

It’s funny to hear him say it like that. When people look at Euphie on the arm of a Russian gangster, they think, he’s not done yet with that poor girl, but unsurprisingly, Santino sees right through it. He pulls back and gives her a half-cocked grin that’s only a little wicked.

Oh, she thinks, feeling a little more than desperate for another kiss, this was a mistake. But though a mistake he may be, Santino D’Antonio is adept at dressing himself up as a delicious one.

“No,” Euphemia replies. Her chest tightens when the warmth of his body leaves hers, pulling back, hand letting loose the fabric. “I don’t suppose that I am.”

“Then I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” Santi replies, that grin on his face not once faltering. He seems very assured that he’s going to sweep her off her feet. Absently, he reaches up and presses the pad of his thumb against her lower lip, dragging it across the skin still tender from the bruising of his kiss. “And what will you say, Euphemia Volpe, when you go back to your Russian friend and he asks you what you think of Santino D’Antonio?”

What could she say? That she wishes that he would kiss her again, the way that he just had, with longing?

“That I don’t,” Euphemia replies, her voice coming out of her silky. The words darken Santino’s gaze; he looks amused and ruffled, all at the same time. “Think of you at all.”

“Oh, that won’t do.” Santino is leaning in close again, the smell of his cologne washing over her, their lips so close they might as well be kissing. “How can I endear myself to you, belladonna?”

Euphemia knows who he is; she knows exactly the kind of man he plays at, at least in public. Even still, she wants to say something reckless, like, you could kiss me again; but she knows better than that, for now. It’s always ‘for now’, with fools.

“Don’t take me out to dinner,” she says after a heartbeat. “Cook it for me.”

Santino pauses and leans back, like maybe he was thinking she would have just asked him for another kiss, and then he laughs.

“Of course, how could I be such a fool?” He grins at her, wide and pearly-white. “Then I will pick you up tomorrow, and cook you dinner.” He starts walking down the hall, and Euphemia can’t help the disappointment that blooms warm and red in her chest, the petals unfurling and reaching each edge of her rib cage.

“You don’t have my address,” she calls after him, still leaned against the wall. Santino turns. His smile has not dimmed in the least.

“I don’t need it,” he replies back casually. “I can find you just fine.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Santino is a fine cook. By most standards, he is probably even an excellent cook, but he is a fine cook to a woman who has grown up with traditional Italian recipes that she has made most every day since she was trusted in front of the stove.

Euphie tries not to micromanage as he cooks, but it’s difficult. The man is wearing an apron over his five thousand dollar suit—probably more; she’s shooting low when she estimates that—and he lets the sauce that’s meant to simmer start boiling before he turns the heat down, and he doesn’t season his water with anything when he starts heating it up for the pasta, and Euphie just can’t stand it.

“Santino, have you ever made dinner for your family in your entire life?” she demands, nudging him out of the way and empty out half of the semi-hot water to replace it with chicken stock, setting the burner up again.

“No, darling,” he replies amusedly, watching her fuss over the sauce. “Just you.”

She stops. It shouldn’t be sweet—it is Santino, after all—but it is. He does a very good job of being the unassuming viper in this situation, she thinks. So she continues what she’s doing, keeping her hands and her eyes and mouth busy because if she doesn’t, they’ll find ways to busy themselves.

“This was supposed to be you making me dinner,” she chides, “not me teaching you how to cook. I think that it will take a lot of making up for me to—”

Santino’s hand tilts her face to him, and he leans down and kisses her. It’s softer than how he’d kissed her in the hallway, but it doesn’t lack the urgency. He still feels hungry.

She’s dreadfully caught up in it, letting him come back a second and then a third time, letting the flicker of his tongue against her lips part them obediently, letting the gentle reprimand of his teeth in her lower lip inspire a little noise out of her. It’s somehow too long and not enough, and when Euphemia drops the spoon on the counter to grip the front of Santino’s shirt (apron), his hands go to her hips.

“Sit down,” he orders playfully against her mouth, “and let me cook for you. And then we will see who will be doing the making-up, won’t we?”

Euphemia has half a mind to tell him to forget dinner—turn the burners off, she wants to say, and kiss me like that again, but more, and everywhere, and and and—but the competitor in her won’t let go. She exhales a short, impatient breath and says, “Fine, but you are on thin ice, amico.”

He laughs and shuffles her away from the stove to a stool at the kitchen island. In what can only be an effort to properly shmooze her, he follows it up with a glass of wine presented neatly in front of her, glittering-ruby, before returning to his half-done dinner on the stove.

“Amico, huh?” The dark-honey blonde glances over his shoulder at her. “Do you kiss all of your friends like that, Euphemia Volpe?”

The words send a pleased little flurry through her chest. As she watches him over her glass of wine, she replies, “Only the very handsome ones.”

When the food is served up, they don't bother going to the dining table. In Santino's loft, it appears that the dining table likely goes without much use, despite it being seated for a full party of people; instead, they stay at the kitchen island, and Santino deposits the apron on the counter before he leans against the edge of the island.

“You are a hard woman to track down, Euphemia,” Santino says, reaching over and scooping and olive off of her plate for himself. She makes an affronted noise.

“I thought you would have no trouble finding me?”

“I did not anticipate you were so efficient at covering your tracks.” He smiles, watching her across the countertop. “No family in New York. No employment history. Rent paid in cash. Most frequently spotted at the Continental, too, but otherwise your recreational hours are spent entertaining influential figureheads. If I did not know any better, I would think you were preparing to disappear.”

Euphemia shrugs. It would be unsettling, that he went digging on her, but she supposes that's life under the Table. It's not as though she anticipated he wouldn't, anyway.

“You are obsessed with me, Santi, it's alright, you can say,” she demurs. It's easier than saying I never want to have to try very hard to disappear.

He grins at her. “Maybe I am just offended that you never offered me your services.” And then, as though to be a good sport: “Because I am obsessed with you, Euphemia Volpe.”

She takes a sip of her wine, sets the glass down on the countertop, and plants her chin in her hand to regard him. His gaze is playful; he looks almost earnest about his words, even though she'd said them in jest. At any rate, it's a relief to have navigated the prying, for the moment.

Euphemia says, “How were you able to focus on cooking when you have me here, then?”

There is a crooked little smile on his face at her words, a smile that she can only see for half of a moment before he says, “Don’t you know the saying?” He leans in and tilts her chin up with his fingers, his gaze sweeping her, as though to admire the most opulent work of art.

“Senza tentazioni, senza onore.”

[phoenixyfriend]

The IzuTobi Prequel

Prequel to this post, which I’ve taken to calling the “Red Eyes = Spouse Material” AU.

WARNING: contains a reference to worries/fears of sexual coercion.

Like, okay, they did not know that Tobirama had red eyes at first. They weren't close enough on the river for Izuna to see, since he didn't have Sharingan yet, while Tajima and Madara were looking at their respective opponents, not Tobirama.

Then, once they were in their early teens, and Izuna already had his Sharingan, they met on the battlefield for the first time, and Izuna saw Tobirama's eyes. Sure, Tobirama wouldn't meet his gaze, but Izuna could still see him.

And Izuna, as is only natural, went to Madara to ask 'hey uhhhhhhhhh one of our enemies is actually Amaterasu-blessed, what do.'

And Madara's just like '!!!!!' because hey actually this is great news everybody knows that the first step upon meeting an unmarried stranger with red eyes is to figure out who the best person to court them is, they can get a marriage alliance out of this to end the bloodshed and child death! Even the Elders can't argue against having a clan marriage to an Amaterasu-blessed indivi--

They object.

Well, Tajima objects.

Madara and Izuna bring the issue to him, both pretty excited about doing the whole "arranged engagement in the early teens, actual marriage at twenty or so" thing as a way to stop killing kids but Nope! For a variety of reasons, most of which boil down on Tajima's side to "the Senju have killed three of my children, I have no interest in taking in one of their own," the plan is shot down.

Madara and Izuna are naturally devastated but keep an eye out for like. A chance. To slip the info to Tobirama or Hashirama so they're at least aware of the possibility for when Tajima dies, in case Butsuma is more open to it?

I can't decide if they actually manage to set up a Secret Meeting prior to their dads' deaths, but I'm leaning towards 'no.'

(In this plot, Izuna is still wary of the Senju, but much more open to the idea of peace on account of Auspicious Omens Are Here.)

Anyway, Tajima dies first, I think, and Madara's first act as Clan Head is to send Hashirama a request by hawk for a private meeting. Hashirama is still only heir, not Clan Head, but Butsuma is ill (infected wound, I think), so Hashirama has the option of accepting this.

They meet, and Madara explains that he can sway most of the clan into an alliance--not just an armistice, but an actual alliance, possibly even establish that village they talked about as kids--if they can marry Tobirama into the Uchiha.

"Does it have to be Tobirama?" Hashirama asks, because he's not the best brother, but he's good enough to know that Tobirama hates the idea of getting married.

"Yes," Madara says, and then explains that it's all in the eyes, that this is a deeply spiritual thing to the clan and while some of the more militant elders may object, most of the clan will take the red eyes as a sign that this is intended to happen.

And Hashirama is quiet, and then asks if a marriage would require Tobirama to sire any children.

"We're not going to try to steal a kekkei genkai."

"That's not it."

"...wait, does he prefer men? We can--we can make that happen. If it's... hell, in that case it might work better, he could marry me or Izuna, direct connection to the main house, skip the issue of heirs and--"

"No, that's not... not it. But it makes me feel better to know that. I'll have to run it past him."

Tobirama is VERY ace and Hashirama had strict plans to respect that so he's trying to feel out if consummation would be required, or if a kiss for the wedding and then cohabitation would be enough.

Internal logic is "I want peace but not at the expense of handing my brother over for coerced marital rape where he thinks he can't say no without restarting the war."

He manages to get the agreement that the Uchiha weren't looking to pressure Tobirama into any sex-related things, though Madara still thinks it's a matter of Bloodline Protection and that Hashirama is worried about, like, someone trying to steal surplus semen or something.

Hashirama goes home and outlines it to Tobirama, who is very ??? about the whole thing but willing to at least consider it after Hashirama explains the basic requirements and how he confirmed that sexual relations aren't necessary. Hashirama floats it past Butsuma as a Theoretical Exercise, and is shot down.

So, Hashirama sends Madara a letter to the effect of "Our esteemed Clan Head says no, but we'll keep it in mind [insert veiled implication that Butsuma's dying anyway here]."

Madara and Hashirama have always kinda held back against each other, but now Tobirama and Izuna are also holding back the teensiest bit, just enough that nobody can be sure (and tell Butsuma or and Elder about it).

Well, Touka notices, but her first resort is "ask Tobirama to his face" and second resort is "bother Hashirama about it" so she gets the rundown on how Madara and Izuna are angling to get a political marriage with Tobirama since his eyes are Apparently a spiritual matter to the Uchiha as a whole.

Obviously, Butsuma dies, and Hashirama then immediately sends Madara a letter like "HEY so I'm Clan Head now, here's a nice inn located in neutral territory, bring your brother and an advisor, I'll do the same, let's hammer out a contract ASAP."

So it's Hashirama, Tobirama, and Touka on one side, Madara, Izuna, and Hikaku on the other.

Tobirama explains that he refuses to engage in sexual relations with anyone he marries (internally he's thinking that he might eventually take interest if he gets comfortable enough, but overall the entire concept is a little disgusting to him, and he doesn't want anyone to think they can convince him to do it, so he takes a hardline stance during the marriage contract negotiation process), but is open to his marriage partner engaging in an extramarital affair for a period of time in order to secure an heir.

"I promise we're not trying to steal your--" "Madara. Look at me. I do not like sex, and have never had any intention to engage in the activity with anyone, Uchiha or Senju or any clan at all. I had no plans for marriage, ever. The only reason I am opening myself to this one is because I value the opportunity for peace." "...oh."

So, you know, that's out in the open now, but it actually makes it easier to negotiate because they now know why he's uncomfortable with the idea of marriage, so other things (like the cohabitation and dowry and whatnot) can be discussed without people getting resentful about the other party not trusting them with genetic material. Hashirama and Madara get really excited about the whole village idea again, in part because Hashirama wants his brother to be able to visit Really Easily.

At one point they ask Tobirama who he wants to marry, if there's anyone he's interested in? Male or female? What ages is he comfortable with? Main line would be most politically expedient, but--

And he's just like "I know Izuna best, as my rival, and I've taken note of enough recently to know he's not a terrible person, at least as far as any shinobi can be 'good.' If Izuna is open to it, then I would like to discuss what cohabitation would look like between us. Should our expectations of daily life line up well enough, then I imagine that would be optimal."

Izuna's torn, because Amaterasu-blessed, but also he'd kind of been hoping for a Real Marriage with Affection and Children. Touka loudly suggests they take a recess and let Tobirama and Izuna talk in private for a bit.

Izuna manages to get across his personal worries, and Tobirama laughs and says that he actually loves children and was planning to take on plenty of students. "If you don't like the option of the extramarital affair for a child, we could always adopt. As for affection... I've been told I cling like an eel in my sleep, if that suggests anything."

"So if I grew enough feelings that I wanted, like... a good morning kiss or something..." "Quite frankly, my feelings on kissing in general are pretty neutral. It's a little strange, but I could engage with it, once a rapport is built. Heavy petting is distasteful, however, and anything past that..."

And Izuna listens to all that like "Oh. Okay, I will be able to Acquire Cuddles."

Then they discuss the whole 'what do we anticipate out of cohabitation' thing, like pets and cleanliness standards and what spare rooms are for and what goes on in the basement and allergies. It matches up... not perfectly, really, but close enough that they can make it work. They shake hands like the nerds they are and call their families back in and say they've decided it'll work so let's get that paperwork drawn up and start planning a wedding.

Aaaaaaaaaaand then Zetsu kills Izuna and convinces Madara that it was Tobirama's fault so he loses the plot (or, well, finds the canon plot, really).

I'm happy to imagine Tobirama and Izuna on a couch in their house, Izuna halfway asleep and leaning his head on Tobirama's shoulder, while Tobirama's got on a pair of glasses and is reading a book.

Just. Really domestic.

Cutesy.

IDK I feel like they just end up as pleasant roommates who don't necessarily ignore each other, but are well aware of the fact that they entered into this arrangement with non-romance expectations, and they're both okay with that.

They take dinner together, talk shop, try to engage with each other's hobbies, go to events as each other's default plus-one...

It’s Nice

[sunshinesukuna]

just right

pairing: miya osamu x reader

tws: body insecurity, catcalling, self-starving

wc: 5.1k

prompt: Person A and B aren’t a couple, but A is crushing massively on B. A decides to change to get B’s attention, and while B doesn’t know about this crush, B starts to notice that A is starting to look and act differently... But B doesn’t like it and decides to confront A. What is the confrontation like? How does A react?

summary: the 6 things you want to avoid for him, and the 1 thing he wants you to avoid for him.

insp: GOT7′s Just Right, lovely - millz

special thanks to the betas that read over this @haikyuu-ink @fukuronani and @ardorwrites-hq-mha <33

this is a special love poem for all y’all that are going through something like this. psa: it gets better <3333

The lunch ladies were all flabbergasted when you skipped your usual side dishes and asked them to give you a piece smaller than your usual. 

“But you’ll go hungry!” one of them said. You shrugged and gave them an apologetic smile.  You turned your head to the side to avoid smelling even more of the scrumptious food in front of you. Instead, you focus your eyes on the small bowl in front of you. There’s some rice the size of a child’s fist coupled with a piece of fish smaller than an iPod shuffle.

Osamu pulls out his regular bento that he made himself after complaining that the ones you make weren’t enough to keep him fed throughout the day. There are three onigiris per usual. All three of them were meant to be for him, but you started nicking so much of them for yourself that he let you have one eventually.

So when you didn’t creep your hand from under his larger elbow to swipe at the snack, he stopped eating all at once. The onigiri hung suspended inches away from his ready mouth, locked in their place by your out of place habits. 

He holds it out so tantalizingly in front of you, the human personification of the devil on your left shoulder egging you to take the snack from the plastic bag in front of you. Osamu doesn’t say anything, but the nudge on your arm and the small raise of his chin asks you soundlessly: “You’re not going to eat it?”

You shake your head and continue nibbling on the fish to savor the flavor for longer. Osamu tilts his head.

“You’re not going to eat it?” Osamu says out loud. Atsumu stops his blabbering from across the table and puts his chopsticks down.

“Oh? What’s this? Our gluttonous (Y/N) isn’t eating that much anymore?” Atsumu asks. You wrinkle your nose at the other twin. Osamu’s still holding the onigiri. He makes it look like an object worthy of being your Holy Grail, perhaps even better than that. It takes all your resolve to hold back from running to the lunch ladies and demanding seconds.

“I figured that you would be tired of me stealing your food all this time, so,” you pushed his outstretched hand away from you, “you can have it this time.”

“But I don’t want it,” Osamu says. He slides the unwrapped onigiri back to you and opens another one.

“You can give it to Atsumu,” you say, sliding the snack to the other side of the table.

“Yeah, ‘Samu,” Atsumu says, using your nickname for his twin. It drips in mock sweetness that would make anyone grimace. Atsumu mockingly opens and closes his hand, even though there’s a mountain of rice and enough vegetables to feed an unwasteful family for a month on his own plate. “Give it to Atsumu.”

Osamu rolls his eyes at his twin and looks back at you. Like he’s going to give the fruits of his hard work to his no-good twin. His eyes widen again as he taps your elbow with the onigiri like you’re a stray cat deprived of warmth.

“You don’t have to give it to me, ‘Samu. I’m fine.” The groaning of your stomach says otherwise. Osamu looks at you with his ‘I-told-you-so’ eyes. You bat your eyes and open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He holds out the piece of onigiri again.

You chew on the last mouthful of rice, sucking out all the flavor from the grains before swallowing it and putting down your chopsticks. Osamu keeps eye contact with you as you rise from the lunch table, looking like a puppy that had been kicked to the streets by its beloved owner.

“I’m on a diet,” you mutter, as you make your way back to class alone. “See you at practice later.”

Osamu stares at your retreating back, before finishing the onigiri that was meant to be yours.

Osamu forgot the name of the female idol a minute into the interview. The other boys in his class had been raving about her since class began. The minute the teacher left to go to the office, it was phones out and social norms out the window apparently, as they ogled the beauty giving the interviewer a way too good view of her legs.

He balances the pencil between his lips and nose as he eavesdrops on the conversation. He catches glimpses here and there of who they’re talking to, but they’re not enough to pique his interest. Truth be told, Osamu would much rather like it if the ones talking to each other in close proximity on a loveseat were you and him. 

“Yo Osamu!” one of his classmates, Osamu has better things to know than his name, calls out with a slap on his back. 

“Are you a fan of her too?” the classmates asks. Osamu twirls the pen around his fingers silently, not feeding into the question.

“There must have been something you liked about her,” one of the boys says, leaning on Osamu’s desk. Osamu has half the mind to tell him to move his arse to the dumpster where it belongs.

“She…” Osamu shrugs saying the first things that come to mind, “has a cute laugh, I guess. Doesn’t snort like those comedians on game shows,” he says. Of course, he doesn’t mean it, he just hopes that the boys will go away if he makes a dry comment.

The boys thought that Osamu couldn’t even digest the basic mechanisms of a laugh at the end of the day anyway, so they rolled their eyes and went back to happily watching. 

You stare at your hands as you listen to his words on the other side of the class.

“And then she slams into the wall, face first. When I saw her through the window, I thought she was Peppa Pig reincarnated as a human, without the pig,” Atsumu jokes later at practice.

A smile breaks out onto your lips, widening into a hearty laugh. You’re about to slap your thigh in mirth, but are suddenly jolted back to reality when you catch a glimpse of Osamu.

You laugh, but your signature snorts and chortles are gone, replaced with a tinkly giggle that makes Osamu want to punch people who laugh like that. And the wide smile on your face is hidden behind your hands, what’s up with that? But since you’re the one that’s laughing, he clenches his fist and squeezes his knee to redirect his excess tension.

You keep it up for the rest of practice as you continue with your duties as manager. The first-years that see you as their friendly senpai chat you up as usual. Osamu has more pressing appointments, like the ball hurtling towards his face at 75 miles per hour, so the face of the fella that’s making you cover up your pretty little laugh automatically stamped onto the ball in Osamu’s mind, as he spikes the ball back with a deathly force.

Osamu’s always been content with the circumstances he was born in, but right now, he wished that he was born with a superpower. Telekinesis, more specifically, so he can ward off the hands that cover your mouth and the vocal cords that constrict the laughter that is so uniquely you. 

Maybe that’s why he’s thinking about you much more than he usually does.

He doesn’t pay much attention to how much of it he’s giving you until Atsumu brings it up later on the way back home. 

“Ya’ was staring at her so hard I thought your eyes were ‘bout to pop outta your ugly face,” Atsumu says. Osamu isn’t fazed, having faced almost 17 years of the same insults over and over again from his twin that just never seems to learn any new ones. He keeps walking. 

“We have the same face, Einstein,” he retorts. There are a few minutes of silence between the twins as they pass the scenery of Hyogo. But curiosity gets the best of Osamu.

“Staring at who?” Osamu asks, finally getting his twin’s insult.

“Ya got the nerve to call me Einstein but can’t figure out something like that, eh?”

Osamu stops right in his tracks. Atsumu keeps on walking but stops as well when he realizes he’s left behind his twin. Osamu gives Atsumu a blank look. 

Atsumu clicks his tongue. “(Y/N), ya’ dummy. From the way you were lookin’ at her, I thought she ate one of your snacks or something.” Atsumu rests his head between his hands.

 “Not like ya’ would ever let anyone hurt her.”

You had anticipated what was going to come ever since the bus had dropped the team off at the beach. The boys of the volleyball team were overall respectful men, but they were teenage boys, at best. You caught their lingering stares and the way they would fight for the court nearest to the biggest gaggle of girls on the beach.

Which is why you had come prepared.

The boys rush into the sea one by one as they strip off their jerseys into the sand. You shake your head as you pick them up one by one. You roll up the sleeves of the crewneck to make it easier to reach below, but the sheer insulation it’s giving you is making it hard to take a step.

“Come on out (Y/N)! We’ll feed ya to the sharks!” Atsumu shouts from where he’s paddling in the surf. 

“How about I feed you sand and rocks in your rice later tonight?” you holler back. Atsumu instantly goes slack-jawed and camouflages himself amongst the sea foam and other beach-goers. 

There’s exactly one jersey missing from the bundle you have in your hand. Huh. All the boys should have finished practice by now. You scanned the beach line, looking for any black shirts in the distance. All of them were swimming in the ocean shirtless by now.

Except the one looming over your shoulder right now. You jump back at the sight of his shadow standing intimidatingly above you, but you reel back once you get a peep of his ash hair.

“Aren’t you going in the water, (Y/N)?” he asks. There’s a stick of fried squid in his hand. “You worked really hard back there, you know.” The combination of sudden confrontation and the crewneck’s heat-trapping material has you sweating a flood.

“I’m fine just sitting here, Osamu. You can go play with the boys if you want to,” you say. Osamu gazes at the water that reflects the sunlight so perfectly it mimics freshly polished diamonds. He rubs his chin in thought, before turning back to you.

“What are you going to do in the meantime?”

You settle back on the chair you had put in a shady spot before everyone else was even up. It took a little pocket money and some convincing, but the guy that owned the shaved ice stand right in front of the chair had saved it especially for you. You hold up the book on the table. 

“Calculus.”

“In this heat?”

“Just because we’re at the beach doesn’t mean I can slack off on my studies.” You flip open the book. “You can just leave me here. I’ll be alright.”

Osamu looks at the sea, then back at you. You’re praying to the heavens above that he’ll just go play, so you can get this damn thing off without having to worry about any of them— especially the twins— seeing. It’s the first time you would be exposed this much around them anyways. You really should have brought a lighter and looser shirt along with you.

“Then I’ll stay here with you,” Osamu says. Shoot. 

“Y-you will?” He nods. “Sure you don’t want to go cool off in the sea? Or get some food? You should really go out in the sun, you know. Everyone’s been asking me if you’re alright because you’re so pale.”

“Do they?” You curse at yourself as he pulls over an unused chair from an unoccupied table. Osamu sets it in the sun, inches away from where you’re sitting in the shade. He props up his leg. “This counts as tanning, right?”

“I guess,” you mutter.

Osamu puts his sunglasses on and goes back to eating the stick of fried squid. From time to time, he glances at your sweaty body. It was 30 degrees outside and you insisted on wearing the team’s winter crewneck? Some heat tolerance you had. Or probably it wasn’t your heat tolerance. Osamu wouldn’t know, seeing as he was interrupted by loud hooting.

“Nice bikini, sweetheart! Sure you don’t wanna share some of that with me?” 

“I would tap that!”

“Major babe at 10 o’clock!”

Surely that couldn’t be the team. They had been raised better than that after a whole school year spent drilling the Peeping Toms of the team harder than ever, courtesy of their kickass manager: you. 

Thank goodness it wasn’t. A group of boys around your age paraded around just a few meters from where you sat on the beach. Their noisy brags sent a young toddler screaming back to his mother and a poor dog back to the ocean. The crowd parted like the Red Sea for them as they made their way down.

“What about her, bro?” a scrawny one asked the tallest, most likely the leader of the group. They stopped just in front of the shaved ice stand you were lounging at, waiting at their friends to finish their transactions.

“Which one?” the leader asked.

“The one near the table.” You looked up. The boy was pointing a long, thin finger your way. There was no one around where you were sitting except for Osamu.

“Nah. Bet she’s not worth it. I wouldn’t go for her, and I feel sorry for the bros that do.” 

They were talking about you.

You fished around in your bag for your sunglasses. Shoot, you had left them at the inn this morning. You settled for putting a hand on your temple in hopes that they wouldn’t see your eyes. 

But you would be lying to say that it didn’t hurt. The one thing you were trying so hard to avoid during your stay at the beach now thrust on you when you didn’t even ask for it? After all you had taken to avoid it?

The lump in your throat was getting bigger and bigger by the moment. Maybe you should remove yourself from the situation. The boys already knew what time their curfews were and they were in good hands. You shut the book and put it back in your bag. Osamu pulls down his glasses to see you getting ready to go somewhere.

“Where are you going?” he asks. Osamu stands up again. Please don’t follow me, please don’t follow me.

“I’ll be—” your voice cracks. Shoot. “I’ll be back at the inn if you need me.” Before he can ask you any more questions, you turn on your heel and make your way back.

“Hey, say that again,” a voice says. It’s soft, but pillows used to suffocate people to death are also soft. It’s Osamu.

“Say what?” the leader asks. “You her boyfriend?” 

You freeze in your tracks and take a peep behind you. The boys are chest to chest, Osamu having the advantage of height by only a few inches. The boy isn’t fazed at all. He smiles at Osamu,but it’s poison honey that would make anyone want to slap him across the face. 

“I can hook you up with some chicks way out of her league. You could do it, man. Come on,” the boy says.

“Shut your trap,” Osamu retorts. 

“You’re just salty ‘cause you couldn’t find a chick hotter than her.”

Things are going to get worse. Without looking back, you make your way back to the safety of the inn.

Maybe Osamu was lying about the scars on his knuckles.

Osamu loses his sanity at the same pace the clock ticks. A few more minutes left. Maybe he should go get some fresh air out in the hallways. The hallways are almost empty, save for a few last-minute stragglers that rush to get to their classes on time. With everyone that passes, the feeling of dread eats him up as he worries that you’re not going to make it.

“Morning, ‘Samu!” someone greets from behind him. The early morning sunlight on your face made it look like you had a rosy tint on your cheeks. As you stepped closer, Osamu realized that if he stroked a finger across your cheek, it would definitely come back absolutely stained with blush.

There was also a light sheen of pigment on your lips. Not like the normal shade of your lips weren’t perfectly kissable. But Osamu would digress. 

“Are you wearing makeup?” Osamu asks. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You just…” Osamu gestures at your face, now caked on with makeup that you usually wouldn’t wear. “This is why you were late?” 

“No! I actually—” But then there’s a knocking on the table at the front, and everyone is back in their seats in an instant. The bespectacled teacher surveys the room. His eyes linger a bit longer on your bedazzled look, but they flit away just as quickly to the open book in hand.

“Today, we’re going to talk about ideal types,” the teacher says. A few people in the back snigger, but the teacher pays them no mind. 

“Miya Osamu! What are you looking for when it comes to a partner?” You roll your eyes at the classes jeering, but find yourself leaning back to hear Osamu’s answer. Osamu looks up at the ceiling.

“Someone… quiet? Maybe so I don’t have to deal with all their bull—” Osamu’s just bs-ing it of course, but there are people in the class that hand onto his every word like it’s the actual truth. Yourself included.

“Language!” the teacher snaps.

“In accordance with the reading material, does anyone know the reason why we have ideal types?” 

“Yes, (Y/N)?”

“We have ideal partners whose natural defenses contradict with our own. If we’re shy and quiet, we tend to pursue people who are aggressive and pursuing, for example.”

“Good. Can anyone tell me how this would have protected us in the past?”

“Yes, (Y/N)?” the teacher asks again. The teacher sighs, even though you see no one behind you raising their hands. From your peripheral vision, you catch Osamu laying his head on his hands. He stares out the window like he’s bored with class… or perhaps bored with you? 

“I... was just stretching, sorry.”

“Very well then.” 

The second you put your hand down, Osamu looks back at the teacher. Did he not want to hear you yammer on again? He did say that he liked quiet girls. 

All the more reason for you to turn it down a notch.

So you do, during math, when you clearly have a final result of 25 written clearly on your paper. Yet when the teacher asks for answers, you fumble with the pencil on your desk to make it seem like you’re working.

And again, during science, when your group in lab has finished the experiment yards above everyone else. But you stall and crumple up the paper near your chest, and only hand in the result once another group has gone and given the teacher theirs.

And again during History, when you give another lame excuse that your report on Date Masamune isn’t finished, just so you wouldn’t be the only one presenting in class that day. Osamu clearly sees the papers with “One-Eyed Dragon of Oshu, Date Masamune,” on the title page, but says nothing. 

He doesn’t really do anything. It’s your life after all, why should he tell you how to live it? But he would be lying if he said that he didn’t miss your quick answers to the teacher’s questions, always summing up the points better than the teachers.

In the end, he leaves you be and ignores the feeling in his gut he gets whenever he sees you wearing more makeup than you usually do. That is until he’s passing by the teacher’s office on his way to practice and happens to spot you. It’s unlike him to care about other people’s business, much less snoop into them, but Osamu finds himself stalling at the water fountain next to the door even when his own bottle is still full.

“I just think I ought to hold back a bit. Everyone probably thinks I’m a bit overbearing, so i’ll just… tone it down a bit,” you say. Tone what down? 

“You don’t need to, (Y/N),” someone, probably your science teacher, replied.

“It’s alright, sir, I promise.”

“Really? You seem to have changed a little this past month.” Pure facts. Even though he never said it out loud, anyone would have noticed the way you put on more makeup and started to become quieter and quieter.

“I haven’t, really.”

“You’re also starting to become more tardy, (Y/N). Is everything alright back home?” You chuckled.

“Everything’s fine, sir, it really is.”

How believable.

The final straw that breaks the camel’s back comes a few weeks after that. Coach looks over at the boys that aren’t playing on water-refilling duty, their manager absent and nowhere to be found. 

“Where’s (Y/N)?” the coach barks at the second years. Aran shrugs and looks expectantly over to Atsumu and Osamu. 

“Sick. Stomach flu,” Atsumu says in the middle of his set. 

“And no one’s gone and checked up on her?”

“Her mom said that (Y/N)’s “not in the mood for entertaining guests,” or whatever excuse she has for missing that killer math test yesterday.” Atsumu puts in air quotes for emphasis. 

It’s Osamu’s turn to serve, but his legs don’t seem to want to move anywhere. They’re anchored down to the floor by the thought of none other than you. You were generally healthy, with no other severe conditions that would knock you out for a long time. And Osamu was with you for the past few days. You hadn’t eaten anything sketchy, albeit you did eat a lot less than your usual portions. 

He shrugs it off and slams the ball to the other side of the net. 

The bell screeches from up above, the savior melody of bored students who are aching to eat and spend some time away from the teachers.  

“Hey, (Y/N), wanna go get some…” You heed him no mind, the only acknowledgment of his presence a slight bump on his shoulder as you walk out into the hall. That’s odd. Osamu steps out of the classroom to call your name out into the hallways, but you’ve disappeared under the wave of students heading for lunch. Rather than embarrass himself, Osamu decides to go eat. 

He has half a mind to go get you from your other friends to go home when the sun starts to dip against the Hyogo sky. A raised eyebrow graces his face as he is told that neither your friends can be able to locate you, what with your bag and other possessions gone from your lockers. 

Practice is another pain in the back to deal with, harshened by a new realization. It’s been dawning on him for a long time now, but he’s hesitant to take any action without further proof. 

Osamu lays a hand on the doorknob of the locker rooms. There are whispers outside the door. Normally, he couldn’t care less for other people’s business—tea was where Atsumu truly shined— but of course, it just had to be your voice on the other side of the door.

“Why can’t you just give it to ‘em yourself?” Atsumu asks. If this was going to be a scene straight out of a cliche teen romance, Osamu would make a run for it. You click your tongue.

“Just because, Atsumu. Give it to him or I’m not leaking the answers to tomorrow’s chemistry quiz to you,” you reply back. 

“If this wasn’t my twin, I wouldda cast you out to the streets already, (Y/N).”

“He’s better off not seeing me, okay?”

Oh. Well, now all the puzzle pieces have fallen into place.

You’re cornered. Why does coach have to have this day of all days to direct his frustration at Osamu. Maybe coach’s anger wasn’t really that baseless though— Osamu constantly missing his serves and crooked spikes would be enough to irk any volleyball player enough to make him run laps around the gym. And since it was getting late and everyone wanted to go home, who else to better oversee Osamu’s punishment other than their sweet manager?

“And… 100,” you call from across the hall. Osamu crouches on his knees and pants. With heavy, laboured steps, Osamu trudges all the way to the wall next to the bench where you’re sitting. And promptly makes himself comfortable just a meter a way from you on the wooden tiles. You furrow your eyebrows at him from on the bench. 

“Hey, (Y/N),” he asks almost lazily. You grip the bench seats. Please don’t drag this out, please don’t drag this out. Osamu turns his head slowly to fix his eyes on your shaking figure. You spy the door over at the edge of the gym, wondering if you can make it before Osamu’s athlete reflexes can catch up to you. 

But your neck moves on its own, turning your head around to make direct eye contact with your former best friend.

“Take ‘yer makeup off.” Osamu says it like a command, the tone of his voice alone enough to make you reach for your eyebrows that you had so painstakingly labored over this past morning to look presentable… for Osamu. 

“What?” you ask. With a click of his tongue, Osamu rises up from his position laying down on the floor and moves to where you’re sitting. He doesn’t break eye contact as he puts either hand on the sides of your hips, effectively caging you inside his arms. You can feel his heavy breaths on your forehead. 

Osamu looks up at you. For someone like him, he looks disoriented as can be. Pupils widened, breath turning shallower, and sweating even heavier.

“Why’re you doing this, (Y/N)?” he mumbles. “You’re clearly uncomfortable under all that makeup, and I can tell you wanna punch the daylights out of that girl for making fun of Isaac Newton’s wig.” 

He catches himself, realizing that the volume of his voice is growing steadily louder and louder, and that you’re shrinking in your seat. Osamu sighs and takes his hand off the bench. The air is now fresh, but Osamu’s musk is still enough to make you dizzy with images of his face only a hair’s width away from you. 

You’re not sure if you hate it.

“I-I’m sorry?” you ask Osamu, who has now taken a seat on the bench right next to you. He leans on the wall, only eyes moving to look at you. Osamu shrugs and takes a swig of the water bottle on the bench before dropping his head in between his legs. 

You scoff. Osamu, being the one to say all this? The nerve this boy has. The mental wall that is the dam to your emotions breaks. 

“You really are dumber than Atsumu, eh?” Osamu perks up at the sound of your voice. “You know why I didn’t go to school for those two days? I burned myself on my hair straightener, because I didn’t want to take a chance to let you see me like that!” 

You let the neckline of your sweater fall, the purple, rectangle burn still as clear as day on the skin of your neck. Osamu’s eyes widened. He raises a hand to touch it, but the likes of an invisible lasso hold him back from getting anywhere near you. 

There’s a burning behind your eyes. The ground under you felt like a waterbed, wobbling with each step you take. This was not how you planned your first confession would go, but here you were. 

“It’s because I like you, you dummy!” you cry, standing up.

Your words echo throughout the empty gym.  If it didn’t echo through Osamu’s mind, then you were—

“I’m the dummy here? Tch, yeah right.”

Osamu looks to the sides of the hall like he’s planning an escape route. Well, no way to escape this situation now. You’re both mice in a trap, lured by the cheese that is your feelings, and pinned down by the current circumstances. He locks eyes with you for a second, before his eyes find something more interesting to look at— your lips.  

“Only an airhead like you would go on to change themselves just so I would like them,” Osamu rises up to his full height, “when I already do in the first place.”

“You… what?” you ask. 

“I like you.” Osamu can’t seem to make a decision on wether to look at your eyes or not. “But fuck that, if ya think ya gotta change yourself for me, then I’d rather not date at all.”

You scoff. So all your efforts had been for nothing?

“But you said you liked quiet girls! And—” Osamu raises an eyebrow.

“You believed that?” 

“What else was I supposed to believe?” you screech.

There’s a large hand that’s harsh enough to send the hardest spikes across the net, yet gentle enough to toss the most careful sets and decorate the most delicate pieces of food in his bento. It’s on your cheek, wiping away tears that you didn’t know were there.

Hands lead up to muscular arms that greet you as you step inside his comforting embrace. There’s nothing except the sound of muffled crying through the halls. He does what he can, patting your back and offering his sweaty jersey as your handkerchief. If anyone walked in the gym right now, he would have given them a glare to send them running away for as long as they could run. 

“That I like you just the way you are.”

taglist: @akaashit-baeji​ 

[chronicbatfictioner]

"Overall, it wasn't so bad..." Tim commented.

"Except for the fact that Bane roared like a constipated bear and literally lunged at Damian and Jason threw him out the window..." Barbara quipped, her face serious but her lips were still twitching. "I... am highly amused. Twice."

"You were laughing until you bent over double that if you weren't in a wheelchair, you've probably knelt on the floor laughing." Dinah deadpanned. "It was hilarious."

"Yes, it was. The fact that Jason could actually lift Bane and throw him out... Did you guys see Bruce's face, though! Oh my god! He... he looked at Jason as if he'd seen the lord savior Jésus Todd or something!" Tim crowed. "Like, the dude Bane got thrown out a bay window twice. I get the awe, I was a little star-struck myself. But I can't believe dude actually wanted to try the third time until Alfred pointed a damn shotgun to his forehead! I can't even!"

"This thus solidifies my thoughts that the Waynes may be trying to figure out a way to get rid of this... brute without... I dunno..." Barbara pondered.

"Gotten themselves broken in half?" Tim suggested. "He sure insinuated that he would do such a thing to Damian."

"Oh, gee, Tim. Which part of his speech insinuated that? 'You lying bastard!', or 'I'll break you in halves!'?"

"I'm partial to the 'bastard' remark, really. I mean, pot, kettle?" Tim replied, giggling.

"Technically," Helena Bertinelli - The Huntress - sighed as she chimed in; "and ironically, at that; the 'bastard' would be Bane since he claimed to be Thomas Wayne's son and is younger than Bruce. Which means he was 'conceived' while Dr Thomas was already married to Mrs Wayne..."

"Right? Bruce and Talia were two consenting adults, albeit under 20 years old; and were wed in a local ritual witnessed by locals, according to Jason. You should see Bane's face when Jason presented copies of the marriage's registry." Tim continued.

"Oh, we saw, all right. Harper's drones worked quite well." Dinah replied, snickering, referring to Harper Row, one of their tech 'consultants'. "Even at that height, it still delivered crystal clear pictures. I vote we use them again."

"No vote needed, the drones are on stand-by at the Wayne Manor permanently at this point. I'm more interested in his reaction when Damian offered them a DNA test." Barbara told her.

"I'm more interested in Bruce Wayne's reaction, really. He didn't seem too surprised, as if he was expecting this to happen or something." Helena pointed out.

"Maybe he did," Barbara replied absently. "Dude has been swingin' more than the roarin' 50s, there has got to be some juniors out there that even he didn't know of."

"Ugh, while I'm not a fan of Bruce Wayne's womanizing ways, I personally don't think he's that reckless. He's not a drinker or a junkie, as far as I know. He has virtually no vice other than extreme sports." Helena argued.

"I agree," Selina, who has been quietly watching from the corner, chimed in. "This is a guy who got visibly antsy when some sexy girls in bikinis come up to him - I thought he was gay. But if he'd been... wedded to Talia Al Ghul all these times, that would make sense. He knew exactly where he stood, and what would come up if he screwed it up."

"Has Jason or Dick said anything of the Doc and Mama Wayne's reaction?" Helena asked.

"They seemed truly confused, a little apprehensive, but didn't seem to be opposed to the idea that Damian is Bruce's child. Dr Wayne said that a DNA test wouldn't be necessary, but Jason insisted it." Tim replied, and added a little absently a few heartbeats later. "But why would he, a physician with more specialties than a truck stop, would not question the biology of anyone claiming to be his biological descendant?"

Barbara glared at Tim, "excellent question, Tim. If my dad has someone coming out of the boonies saying he's related to me, the first thing dad would do is draw blood."

"They... don't care?" Dinah suggested. "Maybe the Wayne men were less... chaste than they appear?"

Barbara glared at her this time. "Of all the women Bruce Wayne has dated, I've only recorded a handful who would end up in a second date. Less than a handful who were actually mentioned beyond social media photos; and you know how I feel with social media photos: generic, unverifiable, and showoff-only. Dates with Bruce Wayne generally would start with the pick-up, dinner, and then some form of jewelry. I..." she looked at Selina and Helena, "you've both dated him at one point or the other."

Selina shrugged, "I went for a gala dinner, and was honestly there to scope the homeowner's safe, really. I wasn't interested in a follow-up date." she replied. "Helena?"

"Social arrangement. My people called his people and boom, we were on a red carpet." she elaborated. Helena was a part of a mafia family, until she decided that the mafia way would not be the best way to make Gotham a happy place for all, and donned the costume of the Huntress to hunt down wrongdoers. Barbara had decided to let her join to prevent her from going over the line and murder anyone out of overzealous-ness; but also in order to get a line-in into the mafia families.

"No second dates, either, huh?"

"No, I'll have to check, though. I think his people called me again, but I wasn't interested in a vapid playboy, even if he has more money than Jesus."

"Vicky Vale," Selina reminded. "She has had a... somewhat lengthy relationship with Bruce some years ago."

"Sooo... the next answer in our mystery could probably be answered by interviewing an investigative journalist." Tim commented.

"Oh, no..." Barbara grinned mischievously. "Not this investigative journalist. I know just the journalist to talk to when it comes to gossip among themselves."

Dinah snorted a laugh. "I thought you didn't like her."

"I liked Vale less," Barbara griped. "Plus, Vale is already getting news on Bruce's probable child; why shouldn't I send Lois Lane the allegations of the Bane Conspiracy?"

"Conspiracy with who?" Dinah asked curiously.

"Oh, the Waynes, of course, to get rid of the Court of Owls," Barbara smirked. "Why should we be the only ones racking our respective and collective brains when we can have someone else on the ground doing the grunt work?"

"Babs, you can be... pretty evil sometimes," Selina remarked. "I know there's got to be a reason why I like you."

"I'm also awesome with technology and can launder your ill-gotten money and make it legal and undetected." Barbara pointed out.

"Oh no, that's why I liked you." Helena quipped smirking. "Seriously, how many mob family can say their ill-gotten money is accountable by law?"

"As long as it is within the facets of the law, and so on and so forth... Anyway! Tim, you're quiet for more than two seconds. I'm always nervous when you're quiet."

"Just thinking..." Tim said, looking a little lost in his own brain. He often does that when he has at least a dozen scenarios running through his mind. Through the time of Barbara knowing him, Tim would probably be the only person whose claims of 'just thinking' wouldn't immediately be picked on by anybody.

"Care to share with the class, kitten?" Selina prompted.

"It's not fully mapped yet... but I was thinking. What if the Waynes aren't... didn't cooperate with Bane in order to destroy the Court of Owls, and they're literally being hostages in their own home? What if Bruce Wayne has predicted something like this could happen, and has gotten himself all prepared all the way to ten years ago when he wedded Talia Al Ghul? I mean, who would have had enough firepower to defeat Bane other than the Al Ghuls? Look at Jason," Tim pointed out. "He threw Bane out the window as if he was a fly. While Jason is as solid as a rock but isn't a metahuman - Bane is. He was assigned by Talia herself - out of Gotham - to protect and guide Damian-- why? What's so special about Jason Todd? Why did Talia choose him? Why didn't Bruce Wayne - at least - act shocked when Damian said he was his son? Surprised, sure. But not shocked or in denial.

"Who's gonna win if Bane turned out to be Dr Wayne's son? Who's gonna lose? What will they lose? Who is Bane accountable to? If none, who planted the idea of him being Dr Wayne's son? Because from what I've read about him, he was born and raised in a prison with his mother - no mention of a father. His mother was an insurgent of Hasaragua, fighting against US-condoned democracy. And while there was a record of Dr Wayne being there, there was no exact date and length of stay, because he was there privately and not as a part of Médecin sans Frontieres or something like that.

"What about Mrs Wayne? She wasn't a poor or uneducated woman, since she was a Kane. Society-wise, do you think she would have tolerated her husband's indiscretion, both then and now? Yet she kept quiet for nearly two months. She has a Ph.D. in psychiatry, and would she be the ones to keep quiet about DNA testing and all that? Personally, I don't think so. If my mother - a little 'lesser' society lady compared to Martha Kane-Wayne - ever got a word of a child that 'probably' got fathered by my dad, she would have demanded a divorce right away without bothering with a paternity test, sure. But my dad, who was also a society man, would have at least attempted to convince her that it was a mistake and/or it was a lie. What best method to decide a child's paternity than DNA test?

"The criminal front in general - especially the costumed criminals - has been pretty quiet since Bane eliminated the Court of Owls. Why? That's rather stupid since we know that the Court's Talons were the ones who made moves to 'discourage' the costumed freaks. Annnd... that's where I couldn't map out things further." Tim rambled.

"Keep talking, even half sentences are better than none, Timmy." Barbara prompted. Tim might have had a brain that worked a mile a minute, but he was still very young and would often get flustered with himself. Barbara, on the other hand, has an eidetic memory, and things Tim said tend to stick to her brain and would fill the gaps in any puzzles she might be thinking about. Even half sentences.

"Right, I do the fact spreads, you do the jigsaw-puzzling." Tim nodded. "The murders of Talia and Ra's Al Ghul. Jason said they were deliberately murdered in a way that they would never be able to be resurrected through the Lazarus Pit. The perpetrators would be the League of Shadows, a rogue splinter of the League of Assassins. Lead by Lady Shiva. Why? Why were they murdered? Why now and not - say - next year or last year? Who benefited by their death? Aaand... I'm done, for now, I think..."

"I... can feel a headache brewing," Dinah admitted. "You and your conspiracy theories." she rubbed Tim's head fondly. Tim gave her a half-smile, still trying to articulate the thoughts in his head.

"That's why we need him, he takes the most random input and makes a theory out of it, and some of them would actually make sense. I'll start a search string based on some of your questions. If you have more, don't hesitate to tell me, Tim." Barbara realized belatedly that her tone sounded dismissive, and turned to Tim. "Want me to call up for Chinese and powwow a little more?" she added.

Tim shook his head, still glaring blankly. "Thanks, I gotta go... I've some... things to look into. Thanks, Babs," he replied, ending it with a genuine smile as he got up.

"Want to come home with me, Kitten?" Selina asked, worry for Tim apparent on her normally-blank face.

"No, thanks, Ma. I gotta go back to the mansion, just in case, right?" Tim pointed out.

"Then Dinah should go with you," Selina decided.

"She's coming there later, right, aunt Dinah?" Tim asked. Dinah nodded.

"I'll get home with food, so don't worry about that, kiddo." she said. Tim waved them all and then walked out.

Once he was out of the door, Selina sighed. "Ah, young love..."

"Right? Remind me to check in on him before going to the House. I don't want to walk in on something and have him traumatized." Dinah agreed.

Barbara glared at them quizzically, and then at Helena, who shrugged. "Grayson said it first, I think. Our kitten is growing up. I just hope that Jason guy is worth his firsts..."

The memory of Tim gawking at Jason when he thought Barbara wasn't watching flashed in her mind.

Oh.

And then of Jason blatantly checking Tim out just before Oracle made her appearance, and at times when her Oracle projection was turned off.

"Oh boy," she sighed.

"That's about it in a nutshell. Good thing I've told him of the birds and the birds..." Selina grinned slyly.

"Millennial parenting at best, Ms Selina Kyle." Dinah grinned. "Come on, let's go patrol and induce the fear of goddesses to Gotham's low-lives before inducing maternal fear to our little kitten."

"...or to the big tabby. We'll see," Selina added, waving as she and Dinah walked out of the room.

Suddenly Barbara felt a little sorry for Jason. Just a tiny, teensy, weensy bit of sorry.

[extremelyblackandwhite]

can u do a hc of daphne x simon type of relationship with bucky pls? bucky being the duke and reader being the season's most eligible debutante 😌

YES. this is a million times yes question. i changed a few things not to be completely like bridgerton but yes sign mE up i am tempted to make this a full blown series

y/n is only daughter and the youngest child of her family. her father passed away in the war and she’s being presented by her brothers and her mother.

i can see her being quite nervous, having not seen anyone else in the family go through the debutante process and wanting everything to be impecable so nothing goes wrong

she’s definitely up the night before going through everything she’s going to wear before being presented to the queen, trying on different hairstyles and family jewels to ensure she looks beautiful enough the queen will bestow on her the smallest of compliments

any compliment would ensure she was fit enough for marriage. she was a woman and as such she could not inherit any of her parents’ estate which meant she had to marry well if she wanted to survive after her mother died. it wasn’t that her brothers wouldn’t take care of her, it was that she wanted her own path, away from her family name and brothers

“Y/N! YOU MUST MAKE HASTE OR THE HORSES MIGHT JUST RUN AWAY” one of her brothers yelled out from the bottom of the stairs as the maids were finishing her hair “milady, your hair looks impecable.” “are you sure?” “yes milady”

even with the queen deeming her flawless and there being talks of her becoming the season’s incomparable, the first ball was what would decide everything except her brothers kept shutting down every single man that approached her

“he’s no good, y/n. we can’t taint the family name with them” “it’s just a dance” “no”

y/n ends up meeting the duke while she’s running away from a potential suitor and her brothers. she ends up going against him, spilling whatever drink he was holding onto the expensive fabrics of his clothes “oh my ... i am so sorry” “sure they’ll try everything” “i beg your pardon?” “i don’t think you’re that sorry, milady” “excuse me, i did not mean to bump into you”

“barnes, i did not expect to see you here out of all places” “you know each other” she looked between the unkind stranger and her brother “we went to university together” “i see. i would expect someone so highly educated to not be judgemental” “... barnes, this is my sister, y/n. y/n this is james barnes, duke of hastings ” “your sister?” “brother, your grace, i must return to my affairs”

as she turned her back to the two men, he cocked an eyebrow at how she had manoeuvred the conversation. still she was a debutante and he did not want to hear about it. “stay away from my sister” “i’m only here because i was forced to” “still” “believe me, i do not wish to court your sister”

much to their brothers pickiness, she ended up having no one showing up the next day other than her previous suitor, nigel. he was much older than her, too old and he gave her the creeps whenever he spoke. 

y/n had told herself the next ball would be much better but she found herself being ignored by every eligible men and even overhearing how conceited she was. once those words registered, she rushed over to the garden, gloved hand pressed firmly against her mouth as she tried to reassure herself

“milady y/n” “not now, nigel” “i’ve been holding back my request for quite some while now and i demand to be heard” “not now, nigel” “you are the most beautiful woman of this season and to be fair no other man has made their claim on you” “their claim on me?! i’m not to be claimed by anyone” “milady if you’d do me the favour of being my wife” “no. i would rather leave this season alone than with you” “you think yourself better than me?” “i think it’s best you left”

he took a few steps towards her, grabbing her arms “you should be thanking me, i’m your last hope. no one wants you” “what are you doing” “you’ll see soon enough”

bucky rushed in once he heard those words, expecting to knock some sense into the man but as he walked into her view, she had already knocked him to the ground. “your grace, i ... i had no intention of” “of knocking him out?” “oh my god, he’s unconcious.” “i must say, milady, it seems to have been a massive success” “what? what are you doing out here, anyway?” “avoid certain ... people” “people? with all due respect your grace, you avoid everyone” “i’m avoiding certain mothers” “oh my, i’m only a few steps away from the ball and i’m alone with two men” “you’re alone with one man and one gimp” “i will be compromised and then no one will want me” “doesn’t seem you have much competition, milady” “i’ve noticed, your grace and despite your constant wit and the fact you’re a man and thus can remain single for the rest of your life, i have to wed and so far i only have one choice” “you can’t be considering to marry him.” “i have no alternative” “i was quite surprised not to see a line of suitors all the way to london for you” “i do not need your humour, your grace” “it’s sincerity” “well unlike you who seems to be prize to be claimed, i have to go” “perhaps we can do something about your situation, milady” “i do not have the time” “milady, if you were to be courted my me, everyone would stop bothering me and other men would surely look your way” “you’re suggesting you court me as a device to get mamas away from you?” “it’ll surely get your plenty of attention and other suitors. men tend to like competition” “it might just work”

the morning immediately after that evening, everyone is rushing into her family home with all sort of gifts from flowers to chocolates. the stakes are particularly raised when a prince comes into town

“i believe that’s your target” “your grace, i cannot believe you view me as that shallow” “i cannot believe you still refer to me as your grace” “bucky sounds too informal” “well we’re friends aren’t we?” “friends ... yes, yes we are.”

“what do you think his first move will be?” “completing the party” “mhm, milady, i don’t know, i think he might compliment your dress” “this dress?” “it’s a pretty dress.” “you think so?” “i think so”

y/n looked at him as he laughed at the pompous prince complementing every single woman who approached him. she’d memorise his smile by now, from the crinkles in his eye to his teeth-y smile. 

“milady” the prince smiled like a fool at y/n. bucky’s hand slide from her waist and he slowly turned to her “must i share your attention with every wide-eyed dandy in england, milady?” “i’m sorry, i just had to come compliment your dress, miss y/n. it’s beautiful”

she let out a small laugh, hiding her mouth with her hand as her eyes wandered to bucky “I’m so sorry, your highness. felt ticklish” “i hope you save a dance for me” “of course”

“this is entirely your fault, your grace” “i thought you had self control” “i looked like a fool” “at least he liked your dress” 

she gave the prince his much wanted dance and bucky couldn’t stop staring at them, a burning, hateful stare. he hated how he held her or the little laughs she was letting out “milady, i would like your permission to openly court you” “your highness, i ... i need to speak with my family first” “of course”

she found herself running out into the gardens “Y/N, what’s wrong” “nothing’s wrong” “then why are you running away” “i am not. I AM GOING TO BE A PRINCESS” “i hear you loud and clear” “then i suggest you leave before i get compromised” “don’t marry him” “excuse me” “you heard me. you don’t wanna marry him.” “yes i do your grace. i do and im going to be a princess, the best princess” “can you be the best duchess instead?” “pardon me?” “marry me, y/n.”

[dcbbw]

Drake. Singing "Jolene" in the shower. Please please pretty please. xoxoxo

Hahahahahahahahahaahahaha, BURNS!!!! Hopefully I delivered what you were looking for.

To provide context/background to whomever reads this, @burnsoslow and I have random late-night convos that cover a whole range of topics. The other night, we were discussing Drake Walker’s taste in music. I see him liking old-school country and 70s rock (think The Eagles and Fleetwood Mac). Then I got this image of Drake in the shower singing Dolly Parton’s Jolene, a song about a woman pleading with a temptress not to take her man.

Well, then the question became which Drake? The answer is below the cut.

Song lyrics are from Jolene and are the property of their respective owner(s). Forgive me, Dolly for taking liberties with some of your words, but Burnsy came up with the BEST name!

Thanks to my bears for pre-reading!

All characters belong to Pixelberry.

Answer has hints of lemon. 

Driam

Drake Walker was in the shower, his fingers working shampoo into his thick, brown hair. As suds bubbled over his scalp and transformed his mane into a white, soapy cap he sang.

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene I'm begging of you please don't take my man Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene Please don't take him just because you can

Your beauty is beyond compare With flaming locks of auburn hair With ivory skin and eyes of emerald green Your smile is like a breath of spring Your voice is soft like summer rain And I cannot compete with you Jolene

Liam joined him, the hot water pelting his body as Drake began the second verse. Liam’s heart twisted at Drake’s song choice. Coronation was mere hours away; Liam would be fully duty bound to Cordonia and her soon-to-be Queen before the night was over.

“You have no competition, love,” Liam murmured against Drake’s wet skin as he stepped behind his lover, his arms encircling his waist, hands splayed across Drake’s hips.

Drake stopped singing. “Hey, Li,” he said softly.

“This Jolene is not an apt description of Lady Riley. She sounds more like Duchess Olivia,” Liam frowned as his hand began stroking Drake’s length.

“Ha! Never made the connection, but I suppose you’re right.” Drake’s eyes closed in both bliss and hurt at his King’s touch.

“I swear on everything Drake, Lady Riley won’t come between us and what we have. It’s just a temporary situation.”

Drake stepped closer under the shower head, letting the water rinse the shampoo; rivulets of soapy water rand down his back, causing Liam to release his hold from Drake.

“Did you hear me, love?”

Drake nodded, not trusting himself to speak. If his lips parted now, he would tell Liam the truth and he had promised Riley she could be the one to tell Liam.

Liam’s choice would refuse his proposal. Because she had chosen Drake. And they were leaving for America in a week.

It broke Drake’s heart, but he and Liam would never be together they way they both wanted and deserved. Everyone was free to love the way they wanted to except the King. And Liam would never, could never give his country the attention it needed if Drake were in the picture.

Already, he was planning to divorce a Queen he hadn’t even married.

Drake would say his goodbyes to Liam after Riley broke the news. He wondered if he could ever say goodbye to Liam. The man was ingrained in his mind, his skin, his very soul.

He had to. It was for the best. It was for Cordonia.

Commoner’s Wife AU Drake

The Duchess of Valtoria blearily opened one eye, letting out a loud groan at the time. 9 am. Her head hurt and her mouth was dry from consuming too much alcohol and not enough food at the charity gala her Great House had hosted the night before. She had been too busy being the dutiful wife and gracious hostess.

She sipped whiskey with her husband, Drake, as they made their rounds; their smiles were wide, and their questions sincere as they networked with their fellow nobles. She drank wine with the ladies of court while the men smoked cigars. She had flitted from table to table during dinner, making sure everyone was full and happy, with a martini in her hand.

When she finally sat down to eat with her husband, the orchestra had begun to play, and the Duke and Duchess led everyone in the first dance.

The entire evening, her eyes constantly strayed to the King, who had escorted Duchess Olivia to the soiree. Riley’s eyes narrowed whenever Liam’s fingers touched Olivia’s. Her jaw clenched when she saw the King and Duchess dancing, his hands placed just above her buttocks and her slender, pale arms snaked around his neck.

Her husband saw it all.

Riley rolled onto her back, her head sinking into her pillow. She had already decided she wasn’t going to do anything other than hydrate and pop ibuprofen. Her phone buzzed; her hand reached out to grab it.

Liam:  Last night’s gala was magnificent, yet pales compared to the shining jewel that is you. The Crown’s contribution is forthcoming. I miss you.

Riley deleted the message and tossed her phone back onto the bedside table. Fuck you and Olivia.

She had just risen from the bed to use the bathroom when she heard the shower turn on. Drake. She decided she would kiss her husband good morning and plead hangover to get out of any plans he may have made for them for the day. What good was being a Duchess if one couldn’t take a day to rest and relax?

And sulk over one’s lover being lovey-dovey with someone else.

Riley entered the bathroom, hearing Drake singing. She raised an eyebrow. Two things Drake didn’t do: sing and dance. She listened to his voice, a deep bass, singing an old Dolly Parton tune. But the words were wrong.

She talks about you in her sleep And there's nothing I can do to keep From crying when she calls your name JoLiam

And I can easily understand How you could easily take my girl But you don't know what she means to me JoLiam

Riley’s hand covered her O-shaped mouth. Did Drake know?  The twisting in her stomach was not so much about being caught; she did have enough love for Drake to not want him to be hurt. It just wasn’t strong enough to overcome her need for Liam.

She hastily coughed to announce her presence; the singing stopped.

“Brooks?” Drake called out.

Riley stuck her head in the shower; the spray lightly peppered her skin. “Good morning,” she said softly.

Drake grinned. “Good morning.”

“Hey, how about waffles for breakfast? And that thick cut bacon you like?”

Drake looked at her in confused surprise. “Are you up for it? You had more than your share of liquor last night.”

Riley kissed Drake’s wet lips, slipping in a little bit of tongue. “You’re my husband! Of course I’m up for it. And anything else you may want to do today.”

Drake looked searchingly over his wife’s expression. “Are you sure?”

Riley nodded, a bright smile on her face. “Positive!”

Drake soaped his washcloth. “Brooks, are you happy? With me?”

Riley swallowed over the lump in her throat. “There’s no one I’d rather be with,” she lied.

She left the bathroom to cook breakfast before her husband saw the truth in her eyes.

Upstate AU Dramien

Heavy rain poured outside while Drake Walker and Damien Nazario lay in bed watching the Saved by the Bell reboot on one of their many streaming services. It was 10 am, but with no lights on their bedroom, the room was as dark as if it were still 6 am.

“Thank GOD we cleaned out the gutters last weekend,” Drake commented.

“Hmmmm”, Damien responded absently.

He wasn’t the house person. He liked the idea of home ownership: It represented adulthood and was a great investment, but the work it took to keep up the house and protect it from unnecessary problems? The tree pruning, gutter cleaning, keeping sewage lines clear? Drake took care of that or found folks who would.

“You know, it doesn’t get dark like this in the city when it rains,” Drake observed as they watched Lexi shy away from kissing Jaime because he really liked Aisha.

“The lights from all the stores and office buildings penetrate the cloud cover.” Damien shifted in the bed to pull more sheets over his body. His eyes were glued to the screen. “Why does it not surprise me that Zack Morris is an absentee father?”

“I wonder why Jessie is still hanging in there with her loser husband. He’s having an emotional affair with a character from his book!”

“And now said character is pregnant.”

Drake shook his head as he grabbed the remote to turn the television off. He glanced over at Damien. “Breakfast?”

Damien nodded. “I’ll cook if you wash the dishes.”

“I cleaned the gutters so we don’t have to worry about it raining on our heads. You cook and do dishes, and I’ll take care of dinner.”

“Deal”

Drake climbed out of bed. “I’m gonna grab a shower.”

“In our new manly bathroom?” Damien teased.

“It was PINK! ALL OVER! Like a teenage girl puked up everything Pinterest in there! Even the toilet was pink.”

“I like pink!” Damien argued.

“You like everything I don’t.” Drake gave Damien a quick kiss on his lips and padded into their master bath.

Alone in the bed, Damien stretched before getting up and making the bed. He then went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. The sounds of the shower and Drake’s singing greeted him.

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene I'm begging of you please don't take my man Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene Please don't take him just because you can

You could have your choice of men But I could never love again He's the only one for me Jolene

“Why are you begging Jolene to leave me alone?” Damien teased as he stepped into the shower with his lover.

“Why aren’t you cooking breakfast? Drake countered.

“I missed you,” Damien replied as he grabbed his washcloth.

Drake looked at him knowingly. “You think I’m going to do the cooking as well as the home improvements.” He shook his head. “Not happening.”

“Jolene would happily do it.”

“I’m not Jolene. And she needs to stay 50 feet away from your ass.”

“I love it when you’re jealous.”

Drake grabbed Damien around his waist and pushed his back against wet tile. “How about some … dessert before breakfast?”

Damien kissed Drake deeply. “Always down for dessert.”

“But only if you’re making it with me,” Drake clarified.

“Jolene only cooks breakfast.”

DC AU Drake (Issa throwback)

It was the morning after Drake Walker had broken up with Riley Brooks inside of the Columbia Heights Target. He hadn’t slept a wink and was hoping a hot shower would soothe his red, burning eyes and relax him enough to get some type of rest.

Or wash away his guilt.

He stepped beneath the water, wishing there was someone he could talk to, but he didn’t even have an explanation for what had happened. He wanted to call Brooks and see how she was holding up; they had been friends too long for it to just end that way. But Drake had no idea what to say to make it better, and she was hurting enough.

As he shampooed his hair, a memory came to him.

Drake was in the shower, his hair filled with suds and his conditioner bottle in his hand, his mouth to it as if it were a microphone. He was belting out Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5, and so caught up in the song he didn’t notice that Riley had slipped into the shower behind him.

She stood, her hands crossed over her chest as she giggled. Drake turned quickly, dropping the bottle; he grinned at her sheepishly. “You heard that, huh?”

“You’re missing the boobs and hair, but you kinda nailed it.”

“Ya think?” Drake picked up the conditioner.

“I didn’t peg you as a Dolly Parton fan.” Riley stepped in front of him to let the water wet her body.

“She is ICONIC, and we do not deserve her!” Drake began to shampoo his girlfriend’s hair. “Did you know rumor has it she wrote Jolene and I Will Always Love You on the same day?”

Riley squirted her rose and peony scented bodywash onto her washcloth. “Really? Homegirl was going through that day.”

“But she’s been married to her husband for over 50 years,” Drake pointed out.

Riley turned to face him. Her hands pressed against his shoulders. “Doesn’t mean they didn’t have problems.” Her eyes looked into Drake’s, the slightest hint of uncertainty in them. “We’re good, right?”

Drake looked at her, puzzled. “Why do you ask that?”

“I just don’t want to be hurt. Or killed.”

Drake pulled Riley closer. “You’ve been watching too many Lifetime movies.”

“Maybe.” Riley laid her head on his shoulder. “I just … “

“Shhhhhh,” Drake interrupted her. “You’re it, Brooks. We’re good. We’ll always be good.”

Drake wiped a soapy cloth over his torso. He shook his head, wondering what the hell he was going to do. Brooks deserved an apology, an explanation. But he had to find the words, because right now it was looking like he was thinking with his dick.

And Alyssa Devereaux was so much more.

Devereaux. She deserved the truth.

Drake had to find a lotta words.

Fuck!

Another Dolly Parton song popped into his head and in a cracked voice, he began to sing.

I had to have this talk with you My happiness depends on you And whatever you decide to do Jolene

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene I'm begging of you please don't take my man Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene Please don't take him even though you can Jolene, Jolene

Tagging:  @sirbeepsalot @jared2612 @katedrakeohd @jovialyouthmusic @hopefulmoonobject @amomentofsinclairity @ao719 @burnsoslow @bbrandy2002 @janezillow @marietrinmimi @annekebbphotography @merridithsmiscellany-blog @queenjilian @texaskitten30 @glaimtruelovealways @indiacater @forthebrokenheartedthings @kingliam2019 @bebepac @zaffrenotes @liyanin @liamxs-world @choiceslife @ac27dj @the-soot-sprite @gnatbrain @sanchita012 @anotherbeingsworld @atha68 @hopelessromanticmonie @amandablink @cmestrella @iaminlovewithtrr @cinnamonspongecake @lifeaskim @starrystarrytrouble @liamandneca @liamrhysstalker2020 @alyssalauren @ladyangel70 @yourmajesty09 @gkittylove99 @neotericthemis @twinkleallnight @umccall71

 #long post #dcbbw answers #Jolene ask #very slightly, lightly ns*w #drake walker

[psqqa]

Nirvana in Fire Character Reference Sheet Roughly in the Order Those Characters Are Introduced

For @howdydowdy, as promised, and for anyone else who, like me, is terrible at names and needs some kind of “Who?? Ohhh right. That guy.” reminder.

Basically, my Nirvana in Fire Journey started with me watching half the first episode, being wildly confused, realizing I was in over my head re: names and thus deciding to go back to the beginning and watch it again But Taking Notes This Time. I watched the whole show with a notebook and pen at my side. I figured I may as well spare you all the labour by typing it up. 

As more information was revealed, I often added it to a character’s initial note, but by and large I’m leaving those extra notes out so you can experience the joy and confusion and anguish of New Information yourself. The exception to this is generally a person’s name, title, and position. E.g. Duke Qing’s name, Bai Ye, isn’t mentioned until a number of episodes after he’s first mentioned, if I recall correctly, but knowing that the person named “Bai Ye” is the same person called “Duke Qing” is exactly why I took these notes for myself in the first place.

Basically this isn’t intended to be a character guide that lays out exactly who a person is, their relationships to the other characters, and their place in the story, but rather something you can look at whenever someone mentions a name that jogs your memory just enough for you to be able to place to person. Which is why the notes tend to be either the context in which the person was introduced or the relationship through which they’re introduced.

Some names and notes are inherently spoilers, but hopefully by virtue of the fact that this is broadly in the order a character is first mentioned/introduced, you can avoid spoilers simply by not scrolling down too far. For those persons where their name or an alter ego comes in significantly after their initial introduction and is a spoiler, they are listed a second time starting with the “new information” and with the note in italics indicating their original entry (there aren’t a lot of these, don’t worry).

I will readily admit that some of my handwritten notes are just a name and then a blank space because apparently I just never actually added a note for them. I haven’t bothered adding those people here. Yes it’s because I’ve forgotten entirely who they are, but I’m pretty sure that means you’ll be okay if you immediately forget who they are too. (That being said, I get the sense there are actually relevant people missing from this list. As the show carried on and introductions became less frequent, remembering them became less difficult.)

The List

Lin Xie –> Commander of the Chiyan Army

Lin Shu –> “Xiao-Shu” –> Lin Xie’s son –> Mei Changsu --> Chief of the Jiangzuo Alliance --> Su Zhe

Lin Chen –> Young Master of Langya Hall –> NOTE: The “Lin” of Lin Chen and the “Lin” of Lin Xie & Lin Shu are both written and pronounced differently. These people are not related.

Northern Yan’s 6th Prince –> Now Northern Yan’s Crown Prince

Minister Xu –> Da Liang’s envoy to Northern Yan

Prince Yu –> Xiao Jinghuan –> 5th Prince of Da Liang

Xiao Xuan –> Emperor of Da Liang

Empress Yan --> Prince Yu’s adoptive mother

Consort Yue --> Crown Prince’s mother

Grand Empress (Dowager) --> Emperor’s grandmother

Xiao Jingxuan --> Crown Prince of Da Liang --> metonym is “Eastern Palace”

Zhuo Dingfeng --> Master of Tianquan Manor

Zhuo Qingyao --> Eldest son of Zhuo Dingfeng --> guy on the horse and later the guy helping the old couple on the boat and later also the guy who calls Xie Yu “father-in-law” (I am telling you this specifically because I am not bad at faces but this guy added so much confusion to my life that was cleared up the moment I realized these people were the same person. And also because my mother is terrible at faces and for like 15 episodes every time he showed up in another random place I would say “that’s horse and boat guy” and she would say “wait what? really???” So I’m assuming at least one other person will share in this struggle)

Xie Yu --> Marquis of Ning

Qin Banruo --> Prince Yu’s strategist

Duke Qing --> Prime Minister --> Bai Ye

Ji Ying --> member of Double Sword Sect

Li Gang --> member of Jiangzuo Alliance

Fei Liu --> Mei Changsu’s bodyguard

Yan Yujin --> Son of Empress Yan’s brother

Xiao Jingrui --> Eldest son of Xie Yu

Mu Nihuang --> Commander of the army in Yunnan --> Princess of Yunnan’s House of Mu 

Xie Bi --> Second son of Xie Yu & Xiao Jingrui’s younger brother

Mu Qing --> Mu Nihuang’s younger brother

Xia Dong --> An officer of the Xuanjing Bureau

Nie Feng --> Xia Dong’s late husband --> Vanguard General of the Chiyan Army under Lin Xie

Meng Zhi --> Commander of the Imperial Guards

Xuan Bu --> From Da Yu --> stronger than Meng Zhi

Gao Zhan --> Emperor’s chief eunuch 

Fei Changshi --> Prince Yu’s guy out looking for Mei Changsu

Prince Jing --> Xiao Jingyan --> 7th Prince of Da Liang

Concubine Jing --> Mother of Prince Jing

“Xiao-Xin” --> Attendant to Concubine Jing

Grand Princess Liyang --> Xie Yu’s wife & Emperor’s sister

Eunuch Zheng --> Eunuch who is mean to Tingsheng

Prince Qi --> late Crown Prince of Da Liang --> Xiao Jingyu

Tingsheng --> servant boy caught reading

“Lao-Wei” --> Mu Qing’s subordinate of some kind

Wei Zheng --> member of Chiyan Army at Battle of Meiling (and survived)

Sima Lei --> member of Royal Guard --> Consort Yue’s preferred suitor for Mu Nihuang

Liao Tingjie --> Son of the Marquis of Zhongsu --> Empress Yan’s preferred suitor Mu Nihuang

Baili Qi --> Mu Nihuang suitor from Northern Yan --> A favourite of the 4th Prince of Northern Yan

Lady/Madam Zhuo --> Zhuo Dingfeng’s wife

Xie Qi --> Zhuo Qingyao’s wife & Xie Yu’s daughter & Jingrui’s sister

Consort Hui --> bullied by the Empress

Young Lady Zhen (I think is what my handwriting says) --> servant being sneaky at late dowager empress’s palace

“Wu-momo” --> older servant with the Bad Wine

Consort Chen --> now dead --> son was a rebel

3rd Prince of Da Liang --> Xiao Jingting --> Prince Ning --> disabled

6th Prince of Da Liang --> no ambition 

9th Prince of Da Liang --> too young to fight for throne 

Former Crown Princess --> late Prince Qi’s late wife

“Qi-momo” --> Grand Princess Liyang’s senior attendant

Gong Yu --> window lady who works with Mr. Shisan --> a musician

Mr. Shisan --> member of Jiangzuo Alliance --> connection to Lin family

Minister Lou --> Lou Zhijing --> Minister of Trade/Finance/Revenue/other words that mean “money” --> Knows about the corpse well --> Crown Prince’s faction

Zhang Jing --> Owner of corpse well house (Lan Mansion) at the time the corpses ended up in the well

Shi Jun --> Servant at corpse well house at relevant time --> has record book

Magistrate Gao --> Gao Sheng --> The Capital Magistrate

Princess Xuanji --> ruler of a previous dynasty --> founded the “Hong Court”

Minister Qi --> Qi Min--> Minister of Justice --> Prince Yu’s faction

Minister He --> He Jingzhong --> Minister of Personnel --> Prince Yu’s faction

Minister of Public Works --> Prince Yu’s faction

Minister Chen --> Chen Yuanzhi --> Minister of Rites --> Crown Prince’s faction

Minister of Defence --> Li Lin --> Crown Prince’s faction

Bai Xun --> Duke Qing’s brother

Lie Zhanying --> Staff Officer under Prince Jing

Qi Meng --> One of Prince Jing’s men --> fights Fei Liu and commits Great Offence

“General Bian” --> One of Prince Jing’s men

Shen Zhui --> Acting Minister of Finance

Princess Qing He --> Shen Zhui’s mother

Cai Quan --> Works at Ministry of Justice --> Did well-received report on the Bing case 

Han Zhiyi --> Works at Ministry of Justice --> worked on Bing case

Zhang Jianzhen --> Works at Ministry of Justice --> worked on Bing case

Wei Yuan --> Works at Ministry of Justice --> worked on Bing case

Yuan Shiying --> Works at Ministry of Justice --> worked on Bing case

Qin Yue --> Works at Ministry of Justice --> worked on Bing case

Tong Lu --> Vegetable cart guy --> brother of one of the corpse well girls 

Qiu Zhe --> Son of Count (Duke?) Wen Yuan

He Wenxin --> Son of Minister He --> dislikes Qiu Zhe 

Grand Prince Ji --> Emperor’s youngest brother --> Owns hot springs

Yang Liuxin --> A dancer

Hong Xinzhao --> Has “understanding girls”

Xinliu & Xinyang --> Brothel sisters --> their younger brother was murdered by Qiu Zhe

Princess Consort --> Lanjin --> Prince Yu’s wife

Zhou Xuanqing --> renowned scholar

Li Chong --> former Imperial Tutor --> former teacher to Lin Shu

“Brother Zhao” --> Canal transport guy --> Jiangzuo Alliance

Lin Xiangru --> famous literary envoy

Marquis Yan --> Yan Que --> Yan Yujin’s father & Empress Yan’s brother

Lin Yueyao --> Prince Qi’s mother --> Consort Chen

Zhen Ping --> Jiangzuo Alliance --> sword challenger

Xia Qiu --> An officer of the Xuanjing Bureau

Xia Chun --> The most senior of the officers of the Xuanjing Bureau

Prince Jingli --> Consort Hui’s son

Yuwen Xuan --> Prince Ling --> A prince of Southern Chu

Yuwen Nian --> “Niannian” --> A princess of Southern Chu --> student of Yue Xiuze

Yuwen Lin --> King of Southern Chu --> Yuwen Nian’s father

Ouyang Chi - Head of CApital Patrols

Xia Jiang --> Head of the Xuanjing Bureau

Li Chongxin --> Schoolteacher assassinated by Zhuo Dingfeng 

Jun Niang --> former member of “Hong Court” under Princess Xuanji

“Miss Liu” --> Granddaughter of former Chief Secretariat Liu Cheng

Wei Qi --> The general at Jiaxing Pass --> was Xie Yu’s lieutenant for years

Su Tianshu --> Chief of Yaowang Valley --> 7th on the Langya Rich List

Su Xuan --> Su Tianshu’s adopted son --> Wei Zheng

Yun Piaomiao --> Su Xuan’s wife 

Concubine Xiang --> Prince Yu’s birth mother

Zhu Yue --> Head of the Review Court --> Prince Yu’s brother-in-law

Cheng Zhiji --> Elder Master of Feng Hall --> 75 years old

Princess Linglong --> A princess of the Hua Kingdom --> Princess Xuanji’s sister --> Concubine Xiang

Grand Princess Jinyang --> Lin Shu’s mother & Lin Xie’s wife --> Emperor’s sister

Yao Zhu --> Official Fan’s servant who knows The Secret

Official Fan --> Harbouring Xia Jiang

[snusbandxknifewife]

Not me seeing this post:

And starting an entirely new Jurdan AU based on it lmao. Rated E for “Excessive Mentioning Of Sex Toys”

~~~

Dun dun.

Jude looks up as the front door of her father’s business, Lawn & Order, opens. The bell, added by her eldest sister in an effort to annoy their father, has been going off all day. Work is piling up on the receptionist desk and she curses to herself, knowing that more paperwork means less time outside.

A USPS delivery man walks in, hauling a hand truck nearly overflowing with boxes. Sweat drips down his face, pooling at his collar as Jude decides that maybe a little time in the AC isn’t too bad on a day as hot as this one.

“Sign here,” the obviously exhausted man says as he turns a clipboard towards her.

Funny, Madoc didn’t tell her they’d be getting a delivery today.

Still, she shrugs and absentmindedly signs the clipboard as the man unloads the hand truck with a dramatic groan. She should get up and help him, and, on any other day, she probably would. But today is for licking wounds and pouting.

The clock ticks quietly as Jude considers how she has to file papers and phone customers and clean the shop, just to go home for family dinner where her sister will undoubtedly be moaning about her cheating ass of an ex.

Not sure why she’s surprised, considering he cheated on JUDE with HER.

Taryn and Locke had been a thing officially for only three months, but they’d been sleeping together behind Jude’s back for much longer than that. The very idea makes her skin crawl and she would much rather spend her valuable time cutting someone’s lawn with nail clippers instead of playing nice with her poor heartbroken witch of a twin.

“Have a good one!” Jude clocks back into reality as the USPS man walks out the door, taking his hand truck with him and leaving her to the quiet of the AC unit and the court room tv playing in the corner.

Sighing, she gets up from her leather stool and walks around the counter to pick up the boxes. They look innocent enough, simple white USPS priority mail boxes that she expects to contain samples of seeds or maybe replacement weed whacking string trimmers. She could use some of those, the weed whacker she takes in her truck hasn’t been working as well as usual and Mrs. Mitsgunmins is kind of an asshole about precision.

She lets out a groan as she picks up the top two. The boxes are a lot heavier than she thought they’d be. Puzzled, she sets the two boxes on the counter, leaving behind the other two as she goes on a hunt for some scissors. Making it almost to her father’s office, she cusses audibly as she remembers the hunting knife she keeps in her boot.

It’s been a long fucking day.

Jude hums along to a commercial as she walks back to the counter, pulling out her knife along the way and slicing the tape of the top box. With a whistle, she opens the box and frowns at finding a bunch of little cardboard boxes stuffed inside. What the hell did Madoc order?

Her whistling stops in horror as she picks up one of the packages and spins it around, only to find bold neon print plastered along the front: XXX RECHARGEABLE NIPPLE CLAMPS

“WHAT THE FUCK?” Jude screeches at the top of her lungs as she drops the box and jumps back. Why the hell does her father need some hundred-or-so sets of rechargeable nipple clamps? Why do nipple clamps even need to be charged in the first place?

Taking a moment to steel herself, Jude moves towards the second box—staying as far away from the nipple clamps as possible—and reads the label for an explanation.

Ohhhh, these are for next door. The delivery man must’ve mixed up the addresses.

Letting out a sigh of relief, she pushes the nipple clamps back into their box and closes the lid, checking the other labels and seeing that all four boxes are meant for next door and thanking her lucky stars that Madoc didn’t suddenly decide to get his kink on.

Looking out across the driveway to the innocuous white building beside Lawn & Order, she rolls her eyes. The Sinful Serpent—complete with its shimmering golden apple sign—has been the bane of her father’s existence since it opened a year ago. Every day she has to hear about how he hates sharing space with some gross sex shop. While adult stores aren’t really Jude’s thing, she hasn’t cared too much because she hasn’t had to interact with the store or owner.

Until, she supposes, today.

She stacks the boxes back up and picks them all up with a grunt, thankful for the workout routine that her work provides as she curses the delivery man for taking his hand truck with him.

Only one car is in the parking lot of the sex shop and she celebrates the fact that nobody will see her going into the store. The last thing she needs is people recognizing her workplace on her shirt and bothering her or her dad. It’s already bad enough listening to old men ogle her when she goes to do landscaping work.

The front door is hooked up to an electronic bell that sounds like the twinkle of magic. As she pushes her way into the Sinful Serpent, she lets out a sound of surprise. Whatever she expected a sex shop to look like, this certainly isn’t it.

The entire store is decorated to look like a forest at twilight, with displays cut into bookshelves that look like giant trees and murals depicting faeries dancing through delicate nature landscapes wrapping around the walls. The lighting is low, except for where spotlights illuminate the wares. Over along one wall, by where the lingerie and exotic dancing costumes are, is a stage with a pole, the whole area bathed in blue light and covered in decor like coral. Between the entrance and exit door, the area for the registers resembles a castle.

“Give me a moment,” a voice calls out from within the castle. “I’ve got to check your ID.”

Jude panics, the very suggestion that she might be a customer in a store like this sending her brain into red alert. “I’m not here to shop!”

“The hell you here for then? Last I checked we didn’t have a gloryhole.”

She all but screams, short circuiting at being faced with a worse option than shopping at a store like this. As she tries to think of what to say, a young man pops up from behind the counter and surveys her, his kohl-lined eyes narrowed as he tries to figure out what her deal is.

He’s dressed in all black, his button up shirt undone halfway down his chest, exposing edges of tattoos that she doesn’t study enough to identify. His bottom lip and septum are pierced, as are his ears—which appear to have been elfed, because they end in sharp points. When he crosses his arms in front of his chest, his fingers are covered in glittering rings.

And he’s grinning at her.

“I uh, um,” she shakes her head, and then remembers the heavy boxes she’s hauled all the way over. “I work next door and, uh, the mailman,” she trails off again, her cheeks flaming as she lowers her voice and mutters, “I think he mixed up our addresses.”

His smile widens and his eyes look dangerous as he tilts his head. “And why would you think that?”

She glares at him and he chuckles lowly.

“We didn’t order these.”

“Can you be sure?” He asks, raising one painted nail to tap thoughtfully against his chin. “A landscaping company and adult entertainment store must have some overlap. Ropes and chains come to mind.”

“We don’t need rechargeable nipple clamps!”

“Everybody needs rechargeable nipple clamps,” he counters, his smirk replaced by reverent intensity.

She lets out a frustrated noise and slams the boxes on the counter, her back cracking in protest. “I don’t!”

“Woah! Stow the seriosity, Sunshine,” he lifts his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just playing with you.”

Grinding her teeth and digging her nails into her palms, she does her very best to keep from choking him out as he leans across the counter, his falling shirt collar exposing a necklace with a snake pendant hanging at his sternum.

She goes to spin on her heel and leave, but stops when a door—hidden behind a painting of a faun and nymph doing unspeakable things—opens, revealing a pretty young woman with blue hair pulled up into a messy bun.

“Cardan I can’t find the damn nipple clamps. I thought they were supposed to be delivered today?”

“Don’t worry, Nic,” the young man calls back with a smile. “Sunshine here brought them over.”

Jude, bristling at the title, misses how the woman momentarily blanches when she lays eyes on her. Quickly recovering and putting on a stony face, she walks over to the castle counter and inspects the opened box.

“You look familiar,” she observes and Jude zeroes in on her carefully cool tone. “Don’t you work at that coffee shop downtown? Bean There, Done That?”

“You’re thinking of my twin, Taryn.” Jude bites her tongue, doing her beat to avoid sounding annoyed at being confused with that backstabbing little—

“Sunshine here is our neighbor, Nicasia,” Cardan cheerfully announces. “She got our order and was kind enough to haul it over.”

“My name is Jude,” she grumbles.

He ignores her, leaning in conspiratorially and stage whispering in Nicasia’s ear. “She has insisted that she doesn’t need rechargeable nipple clamps, so surely they must belong to us.”

“Everyone needs rechargeable nipple clamps,” Nicasia whispers back.

“That’s what I said!”

Jude, rooted in place from the pure horror of listening to this conversation, watches as Cardan picks up a pair of scissors and opens a second box; pulling out a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs and grinning when he notices her watching him. Nicasia raises a perfectly groomed brow at the situation before grabbing the box of nipple clamps and heading to restock the shelves.

Once again, he leans forward, fingers spinning the handcuffs around as he smirks at her. “Now that the packages are handled, what can I do you for?”

Jude frowns, sure that he misspoke. It’s then that her phone goes off and she celebrates any excuse to get the fuck out.

Emergency situation at Dr. Wullworth’s. Need you to take over cutting at the Collethes. -Madoc

“I’m good, I’ve got a lawn to trim,” she says, turning off her phone and tucking it back into her pocket.

“Awe, Sunshine, you ain’t gotta clean up for me.”

She tilts her head in confusion before shrugging and turning to leave.

“Gotta go out the other door, Sunshine,” he sighs, almost like he’s disappointed. Weird.

Jude still tries the door, but it won’t open from this side, so she grabs ahold of her pride and walks around the castle counter, moving as quickly as she can and keeping her head down to avoid getting any further education.

“Bye,” she waves her hand awkwardly as she hits the exit door.

“Bye, Sunshine.”

~~~~~

Mostly setup for the AU. Yes all the last names are keysmashes. Yes I did go on early 2 bed’s website and choose random buttons until I found a sex toy that seemed a little odd. (The nipple clamps are rechargeable because they vibrate.) Big thanks to the discord server for helping me with ideas!

Tag list: @cardan-greenbriar-tcp @hizqueen4life @slightlyrebelliouswriter23 @thewickedkings @aelin-queen-of-terrasen @cheekycheekycheeks @queen-of-glass @b00kworm @doingmyrainbow @andromeddea @jurdanhell @thesirenwashere @illyrianwitchling @courtofjurdan @clockworkgraystairs @st00pid231 @booksandlewks @fateandluminary

Let me know if you want to be tagged!

[seiin-translations]

2.43 S1 Chapter 3.5 - The Dog’s View and the Giraffe’s View

5. READY FOR SUMMER

You think Aoki reads shonen manga?

This is the end of the first half of the first season, a.k.a the first tankobon volume. I’ll be going on a short hiatus for a few week before coming back.

Stan Odacchi!

Previous || Index || Next

Thrusting a CalorieMate bar into his mouth and holding a sports drink in his hand, when he rushed to the washroom near the gym, he suddenly ran into Aoki. Aoki took one look at Oda’s face and widened his eyes for a moment, then cautioned him with a disgusted look on his face.

“You should stop it with that…in my opinion.”

“Can’t be helped. I didn’t have the time to eat lunch or go to the washroom.”

The CalorieMate had sucked up his saliva and was sticking to his mouth. He put the box that still had some left and the bottle on top of the urinal and lined up next to Aoki.

Immediately after serving as an assistant referee on the courtside, he immediately jumped into his own team’s match, served as an assistant referee again on the same court as soon as it was over, plus he had to keep an eye on the progress of the entire boys’ volleyball division, support the participants and instruct the other members… Needless to say, he didn’t have time to take a lunch break, and he wasn’t allowed to go to the washroom since morning. Still, Oda only had to watch the gym, but Aoki was frequently pulled back by runners from the executive committee’s tent on top of that. This was the first time he was able to make time to talk to Aoki face to face.

It was finally the day of the Seiin Ballgame Festival. Luckily, the last few days were breaks in the rainy season, and the event was held on a day that didn’t interfere with outdoor events. In fact, the weather was so favorable that the temperature has reached July-like levels, and the executive committee has been repeatedly urging people to be careful about heat stroke.

Boys’ volleyball had managed finish four of their six group games without incident on the stage side of the gym. According to gossip, from the first group Team C, led by Aoki, had two wins, and from the second group Team F, led by Oda, had two wins, so it had already been decided that they would clash in the finals. The remaining two games would be elimination games that didn’t make it past the preliminaries, whether they win or lose, but since points were added depending on the points won, the overall winner was still unknown.

“It’d be interesting if we train Okuma to be a center.”

Aoki said next to him as he relieved himself. As ever, Aoki’s shoulder was at the corner of his vision.

“Okuma’s on the rugby team, isn’t he?”

“Well, it’s just an idea. If we had a burly guy like that, we’d look a bit stronger, right? Suemori-san said boys’ volleyball is soft.”

“It’s all about looks?”

“It’s important to look scary, you know?”

Well, when he puts it that way, it’s true that even though Aoki is the tallest guy in school, he’s more “long” than “big,” so he doesn’t look all that burly. He’s a center whose traits are height and dexterity. Okuma’s likely to be a different type of center than Aoki though…

“Well, enough about Okuma. I want Haijima more.”

“You’re pretty fixated on Haijima.”

“What kind of guy wouldn’t fall in love with that play? You’ve seen him play two games, didn’t you?”

“I know he’s good, but that’s not enough. It’d be nice to have a character who can speak up and get the team going, but he’s the complete opposite of that. Your team isn’t attracting any amateurs, right? For events like these, it’s better to have a noisy guy like Okuma.”

“So you want Okuma more than Haijima? Aren’t you being pretty cold to him?”

He couldn’t help but sound grumpy. He understood Aoki’s objective point of view. However, he got angry when he was told things objectively.

“Hmm? No.”

Aoki’s voice was light, and his shoulders turned slightly towards him.

“I’m talking about the ballgame tournament. The captain of this team is you, and if that’s what you want, then I won’t object to it and cooperate with you. If you want, I can find Haijima’s weakness so he can’t refuse no matter what.”

“I don’t need that kind of shady business.”

When he glared at him sideways, his shoulders shook with laughter. “It’s a joke.” It’s scary because this guy actually does those things that seem like a joke.

“We don’t need Haijima’s weakness for him to join. The problem might be Kuroba. He’s doing well so far today, but I don’t know what’ll happen when he comes face to face with Haijima in the finals.”

“Just have them match up. A feud between freshmen would be all cleared up if they just punch each other once hard and tell each other their true thoughts, don’t you think?”

Aoki said carefreely while lightly shaking his hips up and down, then tucked his thing back in and left the urinal.

In the case of you and me, we missed our chance to go through the process of punching each other and saying our true thoughts, and now we’re here… Oda watched the tall silhouette disappear across the label of his plastic bottle with a look like he wanted to say something.

Even though he and Aoki had their disagreements, they always ended up sidestepping the issue instead of getting into a serious quarrel. Even though Aoki would attack others with a sharp tongue as much as he wanted if necessary, but when it came to Oda, he would take a step back. He didn’t have to retract his opinion if there was something about Haijima’s acquisition he didn’t like. I’m not such a tyrant that I won’t respect the opinion of the vice captain.

Oda still wasn’t convinced about how he was chosen as captain in the first place. Whenever Aoki gave him his due because he was the captain, it stimulated a deep sense of inferiority within him.

When the grade before them retired, Aoki was to be appointed as the next captain. He had a mild and calm personality, able to keep an eye on the whole team. He was the natural choice.

At the same time, Oda was advised to switch from attacker to libero. The introduction of the libero system had opened up a place for people with short statures to play an active role. They could only substitute with a back row player and couldn’t participate in the spikes and blocks in the front row, but a receive specialist was an essential position in modern volleyball. It wasn’t that the previous captain had any ill intent, but rather that he knew that Oda poured more passion into volleyball than anyone else.

However, right with that timing, Aoki jumped into the student council. As though he was purposely creating a situation where Oda was compelled to be the captain—he couldn’t hold an important position on the student council and be a team captain for club activities at the same time. That was why Aoki couldn’t take on the role of captain. And under the current rules, the libero couldn’t in effect be the captain. In other words, as long as Oda had no choice but to be captain, he couldn’t switch to libero. Oda truly felt humiliated at being stripped of the attacker position. Because Aoki had sensed that.

What’s with you? Was that pity for me, who never grew taller? Or was it the freedom of a tall guy? He was angry. However, he was unable to lay bare such ugly emotions in front of Aoki and in the end, it didn’t turn into a serious conflict at the time. The comfortable relationship that they had since they started high school had somehow created a wall instead, and there was an atmosphere where it would be too awkward to share their feelings at this point.

Although Aoki was his best friend and a trustworthy partner who was more easy to get on with than anyone, he also harbored a strangely twisted gloominess towards him.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

It was awkward, so he purposely waited for Aoki to leave the washroom before he did so himself, but he saw a tall and narrow back staying in the corridor in front of the gym. From the other direction, Suemori appeared and suddenly spoke in a reproaching tone.

“Oda-senpai, why were you taking your time in the washroom? Please don’t make me wait here.”

“I don’t remember telling you to wait…You could have given me a shout if there’s anything to take care of.”

“I don’t want to go near the boys’ washroom.”

Oda nonchalantly put his hand behind him, feeling that the food and drinks he brought out from the washroom were dirty. I’ve been slightly thinking this for a while, but I wonder if Suemori hates men. But she seems to be able to talk to Kanno normally.

“So, what’s up?”

“The old teacher collapsed.”

Aoki answered in place of Suemori.

“What!?”

The advisor for the boys’ volleyball team was an elderly teacher, just as Aoki called him. They’ve heard that he was rehired on a part-time basis once he reached retirement age. Apparently, he used to play volleyball when he was a student, but the form of the game of volleyball should be quite different between then and now. He was like a fossil from his generation.

The advisor had been the referee for the entire competition without a break since this morning. Even they, as active high school students, were likely to collapse from the hectic bustle, so it would be even harder on the elderly.

It seemed that he was feeling dizzy from the heat due to the temperature in the gym having risen. They said it wasn’t serious, but the referee’s chair was now vacant. There were still three matches left. Either Oda or Aoki should be the referee for the remaining two games in the group league, but the problem was the finals where C and F would encounter each other. Since the other positions also had the bare minimum amount of people in them, there were no extra hands.

“Well, I’ll do it.”

Aoki said without missing a beat.

“Aren’t you competing?”

“I don’t mind. From the start, I prioritized administration, so if there’s not enough people, I was going to pull out and head over there, but…ah, there’d be a problem with me refereeing a match with my own team.”

“You say that, but there’s no other way. I want to give Kanno a chance to be in a game, and there’s no reason to bother pulling Kuroba out. On the contrary, isn’t the balance better now that we have two experienced people on each team?”

“Even if it was still three on two, we won’t lose. It’s not that…it’s no fun if you’re not gonna be playing.”

He felt like he was the only one being childish and having a tantrum at a time when everyone had to back each other up, and his voice got quieter and quieter. He couldn’t bear knowing that Aoki and Suemori were exchanging worried-looking glances over his head. But he still didn’t like Aoki’s quick and easy way of splitting them up. Was I the only one who was looking forward to the match…?

“If that’s the case, let’s make it a little more interesting.”

Aoki proposed in a light tone. When he looked up with suspicion in his eyes, Aoki had a pensive look on his face with a faint smile hovering at the corner of his mouth. He looked like that when he was about to plot something.

“In other words, you’re saying it’s boring because you’re not in it. In the first place, you say ‘take’, but do you even have their approval…?”

“I’ll persuade Okuma. Of course that’s if C wins. If F wins, you’ll persuade Haijima. However, if you lose, you’ll have to give up on Haijima once and for all. —Kuroba!”

Aoki suddenly yelled. Kuroba, who had suddenly been poking his head in from the metal doors on the gym side of the corridor, made a “Mrp” sound and ducked his head.

“You and Nagato both don’t want Haijima to join, right? You were listening in on our conversation just now. Since it’s like that, crush them to bits. Treat this match like a real game.”

***

The chief referee for the finals was Aoki. The assistant referee, the point displayer, and two linesmen were all members of the team who weren’t playing in the game. The other two linesman and the ball retriever were help from the girls’ team, including Suemori.

It was past four o’clock in the afternoon, but heat was coming down the roof, which had been scorched by the midday sun, and accumulated indoors. The windless court wasn’t just completely covered in heat, but also some kind of strangely oppressive atmosphere.

As the team members took their positions around the court, they sensed a strange tension in the court that went beyond a mere school event, and their expressions tightened. Only Aoki had his usual relaxed expression, and he wondered what he was scheming. The way the already-tall Aoki stood on the referee’s stand and looked down at the court already somewhat made it a “tower.”

There were some spectators gathered along the walls and on the stage. The gallery installed on the second floor was also overflowing with students in sportswear. He thought that since it coincided with the futsal and softball finals, the spectators would be drawn to that, but it seemed that a surprisingly large number of people had come just to watch. Across the partition net, on the other side of the court, the girls’ basketball game was being held. The random bouncing of a ball other than a volleyball was jarring to his ears—he might be getting a bit nervous himself. He shrugged his shoulders up and down to release the extra energy. He was already sweating just by standing.

Team F got the serve through rock-paper-scissors. Haijima would serve from the right back row, and Oda would start diagonally from him at the front left. The opposing Team C’s starting order had Kanno at the front right and Kuroba in the back left. With two volleyball veterans placed diagonally from each other and sandwiching and supporting the amateurs, both teams had the most suitable formation.

Kuroba, getting ready to receive, kept pulling at his T-shirt and wiping the sweat off his face an unusual number of times. He wondered if it was just his imagination that the movement of his legs seemed heavy. Even though he was always jumping around on the court even when there was no need for it, now his feet were clinging to the floor. He’s pretty nervous. The fact that the crowd was much bigger than for the group league no doubt played a role.

What are we going to do for this game? He felt like it had become a farce starring the boys’ volleyball team, but of course he wasn’t going to lose on purpose. We’re going for the win. It was out of the question to give up on getting Haijima because of a single loss in a in-school match. If that was the case, he shouldn’t have taken this bet, but it was also out of the question for Oda to not buy a fight that had been sold to him.

He called Haijima, who was heading for the service zone, to a stop and he turned around and asked him something.

“It’s okay now, right?”

“Yeah. Do it with all your power.”

He heard the sound of the safety lock inside Haijima disengaging. In the previous two games, Haijima was banned from doing jump serves. It would no longer be a game against an amateur team if he did so, and someone were to get hit in the face, they risked injury.

“…Eleven months.”

Haijima muttered in a low voice, cast his gaze to a point on the other side of the net and narrowed his eyes.

“Did he get a little better?”

He smiled faintly. The depths of his eyes were boiling, as though he was even taking in this heat and transforming it into a part of the heat within him. Stimulated by that fighting spirit, Oda also felt his entire body trembling.

Just you watch… He glared at Aoki, but couldn’t meet his gaze with Aoki on the referee’s chair.

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Haijima’s jump serve even drew the eyes of the first-timer spectators. He placed the ball in his left hand, stretched his arm directly before him and stood still. A beat of dignified silence that took the watcher’s breath away. The moment he tossed the ball up high with a spin towards the ceiling, there was a big “Ooh.”

From his graceful and refined form, as though he was dancing in the air, he let loose a sharp jump serve. Contrary to the slickness of his form, Haijima’s serve was quite unpleasant. It had a unique twisting spin, partly due to him hitting left-handed, and the one who was receiving was under immense pressure. Drawing a curving arc, it accurately aimed for the area Kuroba, who was positioned in the back row, was guarding. Kuroba, who didn’t say he was good at serve receives, managed to hit it with his arms with a panicked look on his face. Fortunately, it went up high, so his teammate went right below it and waited. Who was going to hit it?

Was Kuroba, who received it, going to hit it himself?

“Right court!”

He was astounded by the instruction that came from the referee’s chair.

Oi, wait a minute!? Is that even allowed!?

The ball was set to Kanno on the right court. Oda jumped to block in surprise, but Kanno dexterously shifted the core of the impact and changed it to a straight spike from the angle of a cross-court hit. Tch, he’s good… The spike that was as sharp as a needle went through a narrow course.

While landing, he turned his head to follow the whereabouts of the ball. He thought it might have been on the border of the sideline, but Nagato the linesman didn’t hesitate to indicate that it was in. The person who enthusiastically shouted “Yes!” from outside the court in place of Kanno, who had landed soundlessly, was…Suemori. I get the feeling that there’s a lot of officials that are emotionally attached to the opponent’s side, but…?

Team C’s first point was engraved.

“Oi, why is the referee giving out instructions?”

He snapped at the referee’s chair.

“If there are any objections, you can write them down on the record sheet later.”  

Aoki said calmly, then quickly blew the whistle to prompt Team C to serve. There was no way they were going to prepare a record sheet used for official games for a ballgame tournament.

“Do it in one go, Haijima.”

He turned his back on the referee’s stand in indignation and said that aloud in order to calm himself down. However, Haijima only sullenly muttered, “You haven’t gotten any better at defense though,” and it seemed that he didn’t care about the noise around him or the subtle and complex actions of the staff members. The intensity of his concentration after entering the court was astonishing, but…he felt that he was slightly different from the previous two matches. Isn’t his mind too focused on one point?

At the end of where Haijima’s eyes were fixed on, Kuroba was, as ever, looking around restlessly while worrying about sweating profusely. The complete opposite of Haijima, his concentration was scattered. It was a face that screamed that Aoki’s implication was bad.

Team C, under Aoki’s instructions (which he still couldn’t wrap his mind around), had adopted the strategy of gathering the ball to Kanno. The scene where Kuroba hit didn’t return immediately, but even so, that scene came when it was 3-3 in the beginning, the rotation moved three at a time and Kuroba in the front right was directly facing Haijima in the front left over the net.

The first setting of this set came from Kanno to Kuroba.

At Haijima’s instructions, a triple block was set up. Oda in the back row prepared to back them up. “That’s a hell of a jump from that guy!?” The jumping power of Kuroba, who was high enough for his chest to comfortably show up over the net, made the crowd go wild. Completing the rotation of his shoulders by arching his whole body in midair, his body bent back and his arms swung out, as though releasing a nocked arrow. This dynamic spiking form, which could be called the splendor of volleyball, was the usual Kuroba, but…he’s not looking at the blockers at all. The ball didn’t pass over the net, getting caught on the white band and falling to Team C’s side.

Right when F-team took the lead with 4-3,

“Time out.”

The head referee requested a time-out.

Oi…I’ve never heard of this.

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“Why hasn’t he fixed that habit of his yet?”

Haijima turned on him as soon as they gathered courtside. Team C was making a circle around the tower that was Aoki. So why was the chief referee coming down from the referee’s stand and being on the bench of one team? After glaring at the other party who made his temple spasm, Oda turned back to Haijima.

“It already became solidified within him when he joined in April. There’s no problem in practice games, but he always gets like that when it’s a game with a lot of pressure, and to be honest, he’d be useless in an official match.”

For last year’s middle school prefecturals, Oda only went on the second day, so Kuroba, who apparently only participated on the first day, went unchecked. When he first joined the club, Oda was simply excited that an unexpected find had burst in. In fact, when he was used in the May practice match, he couldn’t find any problems. There was an inconsistent feeling to him, like he was developing, but his energetic play was pleasant to watch, and his strangely likeable character also helped to energize the whole team.

Although they haven’t acquired Haijima yet, he was confident that their attacker lineup was in good order with this, and then the prefectural tournament in the start of June—

The god of volleyball seemed to like secretly digging pitfalls.

An odd habit had begun to show up. He either failed his spikes entirely that got caught by the blocks and got himself out, or it got trapped by the net. It wasn’t like his form was messed up, but he couldn’t settle it. Even when he asked the person in question, he vaguely answered with a somewhat spaced-out expression, like his feet weren’t on the ground, that even he didn’t know why it was like that.

“…Why…”

Haijima grumbled, glaring at his feet with a gaze that could scorch through the floor.

“Stumbling over something like that…”

Haijima, that’s exactly how I feel about you, Oda thought. If you ask me, I’m jealous of the both of you, and just looking at you makes me irritated.

“Hey, we have to do something about him. It seems that it has something to do with Nagato and the second round of the middle school prefecturals?”

At this point, I should create a front that would make Haijima take a step closer to us, even forcibly. Thinking that, he tried inducing him.

“The middle school prefecturals…?”

Haijima raised his head and furrowed his brow.

“Sometimes players fail in their debut matches and suddenly fall to pieces.”

“They said it was my fault? But…”

His voice jumped up for an instant. He immediately closed his mouth sullenly and looked down again, fiddling with the taping on his fingers in front of his stomach. He thought of him as a player who didn’t have the habit of making other people read his mind, so that behavior was unexpected.

“What was I supposed to do…I was waiting, on that day…but, he was the one who didn’t come…”

He felt like the view before him was suddenly blocked by a thin, but hard, shell.

***

Even after the timeout, Kuroba’s play was lackluster. It would have been excusable if he had been blocked by the volleyball team members, but he was messing up because he was minding the blocker, who was an amateur ten centimeters shorter than him and just standing in front of him. Really, when he was good, he was great, but once his gears went out of whack, he quickly fell apart on his own. To be honest, he thought it was better for him to withdraw, but Aoki, Team C’s captain as well as the referee (this dual role was strange no matter how you look at it), didn’t seem like he was going to replace him.

He could see the frustration building up in even Haijima every time Kuroba made a mistake. Even so, the thing that differentiated Haijima from Kuroba was that his play never wavered, or rather, became frighteningly sharp. Not necessarily in a good sense, as he even covered his teammates’ minor mistakes all by himself and ended up excluding the amateurs. It felt like the sullen aura emanating from Haijima’s entire body made it seem as if the temperature on only their side of the court had dropped down a notch. It was out of the control of even Oda and he called to him less and less, and he thought that he could imagine the atmosphere in the second round of the prefectural tournament Nagato was talking about now.

His irritation towards the two who didn’t appreciate at all the value of the treasures that had been given them became stronger. If it were those two, there was no doubt that they would be able to stand at the forefront for the next ten or twenty years. Was it asking too much of freshmen to be less small-minded when they had such high physical potential? But, if he had those two’s potential, he definitely wouldn’t waste it. A super-ace who was trusted by his team for his solid decision-making ability as well as enlivening the team as a mental pillar…He knew that he couldn’t be that kind of player anymore, but he still dreamed to this day.

The fifteen-point system was shorter than he expected. When Haijima rotated from the back row to the front row and match-upped against Kuroba with the net between them again, they entered the final stage of the first set. Kuroba, obviously bending back, took a receiving stance like he was shrinking away from the net. While glaring at Kuroba’s disgraceful behavior with a gaze that could burn the net to ashes, it was perhaps at this moment that a circuit somewhere in Haijima’s mind snapped.

The serve was Oda’s. His thoughts were so focused on the two of them that his aim was a bit fuzzy, so the easy and half-hearted ball ended up falling right in the middle of the opponent’s court. He ran back to the court, fed up with himself as he thought that he might not be better than Kuroba today. That was when it happened.

“Hit the ball, Kuroba!”

Haijima shouted. His carrying voice suddenly pierced through the court where all talking had decreased, and everyone on his own team was startled.

As in the first round, the set flew from Kanno to Kuroba. Almost as if by spinal reflex, Kuroba suddenly did a run-up and leapt. Haijima blocked it perfectly.

However, this time as well, Kuroba’s spike didn’t even go over the net before it was blocked.

They both landed on the floor at the same time, the net between them. Right then,

“Stop screwing around!”

Haijima kicked the floor right after he yelled that, and then barged into the other court from under the net and tackled Kuroba. At this unbelievable situation, Oda froze in the receive stance, unable to move. It’s different for baseball game broadcasts, but I’ve never seen a brawl at a volleyball game, and I didn’t think he was the type to lose his temper like that!?

Everyone on his own team was dumbfounded, and everyone on the other team jumped out of the way, startled. After blowing Kuroba all the way to the center of the court, Haijima immediately went to straddle him and grabbed him up by the collar as Kuroba was hitting his back and coughing.

“Don’t run away! At least give one decent shot! If you’re this nervous for just a ballgame tournament, you’re not cut out for this, so just quit!”

He was yelling at him, looking like he was about to bite his nose off.

Kuroba’s back lifted off the floor.

“Hey…stop it, Haijima!”

Oda came to his senses and hurriedly passed under the net.

Right when he was about to pin Haijima’s arms behind his back, Kanno wedged himself in between them and said, “Senpai.” While keeping Oda back, Kanno looked at the referee’s stand. Oda widened his eyes and looked up at the stand, where he saw Aoki leaning against the top of the pole and grinning down at the two first-years on the floor.

“If they had just one big fist fight and told each other how they really felt…” Their conversation in the washroom flashed across his mind.

Hah!? No way, don’t tell me you were expecting this!?

Kuroba, who he thought was just going to let this happen, surprisingly grabbed Haijima’s wrist and yelled back.

“I’ve never been in a game where I had to lose successfully, and I don’t know how to do that, so of course I’m not cut out for this!”

“What are you talking about…”

Haijima was speechless. Kuroba, hesitating to say further, glared at Haijima at point-blank range as he moved his lips soundlessly. Then, he suddenly cast down his eyes, drew in his chin, and pressed his fist that was grabbing the front of Haijima’s chest to his forehead. It looked like a gesture of prayer.

“…’Cause, he said that you’d come back if we lost… Hey, isn’t this enough… Come back already…”

Come back already.

Those were words that Oda couldn’t think of or say in his position. They made him realize he didn’t need any pretense, and that all he needed was such clumsy, straightforward words.

Haijima, having lost his outlet for anger, just looked bewildered. His face, looking like those straightforward words didn’t penetrate his stubborn heart very well, made Oda irritated again.

“Hai…”

Right when he was about to interject, unable to keep quiet anymore,

Beep!

“Oh, you guys done yet? It looks like you guys pretty much said it all.”

A fake cough and Aoki’s voice, dampening the tension, came down from the referee’s stand.

“If that’s the case, the two of you, leave the court.”

He said, calmly holding up a red card.

“Fighting in volleyball is unheard of. And freshmen, don’t say that this is just a ballgame tournament, because this is a lively event that I worked myself to the bone to prepare for without sleeping. They really do need to pay me for this.”

***

After seeing the overall results at the administration tent with his own eyes, he returned to the gym. The gym, where the partition net was removed and cleanup had ended, was empty, but the net and poles still remained on only the stage-side court where the boys’ volleyball match had taken place. It was as if only the net wouldn’t admit that the match was over. The enthusiasm for the finals that had engulfed the court had now been cooled by the evening air, and he suddenly felt lonely.

There was a figure standing before the net. Like the net in front of them, it seemed like they still wanted to continue the match. Well, he was kicked off the court after doing one set, so I guess I can’t blame him for wanting to rampage more. The taping on his hands hanging down on the sides of his body still haven’t been undone yet.

“Haijima.”

Though his back reacted slightly to his call, he didn’t attempt to turn around. He goes at his own pace, eh. Oda smiled wryly as he approached him.

“They didn’t put the net away?”

“I asked them to leave it. I’ll put it away.”

Just like on the first day of team practice one week ago, Haijima lifted his chin and looked straight at the white band of the net. The sunlight shining through the window weakened and it dimmed considerably in the gym, but he could see a light in his eyes. A dazzling light that welled up within Haijima, as though he couldn’t contain his feelings of dissatisfaction.

“This wasn’t set up at 2.4?”

“Oh, we only raise it to 2.43 at the finals. ‘Cause it’s a game full of experienced players.”

With his hand on the net, stroking it sideways, Oda walked to the edge of the court and put his hand on the pole. Since the protective mat was removed, his palm touched the cold metal directly. The surface of the old bronze-colored pole was rough with copper rust stuck to it.

“We’re going to a family restaurant for the team’s afterparty, so meet us at the school gate at six-thirty. Don’t worry, us third-years are paying.”

“Please don’t count me in.”

He was given an annoyed reply. There are still not enough reasons? Oda sighed. Even though it’s so obvious that he’s longing to play volleyball, what exactly is holding him back? Is there something else besides the Monshiro Middle incident? This guy who’s fundamentally arrogant and seems to not care about other people’s feelings is clearly afraid that something is going to happen.

“You know, volleyball really is a sport that chooses people. Well, what you do in it depends on the person. It’s not a sport where you can carry the ball by yourself, and even if one person is skilled, you can’t win. I’ve told you this before. Remember it.”

“I got kicked in my ass.”

Since Haijima was pouting with a bitter look on his face, a laugh unintentionally slipped out of his mouth as he recalled it. He immediately stopped when Haijima was getting more and more sullen.

“There’s also the fact that the difference in our sizes frankly makes me cry. It’s a cruel story, isn’t it. No matter how hard a guy like me works, even if I think I won’t lose in athletic ability, skill, attitude, or anything, I just can’t beat a big guy in that one factor, height. Why did I fell for volleyball, of all things?”

Too many of the words people hurled at him came from his own mouth. When he explained it to people, they made doubtful faces and couldn’t sympathize with him very much, so these days he had learned to ignore that kind of talk. Aoki wouldn’t understand this much either. They might show their understanding for me, but they wouldn’t have any sympathy for me.

Haijima didn’t worry over his answer. He tilted his head, as though thinking,　This guy’s asking something weird, and stated it definitively. He said it like he was talking about the completely natural activities of living beings, like saying,　Don’t calves stand up after they’re born?

“Isn’t it because there’s nothing more interesting than volleyball?”

Aah…I knew it.

I had a feeling he’d say that. What’s for us, the very simple truth of the world.

I wanted words from someone other than me. I wanted someone to affirm to me that it’s okay for even someone like me to be devoted to something. If a man with much more talent than me, who possibly loves volleyball more than me, said that to me, then I can believe that the time I dedicated to volleyball was never a waste.

Is there anything in this world that is as interesting as this, that can make me as passionate as this? The exhilaration when you release a powerful spike. The feeling of solidarity when a brilliant combination play is executed. The sense of accomplishment when you persevere and break away a rally with your teammates. The feeling of conquest when you force the opponent’s ace to yield with a kill block. That intoxication, when your concentration is at its peak and the team’s hearts are one, and you can clearly see the ball’s trajectory as an unbroken line——

Something hot welled up in his throat, and he suddenly felt like crying. But, it was too early for that. He still hadn’t accomplished anything yet.

So he bared his teeth and smiled instead.

“That so? Well, for me, I love volleyball to death. It’s the only thing where I’m confident that I won’t lose to anyone.”

It was funny that Haijima countered with an extremely serious expression, “I won’t lose either.”

“…Haijima. To be honest, it was for my convenience that I wanted you to join. I’m a third year now. Even so, I want to play as many games on the court as possible, even if it’s just one game. Even if it’s just for a day…even just for a minute, just a second, I wanna play volleyball. Can I borrow your strength for that reason? All of your strength…”

Wouldn’t I get the opposite result with that way of talking? No, it’s fine. These words shouldn’t make Haijima build a wall around himself. He seems to be terribly stoic to me and everyone else, but he won’t reject someone who’s facing volleyball seriously. Ultimately, it wasn’t about whether you were skilled or not, or whether you were tall or short. Whether you are serious about volleyball or not—that was the only line Haijima drew.

That’s why there was no reason to hesitate to step in. I’m holding the key to the door.

He really felt like he was gripping a small key in his right hand. Of course, when he opened his palm, there was no key actually there. However, he turned to Haijima and held out his hand as though to show it to him.

“Won’t you believe in me, Haijima?”

Haijima was silent for a while, staring at Oda’s hand with downcast eyes. He loosened his tied lips.

“…Spring Inter-High.”

A whisper slipped from his mouth.

“…You’re serious about going there, I see. A weak team that has never won a proper game within the prefecture is aiming for it, thinking they can seriously go there. The 2.43 meter net is for that reason, I see.”

Those eyes with a sharpness that seemed to pierce through anything before them were directed towards Oda’s face. He was surprised that something he only mentioned briefly a week ago seemed to have remained in Haijima’s mind. However, he was also convinced that just showed how strong his feelings were. By all rights, he shouldn’t be the kind of athlete who was stuck smouldering in a place like this.

He wasn’t saying it in a way that was making fun of him. On the contrary, if he was the one who poked fun at him even slightly or was ambiguous in his answer, he would without a doubt slap his hand away on the spot.

Neither deception nor half-hearted seriousness was allowed in front of this guy.

“Yeah. Now, all the actors are in place. I seriously believe that this year’s Seiin will definitely become a team that can go to Nationals.”

Oda also looked back into Haijima’s eyes with a piercing gaze and answered.

If you take this hand, I will have to meet your expectations with all my power. I’ll repeat it again with force in order to convey that resolve. There’s no need for complicated reasons. I’m sure that only straightforward words would reach his heart.

“I want you to believe in me. Lend me all of your strength.”

***

“Why the hell are you smiling? Did Haijima say he was going to join?”

Aoki jeered at him when he stopped by the administration tent. Am I smiling? Oda wondered, patting his cheeks. He might be.

“Who knows. Well, he’ll be coming to the next practice, won’t he?”

“Hoo. Personally, I don’t like it, but well, that’s good I guess.”

Aoki said that in a twisted and unstraightforward way. Oda, while wondering in astonishment, Weren’t you the one who set this up?, dragged a free folding chair over and sat diagonally across from Aoki. He leaned over the long table, thrusted his face at him and lowered his face, as though it was an interrogation in a detective drama.

“So, from when and how much of it all was within your calculations? Since you brought up that betting match in front of Kuroba, right? Since you stirred me up by saying you were more interested in Okuma than Haijima? No way, you’re not gonna say you were the one who arranged for Haijima to be in volleyball, are you? I don’t think it’s possible, but does that mean the ballgame tournament itself is a huge charade…”

“I must be the world’s greatest swindler then. You’re giving me too much credit. Originally, I planned to have Team F win the championship, and I wanted to go to the lodging house on the refreshing highlands and getting Haijima while we’re at it…that was all I was thinking. Well, the dream of the highlands lodging house is completely gone now. I really did want to go there.”

All but one of the administration tents that were lined up with their eaves side by side in a corner of the first sports ground were dismantled, and the lower grade members of the executive committee were clearing away the steel frames and sheets while bickering noisily. All of their voices had a listlessness to them, like they had finished burning, and they didn’t sound grating to his ears. Rather, the noise soaked pleasantly into his tired body.

On the grounds, members of the baseball club were doing somersaults. The clock tower behind the back net displayed the time of 6:15. The brightness of the sky dimmed, and grey clouds started to appear. According to the forecast, apparently it was still going to be clear during the day, but the rainy season was going to return during the night. There was the scent of approaching rain. The warm wind, which contained moisture, made his arms and body sticky again after his sweat had finally receded.

The uncoated paper with the overall results for today was posted on the tent’s support. If he thought that there was more enthusiasm about this year’s championship than last year, there was apparently a secret prize that was going to be given to the supreme general of the winning team. The contributor was the executive committee—of course Aoki was the one who was holding the wallet. That prize was the group accommodation at a lodging house on a highland area in the prefecture for summer vacation. It was a form of taking advantage of the fact that the captains of the major sports clubs were spread out across each of the third year classes and stirring up the competition between each team.

In the boys’ volleyball division, Oda’s Team F defeated Team C to win the championship. The referee Aoki’s blatant support for Team C in the first half was camouflage, and after ejecting the two first-years, he devoted himself to making fair and impartial judgements in the second half—or that was how it seemed. Skillfully weaving in a few advantageous judgements for Team F, he manipulated the outcome. He’s a crook through and through…but since it’s a school event, I can just barely forgive him, but if he pulled this kind of thing somewhere else, I’ll be done with him.

However, they didn’t perform so well in the other events, and in the end, Team F had to settle for second place overall. The guesthouse on the highlands was to be given over to another club.

“Aaah, I guess we’ll have to do it at school this summer too. It’ll be harsh without air conditioning though.”

“You know, you’re pretty practical even though you don’t look it…”

“Dunno what you mean by not looking practical, but I’ll accept the compliment. Well, the things you can get with cheap tricks aren’t that important, and there are plenty of things you can’t get...” a loud yawn slipped out from his wide mouth.

“Are you going to the after party? The first and second-years worked hard today, so we gotta thank them.”

“Sorry, but I’ll have to pass. I don’t mind splitting the money in half. I didn’t sleep for three days to finish up preparations.”

“Three days? And yet you managed to get in two games.”

“It’d be tough to do three games. When the old teacher collapsed, I thought in my head, ‘I’m saved.’”

He leaned back deeply on his folding chair, causing it to creak, and when he bent his neck and tilted it left and right, there was a cracking sound. Though he wondered if it was okay to speak that way about an elderly person, it seemed that after he rested in the infirmary for nearly an hour, he had readily recovered and went along with the teachers to their after-party, so perhaps it was okay for Aoki to say that, considering all his toil.

During this ball game tournament, which included preparations, while Oda was just saying he wanted Haijima like a spoiled brat, just how hard was Aoki working, even using his influence, for the sake of the whole team? When it came to Haijima, even though he wasn’t supposed to have agreed to it, he considered Oda’s feelings and took action like it was a matter of course. It had completely slipped from his mind, but it was time to think about summer training camps.

Since they knocked on the door of the boys’ volleyball club in April two years ago, he had helped him one-sidedly until now. The prodigy who had student council duties, and who on top of that could get accepted to Kyoto University, probably had any number of things he could do besides volleyball, unlike Oda. He felt a deep sense of guilt that because he invited him that day—because they were “Aoki” and “Oda”, an unexpected intrusion ended up coming into Aoki’s life.

“Ah, hey…thanks for everything…”

It was too embarrassing to say it now after two years, and he couldn’t look him in the eyes. He was grateful for the gap between their lines of sight right then. Every time he was covered for, it only deepened his own sense of inferiority, and he had never thanked him face-to-face until now.

Good grief, it’s not just my outside, I’m also tiny and worthless on the inside.

“But, sorry…you’re going to have to go along with my selfishness for just a little longer.”

His debt would increase even more in the future. It seemed that Aoki won’t be able to concentrate on his exams for a while yet.

“…That’s just like you.”

Aoki mumbled to himself, his head still turned away. From Oda’s position, he could only see his chin moving slightly, and he had no idea what expression he had on his face.

“You’re giving me too much credit. I’m feeling guilty now. Playing volleyball with you is what I want to do right now, and I’m not doing it unwillingly. I don’t need to be thanked at all. I’ve been saying this since before, but me not liking Haijima is completely my personal feelings, and I’m the one who’s just being selfish. I don’t really care about going to university or not, and I don’t mind if you want me to lower my rank so we can go to the same place…I’m basically just driven by my ulterior motives.”

“Ulterior motives?”

There was the sound of water drops hitting the roof of the tent. The people working outside the tent looked up at the sky and exclaimed, “It’s starting to rain?”

“…You don’t have to understand.”

Aoki raised his head slowly, like a giraffe stretching its neck to find leaves that were just right, and stifled another yawn. Then, he turned towards him and lifted the edge of his mouth. 

“Let’s go to Spring Inter-High. I’ll follow you until the end.”

For Oda, that thin, ironic smile was more reliable and trustworthy than anything. 

The prefectural preliminaries would start at the end of September, two months later. If they won there, his retirement would be extended until the final representative deciding match in November. And if they managed to win the representative deciding match, then it would be until the nationals in January——. Just one game more. Just a day, a minute, a second longer. In order to delay the “end” just a little bit longer, they third-years would clumsily make every effort with all their ability.

When the rainy season ended, their final summer would arrive. There was no doubt that that summer would be like a condensed version of the rest of their lives after graduation. His doubts about his career path cleared up. He would put all he had into everything he could do and wanted to do right now. He didn’t care if the next few decades would be the rest of his life. Even if he burned out here and had nothing left within him, he wouldn’t regret it now.

Previous || Index || Next

[needs-to-stop-looking-at-yigas]

Okay you mentioned Kohga having the hots for king Rhoam. I'm sorry, but can we see something with that???

I make ONE fucking joke, and Ya'll take it to the next level. Fuck you, let's get this over with.

"Kingie! Long time no see big guy!"

Kohga was planning on just hanging out at the hideout today, when he was given a summon by the king. Not that Kohga minded a trip to the castle, he was always fed pretty well. He dove in for a high five with the king, but from the way he glared, he could tell he was NOT in the mood. Even the blade master he brought with him had to cringe at the rejection. Sooga joined him too, but seemed unfazed by the rather cold attitude.

"I'm glad you came at such short notice. I have something very important to discuss with you."

"Oh is it about the fact that we're buying up all the bananas? Look, we still gotta do SOMETHING evil to-"

"It's NOT."

His voice was steely, firm. Someone was NOT happy. His glare was so menacing, his boys took a step forward, as if the king was about to try to beat his ass. Kohga patted their shoulders, making them ease up a bit.

"Easy boys, easy. Look, you two wait out here, imma have a chat with Kingy here."

Sooga of course held protests, but Kohga held his hand up, silencing him.

"Trust me. You two hunks can dash in and protect me at any time. Not that I need it. Though I DO like the attention."

His men bowed, keeping their place. Kohga followed King Rhoam, right to his secret study, in the library, beyond the metal book case. He hated royals, but he had to hand it to Rhoam, there were so many sneaky spaces to hide and explore (and coming from the chief of the Yiga clan, that was high praise). Rhoam shut it behind them both, and Kohga took a look around. This was way different from the main rooms in the castle. Much more personal, snuggly even. A few crates of supplies, a desk full of scattered books, a few chairs, and even a few weapons hung on the wall besides them.

"Nice spot. How many people know about this little place?"

"The ones who built it, and my daughter."

"Well, aren’t I special?"

Kohga chuckled, pulling up a seat and helping himself to the surprisingly comfy chair. He might steal this, honestly. King Rhoam took a seat in front of him, clearing his throat.

"I suppose you're wondering why I summoned you?"

"If it's not about the bananas, then no not at all."

Kohga was already kinda bored, and he started to hum, playing with his hands. He found it easier than just sitting there and looking someone in the face.

"It's about my daughter, Zelda. She complained about you."

Kohga stopped, finally looking at his face. He was about to ask if he was serious, and apparently he was.

"Whaaaat? ME? What did I do?"

He sighed, before folding his arms across his chest.

"She is growing tired of your men. Apparently you give them permission to try to court her."

Kohga wanted to argue with that, but then he thought about it. He was kinda at fault, getting whatever clan member interested to hit on her. Flowers, treats, poetry, even just getting a few smooth talkers to try their hands at getting her attention. He just shipped Mipha and Link so hard, he decided to boot out the competition. Not that he hated her, of course not. Kohga shrugged.

"How is that a problem? I'm throwing HUNKS at her! No clue how that makes ME the bad guy! It’s because they’re Yiga, isn’t it?”

“It’s because she’s already in love with her knight. I’m already planning on giving him my blessings, should they finally decide to wed.”

Kohga should’ve expected it honestly, this old fashioned kinda ranting. Sure they were both kinda up there in age, but they were NOT alike. Kohga shook his head, standing up from his seat.

“Look, I don’t have kids, so I dunno what it does to ya, but you’re taking things WAY outta proportion here. You’re already ready for your daughter, seventeen, to get married.”

King didn’t seem to get it, as if this was a totally normal thing.

“Well yes. Royals marry around this age, why dawdle?”

Kohga put his hand on Rhoam’s shoulder, who didn’t seem to love it, but didn’t exactly push Kohga off.

“Look, let the girl have a little FUN before she gets hitched! She’s got the rest of her life for that stuff, if anything I’m just giving her choices.”

“I’m...not following.”

“For the love of- look. If she wants me to back off, I’ll tell my guys to heel. But I don’t really think she’d complain about me. She only really clams up about you. So it’s why I’m thinking SHE’S not complaining. YOU are.”

He knew by the look in his face that he was right. Kohga chuckled, hands on his hips.

“You don’t gotta lie like that! Makin’ me think I was a bad guy here! If YOU have problems, say you do. Doesn’t mean I’ll listen, but at least you wouldn't be a liar.”

His brows furrowed, but Kohga found it hard to take him seriously at this point.

“I am saying this for the sake of my daughter. If she is to remain pure-”

“Oh great, purity culture bullshit. Look, Kingy, don’t blame her for the fact that you haven’t gotten any lately.”

He put his hand over his chest, as if he had something just terribly hurtful.

“I beg your pardon?!”

“You heard me! You know If I didn’t know any better, you’re just mad because everyone’s gettin’ some lovin’ but you.”

Kohga leaned against the King’s chair. This was some juicy shit, you bet your bananas he was gonna milk it for all it was worth.

“When WAS the last time you got off? Few months?”

King Rhoam looked at him as if he had gone insane, before pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Almost nineteen years, roughly.”

“Holy-you haven’t nutted since your kid was born? Fucks sake, I’d be grumpy as hell too, no wonder.”

He wasn’t even expecting him to answer, honestly. King Rhoam scoffed, as if regretting giving him a response.

“We’re derailing the topic at hand-”

“Now now, I’m not done yet.”

Kohga moved in front of him, one hand at the chair, and pinning Rhoam between the seat, and Kohga’s face.

“Look, I get it. You wanna take care of what you have, you’re constantly stressed, I can only imagine how bad you have it. And knowing I was the cause of some of that stress? Selfish of me really. Let me make it up to you there, Kingy.”

Rhoam looked perplexed at his choice of words, like he figured he would be. Kohga always did have the hots for the clueless ones.

“I’m saying, let me end your streak.”

Still nothing. Holy hell, he forgot he loved idiots. He sighed, pointing down to the king’s crotch.

“Let me polish the royal scepter. Take a gander at the royal jewels. I’m essentially saying let me get you off.”

THAT seemed to get a rise out of the king, given the way he damn near jumped out of his chair.

“That is NOT why I summoned you here! In the SLIGHTEST! The AUDACITY!”

Kohga let go off the chair, putting his hands on his hips.

“One, you have the audacity to NOT immediately say yes, I’m a goddamn treat. Two, why the hell not? You ever fuck anyone that WASN’T the Queen?”

No response. So that was a no. Oh this was going to be some fucking fun. Kohga put his hands on his knees, leaning in so his mask was so close to touching his face.

“Tell you what, because I like newbies. You let me do my thing. And if you don’t like it, you just say the word. In exchange, I’ll tell my guys to heel. Eh? Cool offer?”

King Rhoam didn’t immediately say no, like he expected him to. He seemed stunned at first, but hey, you miss every shot you don’t take. He was going to get a no any-

“Alright. Fine. So long as this does NOT leave this study.”

Holy SHIT. This guy did NOT just say yes. Kohga fumbled a bit, clearly not knowing how to react. He wasn’t bluffing in the slightest, he just had no clue that the king would ACTUALLY take him up on that. He chuckled, poking Rhoam on his nose.

“Well look at you! Growin’ outta that royal shell, color me surprised! Alright, stays between us. Now, you just sit right there, and let ol’ Kohga do his thing.”

He made the king tilt his head up a bit, so he couldn’t see him. Not letting him see what he was doing would make him freak out a lot less, and he could be in denial about the fact that a dude was gonna suck him off. Kohga pushed aside his mask, just enough to reveal his lips, before he got down on his knees. He parted the King’s legs, taking but a moment to massage them. Lot’s of clothes made the guy look almost fat, but Kohga knew better. Those were some toned muscles under that, just how Kohga imagined. He kept massaging for a moment longer, getting him used to being touched, before he un did his belt, and pulling him free of his cloth confines. And holy. Shit. King Rhoam was a dilf dream down here. He wasn’t absolutely massive, but he certainly wasn’t a pipsqueak. He was long, thick, with plenty of white pubic hair. Kohga softly stroked the length of it, and watched as Rhoam seemed to freeze upon the contact.

“Right right, been a while. I’ll go slow, I’ll go slow. Easy does it.”

He had a rather lovely curve downward, and Kohga could only picture how well it’d go down his throat. He kept his motions nice and slow, till he noticed the King’s grip on the armrests loosen. Then he started to up the ante, just a little bit. With his other hand, he cupped his balls, lightly rubbing them in his palm. Then he heard him groan. It was faint, but Kohga caught it. That was the sound of a man who hadn’t been touched in a long, long time. Even by himself, apparently. He was already getting stiff in his hand.

“You’ve...done this before.”

“Not with a royal at least. But yeah, Kohga’s seen a few bananas in his day.”

Rhoam clearly had some kind of retort, before he seemed to jump upon feeling Kohga kiss the head. Kohga tried not to snicker, finding his sensitivity just hilarious. His age seemed to not affect his need for attention. Especially given that a few kisses around the base was enough to get him nice and hard in his hand. He made his touch a bit firmer on his balls, and his stroking a bit quicker on his length. And Rhoam was LOVING it. His head was tossed back, his breathing got all nice and fast, and he could see, past that beard, him biting his bottom lip.

“There we go, all nice and comfy. Any chance you want me to stop here?”

Rhoam was so out of it, he couldn’t do anything but shake his head. Kohga chuckled. He was gonna love this. Feeling him start to throb in his hand, he decided to really wow ol’ Kingy here. He pulled his hand away, using it to palm at himself, before he put the head right in his mouth. Rhoam’s breath hitched, and Kohga loved that. Love how he was making a royal so weak. He pushed himself to make more, stopping shy of halfway down his length. It was enough to make Rhoam squirm in his seat, and even put his hand right on top of Kohga’s head. How cute. Kohga groaned as he pushed his head back and forth, really getting a feel for that thick cock. Then he pulled away, nice and slowly, drool still connecting them. 

"Why did you-"

"You were about to cum. I could tell. I want this to be REALLY good for you, so you're going to wait."

"I DEMAND you-"

He was halted when Kohga took a hold of his balls. Nothing too hard, just enough to get him to shut up.

"No no no. You don't get that attitude with me. You rule Hyrule, I rule your cock. I decide when you cum. And because you wanna act up, you get a punishment. Look at me."

Rhoam looked, despite not wanting to, at all. Kohga kept massaging him, tediously and slowly.

"You wanna cum? You wanna shoot your load down my pretty throat? You gotta ask for it like a grown up. No tantrums. Go on. Ask."

Rhoam clearly didn't want to, but Kohga’s lips (and throat) was a blessing, not a right. So he sighed, and made himself obey.

"I...would like to orgasm-"

"Try again. Cum. Make me WANT it."

Rhoam swallowed, before trying again.

"I would...like to cum. In your mouth."

"There we go, much better. Knew you could be a polite boy."

He took a minute to suckle at his balls, really coating them in drool, before taking Rhoam fully in his mouth. That's right, every bit of that royal cock found it's way into his mouth, and Kohga gagged. It was intentional, and it made Rhoam moan desperately. So close. Kohga wasted no more time, and acted like the perfect dick sucker he knew he was.

Kohga was relentless. He groaned loudly as he bobbed his head back and forth, practically fucking his own mouth from the force. Rhoam was really getting into it now, cursing and panting under his breath, especially when Kohga pulled away to aggressively suck at his tip. Kohga was absolutely, and positively cock hungry, and he wasn’t afraid at all to show it. Kohga slurped, and gagged, slurped and gagged, grumbling as if he was an animal, greedy for the chance of tasting cum. Then he got it.

King Rhoam came, and Kohga gulped it down, only pulling away to smear it against his throbbing length. It was a big load, just how he thought it'd be. Ribbons and ribbons of cum littered their clothes, the floor, and the insides of his stomach. He pulled away once he knew no more would be cumming, feeling no more reason to. King Rhoam was a SIGHT to behold. A shaking, panting, cum covered mess. Kohga chuckled, taking a quick second to clean up. A good cock sucker could clean himself up in a flash, as if nothing ever happened. He stood back up, pulling King Rhoam’s face by his beard, and he kissed him. Not because he liked him, nor did he think he was cute. It was because there was something humiliating about making the King himself, taste his own load. He pulled away, wiping his lips, and putting his mask right back down. He could see that little bit of cum on his lips, and it was so goddamn funny to him.

“Glad we had this little chit chat, Kingy wingy. You ever need to get a load of your chest, you know who to send for. Though, I don’t do anything for free. Can I take the chair?”

Rhoam just sat there, looking bewildered, before he gently nodded. Kohga clapped his hands a bit, grabbing the chair, and giving Rhoam a little bit of a wave. He managed to meet up with Sooga and the Blade master, who didn’t even get to say hello before he made them carry the chair he was holding. Sooga looked at it curiously, turning to Kohga.

“Are we stealing this?”

“Nope! Said I could have it! It’s a real nice chair.”

“Why would he give it to you?”

“We had a nice long chat. Wasn’t something I saw...comin’”

Kohga grinned behind his mask. He was an absolute STUD, no doubts about that.