#we have no idea what she's doing right now or HOW she's doing frankly

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

your “sentimonsters vs tropes” post made me realize how sentimonsters don’t work as a metaphor for marginalized people despite what other people say, because even if it was intentional, the show doesn’t acknowledge the fact that the majority of them get killed by the heroes, including Adrien and Felix (who are part of their race). Honestly, it makes me wonder if Miraculous ever did some sort of allegory right at all

(Post in question)

Before we get into it, I wanted to quickly define allegory in case that's a new or forgotten term for anyone as it's hardly common parlance:

An allegory is a narrative or visual representation in which a character, place, or event can be interpreted to represent a meaning with moral or political significance. Authors have used allegory throughout history in all forms of art to illustrate or convey complex ideas and concepts in ways that are comprehensible or striking to its viewers, readers, or listeners.

In the linked post, I chastised canon for not using the sentikids to say anything about personhood or self worth. While I stand by that, I will also give canon credit for the fact that sentimonsters as a race are not presented as a clear allegory for anything. The sentimonsters that weren't meant to be equal to humans are just worthless akuma knockoffs created to act as canon fodder. The human-equivalent sentimonsters are basically perfect humans who happen to have remote controls. You are never supposed to think about the implications of that frankly bizarre difference. There is not meant to be a deeper message and that's the right call because, when you look at the setup we just went over, you quickly realize canon didn't set itself up to make the sentimonster race an allegory for anything but eugenics.

While you can argue that canon is eugenics apologia, that is very clearly not intentional. I don't worry about kids walking away thinking eugenics are good because you only get that as a takeaway if you're actively searching for a message in canon's writing. There is no on-screen discussion of which sentimonsters are okay to kill or any other type of blatant allegory for eugenics. If eugenics = good is the intended message, then it's incredibly subtle.

While plot-level* allegory can be subtle, that tends to be rare in family-oriented media as the point of allegory is to convey a message. If no one is picking up on the message, then you've failed to make your point. That's why no one is watching Zootopia or Elemental and walking away asking, "Huh, I wonder what that film was trying to teach kids?"

Miraculous doesn't have anything that stands out as a clear allegory like I'd expect if the intent was to use allegory to teach kids something. I'd normally say that means there was no intentional allegory in the show, but we have straight up insane statements from the writers like this one about the season five final:

In the next scene, we can see Marinette taking the miraculous that have been standardized and industrialized by Gabriel and putting them back in shape. The writers specify that this is a parable about craftsmanship vs industrial production. The miraculous will now be adapted to every person, but we can’t see what they look like just yet! In this new world, the powers are all shared, among people who they trust and know will work for the common good.

Did anyone get this from the show? I certainly didn't. With the writers making statements like this, who even knows what messages they're trying to send. Between this and the reveal that Lila learned about Gabriel by reading Nathalie's lips in the season four final, I've given up trying to figure out what these loons are doing with their wacky storytelling. It's always fascinating to hear them talk about the story they think they've told versus what the average viewer came away thinking. I have never once seen a fan get the Lila thing. Everyone I've seen thought she was just evilly enjoying Nathalie's suffering, but it's pretty clear that the writers are quite proud of this and think it was a great choice! You know what would have been an even better choice? Letting Lila read lips at any point before or even after that scene to establish this is a skill she has. That's basic setup and payoff! Storytelling 101!

*As a quick clarification, when I said "plot-level allegory" that was me trying to find a term to convey the sort of high-level, in-your-face allegory writers use when actively trying to clearly convey a message to the audience. There are lots of works that have no obvious allegory, but actually contain subtle allegory for those who enjoy analysis or a select group that's in the know. Something the author had fun playing with, but doesn't expect the audience to get.

An example of more subtle allegory that comes to mind is The Little Mermaid. There are many valid queer readings of both the original story and the popular Disney film, especially since the book was written by an openly bisexual man after a man he loved got engaged to a woman and one of the movie's producers/major creative influences was an openly gay man. These fact have lead many to argue that the stories were always meant to be about queer acceptance on some level as opposed to the stories simply being ones that can be used to discuss that topic in spite of the author never intending that. (Which doesn't invalidate the value of a reading, btw. As far as I'm concerned, author intentionality only matters in very specific types of discussion. Most of the time, I'm a death-of-the-author girl.)

However, even if the two works are meant to be an allegory for acceptance of "alternate" sexuality, you'd be hard pressed to argue that the allegory is presented in a way that the average viewer is going to get. Everyone gets that Zootopia is all about prejudice being bad. I generally hear Disney's The Little Mermaid described as a silly fairy tale about "a girl giving up everything for a man" even though that's only true for the original story.

[smokestarrules]

wild how Miorine didn’t appear once but how often she was invoked in this episode. Shaddiq’s (disgusting) accusations towards Guel not taking responsibility with her, Petra’s only wish to survive and demand a proper date from Lauda, Chuchu telling Nika that she needs to tell her the truth and the entire truth, otherwise they can’t even start on the path to forgiveness. The Greenhouse being crushed underneath a Gundam, the article that was sent to Suletta in the beginning. Earth House unsure how to handle it, Suletta back in class, zoning out. 

[puppmeo]

Have you ever been assumed to be romantically attracted to someone and even just the thought of that makes you want to throw up . Anybody

[eiilese]

what if the strawhats had different roles on the ship⁉️ i swapped everyone’s roles except for luffy because i can’t imagine him being anything but the captain

these are loose redesigns since their canon designs don’t really read as their roles all that much to begin with. some extra doodles and ideas for this in the cut !!

nami, vice captain: i took a lot of inspiration from her beta design!! canon nami already bosses everyone around so she fits right into the role. she wields an extendable staff (usopp still makes it for her); she lost her arm over the time-skip like how zoro lost his eye. i LOVE drawing cargo pants and boots, so she ended up with a sorta bottom-heavy design. frankly it’s probably not her style but i like how she looks

zoro, the cook: my foolproof logic is zoro uses swords = good with knives. he does not use katanas to cut produce however, just normal knives. i was trying to go for “sweaty ramen guy” with the towel around his neck. the majority of the shit he cooks would probably be drowned in alcohol. he also wears his bandana the majority of the time now!! it completes the ramen guy look

sanji, the sniper: i also took inspiration from his beta design for this!!! he has guns!! and perfect aim of course. i was going for more of a mafioso look so germa 66 would be like, a mafia organization on top of all the other villain shit they already do. he has two guns but i didn’t draw a holster bc that’s annoying🤞 he lights his cigarettes with his guns. how would that even work? don’t ask me

usopp, the navigator: his artistic talent lends itself to creating perfect maps! he also still tinkers, making nami’s staff as well as having a specialty for compasses. he uses a slingshot still (no perfect aim we gotta nerf him) and shoots weather-related projectiles. his goggles serve as binoculars, they can zoom to several different distances. i drew him in his zou outfit purely bc it’s my favorite one

chopper, the helmsman: he would predominately use heavy point while maneuvering the wheel. i changed his hat up to look more like a sailor’s cap, with an anchor symbol instead of an X. to be honest i don’t have much else bc helmsman doesn’t bring much to my mind :(

franky, the musician: ROCK N ROLL BABY YEEAHHH come on his stage presence is unmatched. he’s still a cyborg, he has instruments all over his body like apoo does but they were installed manually. his personality changes depending on what genre he’s playing but rock n roll is his default B) (ex. classical calls for a refined gentleman)

robin, the shipwright: her devil fruit gives her as many helpful hands as she needs! she developed nami’s arm (definitely installed some random shit she did Not ask for). she has a robot mecha that she’s able to pilot all by herself using clones. i changed her orange sunglasses to goggle eyewear

brook, the doctor: the irony of being nursed back to health by a literal skeleton 💀the irony of being the doctor of the rumbar pirates yet being the only survivor, saving no one from the poison 💀 i went for a plague doctor look! IM VERY HAPPY WITH HOW HE TURNED OUT i was really tempted to give him the plague mask too, but i feel that would’ve changed his appearance too much compared to the others

jinbei, the archaeologist: the shape of this man demands a little pair of round glasses on his face. he’s an intellectual i tell you!!! plus still a fishman karate master. the history of joyboy and fishman island being so intertwined is how he developed an interest in history

[ir-abelas-vhenan]

I'm always interested in analyses that portray a romanced Solas as a predatory hee hee trickster god manipulating a young and impressionable Lavellan into falling for him and if that's your world state go ahead and live your truth b/c it's frankly none of my business, but I sincerely think there are those who forget that for a lot of people, a romanced Lavellan is (with all due respect to my own Solasmancing Inquisitor Rielle Lavelllan) batshit crazy. Having her boyfriend turn out to be a wolf god is honestly the least of her problems but oh boy is she unafraid to become one to fix this mess.

This is a woman who woke up in a dungeon with a glowing hand, figured out she could fix the world, and thought "fuck it, it's not like I'll have anything else better to do if Corypheus sticks around. Also. Everyone here kind of looks like they want to kill me, so maybe I'll stick with the protective powers that be for a minute." And then all of five seconds later she gets her hand snatched by a sketchy elven apostate who knows exactly what to do with her shiny new powers and cannot stop himself from having a Mr. Darcy level hand-flex after he lets it go (in my heart and soul this happens just out of the camera's gaze) and goes "hmm maybe there's something to be said for this world saving thing."

This is a woman who brought an entire fucking avalanche down on herself and three of her closest friends (and I do mean closest as in physical proximity, she doesn't know these people who are looking at her like she's Thedas' Next Top Idol) because even if it killed her it was the proper middle finger to send to the wannabe god bringing his army tap-dancing down the mountain pass towards her on the one night she had scheduled off to celebrate finally taking a W.

This is a woman going Take 2 Electric Boogaloo on waking up with no idea where she is and learning she was successful in spite-dragging herself up a different fucking mountain in a blizzard. Except now everyone is fighting wait nope now they're Kumbaya-ing a song Andraste's Herald should really probably be familiar with whoops, oh thank God, time for a side convo with the same apostate who's been trying to turn her entire life into a history class only for her to dive in headfirst (much to his initial abject horror) and get that good good discourse she needs since she can't go around arguing with everyone else like she wants to. "The orb is ours." You know what? Of course it is. But if they need the world saved from an elven oopsie, who better to right things than an elf? Fuck it, we ball.

This is a woman who misses being close to nature and goes positively feral at Skyhold, yeeting herself over balconies and banisters and turning the ancient fortress into her personal parkour playground because she's got energy to work off and shit to do, and if the path of least resistance to hunt down everyone she needs to talk to is coincidentally the same path that will absolutely wreck her knees by the time she's sixty, that's just how it has to be.

This is a woman who finds herself back at Haven with a man she's found it possible to be unfetteringly unabashedly herself with and thinks, "hey, maybe there could be more than the flirations we've exchanged over heated discussions and philosophical deep-dives, maybe I can have just one smooch as a treat." And when she feels her slowly unfurling passion reciprocated only to be shut down? She resolves herself to fight for this fledgling love and all the fade tongue that comes with it. This is a woman who gets the tiniest glimpse of what a retirement plan might look like after this whole saving the mortal world thing and buys all the way in.

This is a woman who has Grey Wardens to save from themselves, an empire trying to self-cannibalize, and still finds the time to go rescue a spirit because she, as a fellow comrade caught up in this mess, knows damn well that no innocent deserves to suffer if she can help it while she's got this insane amount of power she never asked for. And if that happens to lead to the man she feels safe enough to nap on the library couches with confessing at last the feelings she knows he's been smothering beneath his all-too-collected surface? Yeah, she'll take that W.

This is a woman who gets absolutely blasted head-over-ass into the fade and goes "honestly things were going a little TOO well." This is a woman who sneaks a peak at the closest fears of the companions she's come to know and love and goes "not on my fucking watch." This is a woman who sees that the man she forces herself to learn the old language for, her vhenan, fears being alone more than anything in the entire knowing world and resolves herself to ensuring it never comes to pass.

This is a woman who gets the opportunity to shape the government of a straight up country and runs around collecting wooden fucking halla in a palace full of elven servants with no time to dwell on that particularly cruel irony because out here it's scheme or be schemed. This a woman who collapses against a balcony railing after putting out some of the sickest literal and metaphorical dance moves The Game has ever seen, resigned to bear her ever-increasing burdens alone, only to find her heart and his horrible horrible hat extending a hand, promising her that if he is not alone, then neither is she.

Like, do you feel me here?

And then he dares to think something as sudden and damning as the truth is enough to keep her away? The queen of tough conversations and tougher choices? No, no, dear readers who have made it this far into my descent into madness.

Inquisitor Lavellan is a master-class in encouraging the odds against her to fuck around and find out. She is a rift-mending false-god-bashing politcally savvy terror upon all of Thedas. Solas (and all of the living breathing world) is lucky she took time out of her busy schedule to notice the way his smile softens when talking about spirits or appreciate the fluidity of his form when they're obliterating venatori out in the field. This man cradled her cheeks in his shaking hands, looked into weary and wide eyes and called her beautiful, and had the audacity to steal her heart before trying to peace out and take it with him.

If she's got to track down a real god this time and frog march him into the fade to reclaim both her heart and the future she fought for because all he wants to do is launch himself like a meteor towards achieving his greatest fear, if she has to spend hours lecturing him on the sheer audacity of his ass while spirits float by and realize they're grateful they never had the chance to take on a body and subject themselves to a verbal lashing this brutal, if she has to do cartwheels around him while dropping all sorts of sweet nothings in the language she is now quite proficient in until he gets it through his luminous gleaming skull that when she said "var lath vir suledin" my girl meant it? Then that's what she's going to do.

"I wish it could, vhenan."

Oh it's going to, buddy. Buckle up to get wrecked, to get absolutely loved and cherished you fool, because Inquisitor Lavellan is not the Dread Wolf's prey, she's his hunter.

[cevansbrat0007]

Bold Moves

Summary: You decide to slip Ari your panties during an innocent encounter at the public library...

Warnings: Mature Themes, Smut, Ari Being A Menace, Brat!Reader, Brief Discussions of Body Image, Bird Being Brave, Going Commando, Light Roleplaying, Frisking, Manhandling, Spanking, Ass Slapping, P in V Sex, Implied Overstimulation, Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: Decided to finish this when I came across it in my drafts. Takes place earlier in Ari and Bird's romantic relationship. Part of my Sweet Renegade Series. Semi-proofread, not beta'd. All mistakes are my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated. Thanks for reading!

“I’m so glad you pitched me this idea, Marisol.” You beam as you finish writing in your notebook. “I know it’s still early yet, but I would love to collaborate with you for Halloween.”

“Yes!” The younger woman cheers, throwing her arms up in the air. “I knew I picked the right woman.”

“Just I knew they picked the right woman to run the town library.” You throw her a wink before tucking your pad and pen back into your purse. “Now, I hate to cut this meeting short…” Out of habit you press a hand against your belly, silently wishing you’d opted to throw on a pair of spanx this morning instead of a flimsy pair of panties. 

Frankly, you were tired of sucking it in. But every time you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror you looked pretty damn good. Perhaps your confidence was growing after all. 

“But I need to get home and change so I can run by the shop before it gets too late.” You finish, feeling grateful when the sweet librarian sees fit to lead you out of her office.

“Sooo…” The dark-haired woman drags out the word, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as you both come around the corner. “Word on the street is that you’ve been seeing a lot of Detective Levinson lately. Everything good, I hope?”

 “What do you mean?” You respond, willing your pulse to remain steady. “Everything’s fine. He just…likes for me to call him whenever something new pops up about Martin. That’s all.”

And whenever you lock up in the evening. And when you make it home. And then again to decide if he’s coming to your place for the night. Or, if you’re already on the back roads heading to his. 

It was all so fun and exciting. But at the same time, it was just sex. Amazing sex, mind you. But just sex all the same.    

Instead of responding immediately, Marisol simply chooses to link her arm through yours. “Mm. While I haven’t lived here long, I’ve already learned how much this town loves gossip.” She muses. “Which is why I try to fly under the radar at all times.”

“Uh huh.” You give her a gentle nudge. “Even when it comes to a certain Officer Milton?”

“Shh! We do no not speak that man’s name in this house!”

“Why not?”

“Because I feel like he always goes out of his way to just…be around. He’s like a puppy. I do not have time for puppies, chica. I’m too busy building a career amongst the books.”

“Well sugar, I suppose you might wanna tell him that.”

“Ay, but that would involve making conversation. Something I also do not have time for because–”

“Because he’s standing over there by the door, talking to our favorite resident detective.” You interrupt with a giggle, prompting the other woman to drop your arm in a flourish before racing off back in the direction of her office before squeaking out “you never saw me” - leaving you alone. 

You allow yourself to stand there for another moment, content with watching the two men talk. While both were easy on the eyes, you were only interested in one of them. Glancing down at your outfit, you once again reassure yourself that you’re looking pretty damned good. 

And then – just that fast – an idea strikes you.

Refusing to overthink what it was you were about to do, you discreetly make your way into the ladies room. After checking to make sure you were alone, you slip into a stall. Reaching underneath your skirt, you slide your lacy black panties down your thighs before stepping out of them. 

Biting your lip, you tuck the small scrap of fabric into your pocket. Once you’re finished, you go to leave. But not before stopping long enough to refresh your lip gloss and fluff your curls. And then you’re out the door.

Hopefully you’d be able to catch the handsome bounty hunter before he left.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take you long to find him. He’s right where you saw him last – near the front of the library still talking to Milton. As you near the two, you can’t help but wonder if you’ll be able to pull this off without making an absolute fool of yourself. 

But first you’d have to find a way to get rid of Officer Milton without making your intentions obvious. And then it hits you. While it might be wrong, it was officially time to pawn him off on your favorite new friend.

Marisol.

“Good afternoon, Officer Milton.” You chirp as you sidle forward, politely interrupting their conversation. “Detective Levinson.” Of course you’re immediately met with smiles from both men. 

“Well get a load a’ you.” Milton gives a playful whistle once he gets a good look at your business attire. “Lookin’ sharp, darlin. Goin’ somewhere special?”

“Actually, I just came from a meeting down at the bank.” You tell them, smoothing your hands along your gray pencil skirt. 

“Ahh.” The officer nods. “Fingers crossed all went well.”

“It did. Thank you.” Delicately clearing your throat, you make a show of glancing around before directing your complete attention to the young officer in front of you. “While I hate to interrupt you two when you’re hard at work, I think Marisol might need you.”

“She does?” The man immediately perks up, vaguely reminding you of your neighbor’s golden retriever. 

“Yep.” You wince inwardly, hating yourself for lying. “Not sure what it’s about, but I think she’s somewhere in the back.” 

Just like that, a switch has been flipped and Officer Milton is off on the hunt for a sweet little librarian who most certainly did not need him. Fingers crossed she would catch the hint and just go with it. 

And now you’re alone with the one man with the power to leave you breathless. You were constantly left tied up in knots around this man. But today it was finally time you turned the tables on this guy. 

“How’s the manhunt going, Detective? Any new leads?”

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss this part of my investigation with you, Miss.” He says, flashing you a rather charming smile. “But if you hear from our guy Martin anytime soon, be sure to give me a call.”

“Of course.” You nod, feeling your cheeks heat. “Well, I’d best be goin’ now.”

“Be safe gettin’ home.” 

“Same to you. Detective.”

And then, without sparing him so much as a warning glance, you discreetly remove your panties from their hiding spot and slip them into the back pocket of his jeans. To his credit, Ari doesn’t move a muscle. Instead he continues to stare straight ahead, his gaze never wavering.  

Head held high, you manage to make it all the way to your car before collapsing in a fit of nervous laughter. While you wished you could’ve seen his face, you know deep down that you were better off running off the way you had.  

Maybe he’d call you tonight and maybe he wouldn’t. But all that mattered is that you’d mustered up enough confidence to make some bold moves this afternoon, which by all accounts made you a bad bitch.

Later That Same Evening…

It’s been hours since you pulled that stunt with Ari, but as luck would have it, you still had yet to hear from him. Not that you were worried or anything. In fact, if you had to choose an emotion, you were more disappointed than anything else.

While you’d long since abandoned your high heels by your front door, you were still wearing the outfit you’d worn to the bank. You’d simply been too excited to go by the shop so you’d decided to remain closed for the day.

Heaving a sigh as you rise from the couch, you’re in the middle of debating whether or not it’s worth trying to cobble together something for dinner when you hear the sound of your doorbell. Confused, you go to reach for your phone, only to frown when you see there’s nothing from the one man you wanted to hear from most.

The bell chimes again, prompting you to get a move on. “I’m comin’, I’m comin’!” You mumble, stretching your arms above your head. Opening the door, you’re treated to the sight of a large man standing on your porch with his hands in his pocket, his official badge prominently displayed on his hip. 

Hello, Detective Ari Levinson. 

“Evening, Miss. Apologies for bothering you so late.” 

“Why hello, Detective. Somethin’ I can help you with?” You do your best to keep your tone light while you wait for him to explain himself.

“Sure hope so. Got a report about someone engaging in some inappropriate behavior.” He informs you, barely concealing his smirk as he leans his big body against the porch railing.

“Is that right?”

“Fraid so.” He nods solemnly. “In fact, I actually found a trail of evidence that led me right here to your front door.”

“I…well, there has to be some mistake.” You protest, your hand flying to your chest. 

“Huh.” Ari sucks on his teeth as he reaches into his pocket to retrieve a small scrap of lacy black fabric. “Then you wouldn’t happen to know who these belong to, would you?”

Your eyes go wide at the sight of your panties dangling from one thick index finger. 

“I’m not sure what you’re implying, but they’re certainly not mine.” You sniff haughtily. “I’ve never seen those before in my life.”

“Now, Miss.” He gently chastises, taking another step towards you, invading your space. “Perhaps I should warn you that it’s a crime to lie to a member of law enforcement.” Instead of responding you simply fold your arms across your heaving bosom. 

The nerve of this man, thinking he had the right to question you like this right out in the open. Honestly, what would your neighbors think? The scandal!

“You know what? I’m thinkin’ I’m gonna need to search the premises.” The bounty hunter moves to enter your home, only to growl when your hand stops him short. “It’s also a felony to impede an official investigation.” Ari grunts, his brow furrowing in annoyance.

“And I'm thinkin’ I'm gonna need to see a warrant first, Detective.”

Your breath catches in your throat as you watch his eyes darken - his nostrils flaring ever so slightly. 

“I’m sure a good girl like you ain’t got nothin’ to hide.” Ari rasps, leaning in so that his mouth now hovers a mere inch above your ear. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” You respond, sounding a little more breathless than you’d like.

“Unless there’s something in there you don’t want me to find?”

“I don’t have anything to hide.” Blowing out a breath you decide to give the man what he wants, if only to see what comes next

“Not sure I believe you, sweetheart.”

“Fine.” You concede. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to let you come in for a quick look. But you’ve gotta be fast.” You tell him, poking him in the shoulder before turning to lead him into your home. “Because I’m expecting company any minute and we don’t need an audience.”

“We’ll see.”

Your pulse kicks up when you hear Ari shut the door behind you, followed by the quiet snick of the lock. Guess that meant he thought he was staying awhile. Just as you open your mouth to protest, you’re caught off guard when he brushes by you, allowing you to catch a hint of his cologne. 

“I’m not sure what you’re on, Detective.” You say, shooting him your fiercest glare. Meanwhile, this man responds with his most lethal grin. “But I’m giving you five minutes to figure it out before I–” 

“You know, Miss, I didn’t wanna ask you this outside. Especially given the already delicate nature of this investigation. But do you happen to be wearing any panties?”

“Excuse me?!” His question has your mouth falling open, your cheeks burning hot with outrage.

“Answer the question.” His eyes track your every movement as you slowly back away in the direction of the stairs. “Because every good girl I know puts on a pair of panties before leaving the house for the day.”

“Goodnight, Detective Levinson.” You hiss before turning and taking the stairs two by two. “Please see yourself out before I’m forced to call your supervisor.”

Your words are met with silence. And it’s not until you reach the edge of your bedroom that you hear him moving – up the same stairs you’d just scaled only seconds before. You can hardly suppress a shiver as the heady thrum of anticipation courses through you. 

“I hate to break it to you, sweetheart.” Ari growls softly as his impressive form fills your doorway, effectively blocking your only exit. “But I’m not through with my investigation.” It’s a struggle to ignore just how good he looks taking up space in your bedroom like this. 

“I want you to leave.”

“Oh, I will. As soon as I’m finished.” He takes a step towards you, rolling up his sleeves as he does. “But first, I’m gonna need you to turn and place your hands on the wall.”

“I–I will do no such thing!” Comes your almost breathless reply. “I’m not a criminal.”

“Hm.” Ari cocks his head, his magnetic blue eyes leering at your much smaller, curvier frame. “But you are a suspect.” In less than a fraction of a second, this man is now standing in front of you. “And it would be rather reckless of me if I didn’t pat you down.” One large hand curls itself around your bicep before gently leading to a nearby wall. “You should know that I’m a bit of a stickler when it comes to following protocol.” 

Blood roaring in your ears, you place both of your hands on the cool surface. Taking a deep breath, you can’t help but jump when he kicks your feet apart, forcing you to spread your legs even wider, granting him better access.

“I’m gonna report you.” Unfortunately for you, your flimsy threat does nothing to deter him.

Your eyes fall shut when you feel two large, warm hands glide their way up and down your arms. It feels as tempting as it does comforting. He repeats the action twice more, almost as if he’s trying to lull you into a false sense of security. 

Next, those wandering hands are stroking along your sides, greedily following the path of your curves. And then you feel him bury his nose in the crook of your neck. It’s impossible to miss his soft groan as he inhales your sweet scent.

“Now I’ve gotta ask you, little Bird.” He hums, his sharp teeth nipping at your ear. “Do you have anything on you that could stab, stick, or poke me?” 

“N-no.” 

God, you were so fucking wet right now it’s embarrassing. And you can’t stop the moan that catches in your throat when his sensual ministrations move to your breasts – cupping, massaging, and kneading. He lewdly palms them through your blouse, this thumps paying extra attention to your hardened nipples. Your back arches of its own accord as he continues to play with your body.

And there’s a part of you that hates yourself for the way he makes you respond.  

“Hm. So far so good, baby. Proud of you for keeping your hands where I can see ‘em.” Now his hands are skimming down your hips to toy with the hem of your skirt. His warm breath dances along your sensitive skin, making you shiver. “But now it’s time for the big question.” Ari begins inching your skirt higher and higher. “And don’t you dare lie to me. Are you–”

“This ain’t right, Detective!” You protest, protectively clenching your thighs together. However, your words only make him chuckle. “Pretty sure this is an illegal search and seizure.”

“As a member of law enforcement, I would have to respectfully disagree with you.” He says at the same time as he grinds himself against you, his massive erection pressing into your lower back. “It’s my job to keep the community safe. And to deal with naughty girls who go around handing out their unmentionables to strangers.” Your skirt inches even higher now, stopping just short of revealing your dripping cunt. 

“And what do you know?” He purrs, holding you still as his hand dips between your thighs, cupping your most intimate flesh. “Looks like we’ve got a little liar on our hands. Don’t we?”

“Don’t. We.” The renewed authority in his tone makes your pussy quiver.

“Yes, Sir.”

“And how should we handle liars, sweetheart? Hm?” Your knees go weak when you feel two thick fingers spear their way through your messy folds, lightly strumming over your clit. “What should we do with you?”

“....I…don’t know….”

His deep chuckle has you squirming in his hold, your hips bucking as he continues to grind the heel of his palm against your sensitive nub.  

“Tell you what. You and I are about to have a serious conversation about what happens to pretty young ladies who can’t seem to tell the truth. Even when it’s in their best interest. What do ya say?”

“Y–yes, Sir.” You moan as your eyes threaten to roll back in your head, sparks of pleasure dancing behind your eyes. “Whatever you want – I’ll be so, sooo good!”

Thirty Minutes Later…

“Why the fuck you keep runnin’, baby?” Ari growls, smacking your bottom hard. “Yeah, get that juicy ass back here. Love watchin’ those cheeks bounce.”

The rhythmic sound of flesh slapping against flesh fills the room, spilling out into the hall as Ari drives into you over and over again with his impressive cock. 

He’d been hard for hours before he ever showed up on your doorstep. Frankly, he’d lost count of how many times he’d paused throughout the day to bring your panties to his nose. It was like he couldn’t seem to get enough of how good you smelled. But he also knew that wouldn’t be enough.

He needed to taste you. Needed your unique, earthy flavor on his tongue. 

Thankfully, he had no doubt that he’d have time to eat the fuck out of your sweet pussy later. After he was finished fucking you into oblivion for being such bad girl. Who would’ve guessed his little Bird had it in her to be so deliciously naughty?

Meanwhile, you’re too busy sobbing into a pillow to be proud of yourself right now, your hands fisting the sheets while your man exacts his revenge on your body. At this rate, you’d already cum twice. And here you were already roaring along to orgasm number three. 

Fuck, this man was a goddamned menace!

Your desperate cries grow louder as Ari picks up his pace, forcing you to clench around him as you finally resort to begging.

“Please, Ari!” You wail when he lifts your hips higher before adjusting the angle of his strokes. “I–ooh God–M’so close!”

“Oh yeah?” He snarls, the sound rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest. “Then let me see you work for it.” A sharp hiss escapes when his heavy palm comes down on your ass again, this time smacking both cheeks without so much as missing a beat. “This is how bad girls get punished.” You tense when he delivers yet another blow. “They’ve gotta work for their pleasure.”

“I’m sorry–wooh God!” Your voice comes out raw, bordering on hoarse.       

“That’s it, baby. Yeah, there we go.” He gifts you with another slap, earning a sharp yelp from you. “Yeah, throw it back like you love it.”

After an afternoon of being bad, there’s nothing you want more than to be good for this man. You wanted to please him. Make him happy. If only so he never stopped touching you. And you were trying – honest to God, you were.

But it was all too good. Too much. 

“Just know, everytime you run, I’m gonna drag that sweet ass right back.” Ari renews his punishing grip on your hips, holding you up even as your sweat slicked body starts to give out. “Now cum for me one more time so I can finally stop takin’ it easy on you, pretty Bird.”

END

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[impactrueno]

Beetlejuice clearly wasn't interested in Lydia when they met, so when do you think he actually fell for her? Was he so impressed by Lydia defeating him that he developed a little crush?

i think this might be the biggest thing i've been turning around in my head since the sequel dropped. how did bro get to this point. i need to know. you weren't like this where we left off, what happened during that huge time gap????

this is where canon ends and conjecture begins, you just have to theorize and fill in the gaps yourself with whatever makes the most sense to you, which is what i've been trying to do this whole time. so please bear with me here.

i don't know how much i want share or save for my comics because i don't know how much he would actually reveal about this but whatever we ball

edit: ok so i scrolled back up to this after finishing writing this and as it turns out i have no self control and i ended up sharing everything that crossed my mind. craziest stream of consciousness i've ever written down. strap on and keep your limbs inside the ride at all times. whatever. we BALL.

let's review their first encounter from his point of view:

you're hired to scare the deetzes, right? so you do just that. excellently you might add. just when you're about to terrorize their teenage daughter, barbara banishes you and the party is over. what fucking losers right? you get the sense that adam and barbara care about this girl so you make some remark about her and it pisses them off. haha. also whoa where did this place come from? damn adam, who could've guessed he had it in him. you forget about everything else and dance your way to dante's inferno room.

after spending a respectably tasteful evening with those ladies, you're chill now. relaxing under your little sun lamp to work on your tan.

someone walks in looking for adam and barbara. don't they know they're dead?

"are you a ghost too?"

"i'm the ghost with the most, babe."

hold on a sec, who's even—

...well hey. it's the girl.

the girl who can see ghosts, and she's talking to you.

target acquired. this one's your ticket out of this hellhole.

"you look like somebody i can relate to," you tell her. relate how? doesn't matter. you're ensnaring her with your affable demeanor like you always do, make people feel like you're pals with them first and foremost. she seems like a nice girl, so this should be easy. you tell her upfront that you want to get out of there and you need her help to do so.

"i want to get in," she says.

whoa there.

what? she wants to get in? she says that in response to you saying that you wanted out. she really has no idea what it's like on the other side, huh. but shit, that kinda stops you in your tracks a bit. this girl wants to die. this young? that's not right. makes no sense.

"...why?"

she just looks at you and says nothing. jesus. ok maybe it's none of your business so let's back it up. you're losing control of the conversation and you're on a mission here. you figure if she helps you get out, you might as well talk her off that ledge or show her how shitty it is on the other side or somethin'. frankly, you can't afford to care right now. you're not entirely sure why she thinks things would be better on the side you're so desperate to get out of, but alright. doesn't matter, right now you gotta get her to summon you. so you begin your little game of charades.

after she correctly guesses your name and almost says it a third time, she recognizes you as the snake that terrorized her family. god fucking dammit. you're losing her. you're getting impatient. your affable act is over. "nah...i want to talk to barbara," she says and now she's REALLY getting on your nerves because fuck barbara, fuck adam, you're SO CLOSE to getting out and you're not gonna let this go now, go go GO GO SAY IIIIIIITTTTTTT

adam and barbara walk in because of course they do. womp womp

ok well that didn't work, but you're not gonna give up so easily. sooner or later another opportunity will come and soon you will be free.

wait why are they moving the model— where are they taking it—

ooohhhhh. business meeting. get a load of these yuppies, trying to turn winter river into a town-sized Ripley's Believe it or Not. a talking marcel marceau statue? and you thought you were a con man. no wonder the deetz girl wants to die, it's bleak as hell here too. but if you get out...you can fix that. hell, you can fix anything.

these bozos are here to see some ghosts, but the girl says they're not going to show up unless the fleshbags stop making a mockery out of the whole thing and that maybe they can all live happy together in the house. ain't that sweet.

of course no one's taking her seriously. she's a kid, what does she know, right? they'd rather listen to the most obnoxious guy in the room (besides yourself) who has no idea what the fuck he's talking about, but somehow, he's got his hands on the handbook.

the girl panics, then immediately says completely deadpan "wait, what am i even worried about, otho, you can't even change a tire" and you're surprised they didn't hear how hard you cackled at that.

despite all that, they seem to have started a séance with their old wedding clothes. bad news for the maitlands. they're about to be dead-dead. the girl cries for them to stop, and these guys are just sitting there scared shitless. you're hearing everything. you knew a new opportunity would arise, so you wait, because this is the part where people remember how good at your job you are. they always do.

she knows you can help. you're the only one who can help. so here she comes. those wedding clothes give you an idea. plan B is now in motion.

well well well.

look who came crawling back.

she asks for your help, and you're happy to oblige, under one condition of course. after all, you don't do anything for free, and she's the only one who can help you with your problem. how serendipitous.

once again, you lay it on her, straight up. you want out. and a way to do it (thanks adam and barbara for the reminder) is through marriage with a fleshbag. you need to get married. a green card marriage, if you will.

she's immediately disgusted by the idea. you don't take that personally, of course, because it doesn't matter. she's just a kid and it's not a real marriage. she just happens to be unlucky enough to be the only one around who can assist you with this, the poor girl. it's a marriage of convenience—or rather, inconvenience—and you're not planning on sticking around because you will get the hell out of there as soon as you can. so there shouldn't be a problem, right? besides, does she know how many women would kill to be in that position? she gets to brag about it to her friends, what's not to like? it's a totally even deal.

the clock is ticking and the maitlands aren't getting any younger. she agrees to the deal. you win, at last.

she already knows what to do, so you sit there patiently with a shit-eating grin on your face, awaiting the three little B words. gloating.

Beetlejuice........Beetlejuice...........Beetlejuice.

it's showtime.

this is your favorite part. you love a dramatic entrance. you decide to show the deetzes and their greedy friends the circus they so wanted to turn this town into. horrible as you are, you're also pretty damn good at calling out other people's horribleness, and you do love an ironic karmic way of dealing with someone. for example tubby here thinks he can escape, but not before you change his sleek black suit into a tacky white leisure suit. the horror! this is why you're a professional at this.

you effortlessly end the exorcism and the maitlands are saved. a little pruney right now but they'll be fine. everything is taken care of, you have fulfilled your end of the deal like you promised. only one thing left to do.

"shall we?"

there's really no need to make a whole show out of this, but you're a showman first and foremost and as a 𝒥𝓊𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒾𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝒶𝓁𝓊𝓂 you'll be damned if you're not gonna let yourself have a little fun with this. everyone looks terrified. this is why you're a professional at this.

witnesses and reverend in place, you can finally begin the ceremony. you're having fun, yes, but let's try to pick up the pace a bit, okay? the closer you get to your goal, the more impatient you get. the girl isn't finding any of this very funny at all and she protests. the maitlands butt in and are now kind of twisting your arm a bit, but you deal with them harmlessly, until they get on your last nerve so you send adam to the model and barbara to saturn. all of this after you honorably fulfilled your end of the bargain and saved the day. jesus christ, are you the only one with some integrity around here or what.

you forget the stupid ring. shit. you're pretty sure you have it on you somewhere, ever since you chopped up delores into pieces for poisoning you. you kept her ring finger as a trophy and as a reminder to never get married again, and yet here you are, but desperate times call for desperate measures. finally, you find the ring (still on her severed finger) and hastily tell your new bride-to-be that delores meant nothing to you. in case she even cares. she doesn't seem to. not even a chuckle? oh well.

almost done with the ceremony. almost there. you're holding the girl's hand with an iron grip to keep her in place as you're about to put that ring on her finger. "i now pronounce you, man and—"

a tiny car crashes against your foot and it catches on fire. you scream. a fucking sandworm crashes into the room through the ceiling. everyone screams. you scream LOUDER.

you're sent back to the afterlife waiting room.

not your first rodeo with a sandworm, but that doesn't make the experience any less shitty. the real annoying part is being in the waiting room again. this could take ages. you're number 9,998,383,750,000 and they're serving number 3 right now. you trick the guy next to you and steal his ticket (number 4) but he's not too pleased about that, so that didn't work.

a long time sitting here it is, then.

movie ends, credits roll.

for reference, that was 1988. winona ryder was 15 when they were filming in 1987 so while lydia doesn't have a confirmed age, i think we can safely assume that she was the same age as winona at the time.

36 years later, it's 2024. or 34 years later, it's 2022. we don't know the exact year because while bob's in memoriam credits scene says 2024 and all the interviews talk about how 36 years have passed in universe as well, there's this other one tiny detail.

jeremy's death passport says he died on march 11, 1999. jane butterfield says he died "23 years ago," putting the movie in 2022. they did film it in 2022 so the math is mathing correctly there. given that the in memoriam scene was more of a joke and jeremy's passport is a canon prop in the movie, i'd say 2022 is the canon year the movie is set in. (small sidenote; the passport also has the roman numerals DCLXVI which is 666. cute detail i loved it)

in the sequel, beetlejuice says lydia has been ignoring him for 30 years. i always thought that was curious because outside of this claim, they always specify how many years exactly have passed since. he doesn't say 34 or 36, he says 30. and for his degree of obsession (and the fact that he remembers exactly how many times he's watched The Exorcist) i think he would be counting even the days so i think he did really mean 30 years. so this would mean at least 4 years passed between getting sent back to the waiting room and the beginning of his stalking.

AND NOW that we established all that, we are finally getting to the answer to the question, "when and how did this all start?"

so okay, he spent a while in the waiting room. a lot of time to think. probably replaying the events at the deetzes' in his head over and over, how he got here, where he fucked up, what's he gonna do once he gets out. cursing the maitlands for ruining his plan when he was soooo fucking close. wondering what ever happened to lydia deetz.

lydia deetz, the young girl who told him she wanted to die.

...

is she alright?

i don't think he's capable of feeling guilt, but we can probably argue that he's not entirely heartless. what she said about how she wanted to "get in" must've stuck with him from the way he reacted when she dropped that bomb. she never showed up in the waiting room so he knows she didn't follow through with that. still, he used a vulnerable young girl for his own selfish gain. ironically enough, he knows exactly how that feels, because he also got tricked into marriage and got used for someone else's gain. the difference being that he dealt with that shit with an axe.

much much much to think about for mr. juice.

after years of ruminating in that waiting room, he's finally out and back to the regular day to day afterlife. definitely gets chewed out by juno, maybe forced to do community service or labor or what have you, he basically just needs to clean up his act now. this freelancing shit is becoming more trouble than it's worth anyway.

he's still wondering about lydia deetz. should he check in on her? maybe he should, he's too curious now.

at this point, lydia is now about 19-21 and in college. maybe he manages to sneak into the model one time she's back home for the holidays or something. and oh my god would you look at that, what a beautiful young woman she's grown into. she's radiant. she's happy. she's no longer that gloomy suicidal kid he met in the attic. seems like what she said about the deetzes and the maitlands sharing the house did come true after all.

that's nice. very sweet. good to know.

maybe he wonders if she remembers him and tries to get her attention somehow, give her a little scare for old times sake or whatever. for a brief moment it seems like she saw something and her expression changes, but she shrugs it off and continues on chatting with her two sets of parents. no such luck.

oh well. curiosity sated! and beetlejuice goes back home and doesn't return.

until the next time he returns.

and he keeps coming back to check in on her, telling himself he's just making sure that she hasn't killed herself or something. and he's not above admitting that with every year that passes, she keeps getting more beautiful. and to think they almost got married, huh.

he constantly tries to get her to notice him somehow, and sometimes she almost does, but ultimately he never really succeeds beyond making her do a double take. very rarely she does catch a glimpse of him. he's seen her mutter to herself that she's just seeing things and she seems a bit frightened every time this happens, but there's nothing to fear, honey, it's just good ol' beetlejuice. he won't lie, he gets a bit of a rush every time and it makes his dead heart beat faintly. he's gotten this far, he can't just stop now. in his mind, this has become their little private game of cat and mouse, where the mouse ignores the cat. but aren't they cute? he thinks they're cute. this is not creepy at all!

before he realizes, he's already learned everything about her. he knows about richard and even watched their wedding from afar like a loser. he knows she gave birth to a healthy baby girl named astrid. he knows they have a blast on halloween. halloween is lydia's favorite holiday, and his too. sometimes he can't help but see the three of them happy together and think it could've totally been him. even if he and richard are nothing alike (in fact could not be more opposite) and the circumstances of their unholy wedding were nothing short of grim and a farce. but in his mind, he's starting to convince himself otherwise.

maybe it's his jealousy speaking, but lydia doesn't seem to be that happy with richard despite everything. even though richard is like, the perfect guy. then one day his suspicions are proven correct: neither of them knows why it happened, but after having a long and emotional talk (that he watched with a bucket of popcorn) they decide to get a divorce. he pumps his fist, feeling victorious for some reason. sure he's a little sadistic at times, but why is this giving him so much glee?

the divorce is hard on lydia's kid, who was always more attached to her father, but they still spend a lot of time together. sometimes the three of them, since richard and lydia kept things amicable after the divorce. lydia tries to move on and see other people, but each relationship fails before it even starts. mostly because she keeps holding back and so fails to connect with anyone else, but also sometimes because, well, he can't help himself but to scare them away from her from time to time. it's fun. in his mind, he's just being protective of her, as a gentleman should for a lady.

then richard dies. fell into a piranha infested river from the looks of it (he saw him at immigration one day, don't ask what he was doing around there, force of habit after constantly making sure lydia hasn't killed herself yet.) it's devastating for both lydia and astrid, straining their relationship even more for the next few years as they both try to cope with the loss. the shock proves to be too much for lydia, so she goes to a survivors retreat to work through her trauma, both from richard's death and "unresolved feelings."

then lydia, at her most vulnerable, meets rory.

beetlejuice was able to clock him immediately. a textbook manipulative opportunist, he himself knows the tactics very well. swoop in to "help" someone in a vulnerable position, pull the wool over their eyes and begin taking control so you can get what you want out of that person.

he wouldn't admit it, but this really irks beetlejuice. you know when you see someone who reminds you of the worst parts of yourself, so you despise them? yeah. he's been there, and he's also been him.

but rory is somehow even worse than beetlejuice. see, rory is her manager, and boy does he manage to get on his nerves. he takes her phone. he controls what medication she takes. he blames and guilt trips her about every mishap that HE causes, making himself look like her benevolent savior and making her feel like she would be lost without him, confusing her with his psychobabble. on top of all that, he's forcing her to do this hacky show called Ghost House where she "hunts ghosts" or whatever. the houses he's been helping newly-deads with in his day job as a bio-exorcist (now with a fleet of employees,) she's "hunting" those ghosts now. it's so dumb. it never works. beetlejuice doesn't even know what the hell she's doing, she's phoning it in most of the time and she knows she's become a sellout. what happened to that "strange and unusual" girl who stood up for her ghost friends when those suits wanted to profit off of them back in winter river?

he needs to bring that back. he's the only one who can.

in his mind, beetlejuice has already rewritten the events that transpired. in his mind, lydia has been his wife this entire time, it's just, y'know, one of those open long distance relationships and she doesn't always remember him, but that's okay. in his mind, they share a psychic bond that allows her to sense his presence or see him in her dreams from time to time. he's got nothing to be jealous about, because other men can't compare. no one else can match what they have.

sure, part of him knows he's lying to himself a little bit. but he's already clung to this idea; these past 30 years wouldn't make sense otherwise. he's in love with lydia deetz. this isn't insane of him to say at all. and if it is, well, you know what they say, love makes you do batshit crazy things.

it's not that complicated, no matter what they say you'll never meet another me it's not that difficult to get my head around i'll never meet another you

the end

don't trick me into writing a fanfic again

[is-this-even-relatable]

Misfortune Teller

tldr: An older Danny, apprentice to Clockwork, does a lot of field work across dimensions, resetting the timeline, queuing future events, and who knows what else. Occasionally, he warns people about such upcoming possibilities, to set them on the right path. How, you might ask? Well in this case... as a wandering fortune teller.

Crack-fic (oh god, it's getting long and my logic brain won't let it remain as crack) where Danny becomes Clockwork's apprentice after getting his GED. Living his infinite afterlife to the fullest. Inspired by this tumblr post.

Working for Clockwork had been... interesting so far. At first, Danny got frustrated by how vague and cryptic Clockwork was. He'd just shunt Danny off to some ancient time with a few words, his own time medallion (Danny carried it everywhere with him now), and then pop back into the portal, leaving Danny with only the faintest idea of where to go.

Eventually, after enough time (ha!) spent around Clockwork, Danny figured out that it just basically meant that he had free reign and to do whatever he wanted. Because if he went on the wrong path, (like that one time in Pompeii when he had almost caused the volcano to explode a few years too early), Clockwork would just pop on by, say another few cryptic words, and then it'd all be fine and dandy, or as he liked to say, "All is as it should be... Now stop practicing your wail by an active volcano."

After telling Jazz about that (it was supposed to be funny, not concerning), she just sighed and shook her head, with a forlorn "think before you act, Danny!" but hey, it'd turned out fine so far, so who cares how he does what Clockwork asks him to do, as long as it gets done, right? Even if it's with a liiiiitle more mischief than strictly required.

Besides. Danny was the one who had been doing time shenanigans across millennia, not Jazz. And he thought he'd been getting pretty good at it too! He'd actually started giving himself a different made-up background for each universe he visited. Sam and Tucker were helping him keep up with the identities on a spreadsheet, so if he had to go back to one he'd already visited, he'd remember who he'd said he was supposed to be.

---

He was on a call with them one evening while haunting Jazz's apartment, doing just that, when he felt a familiar tingle in the back of his throat, as well as a heightened awareness of the seconds passing by, that always accompanied his mentor's appearance.

Sam was talking about his past stint posing as a god of death when he cut in. "Hey- sorry to interrupt, Sam- Clocky's here, guys, I gotta dip."

"Aw, come on! We hardly talked any this past week since you passed your certifications, man," Tucker complained.

Danny rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Yeah, yeah. Partly on you too though, you've been caught up outside of class, and Sam's schedule is nearly the opposite of yours."

Sam hummed in agreement despiter Tucker's scoff.

Danny missed hanging out with them as much as they had in high school, but hey, life goes on. Or at least, theirs did, to college. After finally flunking out of Casper High, he'd taken some time to get used to his responsibilities in the ghost zone, and when he had, he realized that he didn't really have much enthusiasm or timeleft for his human life.

And he didn't really want to go back home either.

But Jazz had made him tie up any loose ends before he noped-off to god knows where, which frankly, he had to thank her for. Getting his GED took a few years, but it was an accomplishment that could be attributed to Danny Fenton, no ghostliness required. Then he was able to let that tether go free.

Pulled out of his musings by a few more grumbles from Tucker, Danny said his goodbyes, promising to call the next time they were all available.

After hanging up, Danny swiveled around, anticipation already lighting up his eyes an ethereal green.

Clockwork, for his part, had been waiting patiently through Danny's lengthy goodbyes. Although he supposed that it tracked for the watcher of time to be patient. With his job, it'd be a nightmare if he wasn't.

"Phantom," Clockwork spoke, calm as always. "I have some tasks I need you to complete as my apprentice."

And Danny, always ready for adventure, didn't need him to explain any further. "Sure! When do you need me to be?"

Clockwork smiled at that. "I am fortunate you are eager. Follow me."

---

Danny popped into existence in this universe with a burst of cold air and static electricity. He found himself hovering by a clocktower above a sprawling, gothic city. Smog and light pollution obscured the stars above him, to his disappointment. He comforted himself with the fact that he'd probably have all the time he wanted to fly someplace less populated to see them later.

He started off by familiarizing himself with the city. As he flew, he followed the trail of power and met the resident city-spirit, a spooky- but kind underneath- woman draped in black lace, who told him her name was Gotham. He spoke in length with her about this universe, its heroes, and her knights. On that, she was very enthusiastic... or at least Danny thought she was, her projected emotions belaying much more than her gloomy exterior. She told him how her knights had been through a lot and would need some guidance fighting the darkness that pooled in her deepest corners, smiling with too much glee, filling lungs with fear, and terrorizing with cold hard bullets.

Danny could sense that the dangers she spoke of were growing in power, ever slowly. The longer they shadowed people's minds and hearts, an intangible thing grew that lent them more otherworldly pull than their physical forms had right to hold.

That must be what he was sent here for.

But... they were weak, pitifully so for him, infinite king as he was. And besides, he wasn't here in that sense. He was a messenger, a simple apprentice. And he could do this however he wanted.

Cue his talk with Lady Gotham, and subsequent idea to arm her knights. With what? Well, he figured knowledge would be a start. Flying high above the city invisibly, Danny noticed a sea of colors and lights by what appeared to be the city's pier. He flew down, noting that it appeared to be the setup spot for a travelling circus or carnival of some kind.

He considered what to do. One of Lady Gotham's troubles was a madman clown, right? Well maybe he'd be attracted to his ilk here... and with the danger came the knights. Maybe he could catch one of them here?

Danny was floating around at the entrance and beginning to formulate a plan when a flyer caught his eye. Looking for a mystic to read fortunes. URGENT!

Hadn't Clockwork said something about fortunes? And he hadn't made an identity in this universe yet...

A mischievous smile crept across Danny's face, splitting it in two with far too many teeth.

---

Half a city away, a man in all black, perched on the very same clocktower that Phantom had Appeared by, shivered as he felt an ominous premonition about his sanity in the near future...

Said man quickly opened his comms to check in with his many, many kids. Yet even after hearing back from each, he still felt apprehensive.

Somewhere even further, Clockwork laughed.

---

And that's how Danny found himself seated at a fortune teller's booth at a pier in Gotham, two days later, for the Tricksy Traveling Circus's grand opening.

[maxlarens]

Hi, I have a smau request for Charles (based on c.ai bot lol, and the fact that I love painting), so the reader is invited by her friends to a house for vacation, her friends are all with their s/o and they also always try to set up reader with someone, that's when her and Charles meet, and reader finally gives it a chance because she knows her friends won't stop to set her up. They talk for a whole evening about what they do in life (reader is an artist/painter) and they get along really well. Eventually they get together and reader is very liked by the public, even if there will always be haters, but most fans thinks she's just very adorable (especially because of her insta/twitter posts)

CL: slip up and i call you baby

pairing(s): charles leclerc x artist!reader

summary: you love your friends, you really do. you just wish they’d stop trying so hard to set you up with random guys. [smau + written fic] (read on: ao3) (part 2)

fc: faceless

word count: 5.1k

warnings: mild sexual references

a/n: this is such a cute idea! thank u so much for sending it in!! u will not believe how much this idea gripped me like i never write one shots like this its just unheard of for me if im honest. anyway i know u asked for a smau so i will be doing a second part/continuation to this that is solely an smau to make up for that. (ALSO sorry for disappearing i was super sick for the whole week and have been getting my shit back together in the aftermath😭)

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Amalfi Coast, Italy

You’ve never been particularly boy crazy. At least not the same way your friends are.

There have been a few not-quite boyfriend’s over the years, but those relationships never last long. They never really get you, or they never really get the art thing. Which means, of course, that they don’t get you and never will— and that’s fine, you’re content with that. If living for your art means you’ll never be in love then so be it and frankly, good riddance to them.

For the most part, you’ve given up trying. You go on a few dates here and there, but you never let them stick around. Even the ones that seem interested in your paintings you don’t bother with— none of them really seem to be able to grasp what art truly is to you. It isn’t just paint on a canvas, it’s living, it’s breathing. You are only yourself with a way to make art.

It’s difficult to put into words.

So you don’t. Instead, you send texts that say ‘thanks for your time but this isn’t working out’ and you keep the men your friends try to set you up with at arm's length. You placate Chloe and her partner Rowan– who collects friends like they’re Pokémon– with, “he wasn’t my type” and “I’m not looking for a relationship right now”, which you suppose is true, but also isn’t the entirety of it. Yet, every time without fail, there’s a new boy at the scene of the crime.

Chloe doesn’t get it, none of your friends get it. You don’t try to explain it to them. So, y’know, here you are again.

Anyway, here’s the thing: they’re getting closer. Inexplicably, without knowing how you really feel about it all, Chloe and Rowan are getting better and better at picking the boys who are able to tempt you. Which is a pain really, because sometimes you’re trying to have a perfectly nice vacation in Italy without the lure of a boy you can’t let yourself have. But alas, these things generally don’t go your way.

You should know that by now.

Charles Leclerc is bang on the money, he really is. He is unbearably cute, like so cute that you have to leave the room when he walks in, because you don’t trust yourself to be in close proximity to him right now. You have a hard time looking at his face when you are forced to be around him. The dimples when he smiles, the squint of his eyes even when he isn’t. If you look too long you’re liable to stare and that wouldn’t lead to anything good at all.

He’s nice as well. So nice, just like Chloe told you. You try to pretend he doesn’t exist and he still asks you questions about your job and the area of Monaco you live in— like he’s even interested, like he’ll remember you two weeks from now. You try your best to be pleasant, to answer without it being like pulling teeth, and to ask questions of him as well. You’ll probably see him again after this, so best to not to go too far and act like you hate him. It’s difficult though, toeing the line between friendly and encouraging of more. Or it feels difficult for you. Charles doesn’t make even the slightest suggestion of the two of you being set up by your nosy friends. That’s unbearable too. Part of you wishes he’d just make a clumsy pass at you so you can rebuff it and make your intentions abundantly clear. But, obviously, he doesn’t, because he’s perfect or something.

It sucks. You hate him, you think.

Or you want to.

On the second day of the trip, you’re on the villa’s private beach, laying in the hot sun. Chloe, Anaïs and Bea are there; everyone else is either still sleeping off the wine from last night or swimming in the glittering ocean. You’ve got a secondhand book, a 2B pencil and a pair of sunglasses over your eyes. You’re trying to read but you just end up doodling, drawing your friends bikini-clad bodies over the text and shading grapes into the margins. Trying desperately not to accidentally put Charles Leclerc’s dimples, messy hair, or sloped nose to paper.

“So,” Chloe says conspiratorially, as you abort an attempt at drawing a slightly squinted eye with thick lashes, “What do you think of Charles?”

You raise an eyebrow carefully at her over your sunglasses, betraying nothing of your inner turmoil, “I think nothing.”

Anaïs laughs, rolling onto her back, “That’s such shit. You practically sprint away from him everytime he comes near.”

“I do not,” you answer too quickly.

Anaïs laughs again, louder. Chloe joins in and Bea raises her eyebrows at you like you’re a fucking liar. You frown, glaring a little before stubbornly turning your head back to your book. The conversation about Charles ends there, but unfortunately your actions have spoken for themselves. A chill of something like panic chitters up your spine and into your shoulders. You have to roll them to make the feeling go away.

As the sun climbs higher in the sky you lose some people to the heat and gain others. It’s just you and Chloe sweating onto your towels when Rowan and Charles finally give up on whatever game they were playing in the ocean. Rowan collapses unceremoniously into the space between you and Chloe, kicking up sand and getting water droplets all over you like he’s a wet dog. You let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and an exasperated groan as you roll away from him, landing in the sand.

“Watch it,” you cry, “You’re getting my book all wet.”

Rowan laughs, “You’re drawing in it!”

“So.”

He pulls a face at you that makes you roll your eyes; then he turns into Chloe, shoving his face into her collarbone and flinging limbs over her. You snort, leaning over to snag the book off your towel before it gets dragged into the mess that Rowan is causing. You’re about to get up and go inside until you realise Charles is still standing there. Has, in fact, been standing there since Rowan ran over. Your breath catches, heart skipping a beat as you look up to find him standing there.

“Hey,” you smile briefly at him, quickly looking away from his damp hair and bare chest (–which is difficult to do because, holy shit–) so you can gather up your towel.

“Hi,” he replies.

He might smile back. You don’t look. You’re trying to get the image of his washboard abs out of your head. This proves difficult when you clamber to your feet and find yourself face to face with him.

“Are you heading back?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

God, you want to kick yourself. You’re being so awkward, and right in front of Chloe too, who may not be watching but is absolutely listening to you make a fool of yourself in front of a guy you have very firmly said that you are not interested in. It must be clear to him too, that you’re trying very deliberately to not be interested in him. You cant tell what would be worse; if that means he’ll think you’re a weirdo or if it means he’ll take it as a sign that he should make some kind of move.

Ugh.

“I’ll come with you?”

“Hmm,” you blink yourself back into existence, seeing the questioning look on Charles’ face, “Yes, yeah. Sorry.”

You say goodbye to Chloe and Rowan who barely look away from one another, still rolling around in the sand like teenagers.

“Gross,” you say to Charles, as the two of you trudge through hot sand toward the sandstone steps that lead up to the villa.

He laughs, a breathy thing that tapers off with a sigh, “A bit, yes.”

You don’t say anything else, but you find yourself staring at his back and the way his muscles shift and move underneath his tanned skin. At the top of the stairs you part ways, he smiles at you and you offer something awkward in return, trying to pretend you hadn’t been looking at him. You don’t think he notices, but your cheeks red burn anyway.

You don’t see him watching you leave.

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Amalfi Coast, Italy

Dinner is a huge affair, as it always is on these trips.

You, Anaïs and Chloe spend three hours in the kitchen that afternoon making chicken fricassée and about a hundred different side dishes to go with it. Everyone crowds around the dinner table to eat and drink even more wine than the night before. Piero Piccioni plays on the old record player, crackling away as you laugh and talk and tell stories with your friends well into the night. You watch the sun set through floor-to-ceiling glass windows and you wish wish wish that you had your paints right now.

You brought along a set of oil pastels and one of your art notebooks, but it doesn’t compare at all to painting. If you could get your hands on cadmium yellow in all it’s hues, maybe vermillion and a powder blue, your lack of paintbrush or canvas wouldn’t even matter. You’d use your fingers if you needed to. It bothers you so much that you get up in the middle of clearing away the meal and go to your room for the pastels and notebook. You need to get it on a page at least.

You push a few plates to the side, folding out your notebook and immediately marking the page up with a creamy white pastel. Bea teases you when she comes over to take the rest of the dirty dishes, but you just mumble something unintelligible, too engrossed with smudging the sunset into something that looks like what you’d seen out the window. When the oranges and yellows blend to your satisfaction you take the black and brown and draw in the top of your friends’ heads, not thinking about how much attention to detail you’re paying to the shape of Charles’ side profile.

When you’re finished, you’re surprised to see that the table is cleared save for a few half-full wine glasses and a fresh bottle. Only Chloe, Rowan and Charles are still sitting by you. You’re listening to another Piero Piccioni album now, or maybe just the other side of the record. You remember saying goodnight to the others and saying yes to a glass of wine, so you’ve not been totally dead to the world, but it’s all in a bit of a haze.

You think this might be part of the reason why you can’t hold down a boyfriend. The disappearing into your art like you cant breathe until it’s finished. That may as well be the case if you’re honest.

You sigh, wiping your stained fingers on the next blank page, then you take a long sip from your glass of merlot, pretending you dont notice the others’ eyes on you.

“All done?” Chloe quips, somewhere on the border of teasing and being annoyed at you.

You look at her, your eyes just narrowing enough for her to notice. She does and purses her lips. You raise an eyebrow to ask okay, what’s your fucking problem? And you see her eyes flash to Charles. You follow her gaze to see him and Rowan pretending to look disinterested in your answer. Charles is tracing the base of his wine glass and absently biting the inside of his mouth. You have to tear your eyes away.

“All done,” you answer, tone clipped, before gathering your things (including the wine glass) and leaving the room in a move you hope doesn’t come off as too rude.

At your back you hear Rowan ask Chloe, “What was that?”

Chloe means well, you think as you wind through the villa, making your way to the balcony overlooking the private beach. She wants you to be happy and she thinks you need a boyfriend to be happy. But she’d found the love of her life in Rowan after only a few years of dating around and she doesn’t quite understand that it’s never going to work like that for you. There aren’t enough people out there that understand the kind of passion you have for your art and certainly not many that would also be compatible with you. You’re fine with that, but Chloe doesn’t know what to do with it. Especially not now she’s cottoned onto the fact that you have some kind of interest in Charles. It’s killing her.

It’s irrelevant though, whatever interest you have in Charles doesn’t factor into anything. He’s cute, he’s nice, but so were the dozen boys that you’ve already dated and not continued dating. So really, Chloe needs to stop pushing it because it’s pissing you off. You’re here for a holiday, not to be forced into conversations with a guy you don’t know. If she needs to have an argument to finally understand that, then so be it. You’ve been friends for years, it’ll blow over eventually.

You flick a switch and blinking lights illuminate the balcony. Fairy lights are wound up the posts and draped on the awning, intertwining with the lush green vines that have grown up through the wood slats. The air is balmy and the breeze light as you settle into one of two cushioned chairs situated by a coffee table. It’s perfect. You spread the oil pastels out next to your glass of wine and set your open notebook on your crossed legs, listening to the sound of waves lapping against the shore.

You’re alone for what feels like a long time but is probably only an hour or two.

When the sliding door clunks open you expect it to be Chloe coming over to have it out, but it’s not. Instead, Charles slips through the gap with the rest of the wine gripped in one hand.

“Hi,” he greets, smiling at you in a way that makes dimples carve in his cheeks, and dashing any hopes you have that he’d walk right past you.

“Hey,” you forget yourself for a moment and bite your lip on a broad smile.

He holds the bottle out toward you, offering more. You lean over your notebook and hold your empy wine glass up in acceptance.

“Merci,” you say, and in a moment of weakness (and probable wine drunk-ness) you gesture at the plush chair across from you.

Charles, somewhat caught off guard, looks between your outstretched hand, the chair, and your face, before shaking his head almost imperceptibly and finally taking a seat. Despite his apparent shock, you find it hard to believe he’d come out here simply to offer you some of the last of the wine. Surely, this is Chloe and Rowan’s doing. Though, strangely, you cant quite bring yourself to care.

He sets the bottle on the coffee table, next to your oil pastels. You lean forward to place a few back in their rightful spots, snagging your wine glass as you go.

Charles eyes’ scan your face for a moment, searching for something you suppose, then he points at your notebook, “Have you been drawing?”

You nod, “Mmm.”

You think perhaps the answer is a bit obvious. He seems to realise this, you watch a blush spread onto the top of his cheeks and he flutters his eyelids slightly, almost like rolling his eyes at himself. You don’t think about his eyelashes, thick and dark as they brush against his cheekbone, and you don’t think about his eyes, the lights reflecting off them, making them sparkle.

“What are you drawing then?” he asks after a moment of collecting himself, an edge of embarrassment to his voice.

You give in easily to the strange urge you have to show him, grabbing the notebook off your lap and holding it out for him to see what you’d been scribbling in the book for the past two hours. You let him take it off your hands, ignoring the spike of anxiety. He holds it gingerly, like it's a precious artefact (of course, to you, it is), which makes something warm bloom in your chest. You take a sip of wine and gesture for him to flip through a few pages, which he seems hesitant to do without permission. The book is angled in such a way that you can see most of the page, so you’re content to let him. Or at least you are until he flips to the page you’d started when you’d first come out here.

Panic drops like a stone in your gut because he’s looking right at a fully rendered drawing of his eyes. It’s in amongst some pillars strung with lights and covered in climbing vines; your best attempt at capturing the way the beach looked earlier in the day; and, perhaps your saving grace, Chloe half asleep on her towel. But the drawing of her is haphazard, it’s half-scribbled and half-finished, whereas the one of Charles eyes’ is as detailed as the sunset scene you’d done the page before. It had been something you just needed to get out, drawn in one of those hazes of yours. You’d felt better after it was done, your hands had stopped feeling like they were itchy.

Now, you itch to snatch the notebook off him, but you fear that would be even more incriminating. So you watch him look at the page and try to sit with the panicked feeling spreading in your chest.

Eventually, he points at the page, “Is this me?”

You bite your lip, breathing slowly through your nose to try and abate the blush spreading up your neck. You don’t say anything exactly, just shrug and rock your head back and forth in a kind of confirmation that doesn’t really admit anything. Though, there’s no denying the drawing is him.

“It’s good,” he says, seemingly stumbling over the words, “It’s very good.”

You frown into your drink, “Thank you.”

“I mean it.”

You know he means it. It’s not that.

“Yes,” you put down the wine glass, looking at him but avoiding eye contact, “I know. I know it’s good. I’m just… I’m embarrassed,” you admit.

He furrows his eyebrows– or it’s more that he squints and his eyebrows fold in with it. You watch his tongue dart out to run across the top of his bottom lip and you stamp down the less than innocent thoughts that come bubbling up at that. He waves the hand that’s not still holding carefully onto your notebook about for a moment, trying to conjure up words that he doesn’t have yet.

Slowly, he says, “You shouldn’t be embarrassed. I– It’s–”

He’s about to say flattering, so you cut him off, not wanting to hear the tone of it, whether it be pity or something else entirely.

You try to explain yourself, “Things get stuck in my head sometimes. Like after dinner,” you reach forward and flip the page back one, to the sunset, “I have to get it onto paper. Or… or… it just runs laps in my head for the rest of eternity, I guess. I don’t stop thinking about it.”

You cringe internally. You’ve just told him that you were so consumed by thoughts of his eyes that you had to draw them immediately. That is perhaps worse than just wanting to draw him because you thought he was cute. Charles raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised by your admission, but there’s perhaps also something sincere in there? You can’t pinpoint it, but it makes you feel a fraction better you think.

You sigh forlornly, “That’s weirder, huh?”

He laughs, properly laughs, and it sends some strange feeling skittering down your spine, “No. No, I get it. I don’t have any way to get it down as quickly as I’d like, but I definitely understand the feeling.”

You bite the inside of your lip, hesitant but still curious, “You understand the feeling? Really?”

“Yes,” he smiles easily now, relaxing more in the chair after he places your notebook onto the counter with a cautiousness you still don’t expect, “For me, with racing, it’s like I get an idea and I can’t sleep until I try it on track or talk about it with someone. Some of them don’t work, or aren’t possible, which is fine, but if it sounds right to me and it checks out with the people that it needs to, then, well, then it literally does run laps in my head.”

You laugh, mostly to yourself. You’re not sure yet if he understands what you’re saying, but he’s trying. That’s more than you can say for a lot of people. You try not to let that thought linger for too long.

“You think it’s similar?” you ask in a way you desperately hope comes across as curious and not accusatory.

He hums, waving his hand around again for words, “Perhaps. I think the urgency is the same. The passion is the same. Do you ever feel like something terrible will happen if you can’t–”

“Yes,” you’re a bit breathless in your haste to agree, to talk about this feeling with someone who understands, “Yes. I do. It’s like I need to put it somewhere before I lose it. Otherwise, it won’t be perfect, or it’ll be too late.”

“Exactly,” his eyes seem to light up, for a long second you watch the flickering lights reflect in them, “Exactly.”

“It’s never as good as I want it to be,” you admit, finding it easier to look him in the eye now that some strange barrier between you has been broken, “It’s never quite how I imagine it in my head.”

Charles points at your notebook, “These are very good, really. I don’t see how they could be better. But,” he shrugs, “Eh, I will win a race and still think of everything I did wrong.”

You nod eagerly in understanding as you lean back into the chair, finally relaxing into the cushions. It’s strange to have this conversation, knowing you’re talking about two entirely different careers, but feeling like they’re so similar. Maybe it’s just you and Charles that are similar, maybe your jobs have nothing to do with it? You don’t know, you just know it’s nice to feel like someone gets what you’re talking about.

Charles continues, speaking like he’ll explode if he doesn’t get this off his chest, “It’s there all the time, do you know what I mean? Maybe I’m not thinking about it every second, but it’s always there waiting for something to draw attention to it. And people ask what else is going on in my life, and of course I do other things, and I enjoy other things, but I want to be on the track. I want to be driving whenever I can.”

You nod again, more subdued now, “Mmm, right. I want to be making art all the time, and when I can’t it’s like missing a limb. To me art is– it– it’s like–”

“–breathing,” he finishes, almost the lilt of a question to it, but not really, it’s like he knows exactly what you mean… how you feel.

You exhale, long and slow, “Yeah. Like breathing.”

Both of you are quiet for a little after that. You’re trying not to stare at him, but it’s not easy. He’s looking at you almost blatantly and you can feel blood rushing to your cheeks the longer he stares. The air feels thick with some feeling you can’t place. All you know is there are butterflies in your stomach and a smile keeps pulling at the edge of your pursed lips.

The smile takes over as you catch him starry-eyed in your peripheral vision, you mutter, “Stop that. Stop looking at me.”

“Why?”

You tip your head back so you can’t see him looking at you, “Because.”

“Because?” he laughs breathily, shaking his head at you, “Okay, well, tell me if I’m misreading anything, but I’m pretty sure that drawing of me in your notebook says something, at least.”

You run a hand down your face, sighing loudly, “Yes, okay. I suppose it does. But– I–” for a moment you struggle for the right words to explain yourself, “I guess I’m not really looking to date anyone.”

He tilts his head to the side, furrowing his eyebrows and looking for all intents and purposes, like a confused puppy, “You guess?”

You nod, resisting the urge to just launch over the table and grab his face. He is very cute and he is making this so hard for you.

He sucks his teeth briefly, shrugging, “I’m not really either.”

“Alright,” you say, “Good.”

As over as that should make the issue, strangely enough it doesn’t feel like you’re done with Charles Leclerc and it certainly doesn’t feel like he’s done with you either.

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Amalfi Coast, Italy

You try to avoid Charles after that, you really do, but he doesn’t quite let you.

For a few days of the holiday you give him pointed looks and purse your lips a lot when he’s around. Chloe catches on straight away and that makes it all infinitely worse until she finally realises she might need to leave you alone (yeah, shocker). When Chloe finally forces everyone to get off your back about Charles, it becomes much easier to be around him. You’re not glaring at your friends while they make eyes at you, or worrying if you’re acting weird; you’re just allowed to be.

It’s nice. He’s nice.

But you knew that already.

Neither of you are looking for a relationship so there’s no pressure for it to be anything at all. But you have this sneaking suspicion that perhaps both of you are looking for a relationship with eachother regardless. You try to ignore the thought.

On day five, you’re sitting together on an outcropping of rock that overlooks the ocean and you’re letting Charles doodle in your notebook with a ballpoint pen. The bare skin of both your arms are pressed together, they stick with sweat from the hot midday sun but neither of you seem to care. As you watch him doodle inexpertly you can smell him— salt and sweat and whatever cologne he uses masking the very faint scent of burning rubber. Your hair, still damp, brushes his forearm, you wonder if you smell of acrylic paint and mildew from all the water cups you accidentally leave out for your paintbrushes.

You reach out to trace a line he’d made, “Here, it should be more like…” you taper off, taking the pen from his hand and quickly fixing the curve of the beach before handing the utensil back.

“Hmm,” he hums, giggling a little, “I guess that looks better.”

“You guess?”

He nods, “What if I had a very specific vision?”

You raise an eyebrow in disbelief, leaning back to look him in the eye you tease, “A vision. Did you?”

He tilts his head down to look at you. You’re very close now, you can feel his breath fanning over your face. In the reflection of his sunglasses you watch your lips part slightly and your eyelids flutter. Your chest grows tight with anticipation and maybe a little bit of panic. Still, you reach out and slide his sunglasses up to settle in his hair. You’re a little careless, but you like the way his hair pokes out from them at odd angles. As he breathes out you hear it catch for a split second.

“Did you?” you repeat, knowing he won’t remember what you were talking about.

He blinks twice, still staring at you, “Hmm?”

“You said you had a vision,” you breathe.

“Oh,” as he says it, his eyes flicker down to your mouth, only for a second, but it’s long enough to you know you’re done for.

You both lean in at the same time, your noses sliding off each other in your eagerness. You breathe a kind of laugh into his mouth and you feel him try to suppress a smile against your lips. It’s slow for the first few seconds, just you and Charles figuring out how your mouths fit together. His mouth is warm and wet and so soft, and it’s easy to lose yourself in it. You move the hand that had adjusted his sunglasses, sliding it up his shoulder to the back of his muscled neck. Your fingers weave into the short hair at the base of it, your nails scratching absently there. He groans, ever so slightly into your mouth and it sends heat skittering down your spine, into the low of your gut.

The hand of his that isn’t clutching onto your notebook slips forward and winds around to press at your bare back. He pulls you closer to him as you slide your hand up to cup the back of his head, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. Soon it’s a mess of tongue and teeth and Charles blindly shoving your notebook somewhere it wont slip into the water so he can grab you with both hands. He tastes like red wine and coffee and you love the way his fingers dig into your skin and the way his teeth have been grazing at your bottom lip, like he wants to sink into it.

You’re almost in his lap when you’re forced to pull away for air.

Foreheads pressed together, you breathe heavily into the space between you. Your hand is still stuck in his hair and one of his on the small of your back, the other holding your knee. The sides of your noses touch, you nudge yours against his affectionately, tempted by the proximity of his mouth.

He laughs and you feel it against your lips, intermingling with your own breath, “Alright. That was–”

“Yeah,” you finish, dipping forward to kiss him again.

You’re lost for another few minutes. Tongue and teeth and the sound of the waves crashing against the rock behind you. And his hand on your jaw and in your hair and pulling you closer closer to him.

He pulls away this time, turning his head to press your cheeks together, mouth at your ear, “So,” he drags the word out with a laugh, “are you looking for a relationship now?”

You snort unceremoniously, and tease, “Hmm. I guess I would be amenable to that.”

“You guess?” he asks— but not really needing to at all because you can feel his dimples pressing into your cheek as he smiles knowingly.

You nod, smiling too, “I guess.”

🎨 yes of course i made a playlist>> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6cAJaZjvK0V7SrmxoMosBX?si=ADlJGHxxQYKnlZ1jWFJxfw&pi=a-AI0MKbo3RTqE

taglist: (pls message if you'd like to be added to the taglist for charles. my yuck! one is full so need to start a new one😭)

[luveline]

can we please have more coworker JAMES 💜

james calls you something he maybe shouldn’t | fem

You’re feeling at a James-given mark when Sirius appears. 

You don’t know Sirius half as well as you know James nor Remus, but you’re ninety five percent sure he’s a good guy. He’s funny at lunch, whenever Remus has managed to convince you to go with them. He’s like James in terms of scandal. They like making bad jokes. Sirius really likes making Remus laugh, so he must be nice. 

“Hey,” he says, “where are they?” 

You nod toward the boss’ office. “Presenting the last of the Lang and Co.” 

“Oh, right.” Sirius moves in to James’ desk. He knocks one of his figurines over purposefully, then moves one to have its face in the other’s backside. 

“I’ll have to tell him that was you,” you say. 

“Rat. Why?” 

“He’ll think it was me otherwise, and then–” He won’t kiss me later, you’d been about to say. James has grown suddenly and enthusiastically fond of withholding affection whenever you mess with him. As a joke, of course, but you refuse to risk your lunchtime kiss. “You know what he’s like with me.” 

Sirius smiles oddly. “I do.” 

He sits at James’ desk. Ever since you and James… started whatever it is you’re doing, things have been raw for you. Maybe you’re stupid, it’s only kisses, but you’re sort of thinking it isn’t. Like, this is dating. You might not be boyfriend and girlfriend, but you’re exclusive. 

James is too good, and some small part of you doesn’t like admitting it, but the bigger part (the part that wants to kiss him and be kissed by him) knows it surely. How could you have grown to fancy him otherwise?

“Doing anything fun this weekend?” you ask. 

“Not likely,” Sirius says, tucking hair behind his ears. “We’re all helping Remus’ dad paint the house. It’s a tiny thing n’ it won’t take long, but he lives in Aberystwyth. S’gonna take hours to get there and he wants to stay up there ‘cos his dad gets lonely.” Sirius scratches his jaw. “His dad’s nice, mind. I don’t mind going up there. Just hate being stuck in the car when James is driving.” 

You won’t see James this weekend, then. He hadn’t mentioned it. “It’s beautiful in Aberystwyth. Maybe you can go to the beach,” you say. 

“That’s what I’m trying to convince them to do.” Sirius grins. 

“Not the best weather.” 

“It’s always nicer up there. We spent a lot of time up there, you know, in the summers. We ping-ponged between Remus’ house and James’ parents.” 

“Do they live there too?” you ask. 

“Nowhere near.” Sirius laughs, a deep, rich sound. “You think I’d be used to long drives.” 

“Where’s James from?”

“My parents live deep in the West Country,” James says, his hands sudden on the back of your chair. 

Fuck, you think. You had no idea he was coming, distracted by Sirius and the patter of rain against the window. “You creeper.” 

“You’re the creeper. Grilling dear Siri for details on my personal life.” James dives for a biscuit from the plastic packaging laid out on your desk and then away from you. “If you want to know where to send your fan mail, just ask me, sweetheart.” 

“How do you sneak up on me like that?” you ask. 

The space between your chair and the wall isn’t super tight, but it’s still weird to think he’d approached from the right and you hadn’t noticed. Just, James isn’t generous with details about himself and you’re too timid in your standing with him to ask. 

“Practice… Sirius, what have you don’t to my little women!” 

“I thought they were boys?” Sirius says. 

“That gives you no right to knock them over and make them do frankly obscene things to one another. This is a workplace.” James knocks Sirius out of the way, desk chair and all, to set each of his little green figurines onto their feet. The ones that are standing, that is. The sleeping one he puts back in pride of place underneath his computer’s monitor. 

“She told me not to,” Sirius says, not looking at anyone now, peering backward toward the office. “But I didn’t listen, don’t blame our sweet Y/N.” 

“I wasn’t going to.” James sends you a secret smile. 

“She wouldn’t physically withheld me if I weren’t so devilishly fast.” Sirius’ voice warms. “Hello, darling.” 

Remus huffs as he sets down a huge binder of paper. “Hi.” 

“You okay?” 

The tone he uses is so tender, so soft, you aren’t jealous of Remus but you’re not far from it, either. Remus’ frowning is quick to turn up at the sight of his meddling boyfriend. It must be nice to see someone and have them make a bad day good. 

You look up, finding James paused with a hand on his desk. He’s looking at you, impassive. 

“You okay?” you ask him. 

He squints, wrinkles his nose. “Fine. Got shouted at a bit for the reports. Bet you’re glad you have a twisted ankle.” You’re confused at first, then caught. James’ wrinkled face darkens to glare at you. “You lied?” 

“I really didn’t wanna see him today.” Your boss sucks. 

“And we did? Remus, we’ve been betrayed.” 

“James, I knew she was lying, I just don’t care.” Remus rubs his face. “Why shouldn’t one of us escape him?” 

Sirius takes Remus’ empty hand hanging at his side, picture of a concerned lover. 

James, on the other hand, steals another biscuit despite your laughing protesting and nimbly switches off your monitor. 

“Had enough,” James says. Turned away from the boys, he smiles at you playfully, hand twitching at his side like he wants to give you a squeeze. Or a shove. “Your betrayal is noted.” 

“Mm.” You take a third biscuit from your pack to offer him. 

He takes it, letting his knuckles brush under your arm before pulling away. “And filed away for a later date.” 

When Sirius has pulled Remus away for another early lunch, James retakes his chair and slides as close to you as he can be. He looks for your hand under the desk. You pretend it’s just casually there on your knee and not waiting for him to hold. 

“My dad’s family is very well off,” he says, rubbing your index finger with his thumb, “so the estate is huge. They own a lot of land, but he’s not, like, a lord or anything. You’d love it down there though, it’s nice.” 

“I bet I would.”

“Don’t look so surprised.” 

“No, I’m not, I know you’re rich.” 

“Not that sort of surprise. It would be nice to go down there together.” He can tell he’s getting ahead of himself and backtracks. “Well, this weekend I’m going to gorgeous Aberystwyth and you’re…” 

“Doing laundry.” 

“Well,” he says quietly, “maybe you can make some time Sunday night after all of that and we can get a late dinner.” 

“I thought I was in trouble over the twisted ankle.” 

“Who could be in trouble for an injury?” James sandwiches your hand in his. 

“Fake injury.” 

“Oh, my girl,” he murmurs, almost inaudible, “so honest. No punishment on account of owning up to it.” 

Great. My girl and he’s going away for the weekend. James Potter’s your personal nightmare. 

—

james coworker au

[ellecdc]

Ooooo Mother, i'll do one better!!

What about the boys (established relationship) being needy over reader?? Like something she does or says or wears.

ooooooooof good one babes

okay, mature content ahead: viewer discretion is advised

James:

you come down the stairs to the Gryffindor party looking like that

certified simp, there would be no question what was going through his mind when he get's needy like this

glassy eyes just ogling you

following you around like a lost puppy - his friends would joke that you had him on some invisible leash

probably has a hand on you at all times

I see him getting a little whiny: "can we go now?" "the party's almost over, right?" "they won't miss us for a few minutes?"

whatever ends up happening afterwards is rushed and frantic - it's very obvious how absolutely desperate he was for you

Sirius:

you come down the stairs to the Gryffindor party looking like that

I don't think he lets you make a full round of the party before he's pulling you up to his dorm and locking the door

"Siri! I was talking to Emmeline!"

He'd scoff at you as he started shedding his clothes. "You come down stairs looking like that and expect me not to want to jump your bones immediately? Fuck, look at you; who even gave you permission to look this good, huh?"

idk about you but that sentence alone would have me in a puddle

ravishes you - you both look like a right mess afterwards

he takes about 30 seconds to revert back to his dishevelled rockstar appearance (which is so unfair because it took you a little longer to get ready tonight)

he dutifully helps you get redressed - the whole nine yards. Hair, makeup, outfit; though he makes sure some of the marks he's decorated your skin with are visible... "they compliment the ensemble, doll face"

Remus:

you come down the stairs to the Gryffindor party looking like that

he's got a good pokerface, but there'd be signs

he'd be a little quieter during conversations - most of his attention placed on you, one of his hands would be near his mouth as he played with his lips (like a nervous tick, almost like he really wants a cigarette right now)

but this man's M.O.? Get you feeling just as needy as he is

he would ask you to dance - and it'd be sinful: your back pressed up against his front as your hips sways in sync to the beat

his hands would be all over you: running up and down your thighs, slipping under the skirt of your dress, arms wrapping around your middle, gentle kisses pressed to your ears and neck

he'd have you so wound up and when you finally turn in his lap to ask him if he wanted to go upstairs, he'd smile at you and say "great idea, dove. I don't think they'll miss us for a little while."

get's exactly what he wanted and somehow it had been your idea

Regulus:

you come down the stairs to the Slytherin party looking like that

I think it would piss him off a little bit, quite frankly - how dare you come down stairs looking that good and acting like you weren't knocking the wind out of Regulus? (and likely every other partygoer there)

I think because he's feeling slightly jealous/a little peeved at you, he'd keep his distance at the party; but you would feel his eyes on you all night

his predatory gaze watching you as you navigate the party, sending threatening glares at anyone getting too close or was looking for too long

finally as the party is dying down, you're halfway through a conversation with Dorcas when you feel a looming presence behind you

"We're leaving." He says simply, taking your elbow and ushering you towards the dorm rooms.

you try to scold him for interrupting your conversation and rudely dragging you away from the party

he narrows his eyes and looks you up and down: "you don't get to show up to the party looking like sex on a stick and then berate me for finally getting you alone"

you smirk at him. "if you wanted me alone so bad, all you had to do was ask"

"Well, here I am." "I'm all yours, reg"

Barty:

you come down the stairs to the Slytherin party looking like that

your foot has barely hit the last step before you're hastily thrown over Barty's shoulder and he's running to his dorm room

"But Barty! The party!"

"Fuck the party! There are more important things to do."

you guys never make it back to the party - a shame too, you really liked that dress....the one that was since ripped off of your body and sat in a pile on the floor

"Don't worry treasure, I'll buy you 40 more of those dresses; though I can't promise they won't end up in the same state"

[deadsetobsessions]

There’s a child wandering the streets of Crime Alley. Unfortunately, this is nothing new for the area, riddled with crime and homelessness as it is. However, Red Hood and Nightwing are vigilantes and helping lost looking children is firmly in their job description. Plus, Crime Alley is Red Hood’s. He protects what’s his. With a single shared look, the brothers swung down to the child clad in just a white dress and some thin flats completely unsuitable for Gotham’s worsening weather. Hell it’s be unsuitable for the general poor weather.

“Hey, kiddo.”

The girl’s head swung to lock gazes with the duo, eyes blinking blue- and green? Red Hood allowed his brother- he worked so hard to beat down the pit madness in order for Nightwing to even remain near- to take the lead.

“Oh. There you are.” She said, turning to face them fully. The kid’s face filled with relief.

Nightwing blinked.

“You were looking for us?” His soft voice saved for children firmed into something more serious, more concerned.

“Mmhm. I was looking for Red Hood, but you’re a good bonus.”

“And why were you looking for me, kid?” Red Hood interjects. He knows Dickolas is clocking the same things he is: the kid’s white whispy hair, pale face, and… Lazarus green eyes? It’s more solid now, that she’s looking at Jason.

Dick straightened, eyes going heavy as he looks at this wisp of a girl. He’s fiercely protective of Jason and they’re both equally wary of the League of Assassins. Still, the two of them couldn’t help but let their guard down a bit because this was still a child they’re talking to.

“Because… um. Did you know you’ve died?”

Hood stiffened, hand going towards his guns. Granted, they’re rubber bullets, but the kid clocks that immediately. She threw her hands up in the universal gesture of “I’m unarmed and mean no harm.”

“I- well, to put it frankly, you kind of… stink?”

“What.”

“Ugh, I’m totally messing this up!”

“Why don’t you start again?” Dick said, shifting into a subtler fighting stance. He kept his voice light, but Jason saw the way his hands inched towards the scrims sticks. Distantly, Jason thought it was hilarious that this tiny kid could evoke that kind of response. Looking into Lazarus green eyes though, he couldn’t find the humor anywhere. The worst thing, though, is that the pit quieted. The rage the bubbled incessantly underneath his skin calmed. Jason did not like feeling bereft of the rage, not when he didn’t know why it was gone. He had just gained control of it, minimally, and to have that control be unnecessary left the vigilantes off kilter.

“Right, okay, sorry. Um, did you, uh, die and wake up surrounded by glowing green stuff?”

Before Jason could reply ‘yes, and why the hell do you know that?’, the kid continued with, “Because me too!”

She did jazz hands as Jason’s and Dick’s brains short circuited. Jason thought he even heard a little “yay!”

“What.” Jason sputtered out. His stomach and heart clenched as he thought about how young the kid looked. Fuck.

“Yeah. So, anyways-”

“Don’t speed past that like you didn’t say what you just said!” Dick interrupted, hand tugging at his hair in distress. His body language slipped from battle ready to extremely distressed. “You died?”

“You were- you were dipped in the Lazarus pits?!” Jason felt the need to address that specific point.

“I mean, it’s not that important? The important thing is- wait, what’s a Lazarus pit?”

Jason froze again. She didn’t know what they were?

“It’s… the glowing green stuff.” Dick answered her.

“Oh. Is that what you were dipped in?” She tilted her head at Jason. He nodded, wariness climbing. “Oh. Well, I mean, that’s not we call it. But the stuff you were dipped in, it’s rank. Contaminated.”

Jason thinks back to the burning, drowning green. The agony he felt as it slipped into his mouth and nose and his very being.

“It was bubbling.” He said. The girl grimaced. Jason had no idea why he was being so honest with this kid.

“Gross. Anyways, I can, like, help you with that?”

“With what?” Dick asked, eyes darting from the girl to Jason.

The girl groaned. “Okay, so I guess you guys are kind of new. Uh, the contaminated green stuff,” she points at Jason’s chest. “That’s making you angry, right? Leaving you in the backseat of your head as your body breaks whatever got you angry to begin with and you have no control over it?”

“…The pit madness.” Jason mumbled, feeling numb. “Yeah.”

“…Right. I can help you clear that out,” she pauses, fidgeting. “If… If you help me talk to Batman? It’s kind of… urgent.”

“Batman?”

“Why?”

“Uh. There’s kind of… a whole mad scientist thing going on and like… experimentation and dissections… you know?” The kid waved her arms around, distressed.

Dick and Jason unfortunately did know.

“Cave?” Jason grumbled.

“Cave.”

“Okay, we’ll bring you to the cave. Then you tell us everything.”

“Really?”

She looked up at them hopefully, and Jason could see the moment Dickolas melted. Not that Jason could say anything, since he was already taking off his jacket and bundling the kid in it.

“Um.”

“Who the hell let you walk around Gotham like that?” He scowled down at her, not that she could see it with the red helmet in the way. Dick looked at him carefully, eyes roving over the oddly relaxed state his little wing was in.

The kid shrugged. Jason sighs.

“What’s your name?” Dick asked. Scooping her up, the blue and black clad raised his free arm to grapple away. Jason follows him, heading towards the motorcycles they’ve got parked nearby.

“Dani. With an I.”

“Nice to meet you, Dani. I’m Nightwing. This is my… this is Red Hood.”

“Okay. Cool.”



[suzukiblu]

Excerpt from the one where Kon meets pink kryptonite and decides to fuck Tim and his boyfriend about it.

(The read-more is definitely necessary, length-wise. I . . . got very into this idea and frankly this is barely a third of it so far, lol.)

"So, uh . . ." Kon says, skeptically eyeing the softly glowing rock in his hand. Metallo, like, threw it at his head. He has no idea why. "Is this supposed to do something or . . . ?"

"It's pink," Kara says leerily, staying very firmly back. Like, unexpectedly far back, in fact.

"Yeah, I'm not actually blind, thanks," Kon says, turning the rock over and squinting at it. It continues not to do anything, aside from the glowing thing.

"No, it's pink kryptonite," she stresses.

". . . it literally doesn't hurt at all, though?" Kon says. Though he probably should've figured it was some kind of kryptonite, given that Metallo had it and had apparently thought he could hurt him with it.

Seriously, though, his gloves are fingerless and he's got it right in his hand. It should be hurting him, if it's actually kryptonite.

"Pink kryptonite doesn't work like that," Kara says, edging a little farther back. They're floating a few hundred feet in the air right now, but from the way she's acting Kon's vaguely concerned that he might be about to explode or something. "It just affects our sexual . . . urges."

"Oh," Kon says, frowning in confusion. Weird, but . . . "Is that all?"

"I don't mean like it makes you horny, Kon, I mean like it makes you homosexual," Kara hisses, looking mortified. "And don't ask how I know, alright?!"

Kon . . . blinks.

"What the literal fuck?" he asks incredulously, just staring at her. "How does that even–are you telling me Metallo went and chucked gay kryptonite at me in the middle of a fight?"

"Yes!" Kara says, still clearly mortified. "So just–just stay over there with it until somebody shows up with a lead box, okay?! The effects will stop after we get it contained."

"Alright, alright. So then do you think the dude was flirting with me or is he just a fucking idiot?" Kon jokes, balancing the kryptonite on his index finger with his TTK. "Although I really don't think he'd be my type either way. Like, nothing against cyborgs in general, obviously, just the whole thing with him being a murderous supervillain who literally runs on kryptonite seems like it'd make us totally star-crossed. I want somebody I can actually commit to, you know?"

"Sure," Kara says, still eyeing the kryptonite with serious trepidation. It's really not helping Kon feel less like a time bomb, to be honest. Is there like some other side effect that he should be worrying about right now or something? Like, is he missing something here?

"You seem kinda high-strung about this," he observes, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Look, you'd have avoided it too if you'd dealt with it before!" she says protestingly. "So stay over there and definitely keep it away from Kal, I don't know if Jimmy ever really recovered from the last time."

"Oh, well, congrats to Jimmy, I guess," Kon says, since he can't really see a downside to scoring a one-night stand with Superman. Like, a downside for somebody who isn't literally his clone, he means. The clone thing would definitely make it weird.

Just it's also Clark, though, so he'd probably be the generous type in bed. Like, the sort to really take care of somebody. Be as gentle as happened to be appropriate but also be down if his partner maybe wanted it a little rough for whatever reason. And he'd definitely be able to go all night. Again, Kon isn't gonna go there himself, it really would be too weird, but he can make a logical conclusion. Extrapolate one. Whatever.

Then again he'd be down with Power Girl absolutely destroying him whenever the fuck she wanted to and she's genetically his . . . some form of cousin or something, he guesses. His half-cousin from another reality. So really, Clark's not even that weird an option. And like, all appearances aside Kon's a binary clone anyway, not even a one-for-one match, sooooo . . .

Actually it's probably weirder that he thinks Power Girl is so unspeakably hot but comparatively Kara is just . . . fine? Like, that's a little odd, isn't it?

Maybe it's an attitude thing. Or the costume.

Might be safe to blame the costume, yeah.

It's just such a good costume. Like, Kon aspires to reach that level of costume.

But really, all that aside he still doesn't even know what the big deal about temporarily going gay is, although to be fair he's also currently talking to Supergirl and not, like . . . literally any dude whatsoever. So like, who knows how weird this stuff might actually make him under those circumstances. Maybe it like fucks with inhibitions and stuff too?

Yeah, hell if he knows. He's really only dealt with green kryptonite before. He was vaguely aware that other colors existed and apparently did different stuff, but . . . this just seems very different, put it that way.

Maybe best to avoid Jimmy Olsen for a little while, Kon decides privately. The guy probably doesn't need that.

Besides, Clark apparently got there first anyway and Kon just really doesn't want to be worrying about measuring up. Miss him with that, thanks.

. . . although maybe he'll go visit Tim later.

Eh, no, Kara made it sound like the pink K's gonna stop affecting him pretty quick once they box it up, so not much point in bothering. Though maybe he'll visit just to hang, come to think of it; they haven't seen each other in almost a whole week. Well, he hasn't seen Tim, at least–who knows how much Bat-surveillance Tim's seen him through.

Kon should maybe sweep his room for bugs again. Note to self.

Although would it be weird to just like . . . keep the pink kryptonite, maybe? Since it apparently doesn't actually hurt anyone or anything? Because that could be, well . . . just interesting, that's all. Like, Kon is open to exploring that experience. Just–as an experience.

"Actually, you're surprisingly not high-strung about this," Kara says.

"Am I?" Kon asks. "I mean, it's not that big a deal, is it?"

She stares at him.

"Kon," she says slowly. "Pink kryptonite affects your sexuality. It makes you attracted to people you're not normally attracted to. It confuses you and everyone around you and it is really freaking embarrassing to explain afterwards."

"I've been mind-controlled into shaving my head and breaking my best friend's arm," Kon says, continuing to not really see what the big deal is. "That was embarrassing. And fucking traumatic. This? This is just kinda weird."

"Only kinda?" Kara asks incredulously. "You're one of the straightest guys I know! How are you just fine with this?!"

"I mean to be fair, that's probably making some unfair generalizations about straight guys," Kon points out. Kara stares at him. "What?"

"I don't even know how to respond to that," she says.

"Sorry?" Kon says, then tucks the pink kryptonite into his jacket pocket with a shrug. He's not trying to hide it or anything; just getting kinda sick of holding it. And it's that or he either ditches it somewhere or starts tossing it around and that'd probably be . . . just, well, absolutely epically stupid of him.

Or it seems like it would be, anyway. Whatever color it is, it's still kryptonite.

"I mentioned keeping that away from Kal, right?" Kara says.

"Yeah, on that note, are they like . . . done down there yet?" Kon asks, glancing down towards the mess of the street that Clark's standing on a few hundred feet below with a whole bunch of randos from S.T.A.R. Labs, for some reason. Somebody mentioned something about neutralizing Metallo's kryptonite heart without actually killing him, but mostly it was science talk and clearly theoretical anyway so to be honest Kon'd kinda tuned it all out as "not currently relevant", and that's all he knows.

"Definitely not," Kara says.

"I'm gonna call Robin while we're killing time, then," Kon says, pulling out his phone.

"You're going to call your closest male friend," Kara says. "Right now. While you've got pink kryptonite in your pocket."

"Yup," Kon says, already pulling up Tim's contact.

"Can you not see how that might be a bad idea at the moment?" Kara asks. "Not in any way whatsoever?"

"Well I'm not calling Impulse," Kon replies reasonably. Kara stares at him again, for some reason.

Eh, whatever.

He calls Tim.

"Hey, Conner, what's up?" Tim answers distractedly, which Kon doesn't hold against him because when isn't Tim distracted, really. Dude's got too much going on in that head of his, for real. He's just glad the guy ever picks up the phone at all.

"So apparently I'm gay right now," Kon greets conversationally, figuring he should lead with that just in case he actually is about to do something embarrassing to explain. "Pink kryptonite is fucking weird, man."

". . . uh," Tim says as Kara covers her face with her hands. "What?"

"Pink kryptonite makes you gay, Kara says," Kon says. "And we're both just kind of chilling above downtown Metropolis waiting for Kal to finish up with the science-y people so we can get said pink K locked up, so I'm bored out of my mind right now and calling you to complain about it."

"You're calling me," Tim says slowly. "While you're . . . gay."

"What, is he asking to come over?" another voice asks from the phone, sounding amused. It takes Kon a second to recognize it, but–oh yeah, that's the mysterious Bernard, isn't it?

Right, Tim has a boyfriend now. Kon's never actually met him on account of being the worst at secret identities and the whole thing that is Bernard living very firmly in Gotham, land of "no metas allowed unless you're either a supervillain or Batman's too dead to stop you", but he's heard him over the phone a couple times now, although they've never actually personally talked. So maybe thinking about Tim while being high on pink kryptonite isn't actually, like, kosher? Or polite. Or whatever.

. . . then again, Bernard did ask.

"I don't know, maybe?" Kon says thoughtfully, considering the idea. "Are you open to me coming over?"

"Yes," Bernard says.

"Bernard," Tim says.

"Babe, I know we're pretending I don't know you're an ass-kicking vigilante and all but come on, don't make me turn down Superboy," Bernard says wryly.

"We're–wait, pretending?!" Tim sputters.

"Pretending so, so hard," Bernard confirms, sounding nothing but fond. Kon's actually a little jealous of that tone of voice, he's gotta admit. Like–it's been a bit since anybody's talked to him that way, is all. "But like, if you actually thought you were being subtle maybe you shouldn't talk about kryptonite on the phone right in front of me or put themed emojis next to all your superfriends' civilian names in your contacts list?"

"Oh my god, you do that?!" Kon asks with a gleeful cackle, immediately forgetting everything else in favor of that absolutely delightful piece of information. "You're the worst! Batman just rolled over in his grave and Oracle is absolutely losing her shit on the other end of her wiretap!"

"B's not even dead right now," Tim says in exasperation. "And if O cared she'd have already hacked my phone and changed them. And for the record plenty of people put random superhero emojis next to their friends' names, that's a totally normal thing to do!"

"Usually the random superhero emojis aren't associated with contact pics that are dead fucking ringers for said superheroes," Bernard says, sounding amused again. "Just as a thing and all."

". . . anyway so you're gay today, how's that going for you, Conner?" Tim says as Bernard laughs gleefully in the background. "Triggering any unfortunate mental health crisises or anything? Making you worry about the validity of your masculinity? Because I can safely assure you that's all bullshit and you're fine."

"Naw, I know all that, being gay is just a thing," Kon says with a shrug. "Kara's being a little weird about it but honestly it's going way better than, like, the times supervillains mind-controlled me into being into them. Like just as an overall experience, I mean."

"Wait, how many times has that come up?" Tim asks in bemusement.

"I dunno?" Kon shrugs again. "I mean you were there for the Poison Ivy incident, and then Gorgeous Gilly happened to me a while later, which was, uh, genuinely horrifying because she tried to literally marry me during all that, so . . . I think just the twice, probably? But don't quote me on that, I don't even remember what I had for breakfast."

"And how is Kara being weird, exactly?" Tim says in his very unsubtle "assessing my teammate's psychological condition" voice.

"Oh, she's mostly just avoiding me?" Kon says, as a guy who's personally not really all that concerned with his psychological condition at the moment. "Because I've got the rock in my pocket on account of not wanting to just leave it lying around somewhere and she doesn't want to get affected by it. I don't know why, I don't really get why it matters."

"I mean it matters, definitely," Bernard says. "Like it very strongly matters to a lot of people."

"Fair, but I think we're all too invulnerable to really have to worry about getting gay-bashed or anything," Kon reasons. "Like, at least not as a heat of the moment thing."

". . . god can you imagine the world we would live in if every piece of shit gay-basher had to deal with the consequences of punching fucking Superman?" Bernard says feelingly. "For real."

"Oh, pink K's temporary," Kon clarifies. "Kal's not gay anymore."

"Hold up, I'm sorry, are you saying that at some point he was?" Bernard demands in obvious delight. "Is that what you're telling me right now?"

"I guess he was into redheads?" Kon says, tilting his head. "Slightly twinky redheads, specifically. Which I don't blame him for, I'm gonna be honest."

"Well now I know that forever, thanks," Tim says dryly.

"Alternate option: he could've been into Batman," Kon points out.

"Redheads it is," Tim says. "You just . . . redhead away over there."

"I mean I thought about it, kinda," Kon admits.

"Ngh," Tim says, for some reason.

"No thinking about Batman, though?" Bernard asks with a snicker.

"Not so much," Kon says, making a face. "Did consider having some Superman thoughts but I'm apparently not that narcissistic, surprisingly enough."

"Kon!" Kara chokes.

"Tell me you've never considered having Superman thoughts and I'll tell you you're a fucking liar," Kon snorts, shooting her a dry look. "Weren't you like totally naked when you first showed up on Earth? And then he found you like that and wrapped you up in his cape all nice and gentlemanly and took you home with him?"

"He is my baby cousin and you're being affected by pink kryptonite poisoning!" Kara accuses, her face bright red.

"Wait, is it actually poisoning me?" Kon says with a frown. "I feel like you should've led with it actually poisoning me, if that's actually a thing."

"Well no, not actually, it's physically harmless," Kara says grudgingly, folding her arms. "But you're still being affected! You're having Superman thoughts, of all things!"

"He just seems like he'd be considerate," Kon says reasonably. "Like, you know. Biblically."

"Ngh," Tim says, again for no apparent reason. Bernard sounds like he might be laughing. Or choking? Or maybe both; it's unclear.

"Please don't hit on Kal," Kara says. "Especially don't hit on Kal with pink kryptonite in your pocket. I don't want to know how that situation would end up."

"Ideally with him being considerate," Kon says. Tim chokes. Kara covers her face again.

"Does pink kryptonite affect your inhibitions too or are you just always like this?" Bernard asks curiously.

"Eh, pretty sure I'm just always like this, going by the things I've definitely still not been forgiven for saying to Power Girl," Kon says, idly tapping a finger against the side of his phone case. "Like, pretty damn sure at this point."

"That is unfortunately accurate," Tim agrees resignedly.

"So you're saying it is ethically okay to have Superboy over while he's gay," Bernard says in a promisingly speculative tone. Kon grins. Just a little, but yeah–definitely he grins. Kara grimaces, because she is absolutely no fun whatsoever.

Spoilsport.

"I did not in any way say that," Tim retorts dubiously.

"I mean that's what I heard, man, and I'm the one with super-hearing in this conversation," Kon says with a wider grin. "My inhibitions are all inhibited and my personal opinions of people are all the same, I'm just currently batting for the other team."

"So your normal opinion of me is that if you were gay, you'd come over," Tim says dryly.

"Yeah?" Kon says, raising an eyebrow. "I mean, obviously."

"How is that obvious?" Tim says.

"Because I already come over every time you let me," Kon reminds him.

"Oh yeah?" Bernard says slyly. "And how often does he let you come, exactly?"

"Not often enough," Kon replies honestly, and doesn't even bite at the obvious dumb sex joke Bernard so thoughtfully set up for him even though it is frankly painful not to.

"Ngh," Tim says. Kon continues not to understand the reason for him repeatedly making that same weird little noise, but whatever, he guesses. It's Tim, maybe he's stitching his own bullet wounds again or something. Guy's a multi-tasker like that.

"You know this would probably make for a fascinating case study about sexuality, actually," Bernard says musingly. "I mean, all I intend to do is abuse the situation to get into your very tight tights, but seriously, maybe we should all be taking notes or something."

"Ugh, hell no, Rob'll go full Bat if we let him do that," Kon snorts, then smirks. "He can take pictures, though, I know he's into that."

"Ngh," Tim says yet again, accompanied by a weird random "thump". If Kon didn't know better, he'd think he'd just fallen off a chair or something.

"Aw dammit, dude, I think I actually like you as a person now," Bernard says, sniggering. "Are you keeping the kryptonite? Please keep the kryptonite. Like, just for Valentine's and Tim's birthday, that's all I ask."

"Honestly don't know if Superman's gonna let me but I do kinda wanna," Kon admits. It seems pretty convenient, really. And definitely fun.

". . . and you're sure his inhibitions and opinions aren't being influenced in any way, Kara?" Tim asks suspiciously.

"He's really just like this, yeah," Kara says resignedly. "Well admittedly Kal spontaneously developed opinions on window treatments and used the word 'smashing' in cold blood when it happened to him, but that might've just been him sucking at flirting. Because he really does suck at flirting."

"What about when it was you?" Kon asks curiously.

"No one ever said it happened to me," Kara says.

"You kinda implied–"

"No one ever said it happened to me," Kara repeats, narrowing her eyes at him and doing an impressively bad job of acting like she's not blushing.

So it definitely happened to her, yeah.

"Okaaaaay, we'll pretend about that too then," Bernard says. "Well, what are your opinions on window treatments, Conner?"

"That I don't know what they are," Kon says.

"Sounds like he's in his right mind to me," Bernard says.

"He is absolutely not," Kara retorts dubiously.

"I really don't feel weird or anything, I swear," Kon tells her, since he still doesn't get the problem but also doesn't actually want to worry her either. "I don't even feel any different."

"Kon, you are hitting on your best friend and his boyfriend," Kara says. "Together. At once. Simultaneously, one might even say."

"You've met Wonder Girl and Arrowette before, right?" Kon says. "And both the Batgirls? And–"

"Oh my god, Kon," she cuts him off.

"Just saying," he says, then pauses for a moment and frowns consideringly. "Actually, question, how gay is this stuff making me, because while we're on the topic of threeways I kinda always wondered about what Starfire and Nightwing get up to together and if–"

"KON!" Kara yells, covering her ears.

"I'm just asking," he huffs.

"I don't know if it's actually possible to be gay enough to not be into Starfire," Bernard says musingly. "Like I can't imagine how it ever could be."

"Right?" Kon says.

"It's possible to not be into Starfire," Tim says. "Like, theoretically. Asexuals and aromantics both exist, for one."

"Do they?" Kon says doubtfully. "Like in general, sure, but when around specifically Starfire?"

". . . I can't technically prove you wrong due to a lack of reliable evidence but still," Tim says. "The possibility is there. If nothing else the multiverse is a thing."

"Last time I saw her she was wearing half a gold lamé bikini and I am not going to tell you which half or define how loosely I am using the term 'wearing'," Kon says.

"I said it's possible, not probable," Tim says.

"What about you, man, are you the gold lamé type?" Bernard asks with a teasing snicker. "Just while you're gay and all, of course. That's like, practically a cultural thing. Gotta be authentic to the experience, yeah?"

"That is in no way whatsoever a cultural thing, babe," Tim says dubiously.

"Please, like I've never worn freaking lamé," Kon scoffs. "I've worn collars and loincloths and leather and crop tops and enough unnecessary belts to tie up a Bat, lamé is nothing."

"Collars and . . . loincloths?" Bernard repeats, sounding confused.

"Yeah, this one time I crash-landed on a lost isle of beast-men and they kidnapped and enslaved me for a few months," Kon explains, waving a hand distractedly. "Frankly I count myself lucky they even let me have the collar, much less the loincloth."

". . . um," Bernard says.

"You, uh, never mentioned the collar part of that story before, Kon," Tim says, clearing his throat. "You very definitely never mentioned the collar part of that story before."

"Oh yeah, the prince kinda kept me as his pet for a little bit?" Kon tells him with an easy shrug. "Like he and all his buddies ganged up on me and then took me home with them, but I was kinda . . . feral, I guess? Technically? So like, collar and chain setup. But he was cool, he took real good care of me."

"Ngh," Tim says just barely faintly.

"Yeah you should definitely come over," Bernard says. "Tim, get the check. Conner, exactly how super is your super-speed?"

"You can just call me Kon," Kon says. "And . . . mach 3, last I clocked it?"

"Isn't that like two thousand miles per hour?" Bernard asks.

"Two thousand two hundred and twenty-three point three," Kon replies with a pleased smirk. "Faster than a speeding bullet. Or so they tell me."

"We'll just meet you at Tim's, how's that," Bernard says. "That work for you, Kon?"

"That works for me, Bernard," Kon confirms, smirking wider.

"Oh my god, Kon, you cannot possibly be serious right now," Kara says in exasperation, rubbing at her temples. "Just because you're temporarily gay doesn't mean you should do anything about it!"

"I mean, I'm feeling pretty serious?" Kon says, shrugging again. He still doesn't get why she's being so sensitive about this. "It's not like this is the weirdest thing I've ever done in pursuit of a good time. Like, holy hell, lemme tell you about the Ravers sometime."

"You're going to have to look Robin in the eye after this!" Kara says. "And work with him! And be a normal person in his presence! Normally!"

"I'm aware?" Kon says, vaguely bemused by her concern. Like he's never been normal around somebody he's slept with before, geez. "Tell Kal I ran off with the pink K, if he wants to lock it up in the Fortress or wherever I can bring it back tomorrow."

"Maybe Monday," Bernard says.

"Or maybe Monday," Kon amends.

"It's Thursday!" Kara sputters.

"So it's a long weekend," Bernard says.

"I'm not explaining this to Kal," Kara says. "I'm not explaining this to Batman."

"I really don't see why you'd have to," Kon says. "Rob, you cool with the long weekend thing? Not too much of an imposition?"

". . . I got the check," Tim mutters in obvious and absolute mortification.

Kon's gonna take that as a "yes".

"Cool," he says, grinning broadly. "See you soon, Boy Wonder."

He ends the call. Kara drags her hands down her face and continues to stay very far away from him and the pink kryptonite in his pocket.

"When you go back to normal and freak out and make everything weird with Robin and your team and even Robin's literal boyfriend, I'm going to say so many 'I told you so's," she swears vehemently. "So don't say I didn't warn you."

"Your objection is on the record," Kon says, then tosses her a lazy salute with another grin and takes off, kryptonite and all.

Best to just scarper while Clark's distracted, yeah?

Definitely best.

[purple-babygirl]

don't call me daddy III

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x little!f!reader

Word count: 3,840

Summary : In a world where littles are openly themselves, they volunteer to help and be helped by willing caregivers. In spite of himself, Bucky finds himself stuck with one and to keep the nagging away, he has to learn how to be around her with everything that that entails.

Warnings: Bucky is less mean, age regression, period blood, intrusive thoughts, crying, Bucky's PTSD & nightmares.

A/N: Here you go, beauties💜 Thank you for your patience, please enjoy xx💜tell me your ideas about how we should proceed with these two if you have any💜

~

She shifted again on the couch, the discomfort in her abdomen turning more and more into a sharp pain by the minute.

Sitting up to rub sleep out of her eyes so she could go to the bathroom, she felt the dampness in her underwear and quickly realized what was happening.

She didn’t need to go to the bathroom; it was something else.

Oh, no.

It was her period, and it has made a huge mess on her clothes and possibly the leather couch. Bucky’s leather couch.

He was going to be so mad at her.

Unless she got up before he came home and cleaned everything up, right?

She took a deep breath, leaving the couch to look for pads in her bag, only to find nothing.

She forgot to pack her pads? Oh, no! What was she going to do now?

She was in so much pain and she was literally bleeding. She didn’t know if she should change first, clean up first or try to find painkillers first.

It was too much.

But, of course, as if all of this wasn’t enough, her little mind closed up and she was standing in the middle of the room, crying, when she heard his key turn.

“Bucky,” she called out, panicked and nervous.

She could see the shock on Bucky’s face, but given his previous behavior, her small mind translated it as anger; anger directed at her, “I had an accident.”

“What happened?!” Bucky dropped his jacket on the floor and ran to her, holding her by the shoulders, checking for wounds on her face.

“I—” she hiccupped, clearly scared of him again, she didn’t realize he wasn’t angry at her, but rather scared himself.

“What is it?” He asked again, shaking her shoulders before frantically searching her arms and hands.

“Period,” she sobbed, her voice quavering.

She felt so bashful, but also annoyed because she didn’t want to want or need Bucky’s help. She wanted to give him the space he’s wanted ever since he’s gotten her.

She didn’t want to tell him. She wanted to help herself.

“What?” Bucky genuinely had no idea what she was talking about.

“It’s that time of the month. Period.” She bit her lip, “I need pads.”

“So you’re not hurt?”

She looked at him with confusion for a second before shaking her head.

She heard Bucky mumble something that sounded like thank god as he hung his head down.

“Well…Okay, do you wanna get dressed?” He suggested with a sigh, letting her arms go.

“I can’t go anywhere like this,” she cried more, embarrassed at her state. She couldn’t believe she forgot her pads back in her room at the institution.

“Okay, okay, I’ll go!” Bucky said quickly, surprising her and himself by bringing a hand to her cheek.

She closed her eyes in fear, but whatever harshness she was anticipating never came.

Bucky’s thumb stuttered as it wiped away her tears, “I’ll get them.”

“Really?” She sniffled, slowly opening her eyes.

“Yes, go change into something clean and come back to tell me what pads… look like?”

Bucky has never done this before and he frankly had no idea how he was going to do shopping for period pads.

She nodded, hurrying to the bathroom with her bag.

She thought she’d use toilet paper as a temporary substitute until Bucky’s gotten her the pads in order not to ruin anymore clothes.

She lined her underwear with the tissues as best as she could before collecting her bloodied clothes in hand and opening the door.

“I— ehm— could you please start the washing machine for me?” she timidly asked, holding her stained clothes behind her back.

“Why?!”

“I wanna clean my clothes.” She swallowed, shifting on her feet uncomfortably.

She remembered well enough that ice cubes on bloodied clothes made it easier for the stains to come out. Maybe she should tell him about that.

“Leave that for now. I’ll do it.” Bucky waived his hand, wanting to go and get her what she needed.

He couldn’t imagine what periods were like for women, and in her state? He felt like she shouldn’t be going through this at all.

“But the blood—”

“It’s okay. Leave them on top of the hamper.”

She wordlessly did as told before coming back out, rubbing her tummy as discreetly as possible.

“Are you in pain?” Bucky asked, moving to sit down.

She nodded quietly before shouting, “no! Don’t sit there!”

“Why not?!” Bucky frowned and she grimaced before grabbing a couple of tissues.

She wiped the stained couch a couple of times before running with the tissues to the trash.

“Oh.” Bucky swallowed as she ran to wash her hands.

He didn’t think he’s ever been in a similar situation in his life and if he has, he certainly didn’t remember. But Bucky knew he wasn’t disgusted; only worried for her.

He couldn’t remember the last time he was worried about someone and it made him uneasy.

As she dried her hands, she was dreading leaving the bathroom because she didn’t want to hear Bucky’s scolding about how she’s gotten his couch dirty.

Tiptoeing back into the living room, she had her hands back on her sides, desperately rubbing where her ovaries were to ease the piercing pain.

“I’ll get you some painkillers as well.” Bucky nodded, his frown never leaving his face.

He probably didn’t know, but his normal face as well as his intense stare were screaming I will kill you and it didn’t help her.

“Thank you.” She bit her lip again, eyes casted down.

“Here.” Bucky grabbed his jacket from the floor, hand fiddling with the pocket, “eat this.” Bucky brought a chocolate bar out of his jacket’s pocket, “I got it for you last night but you were asleep.”

“How did you know I was getting my period this morning?” she tilted her head innocently.

“I didn’t. I— I was gonna give it to you to—” Bucky stuttered.

To say I’m sorry

“To say good job during the visit yesterday,” Bucky sighed, the lies heavy on his unaccustomed tongue.

She took the chocolate without a word.

He was manipulating her again, wasn’t he? Probably just trying to build credit for the next visit.

“Mrs. Morrison isn’t coming the rest of the visits this month. She’s coming next month,” she informed him, disappointment evident in her tone, before leaving the chocolate bar on the coffee table.

I know, he wanted to say, but he didn’t want her to know he listened in on their conversation.

Bucky merely nodded, trying not to show dejection.

“Let me grab a pen so you could tell me what you need.” He got his new notebook out of his back pocket and sat down next to her.

“Can’t we just ask for it to be delivered?” She suggested, wanting to get away from receiving Bucky’s help, especially with something so private.

“Well, I’m offering to get them, aren’t I?” Bucky snapped, slightly losing his patience again.

He was internally mad he had to lie. Why couldn’t he just say he was sorry? And why was he feeling like he needed to protect her against the pain of this monstrous monthly visitor?

Her eyes teared up again as she stood up and started giving him the details about the brand and type of pad she used without an extra word.

Wow, she didn’t even want to sit next to him now.

Bucky understood, but he wished things weren’t the way they were. He wished he wasn’t the way he was.

Only now did he realize, she’s been a literal saint to him all along and he was all but the most ungrateful person she could’ve ever crossed paths with.

~

At the store, Bucky stood in the middle of the long aisle with his notebook in hand on the verge of crying because what was all these brands? Why did you need so many colours? And how did any of those have wings?

He needed to get back to her with those pads as soon as possible but he couldn’t because he didn’t know which was which.

She’d told him the ones she used had a pink package, but there were at least 4 groups of those coloured pink, different shades too.

Two women noticed Bucky’s dilemma and pushed forward to where he stood.

Oh shit, he looked creepy, didn’t he?

“Can we help you?” One woman asked with a smile as she stopped her cart by Bucky’s.

“No— yes. I don’t know.” Bucky shook his head sheepishly as his cheeks grew red.

He's never done this before. He never thought he would either.

He didn’t want people to think he was a pervert, but he couldn’t leave without bringing her home those pads.

“For your girl?”

“Yes!”

Well, that was a fast yes.

The blonde woman looked at Bucky weird before laughing to the brunette next to her.

“First time, huh?”

Bucky nodded, blushing deeper.

“What did she tell you?” The brunette asked knowingly, not wanting to embarrass him more.

“Here, I wrote it down.” Bucky showed them the page where he had the description for the pads scribbled down haphazardly.

“Aww that’s so sweet!” The blonde woman put a hand on her heart, making Bucky smile awkwardly.

“We’ve been married two years and she’s never took down notes of my words!” She gently elbowed her wife.

“I don’t need to because I know what you want by heart!” The brunette defended before going to look at the pad described in Bucky’s notes.

“True,” the blonde standing with Bucky giggled, “your girl is gonna appreciate this very much.” She nodded with a smile.

Bucky faked another polite smile in reply.

Ah, if you only knew…

“Here, that’s the one you’re looking for.” The brunette handed Bucky two baby pink packages, “just in case.”

“Thank you so much!” Bucky was eternally grateful for the couple for saving him from going in an endless journey down that aisle.

“You’re welcome,” the brunette sang, pushing her cart away with her wife.

“Don’t forget to get her some ice cream!” The blonde shouted to Bucky.

 Bucky saluted with a chuckle, walking with purpose to find the ice cream fridges.

Enough stalling. Today was the day he made everything right. He was going to apologize even if the words killed him.

~

“Thank you.” She hastily grabbed the pads and a clean underwear and ran shyly to the bathroom to put them to use.

Bucky just changed his clothes and waited outside so he could ask her what she wanted to eat and maybe properly apologize this time.

He waited and he waited and there was nothing but silence.

She wasn’t coming out.

Now, he didn’t know how much time it took for girls to use those things, but he felt like she’s taken enough time.

Could she be in trouble? Was she too mad at him to leave the bathroom?

“Hey, everything okay in there?” Bucky knocked on the door, unknowingly making her drop the pad as she jumped.

“Y—yes!”

She was trying hard to remember the steps to put on the pad, but she kept messing it up, her mind just too little to function properly.

“Are you sure?” Bucky called for her again.

“No.” She opened the door with tears in her eyes because she was about to ask for Bucky’s help for the millionth time when she wasn’t supposed to; didn’t want to.

“What is it?” Bucky asked, his voice unconsciously caring and worried.

“I don’t remember how big me puts it on and the pain won’t go away and my underwear is all messy again,” she sobbed without breathing, covering her face with her hands when she was finished.

“Okay, okay, let me help,” Bucky suggested, feeling dumber than ever because he had no idea how to do this either, but he felt so bad for her.

“Mr. Barnes is a man. Men don’t get periods,” she whimpered.

So she was back to calling him Mr. Barnes… good job, Buck.

“We’ll look it up online. Sam showed me how before.” Bucky found himself reassuring her as he guided her out of the bathroom and back to the couch.

“It’s here.” She pointed to the drawings on the side of the package describing how to stick the pad on one’s underwear, “but I still can’t do it.” She shrugged helplessly, crying more.

“Oh, okay!” Bucky took a look at the package, trying to understand what to do, “I can do it. Let’s get you something to eat so you can take the painkillers first.”

Wait what? He wasn’t going to let her ‘figure it out’ and feed herself?

She nodded dumbly as Bucky led her to the couch.

He heated up some pizza from the box he brought last night and got himself a piece too when his stomach started making sounds at the smell.

“Here.” Bucky set her plate in her lap and his on the coffee table.

She raised her underwear to him and he discreetly took it from her, trying to avoid being inappropriate.

Was this the first time he was consciously holding a female undergarment in seventy years? Yes. Yes, it was.

He attempted to follow the steps on the packaging as he removed the thin paper on the pad, revealing the sticky side of it.

He pressed the pad on the inside of the underwear and stared at it hesitantly, “now what does that paper cover?” He removed the shorter paper, revealing two more sticky parts.

“Wait, is this side supposed to stick to your body?!” Bucky asked, horrified at the idea.

“No.” She shook her head.

“Are you sure?” Bucky asked, trying to find a use for the upper sticky part of the pad.

She nodded without a doubt because she knew that nothing was supposed to stick on her skin.

“I think…” she started, gaining his attention.

“Hmm?” Bucky looked at her for clues before bringing his gaze back to the underwear, determined to do it right.

“I think it’s upside down…” Her small voice stated cautiously, fearing Bucky’s anger.

“Huh.” Bucky examined the underwear with an open mouth.

After another half hour, the pad had lost its stickiness and was no longer useable.

She’d finished eating both her slices of stale pizza and took her painkillers, but Bucky was still going at it.

As she sat down looking at how determined Bucky was to help, she didn’t understand.

He was probably just feeling bad because she was bleeding, right? That must’ve been it because like he had told her, it was impossible that he’d suddenly want to be around her.

She looked at his plate and saw his food untouched. He didn’t eat a bite, too focused on the pad project.

She was mad at him and didn’t want to talk to him, but she felt really bad. Maybe she could help him without talking to him?

Without thinking too much about it, her hand was grabbing Bucky’s slice, raising the tip to his mouth so he could eat.

Bucky temporarily looked up from the underwear in his hands, speechless at her gesture.

She looked away, not wanting to meet his beautiful eyes because she was ‘mad’ at him.

Bucky bit back a smile, quietly taking a bite, “thank you.”

She nodded indifferently, head still turned away, hiding her own smile.

It was the first time Bucky has ever thanked her since they’ve been together.

But that didn’t really matter because Bucky still didn’t want her help, right? She was just doing this because he was helping her with her pad. Or at least that was what she was telling herself.

When Bucky was finished with his pizza, she took the empty plates and walked to put them down in the sink.

All of a sudden and before she could hold it in, a fart has escaped her and exploded aloud in the quiet room.

Bucky stopped trying with the pads and just stared at her silently for a second.

And then she was choking up again.

“Why are you crying now?” Bucky shook his head, not wanting her to cry, but she took it for frustration.

“Because it’s embarrassing and yucky,” she sobbed, covering her hot face with her hands as she plopped down on the couch.

“It’s not embarrassing or yucky. It’s human,” Bucky told her, leaving the underwear for a second to touch her hands.

“Mr. Barnes is not mad at me?” She sniffled, allowing Bucky to hold her hand.

“No.” He rubbed the tears off of her palms before handing her a tissue for her face.

“Do you think I’m disgusting?”

“No,” Bucky chuckled, amused that that would be her concern as she sat there literally oozing blood.

“Really?”

“Did you think I was disgusting when I was sweaty fresh out of a nightmare and you hugged me?”

“No,” she answered without hesitation.

Bucky remained still for a second, just cherishing her for everything he’s never noticed before, “it’s like that, too. I’m not disgusted.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.” She smiled gratefully.

It was a really short smile that Bucky could’ve easily missed it.

But he understood. He’d take what he could get. He had plenty to make up for.

“I’ll just look it up.” Bucky shook his head finally giving up on the pad project, resorting to his phone for help from YouTube.

Women’s lives were hard.

~

Ten more minutes and Bucky was enthusiastically yelling, “Yes! I did it!” while raising a feminine piece of underwear in the air.

Too soon, however, his excitement was deflated when he saw that her reaction and expression didn’t match his.

All she did was mutter a polite thank you, Mr. Barnes as she took her fixed underwear and went to the bathroom to change.

He knew why and he knew he shouldn’t expect anything less.

She’s let him off the hook many times and he couldn’t expect her to do it forever.

No matter how kind or innocent, she was only human.

Inside the bathroom, she was thankful for Bucky and proud he’s managed to do something that she was sure he’s never done before, but her feelings were still hurt.

Bucky made her feel unwanted again after she had almost forgotten what that was like. He made her feel like she could never be loved for all that she was, or exactly as she was.

She didn’t understand him. She didn’t know when he hated her and when he didn’t. She didn’t know if he was nice or mean.

And she hated these games. They confused her too much and that was the last thing she needed, especially while little.

And even if she made everything okay again and let this, too, go. It wasn’t what Bucky wanted. She couldn’t keep ignoring his wishes forever.

And so their night continued in silent TV watching and more cold pizza consumption; and instead of being familiar, the quietness was scary to Bucky.

The way she looked so blue gnawed at his insides because he knew he was the cause of it.

She didn’t try to poke at him, made sure she didn’t accidently touch him and only spoke when necessary and she called him Mr. Barnes all over again.

Is this what it would’ve been like had she conformed to his rules from day one?

So what? Why was he upset about that now? Wasn’t that how he’s been ever since he came back to himself? Why wasn’t it comfortable anymore? Silence and solitude were what he wanted, right?

Bucky wanted to talk to her before bed, to hopefully end this agony, but she quickly gave him her back after swallowing her painkiller.

“Listen—” Bucky started, gaining her attention.

She looked like she knew what he was going to say and so she did something that goes against everything polite she’s ever learnt; she cut Bucky off.

“I’m sorry about ruining Mr. Barnes’ couch. It won’t happen again,” she apologized first.

Couch? He wasn’t worried about some leather couch!

“That’s not—”

“I’m also sorry about making Mr. Barnes go shopping for me when I promised I won’t annoy him no more. I promise not to do that again.”

“It’s—”

“And I’m sorry for interrupting just now.” She bit her lip, unable to not apologize for something that she knew was wrong.

Bucky stayed silent, however, so she assumed she’d covered what he wanted to reprimand her about.

“Good night, Mr. Barnes.” She gave him her back again, pretending to have instantly fallen asleep.

With a sigh, Bucky went to his makeshift bed as well, swearing that tomorrow morning was apology time. It was final.

~

She wanted to be strong, but she just couldn’t bear Bucky’s thrashing and his suffering any longer.

She wished she could only give Bucky what he wanted and not care, but instead, she was going to give him what he needed, what she was here for and knew how to do.

She got on her knees by his shaking body and patted his flesh shoulder gently, still resisting calling his name.

Bucky woke up with a loud gasp to find her concerned eyes pouring love onto him.

Without a word, she began wiping away his tears with her sleeve, her other hand patting his shoulder to calm him down.

“It was just a bad dream,” she whispered, wishing she could hold her daddy close and make all his fears go away.

Yes, he was her daddy even if he didn’t agree.

“Sorry, that’s embarrassing,” Bucky chuckled, trying to make little of the fact that his nightmare was so horrifying that he was crying in his sleep as he wiped at his own cheeks.

“It’s not embarrassing. It’s human.” She echoed Bucky’s words and that was when he felt it; her warmth flooding his heart and body, surrounding him in gentle waves.

He looked up to meet her gaze and saw only care and compassion reflected back. He wanted to drown in those eyes; hide from everything that was hurting him.

And for the first time in decades, Bucky decided to let himself receive kindness because maybe, just maybe, he deserved some.

Before she could register, Bucky leaned in carefully, his forehead was on her shoulder and his arms at her sides as he let himself cry.

Her eyes were wide, not believing herself as her heart pounded. Bucky was seeking comfort. From her.

Without much thinking, she wrapped her arms tightly around Bucky’s larger body with an unspoken vow not to let go any time soon.

“I’m here, Mr. Barnes,” her small voice whispered, hands going up and down his back in slow, loving strokes.

Bucky shook his head on her shoulder, “no.”

“Bucky?” She quickly switched to his first name, but he shook his head again, raising it this time to lock eyes with her.

“Call me daddy.”

part IV

~

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[twilightcitysky]

Everything Is Meant (long S2 analysis, part 3)

Part one

Part two

There's SO MUCH excellent meta out there right now, and I'm going to try not to reinvent the wheel too much, but I want to keep going with tying the episodes/ elements up together because on first watch it wasn't entirely clear how everything fit. I also strongly recommend a rewatch, no matter what you felt about the ending... if you need to stop it 10 minutes early, do that, but you pick up so much more the second time around.

So: Maggie and Nina. I spent most of my first watch wondering why we were bothering with them, honestly. Later in the season Nina, and then Maggie and Nina, gave Crowley some insightful advice, but their actual relationship didn't progress despite all the meddling, and the amount of emotional investment BOTH Aziraphale and Crowley had in making them get together was frankly strange.

I started thinking in terms of mirror couples, since that was such a big deal in S1 and that's clearly what they were set up to be, but I made the mistake that all of us made on first watch: that Nina was Crowley and Maggie was Aziraphale. It still wasn't really coming together.

Then I put the psych hat back on and started to think about displacement. Displacement is a defense mechanism, and it consists of satisfying an impulse (usually an unconscious one) with a substitute object. At the beginning of the season, Aziraphale and Crowley aren't really in a good place, and I think on some level they know that. Aziraphale is trying to SHOW Crowley that he wants to take the next step through all the casual touches and phone calls and inviting him in, and feeling frustrated because Crowley doesn't seem to be taking the bait. (I absolutely think that Aziraphale tried to get Crowley to stay with him at the bookshop instead of living in his CAR, and Crowley said no. That's a whole other meta.) Meanwhile, Crowley, I think, is waiting for a Grand Gesture. Where did he go, as soon as Aziraphale brought up trying to get two humans to fall in love? Romantic tropes. Getting caught in the rain under an awning. A dramatic kiss that opens someone's eyes. That's the sort of thing he's always done, right? Big rescues, impassioned pleas on the street, fancy dinners, "give you a lift anywhere you want to go". He's defensive and guarded and unlikely to let someone in unless he's CERTAIN he won't be rejected, and Aziraphale's approaches are just too... quiet. No one's fault, they just don't speak the same language.

Then, they're handed the opportunity to make two humans fall in love, and they're both All In immediately. Look at Crowley's face when he summons the rainstorm. This is HUGE for him. Why? Because of displacement. Look at Aziraphale arranging the ball and being borderline deranged about it. They're both desperate to demonstrate what they think it takes for two people to move past their misunderstandings and fall in love. They can't do it for each other because the stakes are too high, and if either of them shows their cards unequivocally the vulnerability feels life-shattering. They're codependent and terrified of rejection and also, importantly, have no idea what they're doing when it comes to love. "Saw it in a film", Crowley says. Aziraphale's read about it in books. But they have zero practical experience.

Instead of learning to communicate, they try to say what they want to say through the medium of Maggie and Nina, up to and including the questionable moral decision to exert control over people's actions and thoughts during the ball. If I can just make this come out right, they both think, then things between us will be alright too. It HAS to come out right. They're attempting to gain some control over their own lives, over something that feels so overwhelming and shattering they can't look directly at it.

It doesn't come out right. Nina's relationship falls apart, but that doesn't mean she's in love with Maggie. While Crowley's stress-cleaning the bookshop to the music that played when Aziraphale got his books back in 1941 (just fuck me up David Arnold), they come in and tell him so. "I don't understand", says Crowley. Because it should have worked. Why didn't it work?

They tell him, of course. "You need to talk to each other. Say what you're really thinking." But here's the thing about communication: you have to learn it. You need to get the hang of expressing your feelings without blaming your partner, and separating intent from impact, and staying away from getting defensive and lashing out. No one has ever taught Aziraphale and Crowley how to do this. It's like Maggie and Nina put Crowley in front of a loom and asked him to recreate the Bayeux Tapestry. He doesn't have the skills; he's always going to get it wrong, even if he tries his hardest.

And he does try. But that's where Maggie and Nina the mirror couple, rather than Maggie and Nina the displacement relationship or Maggie and Nina the Greek chorus, come in. Aziraphale, as Nina, has just ended an incredibly toxic, invasive relationship with Heaven. A relationship that invaded every facet of his life, isolated him, and prevented him from being close to anyone else. "Rebound mess," Nina says. Aziraphale is a rebound mess. He's transferred the responsibility for his emotional wellness to Crowley. Crowley is the person he calls when he's in trouble, or (and this is key) when he wants to report a clever/ good thing he's done, or when he's bored. (At no point did Crowley reference Aziraphale calling him for a solicitous reason-- another problem.) Crowley is meant to take care of him. He forgets, I think, that Crowley is a person with his own wants and needs, just like Maggie and Nina are people with their own wants and needs who don't appreciate being messed with. (I think things would have been much different had Aziraphale BEEN THERE for Maggie and Nina's talk with Crowley, but he wasn't.)

And Maggie-as-Crowley? Lonely. Behind on rent, at risk of being evicted (it's important to note that Aziraphale saves Maggie from losing her record shop, as he couldn't save Crowley from losing his flat). Pining. Awkward. Revolving around Nina like a planet, to the extent that we don't get much of an impression of her otherwise. They realize, there at the end, that they both need to round themselves out before jumping into a relationship. Aziraphale and Crowley need that too. They need to take time apart and learn to be healthy on their own. Unfortunately they don't have the skills to get to that conclusion in a healthy way, so it all explodes in their faces and everything falls apart.

Aziraphale tries to teach Nina and Maggie to dance as a substitute for communication. Nina and Maggie try to teach Crowley communication as a substitute for the dance they've been doing around each other. That's the reason they're a part of the plot: they exist to demonstrate the way Aziraphale and Crowley might have succeeded in forging a better dynamic. Sadly, the boys' dance is too practiced and they got sucked right back into it.

It's okay, I think, that Nina and Maggie's storyline never really went anywhere. It wasn't supposed to. It's an allegory, not something that needs to stand alone.

[cryb4byem]

Purgatorium Part II

Kyojuro Rengoku x ArrangedMarriage! Reader

cw: 14.1k words, canon typical violence/injury, alcoholism, mild parental abuse/neglect

part one here

Every cell. Every fiber felt like it was trying to break free from your body. You had no idea what you were about to learn, and your implosion felt inevitable if you didn’t find out. 

The head of the Butterfly Mansion, the Insect Hashira, greeted you at the door. “Thank you for coming so swiftly, and by yourself. I am aware of your father-in-law's condition as well as how young your brother-in-law is.” She slid on a pair of white linen gloves before continuing.

“I’m sure you would like to know why my crow alerted you so suddenly.” If you weren’t wracked with panic, you would’ve admired her graceful, natural beauty. It seemed her almost enigmatic equanimity was the only thing keeping those around her, including you from spiraling. 

Her measured countenance and calm voice couldn’t have contrasted more with the state of the room around her. Three kakushi were slumped over each other, their faces to the wall quietly crying. Meanwhile other small girls with similar butterfly hair clips went in and out of the room beyond her with a controlled franticness. 

“Please listen to me carefully.” Her amethyst eyes pierced yours with a seriousness that was frankly, unsettling. “There was a confrontation between the Flame Pillar and the 3rd most powerful demon of Kibutsuji’s ranks about an hour ago.” Your breath catches in your throat, at the words. The 3rd most powerful demon? 

“He sustained severe transfixion trauma to his epigastric region. We moved quickly, and kept the demon’s limb in place as long as we could, and in that time he was able to stop most of the blood loss using a breathing technique.” Your hand shakily covers your mouth, the savagery of the attack, and the horror of such an injury were almost too much for you. 

“The amount of pain he is managing while conscious is unnatural, and quite concerning. We have been trying to sedate him since he arrived, but he begged to wait until you got here.” Her sharp gaze left you finally, shifting to the floor. “Despite his state, he was quite stubborn, and resisted our attempts to give it to him anyway.” 

You speak in a tensed whisper, “C-can I see him?” Each syllable was dragged from the pit of your body, you needed every bit of strength to not lose all composure. 

“Yes, quickly please. I trust you understand the criticality of this situation.” Shinobu looked over her shoulder to a young girl with bright blue eyes and pigtails as she turned into the room that seemed to be at the heart of the commotion in the Butterfly Mansion. 

“Aoi… please pull up the sheet on the Flame Pillar.” The girl’s brow furrowed in concentration, releases as she sees you, expression softening as she nods to Shinobu before disappearing behind the room’s entryway. 

“You can go ahead now.” Shinobu tells you finally. Upon her permission you begin hurrying into the room Aoi just turned into. “I just want to remind you we are doing all we can, and he is relatively stable for now… but… just be prepared…” 

You look over your shoulder back at Shinobu, words failing you before going in. The air hung heavy beyond the doorway, three little girls stood to the back wall awaiting orders while the slightly older girl, Aoi lighty ran a damp cloth over Kyojuro’s forehead. Delusionally, you imagined it was due to his warmth, the perpetual warmth emanating from his body everywhere he went, and not the onset of a stress induced fever and intense pain.

He laid, left eye wrapped in layers of bandage wrapping around his head, the thin hospital bed linens drawn to the base of his neck. Each of his labored inhale and exhale audible, a testament to his will actively clinging him to consciousness and keeping the looming threat of bleeding out at bay. 

His right eye fluttered open at your presence even without saying a word, the keen instincts of a warrior sharp as ever. 

“My flam-ACK.” He jumped to sit up, only for a guttural cough to send an abrupt jolt through his body, putting him onto his back. Laying immobilized once again, his breathing intensifying. 

“Rengoku-sama! Your wound! Shinobu-san told you not to move!” The little voice of one of the young girls behind you calls out her voice cracking, riddled with fear. 

His face contorts in discomfort, straining to utter “My apologies…” The words tumble out almost as if he doesn’t even know who he is saying it to; the little girls, you, himself, or maybe someone not even there. 

You look deeply into his uninjured eye, the bright golden orb that even now was completely free of clouds. You kneel at his bedside, feeling tears beginning to burn in the corners of your own eyes, you try to keep your tone as reassuring as possible and not let on how terrified you are. “Everything is going to be ok, alright?” 

His lips curl into a soft smile, his gaze softens, melting into yours like a stream of amber. You waited anxiously for a response, any response.

“Are you in pain?” His gentle expression remains unchanged as if he had just awoken from an afternoon nap, looking back at you. 

“Not anymore… If you’re here, I won’t feel a thing. I am fine, please do not worry.” His eye clamps shut as another searing pain courses through his body, making his breathing stutter again with a curt strangled groan. Despite what he said, it was clear he was in agony.

“Kyojuro…” Your brow furrows with concern as your eyes rake over his battered form. You look deeply into his eye intently trying to imprint every detail into your mind, as if the light may drain from it at any moment.

You didn’t even hear Shinobu’s delicate footsteps on the wooden floors or notice her until you looked up to see her at his opposite bedside, you were taken aback by her sudden presence. You shouldn’t be surprised, she is a hashira after all. 

“I’m sorry. We cannot wait any longer for the sedative. The more time goes without it…” She spoke solemnly, as though she knew what she needed to do, but almost didn’t have the heart to do it, almost. 

You felt one of the three small girls try to pull you back by your arm, “Ma’am please! Shinobu-san needs to work, you need to leave this room!” The words don’t even faze you, unmoving from your spot at his bedside. Making it clear to the entire Butterfly Mansion your stubbornness was only matched by Kyojuro’s himself. 

“Please don’t take him from me, not now. Please don't let someone else abandon me.” 

The words echo in your mind, like a cacophony of a lifetime of anxiety thrust to the surface all at once.

“She can stay. I’ll allow it.” Shinobu spoke, not taking her focus from the vial as she filled it with a solution, flicking it firmly to disperse any air bubbles. 

You feel the small girl release your arm going back to stand with the other two. You kept looking at Kyojuro, scared to look away, as if it was the last time you would ever bask in the warmth of his gaze. 

“My flame, let me tell you a few things.”  His voice was steady but strained, each word laced with sincerity.

“You don’t need to say anything… just save your strength.” You felt as though you were pleading with him at this point. 

“You’ve done enough, just rest.” 

You want to say to him, but you could see the seriousness on his face. Every man deserves to do with their last moments what they wish, and if these were just that, you would not be the one to deny him that. 

“Please, I want you to tell Senjuro he ought to follow the path he knows to be true, whatever path that may be. Remind my father to take care of his body.”

You look at Shinobu, almost as if to ask if there should be more witnesses to what could be the last words of the Flame Hashira, but she continued working, not even glancing down at you as she began administering the vial.

“And I want you to know that I love you.”

The tears you held in your eyes finally began to escape, your vision was cloaked in obscurity, but what did it even matter? As if anything was truly clear right now.

“I love you too.” That was clear to you if nothing else. What were otherwise the three most beautiful words one could utter to another, felt like they were just another deep wound you both inflicted each other with. Had he even heard what you said? Knowing him, he would feel personally responsible for the notion that another person would be agonizing over his condition.

The onslaught of emotion finally manifests in a strangled sob, wiping the tears from your eyes with the back of your sleeve. Seeing his golden iris enveloped beneath his closed eyelid and breathing softened, it is obvious the vial Shinobu gave him had already taken effect. 

Pressing the back of two fingers to his forehead, the only thing that you can use to ground yourself is that same unyielding warmth he radiated.

—————————————

You aren’t sure how many hours you’d been in the room. Time didn’t feel like it was passing. Maybe a part of you thought that if you kept looking at him long enough, you could pretend maybe he was finally getting the rest he deserved and not in a catatonic, forced respite from the wound that should have taken his life.

“You should go home. I’ll keep an eye on him personally.” Shinobu's voice was lighter than the chirp of a sparrow. “Trust me, the best recovery is sleep. Sometimes slayers sleep for months here, regaining their strength.” 

You cock your head over your shoulder to look at her, eyes wide and mouth agape. She raised a pointed finger, she was like a doll the way a perpetual contentment was painted to her face, it was a bit uncanny. 

“Not that I’m saying this will happen here. I induced the comatose state he is in, so everything is controlled, I made the compound so that he would naturally awaken when his body is in better condition.” 

This woman was truly a genius apothecarist, how did she even learn to make such a solution? 

“I see…” You didn’t want to stand yet; you craved just a moment more in his presence. You try to smile at her genuinely, but you knew it must have looked just as contrived as hers did. You didn’t have Kyojuro’s gift—the ability to smile authentically and joyfully, no matter how bleak things appeared.

“Before you go, can I give you his personal effects?” Your eyes moved from the floor to meet hers, nodding with the same polite smile still plastered on.

Shinobu took a package that couldn’t have contained more than a couple items from one of the youngest girls that helped around the Butterfly Mansion, transferring it into your grasp. 

Removing the thread and paper encasing the items, Shinobu stood unmoving before you, her eyes following your hands. Despite the smile she armed herself with, her gaze deepened, like this was something she understood all too well. 

Seeing the familiar kaen pattern, you stroked the back of your hand across the sturdy fabric of the Flame Hashira haori. Only to freeze as you feel something solid wrapped inside of it. Without hesitation, you reached within the white accented garment to pull out a rectangular box.

Could it be? Sliding the lid from the basin of the firm container to see delicate metal and crystal intertwined to make a plum blossom hairpin, the same kind that had saved your life not long ago. Your hands tremble uncontrollably as you remove it from its resting place.

“We found it in his pocket, even with the aftermath of the battle and the panic as he was rushed in, he implored us to be gentle in handling it…” 

After your first hairpin broke he must’ve planned to bring a new one for you that morning. Even with a gaping wound, he was concerning himself with being able to offer you an undamaged gift to replace the one he initially gave you when you arrived.

You clutched the package as if it was sacred, like maybe that if you didn’t, it would all slip through your grasp and cease to be like everything seemed to at the moment.

“Thank you for everything…” You finally broke the silence, your voice barely above a whisper. You lower yourself to bow to Shinobu, before leaving, perhaps leaving a part of yourself behind as you do. 

 —————————————

There was a general malaise of silence at the house in contrast to the mid morning light, seemingly blanketing the grounds as if it was just another day. Something felt wrong about returning here alone from the Butterfly Estate. You scoured for the younger Rengoku, no doubt wanting– needing an update on the state of his older brother. 

You finally found him sitting alone in a room holding a sheathed sword in his lap. His head lowered as if in surrender, he was trembling as if terrified of what laid beneath the sheath.

You didn’t even know Senjuro owned a blade, it seemed ornamental at best. It looked as though it had never used a day since it was forged. 

Upon seeing you, his hazed and shaky expression was replaced with a mix of worry. Before he could ask you the burning question that had no doubt been haunting him, you notice a patch of tender skin on his cheek, an abrasion that looked as though it would bruise. 

“What happened to your face?” You lean lower yourself next to him to inspect, running your thumb over the skin, flushed red and running warm from the inflammation.

He turned his face to conceal the sore cheek from your view, putting his own hand over it. “One of the other swordsmen that joined brother on the mission came by the house…” His gaze faltered, shifting to looking at the ground. “He wanted to apologize… he was ashamed,  for not being able to do more in that battle.” 

“Father began insulting my brother, then suddenly was enraged by the slayer. Things began escalating. I tried to protect the slayer, and Father hit me…” 

You couldn’t believe the words you heard. You were sickened to your core. Beyond the scope of a Hashira, the scope of a patriarch, how could a father act this way? 

Words are one thing, as merciless as they were, especially to a man fighting for his life, but to strike someone so much smaller and weaker was despicable. Both were so egregious, it was impossible to even say which was worse. 

Taking a moment, you calmed yourself down, grounding your thoughts before responding. “Are you ok?” 

Senjuro kept his face angled down and the evidence of the violence that had occurred in your own home while you were out. 

“I’m fine… this is nothing.” He dragged his sleeve across his eyes with a soft sniffle, you could see how hard he worked to hide his emotions coming to the surface, there was something more important to him. “My brother… is he…?”

“He’s… sleeping, that’s all. They’re doing everything they can… ” You feel a lump forming in your throat at the words. You didn’t want to acknowledge what you were both thinking just as much as Senjuro didn’t want to. 

“I-I see.” His gaze stayed low to the ground, even as his fists balled at his sides with resolve. “Maybe… it will work now. It has to.”

Senjuro shakily removed the blade from its cover, sticking it straight in the air, looking up at it with anticipation. The sword quivered in the trembling hands of the boy. He looked up at it as if it was a beacon with the ability to connect him to a higher power. He stared up, waiting for something, anything to happen. Releasing a resigned exhale, his head dropped as the tears he had desperately held back began to flow freely. 

“I really don’t have any talent at all.” He looked up at you, dejection etched into every one of his features, “I prayed this day would never come, I knew I wouldn’t ever be able to carry on the Flame Hashira. This time, more than ever, my nichirin sword needed to change color. But even now, it refuses to. All because I simply don’t have what it takes.”

He set the sword down, his palms face up on his knees, silently sitting on the tatami floors. You wrap your arms around him, feeling him starting to shudder against you punctuating each sharp sob. 

“Do you want to know what your brother told me to tell you before he fell asleep?” You lower your voice to a murmur.��

“Wh-What did he say?” he stuttered, his lips pursed and voice trembling, but there remained a glint of hope evident as he stared at you, waiting intently to hear. 

You spoke steadily, trying to fully encapsulate the sincerity of Kyojuro’s words, hoping if he could hear his brother’s voice through you, maybe it would comfort him in ways you never could. “‘Walk the path you know to be true, whatever path that may be.’” 

He looked up at you, his glassy eyes widened, you could see him absorbing every syllable as if it was from a holy text leading him into enlightenment when the shoji door flew open to both of your shock.

“Senjuro! What did I tell you about the blubbering? I can hear your pathetic crying from across the house! As if Kyojuro hadn’t done enough, you had to show that Sun Breather how weak you are too! As if our family couldn’t be any more humiliated!”

Senjuro’s face drained of color, his pupils trembling at the intimidating figure in the doorway. 

“You’re the eldest son of this family now, so learn something from your fool of a brother!” He gritted his teeth, now speaking to no one in particular. “Trying to supplement his own inferiority, trying to make up for our insignificant bloodline, I have no doubt he used that cursed form to try to salvage a battle he was doomed to lose from the start. He should’ve never even picked up a sword to begin with!”

Cursed form? Sun Breather? Did he mean the boy with the earrings that Senjuro spoke of? You had learned to ignore most of what Shinjuro said; these ravings were likely just another temper tantrum fueled by the stuporous overindulgence he found at the bottom of several bottles. 

The discomfort hung like a chill in the air, filling the space between the fragmented inanities of the harsh words echoing through the room. Shinjuro finally lumbered away, the jug still tied around his wrist. You sat in the silence left in his wake, almost envisioning Kyojuro in that hospital bed, each breath he took and each pound within his chest a cry of hope.

You close your eyes for a moment before speaking in a hushed voice to Senjuro, “Your brother believes in you, always has. He’s fighting so he can be sure to come home and remind you of that himself.”

—————————————

“This hurts like hell!” The Sound Hashira grumbled to no one in particular. Kyojuro could only watch as his fellow Hashira limped from the doorway into the hospital bed the Butterfly Mansion staff had apathetically pointed to. 

The young nurses reassuring him that the Insect Hashira would be there “when she gets the chance” to treat his injuries. The adrenaline from battle must’ve finally dissipated by the time he reached the Butterfly Mansion.

After settling in with a few labored breaths, the man finally turned to his side, noticing Kyojuro in the bed beside him.“Rengoku? How long have you been up? Why are you still here?” 

“A few hours. Kocho has been keeping a close eye before she discharges me, but I should be good to go by now. Nevermind that though, what happened to you?” He had never seen the Sound Pillar as battered and bloody as he appeared before him now. 

“Remember how I was organizing some infiltration into the Entertainment District? Looking for an upper rank?” Kyojuro nodded intently, he was well aware of the operation in the Sound Pillar’s sector before he even boarded the train. 

“Well, we found it. The district is leveled, but we defeated the threat. And look, the two of us are matching now, and I even got one up on you.” The man gestured to his own covered eye before waving his left arm, permanently disfigured.

Even in this state, Uzui always had something to say to lighten the mood. Kyojuro always respected that trait in him, it was one of the primary reasons they got along as well as they did.

“You didn’t…” Kyojuro searched for the right word to describe the Sound Pillar's hobbled gait as he made his way from the entrance to the cot where he was now confined, as respectfully as possible. “Ambulate…  yourself all the way from Yoshiwara I hope?”

“Oh, absolutely not.” The Sound Hashira shook his head with pride. “My wives were there for me, of course. But Kocho said they couldn’t help me inside. Something about a very strict rule with spouses not being allowed to enter the Butterfly Mansion for any reason.” 

Uzui spoke with restlessness, trying to get comfortable in the hospital bed clearly not befitting his frame before trying to read the face of the Flame Pillar beside him. “Did she tell you about that too?” 

Kyojuro’s eyebrows knit together. “I was not aware of such a policy…” He said slowly, as if he was trying to figure out what his fellow pillar was referring to with each word. He affixed his gaze upon his comrade’s arm, bandaged shoddily in the heat of battle, severed at the wrist.

“As a dual wielder…” His lips pursed as he analyzed the sight before him. “You may have to adapt your swordsmanship.”

Kyojuro chuckled before resting his hand lightly on the covered wound punctured into his abdomen, “I was quite concerned for myself, but fortunately recovery is an option for me as well. It’s all of no matter, we will just have to train harder and get back to where we were!” 

Uzui studied the face of the Flame Hashira looking for any shred of sarcasm. “A-are you serious?” His eyes widened with shock, glancing down at the tightly wrapped bandages over Kyojuro’s chest.

“Of course I am, what are you trying to say?” Kyojuro looked at the Sound Pillar inquisitively.

The Sound Hashira exhaled sharply, lowering his eyes resolutely with a soft smile, “I’m stepping down. I’m done fighting.” Upon processing the rest of what Kyojuro confidently announced to him his head jerked to face him in disbelief. “You aren’t actually considering going back are you?”

“But as pillars-” Kyojuro was cut off mid sentence, his curiosity now only building with what his friend was telling him.

“I like to think I’m Lord Uzui Tengen before I’m the Sound Pillar.” He declared matter of factly, before his tone devolved back into its characteristic quippiness. “You’ve always blurred that line, but most bastards lucky enough to take a hole in the chest and live would see themselves the same.” 

Kyojuro tried to think back to the exact moment of impact, the demonic fist piercing his flesh, in the face of what could only be described as certain death had he drawn a distinction between the two?

Kyojuro’s ponderance was interrupted by the petite form of the Insect Pillar shadowed by the younger girl with blue eyes and pigtails coming in the doorway seemingly with no urgency at all. “Thank gods!” Uzui exclaimed, the exasperation ripe in his voice. “I thought you all forgot about me!”

Kocho spoke her voice sweet and light as ever complimented by the poignant, contented countenance she always had. “Oh dear! Of course not!” She gestured to the three youngest Butterfly Mansion girls to bring her a tray with some instruments and antiseptics. 

Tears formed in the corner of their eyes as they approached the Sound Hashira’s bedside to hand it off to their master, clinging to each other and hurrying away once they did as they were instructed. 

“Hey Kocho, do you have any painkillers or anything before you stitch me up?” Uzui spoke with a tinge of desperation, one he was clearly trying to suppress in the presence of others.

“Unfortunately, I don't recall we have anything strong enough for you here.” The Insect Pillar spoke with a curt sharpness.

The blue-eyed nurse with pigtails was much easier to read than her master. Even with the grimace she typically bore while concentrating on work, there was a particular scorn in her eyes that seemed to run deep. She stared daggers at the Sound Pillar, it was truly a distaste only unpleasant familiarity can foster. 

The Insect Pillar worked, doing little to prepare her patient for her next action, hastily attending to the injuries of her fellow Hashira. Her doll-like smile unchanging as heavy handedly she doused his deep lacerations with antiseptic before stitching them shut with fresh bandages.

Upon finishing, she walked away without another word or so much as a check in to ask how the Sound Pillar was feeling now, even though she hadn’t seemed to be rushing to another bedside as she retreated without a second glance

Uzui released the grit of his teeth following his treatment, sincerity filling his tone. “About your injury, sorry I didn’t come see you. I had my crow watch closely; it told me you were stable in Kocho’s care, although maybe that should’ve been something that worried me more than it did.” He squirmed in place momentarily, no doubt feeling some residual discomfort in the absence of anything to ease his pain before being treated.

Kyojuro shook his head “No, the staff here is the picture of gentleness and care for its patients, Kocho and all her sisters treated me with the utmost kindness and consideration.” 

Uzui looked out the doorway to see the three youngest Butterfly Sisters looking at him with aversion, still on the verge of tears, while the blue-eyed pigtailed nurse’s contemptuous stare only intensified in her master’s absence. 

The Sound Hashira chuckled to himself blithely. “Huh. You don’t say.” 

His gaze moved from the main room beyond the doorway back to Kyojuro in the hospital bed beside him. “I just couldn’t bring myself to leave the district once I stopped getting updates from my girls.” A playful smirk crossed his face again as his solemn tone brightened, “I figured mere Upper Three wouldn’t be enough to take you out. I trust you understand.” 

Kyojuro looked at him knowingly with a reassuring smile, “Of course. No need to explain any further.”

“You know, the kids that were on the train with you volunteered to come to the district with me. The Kamado boy in particular gushed on and on, don’t be surprised if you start getting fan mail from him.” 

A warm smile crept across Kyojuro’s features at the mention. Hearing they had all recovered quickly and been assigned another mission while he had been out, made every drop of blood shed feel all the more worth it. He really had been able to protect them as he was expected to after the train incident, even if he in  the end failed to finish off the upper rank. 

“Ah yes, young Kamado. Truly good natured. I’m sure he would speak fondly of anyone who fought by his side.” He folded his arms across his chest assuredly as he always seemed to when he felt idle. 

The Sound Pillar moved his one good arm casually behind his head. “I don’t think just ‘anyone’ could have done what you did in the first place.” 

Uzui sighed. “You’ve done good, Mister Flame Pillar. I think you deserve to just be Rengoku now.” Kyojuro tried to hide the thoughtful pensivity welling behind his eyes before spreading across his face. Kyojuro knew he had always been able to read like a book, trying as he might to hide how he felt.

“Ugh. No need to do the Tomioka face.” The Sound Hashira said less than affectionately, He feigned annoyance, but his genuine concern was evident. “It’s up to you of course, but I think you should take a cue from me and go home to your wife now. Give my best to your mini-me.”

—————————————

By the time Kocho had let him leave the Butterfly Mansion, she wrapped his bandages extra taught, surely expecting he would have removed them the minute he was out of her sight. She was not wrong, he had definitely contemplated tearing them off before he returned to his home. 

But he knew he ought to leave them for now. Show the bare wound? Too disturbing. An eyepatch felt too drastic, permanent. Even though he was told to be cautiously optimistic at best on recovering his sight in that eye, bandages gave the hopeful impression to both his family and himself that regaining his vision was not out of the realm of possibility just yet. 

And there was the matter of crutches. He’d declined the nurses’ offer without a second thought. He wasn’t above using them, of course—he had used crutches before when it was necessary. 

But this time felt different. This time, he had come closer to death than he ever had before, closer than he had ever imagined. The weight of that knowledge was still fresh, he liked to think that was to blame for the piercing sensation beneath his ribs rather than the obvious.

Turning the corner into his ancestral home, he was not surprised to see his brother doing his daily chores per usual. Senjuro swept the entryway with a thousand yard stare. His gaze was unfocused, the bristles haphazardly brushing over the floor as if he wasn’t truly seeing it beneath him. He seemed to move mechanically as if the incessant noise in his head left him catatonic. 

As much as he wished Senjuro would let others help him, he knew productivity usually brought him peace of mind. Likely now more than ever thanks to his extended stay at the Butterfly Mansion riddling them all with uncertainty. 

Upon seeing him, Senjuro dropped his broom, his hazed expression replaced with overjoy. He ran over stopping himself in his tracks before jumping into his still recovering older brother’s arms.

Senjuro’s smile faltered as he took a small, hesitant step back, his gaze flickering down to Kyojuro’s chest, then back up to his face. He looked scared to get any closer, as if Kyojuro was made of glass and the slightest touch would make him shatter before his eyes. Kyojuro slowly opened his arms, donning his iconic smile brimming with warmth and familiarity. A simple reassurance.

That was all needed for Senjuro’s momentary unease to be erased. Without a second thought, Senjuro closed the distance, throwing his arms around his elder brother in a tight embrace. 

He let out a slight hmph slightly faltering backward for a moment. The pressure against his abdomen was not exactly comfortable, but that did not stop him from tightening his own arms around his little brother. 

“Thank gods Kanroji-san brought some sweet potato and sakura mochi earlier! I would’ve made more if we had gotten a crow you were discharged!”

Kyojuro did not have the heart to tell Senjuro he had been living off extra salted miso soups and herbal tea since awakening, and was told to continue doing so until breathing was more comfortable.

Kocho had mentioned that at least three times as he left the manor. She must’ve correctly suspected yet again his own appetite was a potential hazard to his recovery. Even castella cake was too solid and dense for him to consume in his condition. 

“I will have to thank my former tsuguko for her thoughtfulness when I see her next!” He tried to remain as lighthearted as possible as he declared what no one ever believed they would live to hear him say.  “As delicious as that sounds, I am not hungry at the moment!” 

“Not hungry?” Senjuro repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief. “You?” His eyes raked over his elder brother searching for the cause of such an anomaly. 

Just as Senjuro inspected the state of him, Kyojuro noticed the dark circles beneath his brother’s eyes, and the complexion of his face paler than he remembered. 

“I am simply so full of energy and vitality I have no need for anything to eat! Why don’t you off from your chores for the rest of the day, Senjuro!”

“A-are you sure?” Senjuro swiftly took his broom back into his hands as if to prove he had no reason to not continue as he was. 

Kyojuro put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, a gesture that always seemed to make Senjuro feel more at ease. “Certainly, you look as though you could use rest. I will take over for you”

Not being deterred in the slightest Senjuro replied, “No I can do it I promise!” Senjuro swiftly took his broom back into his hands as if to prove he had no reason to not continue as he was before Kyojuro came.

 “She’s doing the laundry for me already outside. So at least let me do the rest of the chores!” The younger Rengoku boy seemed almost frantic as he tried to prove that he was still more than capable of carrying out his perceived responsibilities.

 Kyojuro was momentarily taken aback looking into the fuzzy silhouette of a reflection of himself, one that went deeper than their appearance. 

He had spent the better part of his life encouraging and reassuring his brother, for this exact reason. He had foolishly believed that maybe that would be enough for Senjuro to ignore the example that had been before him since their mother had died nearly a decade ago. 

There were many things he was capable of protecting him from, however there remained some things he could only try to ward off. He was more than happy to act as a human shield to all the unpleasantness of the world he had dealt with himself. 

That was not to say his brother was delicate. Senjuro’s meek and sensitive exterior was not beguiling of his fiercely loyal and indomitable spirit. His patience was seemingly boundless, while being the most empathetic person Kyojuro had ever met. Senjuro’s maturity was indeed far beyond his years.

In spite of all of this, Kyojuro wanted him to have had a normal and carefree childhood. Maybe if they were another family under different circumstances, in some kind of a perfect world, Senjuro would not be confined to doing household work all day. He would have a plethora of friends to enjoy the blissful innocence of juvenility, with two loving parents at home, and no perceived expectations he was forced to inherit or self-condemnate over. 

Most of all he would not feel the need to fight for the validation of others, or establish his worth in his actions. While he could not protect him from loss or neglect, surely he could do that much even now.

There was no use grieving over what could have been, the reality was Senjuro had begun to take after his own tendencies. Something he could never forgive himself for being the cause of if it went too far. His own resolve was still strong, but he could at least try to set an example of self preservation when Senjuro was watching. 

He took the broom from Senjuro’s hands once again, leaning it against the wall beside them.”Why don’t we both take some time off today!” He proclaimed as confidently as possible. Senjuro’s shoulders, which had been taut with unease, dropped and with them Kyojuro breathed his own sigh of relief.

He no longer protested his elder brother’s suggestion to get some rest. Kyojuro walked his little brother to his room. As he followed, the younger boy barely lifted his head, his gaze still unfocused, lost in the exhaustion that clung to him. 

Tucking him into his futon, Kyojuro adjusted the pillow beneath his brother’s head, fluffing it gently, even though he knew Senjuro wouldn’t mind either way. He moved deliberately, his smile unchanged despite his mind spinning. He couldn’t help but hope that his little brother wouldn’t notice the subtle shift in Kyojuro’s actions today—the slight urgency in his insistence. 

Perhaps fatigue dulled Senjuro’s emotional intelligence enough that he failed to detect the thinly veiled half-heartedness behind him emphasizing they deserve to both call it for the day. He had been home for moments, and on bedrest before that while Senjuro had been beside himself with worry, maintaining their home. Kyojuro felt dread pool in his stomach, the thought nearly sickened him.

Once making sure his little brother was comfortable in his futon, he rose from his crouched position to his feet again, clamping his eyes shut with a sharp exhale at the shooting pain through his abdomen at the sudden movement. 

Luckily, Senjuro had succumbed to exhaustion the moment his head touched the pillow, sparing him any more anxiety over his big brother’s condition. 

He was embarrassed at how rapidly even the simplest tasks; walking, standing, really had exhausted him. Kocho had not necessarily given him advice on activity now that he was no longer in critical condition, she just reiterated not putting “undue strain” on the body. As vague as that was, he figured he must be experiencing some version of that as his breath became more labored as he walked through the corridors of his own home. 

Almost as if moving against his will, he lowered himself into his futon. He hoped maybe he could get some sleep as soundly as Senjuro, his head barely made contact with the pillow before he drifted off  even with rays of early evening daybreak still illuminating the sky. 

He was happy he had managed to soothe the terrifying thoughts eating his little brother from the inside while he was recovering at the Butterfly Mansion. 

Hopefully, Senjuro genuinely believed things were right in the world again, and that he had no need to prove himself to those around him any further. If he did genuinely believe that, Kyojuro envied it. 

—————————————

The laundry had kept you busy from the late afternoon until the sun hung low in the sky, and you were grateful for the long days of summer, which offered a grace period of a few more hours of safety outside.

You must have looked strange in your tsumugi woven silk kimono, churning laundry by the creek. You wiped a bead of sweat from your brow, before brushing your hands over your hair to ensure the hairpin was still in place. You refocused on the task at hand, gripping the sentakubō with both hands once again. 

The water stirring and forming small whirlpools as you plunge the wooden paddle into the melange of soaking garments with a slosh. You raise the paddle up before submerging it again, fabric swirling in the sekken infused water. 

These were the ancient methods Senjuro had told you had been used for centuries in the family. 

“Drinkable well water is too precious to be used on clothes, there is flowing mountain water just beyond the gates by a small grove of wisteria trees. That’s where we have done laundry for as far back as I know of.” 

The fatigue evident in his every motion momentarily ceased for him to give you particular instructions before you handle the household laundry on your own for the first time. 

In Tokyo, you heard some families had found ways to pump water into their homes. No access to wells or streams necessary. You were unsure whether to be skeptical or amazed at the Western innovations being integrated at breakneck speed into the capital, but the Rengoku family seemed utterly disinterested and unimpressed by anything that brought them away from the techniques of the past. 

Regardless of the flow of time, the Rengoku family had yet to betray the techniques of their ancestors that had never failed them before.

Perhaps they felt both indebted and venerated by the practices that had upheld their name through generations of Flame Pillars and centuries of war against man-eating evil. Each Hashira over the ages living long enough to pass on every aspect, no matter how trivial, of traditional lifestyle to their children and then their children’s children. 

Proof of demons and time alike being unable to erode them into nothing more than history, a bloodline persisting even today, against all odds. 

Your nose prickled at the herbal scent of the laundry solution you had handled for the past few hours soaking, scrubbing the items against the ridges of a washboard before draping each clean textile over a clothesline to dry in the tepid air. 

It was dull, tedious, and somewhat exhausting work, but anything to take your mind and a piece of your heart from the Butterfly Mansion was a welcome distraction. 

As you carried out mundane household chores as of late, you had made it more engaging by picturing Kyojuro watching you with pride, a glint of familiar affection in his eye. 

It only pushed you harder to put your all into everything you did, regardless of how unremarkable it may seem to others. That was what he would no doubt do in your shoes.

—————————————

You had expected Senjuro to be milling about getting things done for the same reason when you arrived back at the estate.The broom leaned against the wall of the engawa was telling enough to you he must’ve finished his daily tasks up and retired into the house for the time being. It might have been slightly unusual, but not anything provoking much cause for concern otherwise.

You looked forward to idleness for the remainder of the evening. Slipping into fresh clothes, you made your way to your room, eager to lie down and rest. 

As you walk the corridor, a blur of fiery colors ignites in your peripheral vision beyond the sliding door of a room that had sat empty as of late. Was that? You freeze in disbelief. 

“Kyojuro?” The name slips from your lips before you can stop it, even though you know the chances of him hearing you from this distance without even seeing your lips were low, but it doesn’t stop your heart from leaping in your chest nevertheless.

Eventually he must sense your presence, his unwrapped eye meeting yours, and in that instant, it feels like everything else fades away. He shifts from his reclined position to sit upright. Even just sitting up in his futon, you notice the subtle tension in his body, the familiar way his arms instinctively cross in front of him—, a pose you know he adopts when idle, as idle as he was capable of being anyway.

You had seen him like this before, when he was always on guard, always ready for battle. The weight of responsibility had never left him, even when he wasn’t fighting. But now, in this quiet moment, it felt almost surreal. You felt a wave of relief flood over you—he was here. He was home.

You didn’t know whether to run over to him, break down into tears, fall to your knees thanking every god and spirit that was looking out for him, or all three at the same time. He watches you with that familiar intensity in his eyes, but there's something softer now, an unspoken heaviness in his gaze

“You were resting… I’m sorry for the disruption.” You did something you hadn’t done since you arrived at the house, lowering your head into a bow. It simply felt appropriate, the least you could do was show your respect, as unnatural as it felt. Kyojuro blinked, taken aback by your gesture, his brows clenching together in confusion as he watched you. 

There was a moment where his eyes seemed to search yours, as if uncertain how to respond, had a distance that great grown between you? You raised from your bow before he could tell you it was ‘not necessary for the likes of him,’ your grasp taking hold of the edge of the shoji door to drag it shut. 

“I’ll let you enjoy some peace and quiet.” Your words felt inauthentic as you spoke, it wasn’t what you wanted, but it felt like what you deserved. You wished you knew what to say to him, but how could you? You could do nothing but watch helplessly while he writhed in pain waiting for you at the Butterfly Mansion. 

Standing by watching the sparks fade his eyes, feeling the room grow colder and colder still. Was that really all you could do? 

Every night since then, you had hoped for a miracle, that you would wake up and he would be back. Now here he was and all you could do was grapple with the futility of your every effort against the inevitable, one that would have come to pass with or without your consent. Like almost all else in his life, he overcame this on his own.

He tilted his head to the side trying to catch your downturned gaze with a soft smile, “You know” He paused until your glassy eyes met his. “I’ve had enough ‘peace and quiet’ for this lifetime.” 

He hesitated for a heartbeat, there was an almost imperceptible urgency in his tone, as though the simple request held more than he could express. “I would enjoy your companionship…” His eye locked onto yours, and you could hear him telling you what he truly felt, but couldn’t bring himself to say, “Please don’t leave me alone…”

Your fists closed around your sleeves as you looked on from the doorway. 

“Could I lay beside you?” You meant to ask gracefully, but a tremble caught itself at  the end of your words. In spite of you both being wedded, something ignited embarrassment within you at your own request. You weren’t quite sure what his experience with such things were, but you certainly had none to speak of. 

You had been confident everything would be ok, but a part of you filled with dread at every crow that flew overhead. Terrified, one of them was Shinobu-san informing you regrettably that they had failed, and he was gone. You just wanted to be close to him, close enough to hold onto and hope he wouldn’t come so close to slipping away from you again. 

“Absolutely!” His boyish excitement quickly commanding sincerity, his voice lowering to just above a breathy whisper “I mean… you do not need to ask. I am yours after all.”

If anything was capable of soothing the apprehension you felt, it was hearing him deliver an enthusiastic exclamation. You studied him, your eyes drifted down again to his arms crossed on top of his chest. Whether be a barrage of responsibility or self doubt, he always carried a tension palpable in every fiber. 

In a gentler world that asked for less of someone like him, maybe he wouldn’t need to. But even if he was not of that world, you could create a piece of it for him to dwell in. A place both his weary body and mind could be at ease.

You lowered yourself into the futon, trying to not focus on your heart, beginning to quicken, as the sound of his breath became audible each inhale and following exhale affirming to you he was alive, and he was yours.

“Am I making you nervous?” You asked genuinely, seeing his shoulders tighten and arms stitch together more tautly and a rouge flush across his cheeks even in the low light. 

He conveniently subverted your inquiry, rebounding it back to you.“You are not nervous, are you, my flame?” His tone seemed to waver in its usual certainty. 

“Not with you…” Even the intoxicating stillness, you cannot help but notice his strained comportment.  “You’re so stiff…”

He spoke no doubt a bit louder than even he anticipated, “Not stiff!” His sudden surge in volume took you back, the abruptness of his response leaving you momentarily unsettled. But as his words settled into the space between you, you quickly found yourself adjusting again into comfort.

“Just a habit, I assure you.” His voice was softer this time, a hint of something more raw slipping through his usual certainty. “I have been trained to be vigilant, at all times. I suppose it’s just how I’ve learned to exist.” 

“Hm. I see…” Your brow furrowed, pursing your lips together almost imperceivably. You extend your arms to place one hand on each of his shoulders, meeting his gaze you search the embers of his unbandaged iris for any sign of discomfort before cupping your hands. 

You, for only a moment, feel the heat of his gaze rake over, consuming each inch of your form. It was enough to make your skin prickle under its blistering intensity. Being used as its fuel, a slow burn ignited in your chest, radiating outward in waves, trailing sparks down to your fingertips and toes. You pry your eyes from your own hands back to his blistering stare to catch his lashes flutter briefly, clenching his eyes shut as if mentally reprimanding himself. 

Your palms take in the dense sinews forming sharp lines and curved ridges beneath your palms, before you push them down from their contraction. His arms finally dropping from their cross to his sides. You try to cut through the tension imparting a squeeze in a circular motion to the corded muscle between your thumb and fingers. 

As the pressure deepened, a soft, involuntary shudder rippled through him, a sudden tremor that surged from his shoulders down to his spine. It caused him to partially heave forward, his posture faltering as his head tilted to the side. A strangled sound—somewhere between a gasp and a whimper—escaped his lips.

You pull back your hands instinctively. “I-I didn’t mean…”

He shifted slightly, avoiding your gaze for a brief moment,  the blush deepening down to his neck. “I... I think I made a rather odd sound just now... My sincerest apologies” He spoke just above a murmur, his tone uncharacteristically timid, and pupils blown wide. “I must have broken my Total Concentration Breathing. I-I just… did not expect that to feel so good.”  

After a moment, his voice came again, a little more vulnerable than usual, almost tentative. “May I hold you?”  For a man so often brimming with confidence and conviction, this sudden bashfulness was endearing, almost disarming.

You echoed the words that had made your heart flutter since you heard them, “I am yours after all.” As the moments stretched on, the world outside began to blur, your breaths falling in sync with his. His hand trailed absentmindedly through your hair, his touch lulling you closer to sleep. Just before the haze of slumber overtook you, you felt him press the lightest kiss to your temple, his lips lingering as though committing the moment to memory.

And so, wrapped in his embrace, safe within the steady glow of his presence, you drifted off. For even in sleep, you knew you were wholly his, and he, yours.

—————————————

Kyojuro found himself restless with the first breaks of light, the flecks of dawn slowly spreading from the base of the horizon as the sky remained inked with the deep indigo of night. 

He sat up, given the opaque darkness of the sky it was hard to believe that golden rays of light would cut through the boundless pitch black expanse above him.

Since he had awoken, he had begun to be enchanted by things he had never paid much mind to before. The way the dawn happened to bleed into night, if there was nothing else you could rely on in this world, there was solace to be found in the consistency of daybreak. 

No matter how empty the void of night seemed, the dawn would overcome it anyway, illuminating the heavens without fail. Admirable. It was truly admirable.

Turning his gaze toward you, his heart softened even further. You lay curled beside him, your expression serene in the half-light, your hair tousled from sleep. Kyojuro couldn’t help but smile—bright and warm, though he kept it quiet, not wanting to disturb you. He leaned down and pressed a feather-light kiss to the crest of your hairline, lingering for a moment as if to savor the touch.

"Rest well," he whispered, his voice low and affectionate. Carefully, he slipped from the futon, each movement deliberate and gentle so as not to disturb the stillness that wrapped around you like a cocoon.

While cooking was outside his expertise, he was more than capable of boiling water in a hagama with tea leaves. 

As he entered the main room to prepare it, he noticed his father already seated with his gaze fixed on the sky. Kyojuro’s  instincts made him want to turn around and recede right then and there, before stopping himself.

“You are up early, Father.” Kyojuro shifted his head to the side almost as if to hide his face. He could hardly bring himself to face the former Flame Hashira. In his father's eyes, the cold sweat on his brow and the ghostly pallor of his skin would no doubt serve as a (half) living testament to the very words he had insisted upon to Kyojuro for years.

His hand quivered as he sprinkled a spoonful of the tea leaves into water before beginning to boil them together on the wood stove. 

Shinjuro hardly acknowledged the presence of another behind him more than a quick glance over the shoulder. His expression was as equally austere and annoyed as usual.

Similar to how Shinjuro kept his eyes firmly locked onto the slow ascent of the sun, Kyojuro relegated his own gaze to the kettle on the stove, barely looking away as the silence was intermittently broken by the sound of chimes swaying in the breeze.

When the water adopted the greenish hue from the tea leaves, he removed the hagama from the heat.

“Uh... tea, Father?” Kyojuro said as he set out two cups just in case. It was unusual enough his father was awake at dawn, and out of his room. He rarely saw Shinjuro eat or drink much, usually sleeping or drinking the day away, it would be even more unusual for him to break that pattern. But, he felt obliged to ask him anyway.

Shinjuro spoke, his voice gruff as it had been as long as Kyojuro could remember. “Sure.” He paused for a long time before adding, “Thank you…” 

Kyojuro looked up with shock, but only to look at the back of Shinjuro’s head once again. He poured the liquid into the cups, curls of steam wafting from each one with an earthy aroma. 

With one in each hand he brought it over to where his father sat at the edge of the room, the sky fading from nox to a peach tone as the apex of the sun became visible over the horizon line. 

He lowered his head as he placed the cup on the ground, Shinjuro’s scarred hand wrapping around it where it sat. Kyojuro slowly backed away from where he resided to leave him be.

“You can sit, son.” Shinjuro said, finally turning over his shoulder to meet Kyojuro’s gaze. Kyojuro moved closer again trepidatiously before lowering himself to the ground with a sharp exhale, the pressure on his wound making his face twist momentarily as he did so.

Kyojuro could not help but notice the thick, pungent smell of sake—a scent that had been a constant companion to his father for as long as he could remember—was completely absent this morning.

“In nearly 20 years as a pillar, I used that damned form three times.” Shinjuro spoke, his eyes not leaving the sky as he took a sip of the tea in his hand. “You’ve used it twice that I know of, but it’s been more times than that, right?”

Kyojuro did not even want to reply to his father’s probing, it would not matter anyway, they both knew the answer to the question.

The former pillar’s jaw clenched in grim recognition of Kyojuro's telling silence. However, the response was not angered, but seemed shackled with the heaviness of frustration.

Kyojuro took a long drink of the cup of tea in his hand, it was easier than thinking of the right thing to say.

Shinjuro continued, his voice steady but carrying a hint of weariness. “I practically memorized each word of the chronicles. The Breath of Flames like every other breath will always be derivative. Yet our swordsmen are the only ones who refuse to believe that. Neither the chosen ones nor those blissfully content with their own mediocrity use anything as foolish or self destructive as that damn 9th form.” 

Kyojuro knows the destruction he spoke of all too well. The gelatinous cartilage protecting the shoulders, knees, elbows, hip flexors, ankles, spine, it was all fickle. 

Once the body has worn it down, usually through decades upon decades of usage the grating discomfort of bone on bone friction rarely goes away, in many cases it can leave one chair bound from the intensity of every joint aching.

While all such an affliction can happen naturally with the flow of time, but the amount of power emitted from the 9th form was anything but natural.

The records of the ways of Flame Breathing made this clear to the user. Even by the standard of breath forms, which already amplify the body beyond its innate threshold, the concentration of power in the 9th form of Flame Breathing was exceptionally great.

The amount of strain on the body by the 9th form was more than some could handle. Some Flame Pillars of the past did not have the composition to use it more than once or twice at absolute most. The immense pressure on the body had a way of hastening degeneration. The form was strictly a last resort when facing a foe that needed to be defeated at all costs. 

The brighter and hotter a flame burns, the sooner it flickers out. Yet each time he was left with no other option but to use it, he did so without hesitation.

He had always fought to save lives with his body as little more than collateral in the grand scheme of his duty, so what did a few adverse side effects matter if it allowed him to prevail against a powerful demon that could go on to devour dozens?

Shinjuro muttered under his breath bitterly as if trying to suppress a visceral growl gathering in his lungs at the words alone. “The Breath of Flames, the Flame Hashira mantle, all of it, who gives a damn about a line of talentless fools breaking themselves just to end up average. It’s just a pitiful tale, nothing more. I’ve asked myself over and over why anyone would want to pass that on to the next generations.” 

He shook his head slowly with an exhale, his knuckles becoming lighter as he gripped his cup more tightly before releasing it again. “I knew I should’ve destroyed the infernal pages of the Flame Hashira Chronicles a long time ago.”

Kyojuro’s tone became calmer than even he knew it to be, almost as if unconsciously imitating the softness of how his own mother spoke to him all those years ago. “Whether it is pitiful or not, it memorializes their will. Their triumph, their struggle, none of it will go unnoticed, and they will be remembered fondly for their bravery and their role in our history.”

Shinjuro was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant still settled on the peach streaks as they became gold across the sky. “Did you ever read about my predecessor?” He grumbled with narrowed eyes.

Kyojuro’s brow furrowed into thought before replying. “Our grandfather, yes of course. I read about every Flame Hashira. It is a shame Senjuro and I never met him.”

“Trust me, you’re lucky you only ever read about him.” Shinjuro let out a forced chuckle before taking another sip. “Obsessed with the family legacy, he’d probably have carved ‘Flame Hashira’ into my chest the day I was born if he thought it would keep me from forgetting who I was meant to be. And just my luck—I happened to be the bastard’s only child. That meant all his expectations, all his delusions about immortality through legacy, fell squarely on my shoulders.” 

Kyojuro heard a pain in his father’s voice that he had only caught a handful of times before—a rare, almost fleeting vulnerability that Shinjuro rarely allowed anyone to see. His mind drifted back to faded, gilded memories. When his father’s smile had been constant, his pride unwavering. He could still recall the way his father’s eyes would light up as he passed down his sword skills to him and Senjuro, enthusiastic and patient.

Those memories were growing hazy with time, as though they were trapped in the mist of nostalgia, but the warmth they stirred within him was unmistakable. It was the kind of warmth that invigorated him—like the very ichorous blood of the Flame Hashira flowed through his veins, and he was destined for greatness.

“Perhaps…” Kyojuro murmured, his voice wistful, “Perhaps… He must have seen potential in you… " His eyes fell to the ground, his chest felt hollow as if the air was being drawn from it. "And that was the reason he pushed you so hard and did not ever give up on you...”

Shinjuro’s lips pressed together into a firm line. “Potential? No. He didn’t see me. Not as a person. I was a tool, a means to an end—a way to keep the Rengoku name alive, to make himself feel like he mattered.”

Shinjuro's voice held calm, but kept carrying the crushing weight of resignation.“Part of me wanted to show him I would be the last Flame Breathing user,” His eyes stayed distant, unblinking.

“Just let our name die out, fade into oblivion as a fragment of history. Just so my miserable old man’s last thought would be regret. That nothing he tried his damndest to maintain would last after one generation. I refused to be another cog in the perpetual machine.”

Kyojuro looked down at the swirls of green fluid in the cup as he held it in his lap. His voice curious as he looked over, as though trying to understand a piece of the past he had never been allowed to see. “What changed your mind?”

“Your mother…” Shinjuro’s lips twisted slightly, but not with anger—more like a quiet bitterness that he no longer had the energy to hide under anger or indifference. “But just like everything else, it was all futile, just a beautiful dream she was kind enough to let me believe in. Even for just a little while.”

Kyojuro’s eyes flickered, a quiet understanding passing between them at her mention.

Shinjuro let out a long sigh, setting his cup down with a soft clink, though his movements remained languid. “I don’t know if she fell victim to the suffering fate has ordained for us by becoming my bride. Maybe she stood a chance before then. But not us, if you’re born into it, you don’t have a choice, it's your cross to bear whether you want it or not. That’s the cruel joke. That’s the purgatory we’re bound to.”

The sun was higher now, and the colors in the sky deepened, casting a warm glow over everything.

Shinjuro’s voice broke the stillness again, his voice softer now than Kyojuro had known in so long. “I never wanted to be the kind of man to force a son to swing a sword until he vomited and his hands were torn open and bleeding. I should’ve never let either of you boys touch a blade. Just let the cycle end and be free. But you and Senjuro... you were always drawn to it. Always. I could see it in your eyes.” 

His gaze turned, albeit reluctantly, to Kyojuro, meeting his gaze in earnest. “We can’t help it, can we? It's in our blood I suppose.”

The sun was fully risen now, casting a golden glow over the room, spilling warmth across the tatami floor. Shinjuro, still staring out at the horizon, sighed deeply, a silent self condemnation. “I wasn’t capable of protecting Ruka, or the many junior swordsmen, or countless civilians, but I once hoped even a good for nothing father could protect his own children if nothing else.”

Kyojuro’s eyes lingered on his father, the warmth of the rising sun casting a gentle light on the hard lines of Shinjuro’s face. He didn’t know what he could possibly say. 

Kyojuro sat in the silence that followed his father's words, the weight of Shinjuro’s rare admission lingering in the air. He could feel the old, familiar tension between them, but it was softer now—more fragile, like the delicate balance of the morning light spilling across the floor. 

Shinjuro’s voice was both steady and solemn. "Kyojuro, you are a better man than I. You and your brother both. A strong man can learn from a weaker one how to become even stronger."

The words were unexpected, catching Kyojuro off guard. He glanced up at his father, his eyes searching the features of Shinjuro’s face for some sign that this wasn’t just another passing moment of wistful resignation. But there was no mistaking the sincerity in his tone. Kyojuro’s chest tightened, though he didn’t fully know why.

Shinjuro took a breath, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon, a faraway look in his eyes. “Just remember, you have a whole life ahead of you. It’s yours to do with what you wish.”

There was something in Shinjuro’s words that stirred in Kyojuro—a faint flicker of hope, like a spark in the dark. He wanted to say something, to respond, but the weight of the moment was so heavy, so rare, that all he could do was nod.

Shinjuro shifted slightly, the moment passing as quickly as it had come. He stood slowly, his movements deliberate, before leaving on heavy footsteps.

There was something in Shinjuro’s words that stirred in Kyojuro—a faint flicker of hope, like a spark in the dark. He wanted to say something, to respond, but the weight of the moment was so heavy, so rare, that all he could do was nod.

Shinjuro shifted slightly, the moment passing as quickly as it had come. He stood slowly, his movements deliberate, as though the weight of his own body was a burden he carried with resignation.

He gave Kyojuro one last look, something softer than usual in his eyes, before he turned toward the door. "I’m going to go check on Senjuro. He’s been having nightmares lately."

Kyojuro’s gaze lingered on his father’s retreating back. The room felt quieter now, the silence settling between them like something solid. He wanted to speak—wanted to say something that could erase the years of distance between them, and his father’s regrets.

The warmth of the sun seemed to spill into his very bones, filling the hollow places with a kind of quiet understanding. It wasn't a resolution. It wasn’t a grand moment of reconciliation. But it was something. 

A rare crack in the wall that had always stood between them. And for the first time in a long while, Kyojuro thought maybe, just maybe, it was a step toward something else. Something better.

—————————————

He awoke to start the day as he had nearly every day for the past. Getting ready at dawn as he always did, cautious not to awaken you in the room beyond the thin panel walls. Donning his corps uniform kaen haori, against Kocho’s advice to receive help. 

Moving deliberately he raised his arms to twist the thick honey blonde layers of his hair, he felt a sharp pang in his abdomen. He froze in place, his eyes widened before clenching shut. The pain forcing him to grip the edge of the nearest furniture for support. 

His hand moved from his chest back to his sides as he opened his eyes slowly, a hint of embarrassment creeping over him. It was as if he feared that when his eyelids lifted, he would find disappointed faces gazing back at him.

He continued the routine that made him worthy of the rank of Hashira. His resolve only strengthened, it would not matter so long as he could prove to himself, he was still strong, the capable protector of others.

The sun’s early light casting across his face, he moved with purpose across the same grounds that he and generations of Flame Pillars before him honed their skills in the heart of the ancestral estate. The ground beneath him was packed earth, worn smooth from endless footfalls. 

Unsheathing his katana, he took a deep breath, grip tightening on the handle of his garnet nichirin sword. But the blade that was once a weightless extension of himself felt heavier, more cumbersome. 

Performing the stances he had forged into his very bones with the years. His fluidity between each form was lacking. Even in total concentration he found himself sputtering if his chest expanded too much on the inhale. Beads of sweat rolled down his temple in the Summer sun, the brine making the unhealed gash across his eye socket sting lightly. 

He was not blessed with the near supernatural acuteness of sense others possessed. Some of his comrades had such heightened perception, blindness itself was not even a burden. But he was quite the opposite, since the mission he lost most of his hearing, he had learned to instead rely on his vision to be fully aware of his surroundings at all times. 

In the line of duty, he even had trained himself to reduce the frequency of blinking so as to not let his own inability to perceive his surroundings with his other senses create an opening for an enemy to strike. 

Each swing and subsequent sharp ache in his abdomen was a reminder that not long ago, a demon had punched straight through his body as if he were hollow. A lifetime of working towards becoming a paragon of invincibility rendered worthless in an instant. 

He had spent his life mastering control over every part of his own body. Every fiber, every nerve ending. The idea he was spared by chance was nauseating. By chance, the blow didn’t destroy any vital organs, killing him instantly. By chance, the kakushi were able to move him quickly enough. By chance, he managed to wake up from Kocho’s induced sleep at all. 

Kyojuro shifted into the next stance, forcing his body to remember the rhythm of each fiery surge of power. He longed for the zone he could so easily slip into. When each cell of his body felt as though it burned with the intensity of his soul, no amount of pain or exhaustion could dampen it. 

The searing tenacity, the flow. Wiping his brow he found the warm flow he desired, albeit in a drastically different form. A crimson streak across the back of his hand was the last thing he saw before sanguine blood obscured the vision in his left eye once again. Pressing the heel of his hand against his eye once again in an attempt to stop the seep from the wound.

—————————————

You were well aware of Kyojuro’s routine, if he was off bed rest chances are he would go back to it even against the better judgment of others, and probably himself too.

So when you saw him sitting with his back to the house, cross legged in the middle of the training field, his katana sheathed on his right side a change from it usually placed on his left. Stranger than that, you had rarely seen him take breaks much less fully sit down on the grass. 

“Are you alr-You’re bleeding!” Once you were within his earshot, you 

He looked over his shoulder with his right eye anxiously following your exclamatory reaction. He assured you with a forced cheerfulness, though the flicker of uncertainty in his voice betrayed the bravado. “Although,” he continued, his tone lowering slightly, “I fear if Senjuro sees me like this, he might go into a panic…”

As much as you wanted to scold him for neglecting his own wellbeing for the sake of others yet again, he had a point. Senjuro had just been in a state of shock wondering if he would ever see his brother again. The last thing he needed was to see Kyojuro hurt yet again.

“Yes! I-I’ll get some first aid!”

You moved briskly back to the house to retrieve some standard medical supplies. Coming out to sit on his left side in the grass, mimicking his seated position with his back to the home. From the way you angled yourself, legs folding to your side, if Senjuro happened to walk by, perhaps he would just figure you both were basking in the sun on a nice day and nothing more.

You slowly shake your head as you begin to wet the clean cloth with rubbing alcohol. “You are an exceptionally lucky man, you know that?” 

He chuckled lightly, a glowing smile spreading across his face. “I suppose I am if a beautiful lady is willing to take care of me.” 

You sigh, glancing down for a moment fighting back a grin that will no doubt spread to you like a contagion. “Look up please.” As you asked, his irises shifted upwards as you moved the cloth in your hand toward him, the laceration across his left eye freshly reopened on full display, stretching clear across his eyelid and nearly severing his eyebrow.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Kyojuro Rengoku. You know what I mean.” You can’t help but smile through the scoff you force out, your attempts to remain stern and impress upon him seriousness foiled.

Holding the damp cloth with a steady grip, you approach his eye with utmost caution, ensuring you don’t accidentally brush against his ink-black lashes. You carefully touch the rag to his face, disinfecting the length of the wound, your movements deliberate and gentle. 

“No! I am merely speaking the truth you are-” His proclamation was halted by a wince at the sting from the antiseptic’s contact with the raw wound. 

“I’m sorry if that hurts.” Your brow furrows as you pull the cloth away, necessary as it was to do, it pained you to be the cause of any further bodily discomfort for him. 

You take a minute to find the most appropriate way to say what you mean, for both of your sakes. “First they weren’t sure you would…” 

You meet his gaze tacitly before continuing. “Then Shinobu-san tells you the chances of retaining sight in your left eye was nonexistent, and here you are breathing and seeing and yet you still keep pushing yourself to the point of coming apart at the seams.” You try to mask your unease, seeing him continue working himself beyond his limits, when he is already so fragile at the moment.

“At least wear the eyepatch the Butterfly Mansion issued you!” You implore with something of a half smile. The sheer stubbornness with which he dismissed every injury, no matter how serious, would be humorous if it wasn’t so deeply concerning.

“Oh please, I need no such thing! I’m doing nothing I cannot handle, I assure you.” That authoritative voice, brimming with optimism. It was so easy to hear it, and blindly take each word as fact. But you know better by now, you could’ve told him every bone in his body was broken beyond repair and he would probably still respond that way. Even so, you want to trust him to stay within his means. 

“Ok, ok you’re ‘fine.’ I understand.” You reply resignedly speaking on your exhale. “Just please just take care of your eye. You’ve always had the most lovely eyes…” You say looking deeply into the golden rimmed eyes of the man before you.

Usually, when those  spoke of the Rengoku family, they used the word "powerful" to describe their distinctive features—sharp cheekbones, avian-esque orbs, blazing hair, and the aura of intensity that seemed to radiate from them. They served as yet another irrefutable motif that connected each Flame Pillar to the long legacy of unrivaled swordsmen bearing the Rengoku name.

“Powerful” was no doubt a compliment. He had always taken pride in the honor of possessing the iconic visage of his courageous ancestors. “Lovely” was different though. It felt intimate, a word that captured a softness. One rarely used when likening the fierce warriors of the Rengoku lineage with description, or him by that association.  

“If you like them, then I am only more excited by the prospect of passing them onto our children one day!” He exclaimed, the ever present ember burning behind his gaze billowing into a roaring inferno with joyous fervor.

Your cheeks flushed like a watercolor canvas, rosy hues blooming across your complexion. He could only surmise in that moment the evident dilation of your pupils to be a product of shock, at worse maybe even discomfort. 

He had gotten overzealous again, it was all too easy for him to put his foot in his mouth and take someone aback when he felt impassioned enthusiasm overflowing from him. However, you didn’t seem jarred or off put by his sudden pronouncement. You gaze warmed, softly smiling back at him.

“Yes, me too.” Your voice on the gentle breeze was as steady and sincere. 

But for a moment, it all fell away. The corps, his family legacy, the pillars, all of it. Holding her knees gently on the grassy Earth beside him, looking back at him. Rays of light catching against her skin, wrapping around her like a golden embrace, illuminating her form with a radiance that seemed almost otherworldly. Her hair danced in the breeze, tousling it to frame her face with an effervescent allure.

He felt warmth creeping up his cheeks, just as it had for her moments ago. He desperately tried to suppress the flush as he turned his gaze downward, focusing intently on the ground.

Death or disablement. Kyojuro knew these to be the only two circumstances in which a pillar could honorably resign from their post. Here he was, neither dead nor maimed. The verdict ought to be clear as day. He was more than aware of the inevitable weakness that all humans must experience in time. 

But to face that inevitability when he could still do so much? If he could swing a katana, he had a duty to serve. Right? His father should have continued serving as the Flame Hashira until he lost his sharpness to age. 

But the day Mother passed, something died in Father, or maybe something already dead within him had begun to fester. Kyojuro always told himself that he would not succumb to the same fate, despair would not be the death of him, certainly not if even an Upper Rank wasn’t. 

“I have… a friend… who is thinking about their future as a Hashira.” Kyojuro spoke with an uncharacteristic softness, fingers fidgeting with the hilt of his sword.

You looked at him inquisitively before having what you believe to be a revelation. “You mean the Sound Pillar?” 

“Oh… right, yes. Uzui, of course.” Kyojuro's words stumbled out, a nervous smile flickering on his lips, eyes darting away, as if relieved to hear you identify the former Hashira, already settled on retirement. 

“If he decides to retire, does it mean he has lost his passion? Or maybe he is running away?” His voice raised closer to its usual vivacity, but the typical enthusiasm felt infected with an air of apprehension. His fingers tightened around the sword’s hilt, outlining the flame insignia swordguard with a deliberate motion of his thumb.

Before you could even think to answer, he pressed on with another question, his urgency palpable.

“What if…” He paused, lightly clearing his throat adding the aforementioned yet again, his cadence returning to its equilibrium. “My friend…” 

He looked deeply into your eyes, the bright vermillion honeycomb pools poured into yours like a gentle ray of sunlight at dawn, adorning everything within with its warmth. His words regained their normal directness in earnest. “Is worried the person he loves might not want him anymore, if he isn’t strong?”

You tilt your head, your gaze previously riddled with intrigue tempered tacitly at his probing, you understood now. “I’m certain the people in his life value him for more than something as superficial as his strength.”  

You put your palms flat behind you on the tufts of grass leaning back to feel the sun warm your face.

“I don’t think of ‘strong’ as a person, I think of it as a state of being. We are all allowed to be weak and rely on the strength of others, and when others are weak we can give them our strength. No one person has to be strong all the time.” 

More importantly, you saw through the electric personality of the natural born leader to all and the brave exterior of the warrior. You saw the man beneath it all. The kind of soul that was as tender as it was resiliently fortuitous. 

Hanging on every word you notice the intertwine of his arms, crossed against his chest as he clung on your every word with rapt attentiveness. You straighten your posture leaning toward him, interlocking your fingers to the corded sinews of his forearms, pulling them from their interwoven tensed state as you had done before.

You took his worn hands in your own. “Well I hope you tell ‘your friend’ as much. Although, I would like to ask you something now if you would allow me.”

“Of course my flame, anything.” he replied, his voice filled with earnestness, a bright smile spreading across his face. 

“Did you remember what I told you in the Butterfly Mansion? The last thing I said to you before you lost consciousness?” 

His eyes narrowed as they trailed off into thought. He racked his brain for the last moment of light before his eyelids fell heavily as the sounds around him dissipated into silence. Before the oblivion of the serum he was injected with took effect, only muffled words cut by sobs come to mind.

“Please forgive me, I cannot recall.” He bowed his head remorsefully before meeting you again with a hopeful countenance. “Would you tell me again, my flame?”

A rosy hue rouges your cheeks as you fidget from side to side where you sat, part of you didn’t want to tear your gaze from the safety of the trodden Earth . But you couldn’t stand the idea of missing a moment basking in the bright eyes of the man you nearly lost.

 “I told you that I loved you...” Your voice was a murmur, barely above a whisper, and as your heart skipped a beat in your chest. “I love you. I meant it, I love who you are. That will not be changed by what you are.” 

“I have never found many things in life that I could not bring myself to love, or so I thought.” “What a fool I was. I did not even know what that word meant back then. What a truly lucky man I am.” 

You would’ve liked to sappily argue that it was, in fact, you who was the lucky one. However, you knew the endless back-and-forth that would’ve followed if you did. 

So instead, you let both your body and heart bask in warmth from two separate suns—one worlds away, and one right beside you. You let the moment linger between you, content in the quiet truth that you didn’t need to say it aloud for him to know you felt the same.

To be continued...

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