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codesandstuffs · 11 months

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Mcyt Yuri Week - Day 2: Au

(link to ao3 version here, made for @mcyt-yuri-week 2023!!)

OFFICIAL COMPLAINT SUBMITTED AT: 07-08-2023 16:12 SUMBITTED BY: Z

I regret to inform you that the agent you have assigned as our department head is unsuitable for the job. She is tardy, impolite, disorganised and underqualified. It is my recommendation that she is returned to whichever previous role she had.

Since joining, she has requested a copy of each of our current mission directories as well as halting all operations until paperwork was signed and resigned multiple times. Apparently, this is something my colleagues have also experienced, indicated she has issues with organisation.

For several weeks, she has also become increasingly inconsistent either which meetings she will attend and how late she arrives to them. This makes it very difficult for the rest of the department. I find timekeeping to be an essential quality in this field - is this really something we can compromise on as someone in the position of a department lead?

Another issue I have observed is the lack of professionalism she shows in the workplace. Even from her first day here, she has addressed all of us with a casualness that is inappropriate in the field, and on some occasions made jokes in poor taste, on subjects such as firing us or reassigning missions on a whim. While I understand being friendly with your department - one of my colleagues has recently taken up regular pub visits with her, for example - there is a certain level of respect expected in the workplace.

If you are unsure yet of the validity of my concerns, I might suggest a review of her work and brief investigation into her performance so far.

I'm sure you understand that all of these complaints come from a place of concern rather than one of malice. I truly do only want the best for our agency. It simply seems that our new department lead does not.

(fic below cut!!)

"Are you fucking kidding me?" shouted a voice from the next room over, and Cleo groaned into their pasta. "What is she doing? She lost my file again?"

Yeah, her morning was going great. Thanks for asking.

Not that the groaning from next door was about her, obviously. They weren't the sort of person who would misplace important files, nor the sort of person who would allow people to yell things down the corridor about them in third person. No - this was about Pearl, their new department lead and new boss, and quite possibly the worst agent Cleo had ever had the displeasure of meeting.

And frankly, Cleo empathised with the person from the next room over. She, too, had been told many a time that Pearl had lost something or the other of hers.

But the topic of Pearl felt even more sore today, on account of Cleo losing her closest ally in her petition against their new boss.

Just last week, she and Gem had been discussing ways they could remove their boss from her position, and now Gem was hanging out with Pearl after work. When had those two even become friends? Cleo certainly hadn't seen it coming, and she literally lived with Gem.

Whatever. She had work to do. She had important operations to oversee. She had charges now, people to manage as they began their first few missions as agents and learnt how to apply all their training in the actual agency. That was important. Gem and Pearl being chummy was not.

Cleo huffed and ate another fork full of pasta, aggressively flicking the page over.

It was fine. Everything was fine.

A week later, Cleo finally received their very first punctual report from Pearl. This was something new - it was almost tradition already that Pearl would somehow manage to turn everything in at least a little late. Gem was sitting next to them when their fax began printing out the report and - as she was closer - picked it up to read the header.

"Oh, it's from Pearl!" she said, already smiling brightly. "She did say she was getting a new fax machine, look how crisp this font is!"

"That's my fax machine's good quality, not hers, thanks," Cleo muttered. She stopped typing and turned to Gem. "What's it about? Last week's approval? My mentee's been waiting for days for that one."

"It's the weekly report." Gem glanced through it, eyes widening. "The one due by the end of today."

"Wait- what?"

"It's on time," Gem said, almost in wonder.

Cleo stared at her, then snatched the paper so she could see for herself. Indeed, the report was actually perfectly on time. If anything, it was early.

"This has got to be a prank," they frowned, squinting up at their door to see if someone was about to jump through the door and shout 'surprise!' or something. "Do you think she got kidnapped? Are we dealing with an imposter?"

"I think she's just gotten better at it," said Gem, wearing that enthusiastic smile again. "I told her she should try to get things done on time, even if it's not entirely perfect."

"So now I have to worry about the reports being wrong as well?"

"Cleo!" Gem scolded. "Pearl is a lot better than you're giving her credit for. Just because she's not triple checking everything anymore doesn't mean it's not still going to be accurate!"

"And why was she triple checking everything, then, unless she was pretty sure she was doing something wrong?"

"She's just nervous. Give her time."

Cleo rolled her eyes. "Of course you’d say that, she’s your newest best friend.”

“My newest -?” Gem paused and cocked her head. “Are you jealous?”

“I am not jealous,” Cleo said firmly, but Gem was already grinning and shaking her head.

“I would never replace you, Cleo! We’re just hanging out - no best friends being replaced or anything of the sort, so don’t you worry.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Cleo deadpanned. “I just think she’s incompetent.”

Gem’s mouth fell open.

“Off the record, of course,” Cleo added as an afterthought, though they were pretty confident Gem wouldn’t be gossiping about this behind their back. For all her traitorous Pearl-befriending, she was a reliable friend. “I just don’t think she makes a good boss. If she needs time to improve, maybe she should do that before being given an important role.”

“Cleo,” Gem said gently, apparently having recovered from her shock for the most part. “It’s not - alright, I’m not supposed to tell anyone this, but…” She glanced behind her to check there was nobody in the doorway, before lowering her voice and continuing, “Pearl wasn’t in this agency at all until recently. She was working in a small team halfway across the world, with some of the same goals as us but none of our resources and organisation.”

“Alright. Sounds like yet another reason that she shouldn’t be given this job straight away.”

“No, no, let me explain better: she managed the whole team on her own. She’s got the skills to lead this department, she just has to get used to the structure of our agency, and we just have to give her that time.”

Then Gem paused. She checked the doorway again, before leaning a little closer and dropping her voice into a whisper.

“Our agency and her team were working together for a mission a few months ago, but it went wrong. Really, really wrong,” she emphasised. “Pearl is the only one left of her team. It’s been rough on her these past few months, but our agency wanted to give her a place to carry on her work, and -” Gem shrugged. “They think she can do the job. Even B does, actually - sent her own personal approval.”

Well then. That was… news. And maybe it did explain a little of Pearl’s behaviour, though it didn’t change Cleo’s mind all that much.

“I’m sorry that happened to her old team, but I still don’t think she makes a good head for our department,” she said. “There are people better prepared for the role.”

“She can do this, we just have to be patient,” Gem insisted.

“There isn’t space for being sentimental here.” Cleo turned back to her keyboard and tried to find her place on the document on the screen before her. “Sorry, Gem. I’ll try and be nice, I guess, but I’m not going to just wait for her to be good enough.”

Next to her, Gem sighed, but didn’t press the issue. The room was blessed with peaceful quiet, and Cleo found that it was a lot easier to work without the distraction of having to talk about Pearl.

When Cleo finally bumped into Pearl for the first time after hearing her background - her tragic backstory - from Gem, she was tempted to speak up and apologise about her team. It was only polite. Cleo may not have liked Pearl, but she wasn’t that heartless.

But then she remembered that she had only been told that story in confidence, and ended up fumbling her greeting entirely.

“Pearl! I heard - I mean, I think that - well,” they said, and then stared at Pearl expectantly, as if they were waiting for an answer.

Pearl blinked back at her in bewilderment. “Sorry?”

“Thanks for the weekly report,” Cleo tried instead. “It was on time and everything. So - thanks. For that. Good job, I guess, that one time.”

“Oh!” Pearl’s face broke out into a huge smile. “Thank you! I mean, you’re welcome - no, I mean - what do I mean?”

“I don’t know.” Cleo was not giving her any help.

“One thing is for sure,” Pearl pushed on anyway. “I’m going to work on getting more things done on time. I think I’m getting the hang of it already, actually! I’m going to be on time for my next meeting, it’s at nine but I left a few minutes early so I can -”

She stopped in horror, before glancing at her watch and gasping.

“Oh no, I’m going to be late, shoot! Sorry, Cleo, I - we can catch up later! Bye!”

And with that, in a whirlwind of coat and paper, Pearl was off down the corridor again, frantic as ever but somehow seeming far less malicious than she’d seemed to Cleo before.

Now, where did that change of heart come from?

#mcytyuriweek2023 #pearleo #trafficshipping #hermitshipping #codes does writing

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miss-edith-cushing · 5 months

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For the Good Omens ask game: 1, 9, 15, 24! :)

Aaaaaahhhhh, thank you so much for asking these questions!! Sorry for responding so late to them, I swear I enjoy them very much!

1. when did you first watch/discover good omens, and how did you find out about it?

I saw the trailer for it somewhere around November 2018 and thought 'Huh, this seems unique, and it has David Tennant in it, I might check that out'. And then I've forgotten about it completely. Then after the premiere of season 1 my dashboard was completely full of it, like, I can't remember how many people I've followed back then, but 90% of them were posting and reblogging posts about it. So I remembered that I wanted to watch it anyway, did it in the course of one week and the rest is history.

9. Have you seen any other work by david tennant and/or michael sheen?

Yes, yes, yes! I was aware of DT as a Tumblr's sexyman, but I first saw him in Jessica Jones, which I also watched because of the posts on my dash, and I became a little obsessed with him for a while. I've seen Casanova (if you guys haven't seen it, do it, it's so freaking good), You, Me and Him, Broadchurch, Bad Samaritan, Des and Inside Man. In my opinion he has a very uneven career when it comes to the quality of the projects he's involved in, which is surprising, but not uncommon (Peter O'Toole is the best example of it). But he always gives his 1000000% and I can't remember not enjoying seeing him performing.

I saw quite a few films with Michael Sheen and liked him before Good Omens, but never to the point of being a fan. I first saw him in The Queen or in Frost/Nixon, then in Midnight in Paris and Nocturnal Animals. Oh, and in the Twilight Saga obviously! Then after Good Omens I've watched Underworld, Wilde, Far From the Madding Crowd, and Prodigal Son. I'm planning to get back to watching Masters of Sex, he's so good in it. He's an acting chameleon and I don't that before Good Omens the fact that he's all those characters ever clicked in my head

Oh, and Staged! Obviously!

15. Do you have any good omens playlists?

I'm a dinosaur and I don't use Spotify or Youtube to listen to my music; there was one Good Omens related playlist that @racketghost created for @mochacoffee fic Call Me Your Angel (that was the name of the playlist too), but it's not on Spotify anymore. I've recreated it on my iPod, so I can't share it anymore, but I'll try to bully Racko to make it again.

24. what's a theory for season 3 that you NEED to be included?

My theory (which for me isn't even a theory, it's just so obvious I can't imagine it not being included in season 3) is that Metatron will try to erase Crowley from the Book of Life and that's what will make Aziraphale rebel against Heaven again; the same can happen to Aziraphale or to them both.

I would also LOVE to know what's up with Crowley not remembering some of the other angels and demons and why does he have passwords for Heaven's files (personally I would hate it if he turned out to be Raphael or was some another Heaven's VIP, I'm just curious about it).

EDIT: I just have stumbled upon gifs from Fright Night and yes, I've seen it too. How could I forget it? I have very good reasons to remember this film fondly, very, very good reasons.

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redwayfarers · 9 months

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so i mentioned a bridgerton AU for nika and artoirel and uh,,, it kinda broke my writer's block so i wrote a thing. self indulgent, as fics go. ignore the historical inaccuracies, glaring though they may be.

The gentlemen’s club is full. Of course, there was a good reason for that; as a frequenter of the clubs himself, Nika fully understands the appeal of such places, where you meet men of your rank, drink, gossip like you would in drawing rooms, but with less rigidity around it all. And this particular club, situated at the very periphery of the fashionable part of town, housed one of Nika’s favorite places to settle when he was in the mood for observation. The chairs are always awfully comfortable and the drink is of superb quality, and not to mention their black teas. Sometimes, after a performance at the court, he’d go here to listen to the impressions. All delightfully positive, which soothed Nika’s ego like little else.

Now, though, he has a mission of critical fucking importance. This club was the only place he could think of as he tried to run away from calls from a particularly adamant mother who wants musically inclined grandkids. So he tasked his own mother with fending her off, with a half strangled, ‘I do not wish to marry her fucking daughter’ and off he was, to the only place he knew he was more or less safe, to the only place where he could slump in the chair and nobody would bat an eye.

Who the fuck knew that fending off sharklike marriage connoisseurs would be so tiring?

Unfortunately for him, when he ran towards the table at the back with semi-appropriate haste, he found the seat had already been taken, by none other than the new Count de Fortemps. He’s equally taken a chance to tiredly slump, and is now drinking small sips of port. The delicate glass fits his long fingers, Nika thinks. The details on the glass is almost as pristine as the perfect roundness of his short nails; he crosses his legs, as if to showcase the brilliant shine of his black shoes and his long legs. The low lighting of a nearby lamp makes the sharpness of his face stand out, and in the warmth of it, his blue eyes gleam with relief of finally having a moment to himself.

Too bad Nika’s mean enough to disturb it. He deserves it, the handsome bastard. “That is my spot,” Nika says. Artoirel straightens immediately and squints.

“There is not your name written anywhere here, Lord Perseis.” Artoirel shakes his glass. He looks at Nika beneath dark eyelashes. “Therefore, I am permitted to sit here. Am I not a paying customer of this fine establishment?”

“You are, but you can be a paying customer on another seat. Your money’s going in the same pocket.” Nika crosses his arms. He will not allow anyone else, regardless of how pleasing to the eye they might be, to sit in his place.

“As is yours,” Artoirel quips and raises his chin. Nika stares him down. “Is there anything I can help you with, Lord Perseis?”

“You can move from– You know what, my lord? Nevermind. But I’m going to sit here–” Nika points at the chair opposite of the one Artoirel’s currently occupying, “and annoy you with my presence when you so very obviously wish to be alone.” He promptly throws himself on the seat. “You Ishgardians are another breed of person, I swear.”

He’s breaking a hundred social protocols, but he doesn’t care. He never did. Not now, when there’s a pretty bastard on his seat, and he has to wait for the offending matron to be successfully evicted from the manor premises. Artoirel’s steely gaze would make anyone uncomfortable, but not Nika. Oh no, not Nika.

“I concur,” Artoirel then adds, quietly. “Especially persistent mamas who would like to see their children married off.”

Nika blinks, but before he can react, the waiter comes over. “Brandy,” he orders, and turns his attention back to Artoirel. “They’re trying to marry you off too?”

“There is nobody to marry me off but myself, my lord. However, other people of rank seem to think they ought to be related to a Count.” He rubs his temples. “I, for one, am not willing to marry just yet. But alas.”

“Ah,” Nika takes a sip of his brandy. “People also seem to think they ought to be related to a musician.”

“And there is no stopping the tide,” Artoirel finishes, with the same misery as before. “‘Twould seem we share a struggle.”

“At the moment, no,” Nika throws his head back and sighs. He watches Artoirel - the dark pink of his lips, pressed in a thin line, the strands of black hair that fall around his face in a tamed wave, the high points of his cheekbones. I wouldn’t mind being seen with him, Nika thinks. This serious expression suits him. Although, he would probably look just as good if he smiled more.

No, I wouldn’t mind it at all.

Nika jerks upright. “We both have the same issue, my good count,” he starts. “And I may have a solution.”

“If you are suggesting we run to Coerthas and live in a small cabin, thus never seeing a soul ever again, which Lord Stephanivien has told me at some point, I shall promptly turn you down.”

Nika frowns. “No! What I meant to say was we pretend to be betrothed. That is the problem - people preying on our lack of current romantic lives, right? So we simply pretend we have them, with each other, we walk sometimes around the gardens and go to some operas and people leave us alone.”

“That.. is not a horrible plan,” Artoirel says after a thought. “And after a while, we break it off, once everyone else has understood that we are to be left alone.”

“Yes! Like that! We both win!” Nika grins. Finally! A solution that might work! No more annoying nobles, throwing their children at him! At long last, he’ll have peace, music and fame!

“If we are both in agreement,” Artoirel says with all the seriousness in the world, “when would you find it appropriate for me to ask your mother for your hand in marriage?”

Uh oh. I wouldn’t mind being seen with him.

Uh oh.

#nero plays ffxiv #inspo birb has come to town #bridgerton au #nika perseis #artoirel de fortemps #nika x artoirel #ffxiv #i am so sorry. i tried not to do full research for regency drinks and titles.#art was this close to being a duke and nika was this close to being an earl #but hey. this was fun to write! i missed writing fr #wolartoirel

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blooming-violets · 2 years

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This is the first time in my YEARS of being on this hellsite that i have ever requested a oneshot/fic/something from a writer. Idek if you’re taking requests, but I wanted to ask at least, is there anyway we could get more of mob!Peter and dancer!Reader?

That tiny snippet you gave is giving me life, and I need more (obviously only if you want to write more or see a story for them – just know that you have an audience here for that!)

🥰

I'm not actively writing right now BUT I do have some added headcanons. I also encourage anyone who reads this to write their own spin on it or add onto it if they want!

I'm thinking a Moulin Rouge style of story. A well loved burlesque dancer and courtesan of the wealthy club owner who mob!boss Peter takes a liking to.

He starts attending her performances every night. Whenever she's on stage, no matter what else is going on, she's all he can see. His entire world fades away until it's just him and her. He starts believing that she's singing and dancing only for him. When she's on stage, it makes him feel like they are the only two in the room. Think of that scene from Tick Tick Boom when he's watching Susan perform and the camera slowly pans in on him and blackens out everyone around him and he's so focused on Susan and then starts clapping before anyone else can even react. That's Peter every night watching our dancer lady.

He starts sending beautiful bouquets of flowers backstage every night and leaving anonymous love notes attached to them. He only signs it with -P because he's trying to keep a low profile. If his enemies knew he was attending the same place every night like clockwork then he would become an easy target.

Peter starts sending out his men to take intel on this woman. That's when he finds out she's living with the club owner. He's using her for sex and, sometimes, prostitution in return for living a wealthy lifestyle and a spot as the main performer in his show. She can get an ounce of fame and money as long as he get to parade her around however he wishes. This, of course, does not sit with right Peter. He can pretend it's because of his morals on how to treat woman but, really, it's because he feels a connection to her so he has a possessive nature towards her. The idea of her sleeping with other men who are not him just doesn't fly.

So he starts his infiltration plan. Being a wealthy mob boss, it's not an unusual thing to try and make deals with the surrounding, shady business men. That includes our creepy, little club owner. Peter decides to offer a proposal. He would start funding the performances for a chance to spend "quality" time with the star dancer. The club owner takes this as Peter wanting in on the sex work side business he has going on. He doesn't really like the idea of losing his favorite lady to another wealthy man but money talks.

Basically Peter ends up buying this woman off his hands. Now we're into human trafficking apparently?? Idk where this plot is going but I started on a train with an unknown destination and I'm just riding it until I see where we end up.

Once he has dancer in his possession, I would cut to some scenes of them getting to know each other and Peter wooing her and being a gentlemen and treating her with such respect and much love. And she's like wow he's handsome and rich AND doesn't expect me to fuck him in exchange for getting to dance. SHE JUST WANTS TO DANCE, BABY! SHE JUST WANTS TO BE A STAR. And Peter just wants to look at her with hearts in his eyes for the rest of time.

Peter decided he's going to keep her forever and ever. BUT conflict arises when club owner wants her back. His sales are starting to plummet when he realizes that she was the real star of the show. Without her, his show is not bringing in the same audience it used to. He wants her back. Peter refuses.

Not good.

Club owner kidnaps dancer one fateful night. He knows Peter won't give her up willingly and if he can't have her then no one will. A terrible hostage situation occurs in the empty dark theater. He's standing up on stage with a gun to our lady's side while Peter attempts to talk him down from the aisle. He moves slowly closer and closer, his hands held up, speaking slowly and deliberately. One wrong move and that asshole could take away his lover forever.

But, then, surprise! A sniper bullet from the balcony section from one of Peter's gang hits club owner perfectly between the eyes. He collapses to the ground. Blood sprays over our dancer's face. She lets out a scream and falls to her knees.

For a moment, we think everything is over. We think the bad guy is finished and Peter gets his woman.

BUT YOU'RE WRONG

Because as Peter approaches her, he quickly realizes that it's not all the club owner's blood on her. Her own blood is seeping through her dress and soaking over her stomach. When he was shot, he pulled the trigger and the bullet went into her side.

Peter runs to the stage and collects her into his arms. She looks up at him, tears in her eyes, and places a bloody hand on his cheek with a soft smile as her eyes close.

.......You decide the ending! Does she die? Is Peter able to get her to the hospital in time? Does she recover or is her permanently damaged, never able to dance again? Or does she make that full recovery and Peter buys out the club and she's able to spend the rest of her life dancing every night like she always wanted? Or is this the last he will ever see of his beautiful dancer?

Idk! You pick!

Either way, at some point in the story, there's a pool scene where dancer pushes him into his heated rooftop pool overlooking the NYC skyline. And he laughs and reaches out his hand for her to help him out but the second he has a hold on her, he pulls her into the pool, beautiful gown and all, next to him. And they kiss for the first time under the night sky with the soft, dancing glow of the pool lights illuminating them.

#asks #tasm peter #tasm #tasm x reader #peter parker

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princesswithabraidedcrown · 2 years

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I posted 4,343 times in 2022

48 posts created (1%)

4,295 posts reblogged (99%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@dimondlite

@biconic-rosa-diaz

@softcannoli

@lynati

@vyther15

I tagged 330 of my posts in 2022

#for future reference - 17 posts

#the blogger rambles - 16 posts

#the blogger watches - 15 posts

#kinnporsche - 14 posts

#about the blogger - 9 posts

#kinnporsche the series - 8 posts

#the untamed - 6 posts

#anyway - 6 posts

#jeff satur - 5 posts

#wow - 4 posts

Longest Tag: 133 characters

#anyway my mom’s thing makes me twitchy because i mostly just try to remember to eat enough in a day and don’t fuss about the contents

My Top Posts in 2022:

The streaming session of the KinnPorsche world tour I was participating in kinda fell off the rails during the English version of Why Don’t You Stay, which was very sad. Hopefully it turns out okay for the rest of it tomorrow.

My thoughts in no particular order:

Dang, Slot Machine is awesome and I should go look them up. (We amazed a random discord member who randomly wandered into the stream about Mile having previously been just a filthy wealthy dude that played the guitar)

Oh my goodness, Jeff!!! Said multiple times, by multiple people.

The VegasPete scene was chef’s kiss. Gonna wax dance show critic here but Bible has some amazing physicality and charisma. Like I’m pretty darn ace and I still can tell that he’s hot and does amazing work as Vegas. I’m in the middle of episode 10, so I haven’t fallen headlong for Pete/Build yet…but it’ll probably happen.

So highly amused that Barcode made up for the clothing deficit amongst everyone else singlehandedly. Pretty sure I missed the main brouhaha about the song he performed to, but nobody mentioned it was a cover of a Blackpink song! I love Blackpink!!!

The chat punched the air when Tay slapped Time. It’s possible to do polyamory ethically. Whatever Time’s deal is…isn’t it. On a sidenote: more Tay centric fics please.

I was highly amused that the mom got a sarong for her little thing with Chay/Barcode. The subtitles were on a horrendous delay, so I don’t actually know what all went on, but it’s cute that she was momming him.

As for the KimChay…I don’t quite see how that ending was horrible? Slightly more open ended than it could have been. But the flipside of forgetting the bad times is remembering the good ones. Obviously there were some good times or else Chay would not have been devastated by Kim’s betrayal. And…then there were technical difficulties and we had to stop the stream in the middle of Jeff’s performance. So that was lame. But Jeff did a good job before technology decided to pitch a hissy fit.

I concur with the person that said they hoped Jeff had gotten cleared to sing by a doctor. I’ve only listened to a few of his live performances and I could tell his range was a little rough. Don’t let them force you back into singing before your vocal cords have healed!!! That’d be awful if you permanently damaged them.

Anyway. Looking forward to the final half and all the Magic Mike bits.

14 notes - Posted July 31, 2022

I’d like to give Jackson Wang and whoever else is on his creative team congrats for having an excellent track record on music videos. I just watched the one for Cruel and my gosh that was neat. I like the through line of vapory lifeforce from Blow. That was cool.

My writing fingers might be slightly inspired…so who knows what’ll come.

17 notes - Posted August 5, 2022

Finished the second half of KPWT!!!! Once again in no particular order.

Would it have killed them to fix the subtitles before releasing the rerun tickets??? Like seriously, I thought youtube subs could be iffy, but these were…special. They could have held off on letting people do the rerun viewings long enough for them to fix the timing and the quality. Yeah, live subtitling is super labor intensive…but afterwards…you get to pause and rewind to make sure you’ve got it correctly.

Anyway. The Minor family thing was entertaining. I would probably strain something in my back if I had to do flips in the air. It’d be fun…but yeah…I’m not nearly as athletic as Bible.

Build playing the saxophone amused me to no end.

I’m excited for the MileApo flick and hopefully they plunk it on iqiyi or something so I can support BOC with my watching.

I’m very impressed at how many parents were there…because if mine were at such an event…I’d change my name and move to the Southern hemisphere.

I must give JJ’s arms and shoulders an honorable mention because he has obviously worked hard on them. I certainly would not want to get tackled by him.

I snickered when I saw how tall the heels on Jeff’s boots were during the final…clubbing moment…or whatever we are calling it. Finale of some sort. Anyway…Jeff is tiny and Barcode is definitely taller than him and I am delighted. I say this as if Jeff isn’t possibly taller than me by a couple inches. Crap. I’m gonna have to look that up. Anyway, Jeff is all the gender in a pint sized package. Except for where he’s still probably above average height.

Ahem. Lovely experience, would watch again if they fixed the subtitles.

22 notes - Posted August 1, 2022

Oh dear lord, if the infantilization of Apo that’s going on on twitter by some people also has a side of ableism…I will riot.

I haven’t exactly watched a lot of interviews with him but the ones I have watched screamed possible adhd. He could just be very energetic. But if he does have adhd…infantilizing the grown man is doubly aggravating.

Anyway, glad I don’t go searching for stuff on twitter.

24 notes - Posted August 23, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

I wish I remembered who wrote the fic with Kinn comparing his accent in English to Vegas’ and lamenting the fact that nobody was gonna send a second son to an international school and that’s why there’s a difference. Because it lives in my brain rent free and I wish I’d made a note of the fic.

26 notes - Posted July 25, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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terrm9 · 4 years

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Father’s Day

Ethan makes sure to celebrate the Father’s Day with his daughter. (Ethan X Chiara X Matilda)

Words count: 4 000

Warnings: two swear words, fluff

Author’s note: I don’t know what happened here guys. I am so sorry, this fic lacks plot and point, depth, quality, this truly is one fluffy piece of shit. I had a good feeling about it when the idea appeared in my brain and then I started to write and nothing seemed right. And I just kept telling myself ‘just keep writing and it will start making sense. It will get better’... and suddenly the fic is finished and it still doesn’t make sense. I was so close to not posting it, but then I thought that sometimes mindless fluff can make my mood better and so maybe it can do some good to you too. Love you all and I promise I won’t be angry or hurt if you hate this:D

Also Ethan is ~47 in this fic, if you thought I wouldn't mention his graying hair, I am sorry but I did

Also also, I didn't find the strength needed for a proof reading this and so I didn't proof read it. If you see a mistake, please pretend you don't see it

The sun was long set at the time Ethan stepped into the apartment and even though he rationally knew that it was late, he couldn’t quite give up on his hope that maybe Matilda was still up. On the days like this, when more patients came in than out of the hospital and there was so much of a paperwork that he has to bring it home with him, there is nothing Ethan loved more than to put his daughter to sleep and then spend a nice quiet evening with Chiara.

But of course, Matilda was fast asleep – judging by the silence filling the whole apartment – and so Ethan was looking forward to skipping to the part of sharing an evening with his wife.

Chiara didn’t notice him as he stepped into the living room, her nose slightly crinkled as she was filling some papers spread on the dining table, white earpods in her ears.

Looks like I am not the only one to bring work home with me today.

Ethan stopped in his tracks for a moment, just inhaling the familiar scent of Chiara and home and absorbing the picture in front of him. Even after alsmot ten years since he met her for the first time, even though she was his wife now, someone he woke up next to every morning, Chiara still – always – managed to knock the air out of his lungs. How her smile only gained more brightness through the years and how she looked almost like a girl with her hair braided on one side.

Had he been an artist, he would call her his muse.

But he was just a man, a doctor with any artistic words stuck in his throat and so he just kept staring at Chiara and thought, inspiration, that’s what she was, because even the most rational of men could get inspired.

„I can feel you standing there,“ Chiara exclaimed suddenly, putting the earpods off and turning to him with that bright smile.

„My apologies,“ he smiled faintly and crossed the distance between them to give her, what Chiara called ‚a proper greeting‘. He kissed her softly and it only took the feeling of Chiara’s warm body under his hands to ease the tension in him almost completely.

„Matilda missed you tonight,“ Chiara murmured into his chest, not willing to break their embrance.

„As I missed her,“ Ethan sighed. „Did you have an eventful afternoon?“

Chiara chuckled at that, parting from him at last to switch her phone off and leave the work on the dining table.

„Just the usual. The teacher asked them to draw themselves in the future and she couldn’t decide which version of that future she should draw because she wants to be everything.“

Ethan could imagine the conversation very well. Matilda, at the age of five, knew exactly what she didn't want to become when she grows up - a doctor. She kept shifting between wishing to be a travel blogger like her aunt Kyra or a photographer like aunt Alicia. After a weekend spent in Providence, she proclaimed that she could also imagine being a cable repairwoman like grandpa, because grandpa has the coolest coworkers that came over and let her eat chocolate cookies and watch football with them. And if by any unfortunate coincidence she should become a doctor after all, she would definitely be a surgeon like uncle Bryce, because he actually cuts people and that's much more interesting than her parents' job. All they do is talk about the patients.

„I promised her you would take her to school tomorrow. You have rounds in the morning but I can taker over,“ which would only be a service for you, she thought to herself. „That would certainly make her feel better.“

„Was she that sad that I didn’t come home earlier?“

"Oh, she was more sad about the Father's Day program at her school – you know, the one where kids and their dads go together - but I explained her why you had to miss it."

Ethan furrowed his brows, confused for a while.

"Why do I have to miss it?" he asked as he picked Matilda's stuffed llama from the floor.

"It's the Wednesday when you are at the conference in Seattle."

Ethan put the toy on the couch next to Til's favourite blanket and sat down before responding, his voice carrying no sign of hesitation.

"If there's a Father's Day program at her school and she wants me to be there, I'll be there."

Ethan knew all too well why he was so persistent on being there.

He wished he didn’t know, but he did.

Because he knew what it felt like to spend so many of his Mother’s Days programms with his teeth gritted, wishing it could all just end.

He could still remember the first Mother’s Day without Luise, how his teacher walked into the class and told them that they would create nice postcards for their moms and how Ethan’s classmate pointed his finger at him and said: „And what is Ramsey going to do? It’s not fair that he doesn’t need to do anything for the whole hour.“

It was the first time Ethan punched someone.

There was no way, no way, that he would allow his daughter to feel any of those feelings.

His thoughts were interrupted by Chiara, now sitting right next to him, a soft concern visible on her features.

„Alan and Naveen would go with her, you know. She wouldn’t be alone.“

„I am her father.“

„And you are also an author of the study this whole conference is going to be about.“

Ethan knew Chiara was right, just as he knew that she was doing this not because she didn’t want him to attend the programm, rather because she respected and supported his career.

But her arguments were of no use. Ethan’s mind was made up and he only wondered if this is what it felt like, all those years ago, when he pushed Chiara away in order to support her career. The idea of putting career first was making him uncomfortable and all he could do was to think, how did Chiara see it all those years ago?

Or rather, how did he not see it back then?

He had no answers, only his gratitude that she stayed and showed him the world through her eyes.

„Aurora is just as much of an author as me. She can handle the conference without me just fine. You can go with her.“

„Me?“ Chiara asked incredulously.

„Sure. They don’t really care which Dr. Ramsey will come.“

Ethan aged well. More wrinkles circled the corners of his eyes and the grey hair on his temples were not an optical illusion anymore (and Chiara has never found him more handsome than now) and his gaze changed too, the cold blue of his eyes almost forgotten, as his eyes were warm and soft almost all the time he was with his family.

Ethan aged and changed and yet there was a thing that didn’t change in the slightest in these last years. His insufferable stubborness.

And so Chiara knew that he won’t change his mind and that there was no point in trying to and while it warmed her heart to see how in love with Matilda Ethan was, the study was important to him.

Obviously not important enough, however, and Chiara decided not to push him any further. Instead, she asked curiously.

„And what are you going to perform? What if Matilda wants to do something crazy?" Chiara raised an eyebrow.

"Of course she won't want anything crazy. What if it were my father and Naveen taking her?"

Chiara laughed wholeheartedly at his question, because for someone so brilliant, sometimes Ethan was desperately clueless when it came to people around him - and what they were willing to do for their daughter.

"Please, this is Naveen and Alan you are talking about. Matilda could say she wants to sing Hakuna Matata and they would come dressed as Timon and Pumba."

"Ah," Ethan exhaled, obviously only now realizing that Chiara was, indeed, right. And singing - or dancing, for God's sake - was not part of his plan. "Well, she can play some basic compound on the piano, she has learned some already. And I could accompany her on the cello."

Chiara choked on the water she was just drinking, turning to look at Ethan so swiftly, his brows furrowed in a concern for her neck.

"On a what now?"

“A cello. I thought you knew that I used to play the cello as a kid.”

“Of course, but the as a kid part is important. I mean, I played a piano as a kid and now I couldn’t play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star if my life depended on it.”

Ethan laughed, wrapping his arm around Chiara in a half-hug and had to bite his tongue not to tell her that maybe Matilda could teach her, as she already could play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star exceptionally well.

“I might have stopped playing actively when I was ten, but I found a certain sense of serenity in music – and playing – for a long time after that. I-,” Ethan stopped himself, mulling over his next words. It was not like he didn’t want to tell Chiara anything, but talking about his years at med school was not something he did often. “I befriended a music shop’s owner back in Baltimore. He was a nice guy, barely older than me and so very different. He had musical instruments for sale there and as we became closer, he let me borrow the cello and play a little in the back of the shop. It became a thing that helped me clear my head when school became too stressful and it also helped me not to forget how to play. I think Matilda’s level on the piano is very close to what I can remember with the cello.”

Now all he had to do was to find someone who would borrow him the cello.

*** *** ***

Ethan always found it amusing, how his mornings with Matilda differed compared to Matilda’s mornings with Chiara.

He made sure to wake her up earlier than usual, so that they could cook breakfast together and have some time to spare.

Chiara – the person that hated mornings more than eggplants – did all she could to stay in bed for as long as possible. She would rather prepare Matilda’s breakfast in the evening and run to the school than wake up before 6 AM.

And it seemed like Matilda realized this difference quite soon, for all the times Ethan came to wake her up, she knew she could ask him to join her in bed for a few minutes.

"Hey, little Rookie," Ethan whispered, softly stroking Matilda's curls out of her forehead so that he could press a gentle kiss on it. "Time to wake up. We don't want to be late for school."

The little Rookie nickname was first used when Til was perhaps one year old and it made her giggle so hard Ethan kept using it. Chiara found it extremely funny, always pointing out that Matilda was nothing if not Ethan’s exact copy – and she was right. With her big blue eyes and long curly dark hair, there was no doubt that she was Ethan’s daughter. Not that the similarities ended in her physical appearence – she was phenomenally subborn for a five year old (to which Ethan always argued that she could as well inherit that from Chiara) and sarcasm was her second language. She also might have used ‚fuck‘ once or twice and Ethan knew it’s not Chiara she heard that from.

You should call her little Terminator, Chiara always teased and partly, she was right.

But there were many traits and marks of Chiara in their daughter, marks not so visible but unmistakely hers. How Matilda’s smile was always bright and warm and sincere, something only Chiara could pass on. How she came home one day from school and asked Ethan if he could make cupcakes with her, because her classmate loves cupcakes but his parents are too busy to make them for him and so she would love to bring him some to school. How she appreciated the most common of things, like sun shining because it makes her skin warm and also rain falling because she can jump in the puddles. Her genuine curiosity and open heart and just her general need to make people around her feel good.

That was all Chiara’s mark and Ethan loved his two girls so much it sometimes still surprised him. That he was capable of such love.

It also made him want more sometimes. More people to love that much.

„Snuggle time, please?“ Matilda smiled, her eyes still closed and Ethan was prepared, he knew this request would come and so he didn’t even need to check the watch to know that he could lay down next to her, the tiny bed making his position rather awkward.

He snuggled Matilda from behind and between her slow stirs as she began to wake up and his soft kisses put on the back of her head, he whispered how excited he was to attend the Father’s Day program with her.

*** *** ***

Ethan didn’t even need to try hard to persuade Matilda that a piano-cello duet would be better to perform than a dance. She liked the idea from the beginning and after going through her music sheets with Chiara, she happily exclaimed that they could try to learn Hedwig’s Theme together. Her eyes were bright and full of excitement and Ethan knew the decision was already made, because he couldn’t resist that face.

And so they performed and for a girl who was five and her father, who was almost fifty, they did a great job. Seeing Matilda’s pure, unadultered joy and excitement and so much gratitude that her dad could be there with here, was something Ethan would consider one of the best moments of his life forever.

Tillie was almost jumping up and down with the happiness as they watched her classmates and their fathers or grandfathers or mothers in some cases or maybe even uncles perform their numbers. She was clapping hard after every single one and she kept waving at everyone, her smile so wide Ethan thought for a while that she resembled Bryce more than anyone. The thought made him chuckle, because Matilda would love to hear that, as Bryce was her hero and possibly the best person she could spend her sleepovers at.

Ethan could hardly say that he enjoyed being surrounded by so many people, but he sincerely did enjoy spending the day with his kid. He didn’t regret choosing making a fool out of himself in front of bunch of kids instead of the conference. He almost forgot about the conference altogether until Aurora’s call interrupted the bustle full of laughter around them.

She only called him to let him know that all went well and she was off to have a lunch with other diagnosticians that helped with the study.

"Yes, alright. I'll see you on Monday. Good job, Aurora," Ethan put the phone back into his pocket and turned to Matilda.

"I am sorry you missed the conference because of me, dad."

Ethan knelt down so that he could face his daughter, the very same blue eyes he knew from mirrors, looking back at him, wide and curious.

He smiled softly, kissing Matilda's forehead before responding.

"I am not. No conference is that important, and just between the two of us," Ethan lowered his voice and put his best serious face on, causing the mischievous sparks ignite in Tillie's eyes "Conferences are so boring. You saved me from a torture."

She giggled and threw her arms around Ethan's neck, squeezing him as hard as a five years old could.

"Now let's go, I think there's an ice cream that needs to be eaten."

"But daddy you said ice creams are sugar bomb!"

Ethan chuckled at her shocked expression - not sure is it was a genuine one or an act - and took her little hand into his.

"I'll pretend I don't see you eating it."

Matilda squealed and before her ‚no sugar in this house‘ dad could change his mind, she stormed off in the direction of the ice cream truck.

Before she could reach her destination, however, she stopped in her tracks and tugged on Ethan’s sleeve, pointing at the little girl sitting under one of the trees – alone.

„That’s Dorothy! She is my best friend.“

Yes, Ethan remembered Matilda mentioning Dorsey, her best friend, quite often, but he never got a chance to meet her before. The girl was tiny, much smaller than Matilda – which inherited Ethan’s significant height, too – her hair almost white and her eyes similar to Matilda’s, big and blue but not even close to being as bright.

„She doesn’t have a dad,“ Matilda added, her voice much less excited now. „She didn’t want to come here but her mom has to be at work.“

Ethan’s heart tightened at her words, the description of Dorothy’s situation reminding him of his own when he was a kid way too much.

„Why don’t you go and ask her to join us for an ice cream?“ Ethan smiled at Matilda faintly.

Before he could as much as blink, Matilda was gone and in the very next moment, both girls were back, smiling up at him, his own kid widely and Dorothy very shyly.

„Hello, Dorothy,“ Ethan knelt down and smiled at her encouragingly. „I am Ethan. It is my pleasure to meet you, Matilda talks about you a lot.“

„Hello,“ Dorothy muttered, not meeting his eyes and Ethan noticed she was holding Matilda’s hand.

Without any other word, he stood up and led both girls to find an ice cream truck, only half-listening to what they were talking about – enough to recognize that Dorothy was much more open when talking to Matilda, but not enough to register particular words.

Maybe that’s why Matilda’s next question took him off the guard.

„Right, daddy? I was just telling Dorsey that you could be her dad, right? And I would be her sister!“

Ethan’s eyes widened and before he could find the right words – gentle but also firm enough to explain that that’s not exactly how these things work, Matilda spoke again.

„She could come over anytime and we could have sleepovers like the ones I have with uncle Bryce or grandpa and we would play together and I could borrow her my toys, right?“

Ethan nodded and smiled, of course Dorothy is always welcome to stay at our place, and let the topic go, because there was nothing wrong about his daughter having best friend that would come over.

Thirty minutes later, all three of them sat at the grass and ate their ice creams and it was easy to forget the previous converstaions.

*** *** ***

Until he came into his office, a week after the Father’s Day and found Chiara waiting for him, her arms crossed at her chest and her expression unusually stoic.

Before he could ask what was wrong, Chiara spoke.

„Matilda’s teacher just called.“

„What?“ Ethan stepped closer, automatically reaching into his pocket to make sure his phone, wallet and car keys are there and he is ready to leave and pick up Matilda at any moment. „Is something wrong? Is she in trouble? Sick?“

„She is absolutely alright,“ Chiara shook her head sligthly, her face unreadable – something that scared Ethan more than her visible anger. „She just called me to let me know about the rumors going around Matilda’s class these past few days. She thought it would be better if I found out from her rather than from other parents.“

„Rumors?“ Ethan asked, utterly lost and confused.

It took all the willpower Chiara had not to let her facade slip and keep her expression neutral. But teasing Ethan was one of her main hobbies, even after ten years, and so she tried her best.

„Apparently, Matilda and Dorothy Wilkins told everyone that they are in fact sisters. They have different mommies but the same dad – no other than the famous Dr. Ramsey,“ now, it was really hard not to laugh. Ethan’s whole face paled and the confusion was quickly replaced by recognition. „The other kids shared the news with their parents and now those parents talk.“

Ethan didn’t know that Matilda told Chiara about her idea of Ethan becoming Dorothy’s dad the very same evening she shared it with Ethan himself and even though Chiara tried to explain why that idea is not going to work the way the wished it would, Matilda was stubborn. Meaning, Matilda adopted Dorothy as her sister anyway and didn’t mind sharing her dad with her.

„Fuck,“ Ethan whispered, pacing around the office, not really looking up at Chiara.

If he did, he would catch her grinning.

She cleared her throat quickly and added: „Some of the parents came to tell the poor teacher that they appreciate how civil the mothers of Matilda and Dorothy are about the whole thing and that it must’ve taken much strength of our spirits to put out kids into same school.“

She couldn’t anymore. The first chuckle escaped her and when Ethan’s eyes met hers, the mischievous sparks were dancing on full display in her irises, her smile wide and so amused.

Ethan exhaled a sigh full of relief and rolled his eyes and when he looked at Chiara again, she was laughing softly, badly trying to cover her laugh with the hand over her mouth.

The bizarreness of the whole situation and his wife’s reaction made Ethan laugh too and he slumped down on the couch, pulling Chiara with him.

„We should give some kind of explanation, right?“ he whispered when they both calmed down.

„Oh, I don’t know. I am the civil one,“ Chiara smirked smugly. „And with a strong spirit!“

Ethan laughed again at that, thinking about how any kind of rumors about him and Chiara startled him in the beginning of their relationship and how over the years, Chiara managed to teach him to just let people talk.

„She really wants that sibling, huh?“ Chiara broke the silence, poking his side softly.

„Yes, she does,“ Ethan nodded.

„And you would...want that too, right?“ Chiara asked again, this time much more seriousness in her voice.

Both Chiara and Ethan were decided to adopt a child back in the days they believed they would never have their own. After Matilda was born, they didn’t really talk about it anymore – they felt too blessed, too lucky that they’ve gotten her and they were happy.

But the thoughts of adoption never truly left their heads and Chiara knew that especially Ethan considered the option often. She could see him talking to Matilda when she asked for a sister or a brother for her birthday, she saw the dreamy smile as they spoke about little kids.

And it was not like she was against the idea of adopting a child – quite the opposite. She grew up with two siblings and her brother and sister were one of the best parts of her childhood. She wished she could give Matilda the same feeling, the same love she recieved at her age. She just felt like she would be asking for too much, like it would be selfish to want another little human that would make them happy, when they already had one.

Those thoughts were not rational, but they were there and they slowed her decisions down.

„Yes, I would,“ Ethan nodded after a long while, looking straight into Chiara’s eyes.

He would never push her. But he wouldn’t lie either.

Chiara nodded and leaned in to press a soft kiss on Ethan’s mouth, pouring her emotions into it, her excitement with the idea just as strong as her anxiety.

Deep down, she knew that the decision has just been made. That no matter how openly they talked about it or expressed themselves, all three Ramseys wished to share their love and happiness with another soul.

#open heart #open heart choices #open heart fanfiction #ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc #ethan x matilda

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panharmonium · 4 years

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@captain-jaybird @solo-by-choice - i love you guys XD

So, the fic in question was originally a collection of ten location-based vignettes following the development of Obi-Wan and Padme’s friendship from AotC to RotS. I wrote it seven years ago and only ever showed it to my sister and @dyingsighs, so unless I fall hard back into Star Wars at some point, I probably won’t ever post it in its entirety, because I don’t think I have quite enough energy to do the kind of rewriting it would need in order for me to feel like it meets my current standards. HOWEVER - given your replies, I pulled the only two vignettes from it that I do actually still like, because I know it has been literal years since I made any Star Wars-related work for you, and I feel like this is the least I can do to thank you for your many years of fandom friendship! 😊

@all my old Star Wars peeps: Ancient fic snippets under the cut! Consider this an affectionate “hello there” from me - I hope you guys are all doing well out there! <3

-naboo-

Anakin is insistent.

“Come on, Padmé,” he cajoles her. “Just a little walk. I get to be here without breaking any rules for once and you want to just sit inside?” He flings open the embassy’s balcony doors and gestures out over the city. “Look at this day!”

Sunny skies or not, Padmé can’t quite wrench her gaze away from the festival itinerary in her hands. However many times she’s been over it, she can’t help but feel they must have missed some small detail, and in a situation as precarious as this one, the slightest slip could be deadly. “I can’t, Anakin.”

Anakin’s carefree expression starts its rapid but familiar descent into a scowl. “Why not? No one’s going to bust a Senator for showing one of her Jedi guests around. We can just walk the perimeter of the Festival platform – ”

“Anakin – ”

“You can pretend to show me the security arrangements or something – ”

“Anakin! You’re supposed to be here to prevent an assassination attempt on the Chancellor. This isn’t a social call.”

Anakin lets out his breath in a huge gust, waving a hand dismissively. “That? We’ve got that under control, Padmé. Don’t even worry about it.”

“I am worried about it.” Anakin opens his mouth as if to make another placating remark, but Padmé cuts him off. “This is serious. I can’t leave the embassy right now. I’m not going out for a stroll. I’m not doing anything until the Festival is over and done with tonight.” When Anakin’s scowl does not subside, she sighs and makes a passing attempt at smoothing things over. “I’m sorry, but the Festival of Light is enough of a headache without adding assassination threats into the mix. I’m just a little tense right now.”

Anakin comes extraordinarily close to signing his own death warrant by rolling his eyes at her, but he stops just short of an irrevocable mistake. “Yeah, you and everyone else,” he says instead, a very particular brand of irritation edging into his voice. “But whatever. Go ahead and read that thing again. I’ll just come back when everyone’s got their bad feelings under control.” He sweeps out of the room with the type of stormy bluster only he can manage.

Wrestling down a surge of irritation of her own, Padmé tosses the itinerary onto the desk. Anakin, for all his moodiness, is partially right – she has the elegant program memorized back to front, and poring over it further is only going to make her feel worse. And, come to think of it, there are a few other security measures she needs to double check with the rest of the Jedi task force.

Pushing back her chair, she sets off in search of Anakin’s derisively referenced “everyone else.”

Most of the embassy’s guests, including the recently arrived contingent of Jedi knights, appear to have vacated the premises – emulating Anakin’s shining example and enjoying the day, perhaps, or, in the case of the Jedi, probably walking the security perimeter in preparation for tonight’s festivities. After making inquiries, Padme finds a staff member who directs her to the rear of the ornately decorated building, where she discovers Everyone Else in the courtyard, boots and cloak discarded against the wall, dappled sun playing over his inner tunics.

She hesitates on the steps. It’s bad form to interrupt a Jedi in meditation, not that she has much opportunity to commit such faux pas. Anakin rarely meditates, resorting to the ancient art only when he has failed in his attempts to outrace or outright beat his troubled thoughts into submission.

But this doesn’t seem like meditation, exactly, not the kind she recognizes. Obi-Wan is performing what looks like some kind of kata with a ritual slowness, pivoting and stretching with unhurried grace, flowing smoothly out of one stance and into the next, like liquid filling a clear vessel. He holds himself suspended for an interminable count between each position, bare feet rooted on the sun-warmed flagstones, the only thing moving around him dust motes drifting through heavy beams of sunlight.

She doesn’t really mean to stay and watch, but there’s an almost hypnotic quality to the rhythmic motion – exertion of the body, sun and warmth and muscle and bone intertwined with stillness of the mind, an empty calm space, peace in the eye of the storm.

He sinks into a low stance with his back to her, head bowed, upward-facing hands loosely fisted, elbows bent and tucked in at his sides. Then, after a long, still stretch of time, the calm murmur of his voice, rippling with something like amusement. “Good morning.”

She blinks. “Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“That’s quite all right.” He seems to come back from some far place, and straightens, turning to address her. Holding her gaze for a moment, searchingly, he draws some private conclusion. “You are disturbed.”

She presses her lips together by way of response, grudgingly impressed yet cursing Jedi perception to the lowest pit of Chaos. “It’s not important,” she says. “Just the festival.” She changes the subject. “What’s that you were doing?”

Obi-Wan paces over to the courtyard wall to retrieve his footwear. “One of the alchaka forms,” he says, pulling on the soft nerfhide boots. At her blank look, he adds, “It’s...a type of moving meditation. One of the oldest known to the Order.”

“It looks relaxing,” Padmé says. Would that she could expunge her own anxieties with such artfulness.

He shrugs slightly. “In theory.” He bends down and scoops up his cloak with an easy physicality. “The intended goal is to clear one’s mind. To...release troubled thoughts.”

Something about the crease in his brow seems to belie this statement. Thinking back, she remembers suddenly what Anakin had said earlier, and, surprised, frowns. “Are you worried about the festival tonight? About the assassination attempt?”

He blinks at her for a moment, as if she had only just reminded him about the possible catastrophe. “No. No, I don’t think so. Even if the intelligence we’ve gathered is accurate, I doubt the Separatist forces will be able to achieve much when they must first go through six Jedi. And Naboo’s finest,” he adds, glancing up at the overhead balconies, where far-away security personnel stand sentinel, their uniforms smears of dark red across the golden walls.

“But you are worried about something.”

A beat. Then, “No. Merely practicing good habits.”

She laughs humorlessly and sinks down onto the steps. “Tonight could be a disaster.”

Obi-Wan thinks for a moment before responding. “If so,” he reminds her carefully, “it is one which all your worries will be completely unable to prevent.”

“I know. But when it’s my people concerned...and the Chancellor, obviously...” She ticks things off on her fingers. “Public support for Queen Neeyutnee...the well-being of the Republic...”

“Fate of the galaxy.”

“Little things.”

They exchange almost shy grins, private smiles. Padmé feels one tiny knot of tension uncoil inside her, and she breathes out an exasperated sigh, ineffectually commanding the rest of her anxieties to untangle and be gone. “I need some of that alcha-whatsit business, clearly,” she says ruefully. “I’m a mess.”

Obi-Wan takes a step back and looks her up and down. “I agree,” he says.

Excuse me? Padmé suppresses a surge of indignation.

“You will forgive me for saying so, but a senator is no good to her people preoccupied. She must keep a cool head about her at all times.”

“I beg your pardon –

“Therefore,” Obi-Wan plunges ahead, and Padmé suddenly sees the glint of humor starting in his eyes, “I feel it is my duty in this case to help you attain such calm.”

She narrows her eyes at him in mock severity, but inside, she feels her mood beginning to lighten. “By insulting my competence?”

“By exposing you to some of that alcha-whatsit business,” he says. “If you like.”

Padmé hesitates. This is Jedi business for sure, far outside her arena. But Obi-Wan just smiles reassuringly at her and extends a hand.

“Not to worry, Senator. I have it on good authority that I am a reasonably competent teacher.”

Padmé eyes his hand for another moment, then slaps her own lightly into his open palm. “Very well then,” she says. “I submit myself to your reasonably competent tutelage.”

“Obi-Wan, I don’t think this is for me.”

Padmé looks down at her bare feet, torn between luxuriating in the warmth of the sun-soaked stones and fretting over the ever-widening stance Obi-Wan is asking her to assume.

“Patience.” He sticks his own soft-booted foot against the inside of her ankle and slides one of her feet out to the left.

“Obi-Wan – ”

Still applying a gentle pressure against one foot, he pushes the other further away.

“I don’t know how to do a split, Obi-Wan,” she warns him, tamping down on a little flare of alarm.

“That’s far enough.”

Thank goodness she’d worn a relatively uncomplicated dress today. Senatorial garb was nowhere near so flexible as the Jedi’s simple tunics.

She looks up at Obi-Wan, who, by virtue of her lowered, bent-kneed stance, is now slightly above her. “What now?”

“Now,” he says placidly, sinking into the same low stance beside her, albeit with considerably more familiarity and ease, “you do as I do.”

All right, then. She waits for him to begin, but the only thing he does is close his eyes, and she can’t close hers if she’s going to follow him, so she waits, doing nothing. Her legs begin to protest the prolonged exertion in this unfamiliar position, but the trace of fire starting to bloom in her muscles doesn’t bother her. It’s...ferocious. It burns the way she does inside, sometimes.

Obi-Wan cracks an eye open and looks at her. Padmé doesn’t flinch. “What?” she challenges. “You aren’t doing anything yet.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “I am breathing,” he says.

“So am I.”

“Not yet, you aren’t,” he says, and in the span of a moment, he seems to grow in authority before her. His voice shifts into the calm certainty of a millennia of tradition, the well-worn tracks of an ancient, unbroken line of instruction. “Attend.”

He closes his eyes again, and this time she watches the slow rise and fall of his chest, the slight shift of tunic as his ribs expand. “All meditation begins with the breath. You breathe in life, I breathe in the Force; without either of those things both of us are nothing.”

What a strange thing to say. “I’m not Force-sensitive, Obi-Wan.”

“It does not matter. You are not Force sensitive, but the Force is in you nonetheless. We are all of us full of it. Your people are full of it. Your planet is full of it.” He breathes in, slow, and she attempts to follow him. In. Full. “Your breath must fill more than your lungs. Without breath, the body starves. Without the Force, life starves. Therefore you must let it suffuse you. Breath; the Force. Everywhere. Small, forgotten places. Empty places. You must allow yourself to be full. A gas expands to fill a container – your breath will expand to fill you, if you allow it.”

She does not answer. She is breathing. He falls into silence beside her, joining her rhythm. Inhale, beat, exhale, beat. She does not count the minutes. They slip by into nothing.

“Now,” he says. “With me.”

She trains her eyes on him and follows as he moves, one bright light and its smaller, slighter reflection, moving in a bumpy sort of unison. The fire in her leg muscles climbs higher, but it doesn’t faze her. She breathes it out, from everywhere, the small, forgotten places. She exults in it.

“Balance,” he says, maneuvering her hands to the proper places, the knuckles of one fist pressed flat against a vertical open palm, two hands meeting just in front of her lower abdomen. “Two opposing forces.” He sticks his foot back against the inside of her ankle, and she slides her feet apart without needing to be told, dropping back to the correct position. “Close your eyes. Breathe.”

In. Full. Small, forgotten places.

“Now,” he says, stepping back from her. “You will count.”

“How high?” she asks. Her legs are screaming with a pleasant sort of exhaustion, but she’s wobbly, and this position isn’t easy to maintain.

“One hundred,” he replies. Then – “Three times.”

Her eyes fly open. “Obi-Wan, that’s – ”

His eyes are glowing with suppressed mirth. “Three times, apprentice.”

If she starts laughing, she’s going to fall. “Obi-Wan, three times is too many – ”

“Protest again and it shall be six.”

“You know,” she grunts, wriggling down in an attempt to find a slightly more comfortable position, “I’m beginning to think I’ve done Anakin a disservice.”

He raises an eyebrow archly. “Because...?”

“All this time, he was telling the truth about you.”

Obi-Wan snorts. “Impudence. I’d have been running circuits around the Temple for that kind of insolence.”

“Somehow I doubt that ever stopped you.”

And there’s the smile – trademark Kenobi, dimples and all, subtle and half-hidden behind the close-trimmed beard. “No,” he agrees. “You are quite correct. I became an accomplished marathon runner.” Dropping down to the same low, planted stance she is struggling to maintain, he returns to the matter at hand. “Let us begin.”

“Obi-Wan.”

“Mm.” He has already closed his eyes. She wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already made it to twenty while she’s still dithering around trying to get her breathing in order.

“This is the silliest thing I’ve ever done with anybody.”

He doesn’t open his eyes, but the corners his mouth curl up.

“But,” she says, never one to skimp on gratitude, “I like it.” Her legs are shaking and she can’t count the number of joints she’s heard crack since they started this ridiculous exercise, but the anxious tangle in her chest is now tiny threads blowing in the wind, unwound and strewn about by breath and motion. “And I do feel better about tonight. So thank you.”

“I come to serve, Senator.”

Formal response, for someone who just moments ago had been shoving her into positions more suited to a gymnast than a senator. She smiles to herself in private amusement and closes her eyes. Reminds herself to breathe, full, everywhere.

And begins to count.

-chandrila-

Padmé has to give Obi-Wan credit. By now, she has watched him extricate himself from Senator Se’lab’s clutches three times, and while a moonlit cocktail party in a garden of this size provides the Jedi with plenty of spaces to hide, the shadow cast by a group of hulking Ithorian senators is a more creative choice than she had expected, even from him. Observing him from her position on the other side of the lush garden, she bites her lip in an attempt not to laugh at the deadly seriousness with which Obi-Wan keeps the Ithorian delegation between himself and the beverage table towards which the Bothan senator had stumbled.

She cannot pass up such a rare opportunity to tease him. Excusing herself from her group of colleagues, she sidles across the garden towards him, ensconcing herself in the shadows behind the wide backs of Ithorian senators Stonk and Bendon. “Master Kenobi,” she greets him, smoothly.

Obi-Wan’s cool voice betrays nothing. “Senator.”

Padmé fights to keep a straight face. “I see you’ve made Senator Se’lab’s acquaintance.”

“I have made his acquaintance several times,” Obi-Wan replies. “He had little memory of our first meeting at our second, and no memory of our second at our third. Forgive me, but if I can avoid a fourth such performance, I will. I grow tired of introducing myself.”

Padmé stifles a smile. It isn’t fair, that one so skilled in diplomacy to earn himself a galactic-wide nickname should hate it so much. “And did the Honorable Senator from Bothawui tire of your company?”

“Sadly, no.”

“Then how – ” She narrows her eyes at him suspiciously. “You didn’t – ”

Obi-Wan gives her an affronted look. “Senator Amidala, what sort of nefarious rogue do you take me for?” He chances a harried glance past the Ithorians, checking for any signs of his unwanted companion’s return. “Along with the memories of our previous two meetings, the good Senator appeared to have forgotten how exactly it was that he’d been able to achieve such an impressively amnesiac and befuddled state. I merely reminded him about the open bar.”

“Formidably underhanded,” she says, approvingly. “But then, that’s why they call you the Negotiator.”

Obi-Wan makes a face at the nickname. “Yes,” he says. “And if I could only negotiate myself out of this whole affair, I would perhaps believe the title to have been aptly bestowed.”

“Obi-Wan,” she chides him. “The best negotiators know when to call for assistance.”

He raises an eyebrow, just slightly, in what might be a faint feather-brush of amusement, then follows her gaze over his shoulder, to where the clearly intoxicated Bothan senator is making his weaving way through the festive crowd back towards them. Obi-Wan’s eyes widen very slightly, in definite alarm. “Indeed. Very well said. In that case, my lady, consider my distress signal activated.”

She extends an arm to him formally. “Walk with me.”

Thanks to the friendship she and Bail share with Mon Mothma, Padmé knows the Chandrilan Diplomatic Gardens better than most in attendance. She knows Obi-Wan, too, better than most, not because he opens himself to her, exactly, but – well, being in her position, one hears things, and Padmé is well-practiced at extracting trivia and truth from Anakin’s well-worn litany of complaints, worries, and fears.

She guides them serenely down a lesser-used path, the raucous festivities behind them fading into a murmur. “Here,” she points. They turn through a simple, cream-colored arch into a wider space, far-away party sounds now faint, distant enough not to grate on the nerves. All about them, only the cheerful babble of water, tumbling from multiple small falls into a network of mossy pools and rock-bordered streams.

Obi-Wan turns his head from side to side to take in the shimmering falls and eddying pools, chin rising as if in response to some sound only he can hear, features lightening. “We’ve a place very like this, in the Temple,” he says. “The Room of a Thousand Fountains.”

Padmé knows this. Knows too that it is a favorite haunt of his, though she will not tell him so. Better he think her fortuitous choice a welcome coincidence, for she knows what she knows about him from Anakin, and, strictly speaking, should not have access to such confidences.

“I’ve heard of it,” she says instead. “It’s much larger than this, though, I think.” She waves a hand at the small garden.

“Size matters not,” Obi-Wan intones, as though reciting an oft-repeated adage, and extends a hand gracefully under one of the falls’ streams. To Padmé’s surprise, the water curves around his upturned palm, bending as if repelled by an invisible barrier before continuing its swan dive into the clear pool below.

“Just a game,” Obi-Wan says, in answer to her unasked question. “And an exercise in control. One practiced by Temple younglings.”

Not any game Padmé knows. She and her sister – then later, her handmaidens – were more apt to occupy themselves with jumping straight into the water, shrieking with glee, than with avoiding its flow. “What’s the objective?”

“Just this,” he says. “Stay dry.” He curls his fingers up to his palm and then flat again in a gentle wave, the water above his hand twisting in a delighted dance before resuming its tumble around an untouched sleeve. “Even the youngest initiates, when exhibiting proper control, can easily redirect a flow of water around their forms. One stands under the falls, keeping dry, while their agemates or teachers attempt to break their focus.” He quirks a smile, one laced with equal parts memory and mischief. “One gets distracted, one gets wet.”

She smiles at him. “I take it you were good at this game?”

“I was passable,” he says with a diffident shrug. “But I did not win every time. My own clan members’ antics were at times difficult to ignore.”

“And Anakin?” she asks. She can’t help herself.

Obi-Wan pull his arm out from the falls, hand disappearing back into the long sleeve of his robe. “Terrible,” he says bluntly. “Without a doubt the worst in his class.”

Padmé refrains from making an unbecoming snort. So she will have something amusing to hold over Anakin’s head when she returns to Coruscant.

“You mustn’t misunderstand me, of course; Anakin is highly capable and could easily manipulate the water were he left to his own devices, but I’m afraid his mental discipline left much to be desired.” Obi-Wan sighs and shakes his head. “Anakin is so easily distracted – he reserved his limited ability to focus for very singular pursuits.”

“Such as...?”

Obi-Wan looks to be almost on the verge of rolling his eyes, but that would be un-Jedi, and he settles for a narrowing of them and crooking his fingers sardonically into the universal sign for quotes. “‘Fixing stuff,’ I believe he said.”

Padmé can’t help but laugh at that, and Obi-Wan indulges her merriment graciously. Looking re-energized, far more hale and hearty than he had in the reception area proper, he stretches out a hand. Ribbons of water arc away from the falls all around them, streaming through the air and coalescing into a shining globe above his palm, a miniature model of Mon Cala. The sphere’s globular surface ripples and turns slowly, casting small refractions of moonlight over the courtyard. Small-scale beauty, to be sure, but Padmé only has eyes for Obi-Wan’s face, lit with reflected light from below, a study in simple happiness.

A Jedi at play, she realizes. Most people didn’t believe there really was such a thing.

“That’s lovely,” she says, peering into the globe’s transparent yet distorted depths. Something about it...she is suddenly reminded of Anakin, in another time and place, levitating a muja fruit in much the same way, and with the same burst of simple enjoyment. “But I thought frivolous uses of the Force were discouraged.”

Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows at her, accepting the friendly challenge. “Frivolous?” He turns his hand so that the palm now faces outward. Rippling with light, the globe coasts several feet away and comes to rest over a pathetically drooping momus bush, its leaves yellowed and cracked, balmgrass spiky and dry around its exposed roots. Obi-Wan twitches his fingers downward, and the globe disintegrates, water sluicing down in a joyful shower onto the parched earth, transforming the yellow dust to a rich, wet brown. He gives her a significant look. “The preservation of life is never frivolous, Senator.”

Her smile climbs its way out of her with ease. Of course. An answer for everything. “I stand corrected.”

In the distance, a chorus of laughter rises above the sound of burbling water, followed by what sounds like someone calling for a toast. Obi-Wan casts a lingering glance at the falls, then back at the arched entrance to the grotto. “We should return,” he says, and if that is reluctance in his voice she will not comment on it.

She nods in agreement. “You’re right. Typho will start to worry.”

Taking her outstretched arm, Obi-Wan frowns. “I am quite certain I gave Captain Typho my word that no harm would come to you whilst I am your escort. He must learn to trust me.”

“He does trust you. But he’s a worry-woolamander. It’s his job.” It was, after all, why she had personally selected him to replace his retired uncle as her new head of security. But, at the same time, she had grown weary of the constant trail of guards orbiting her at all times, rings of human satellites, so many she can hardly blink without catching a glimpse of security burgundy in her peripheral vision. Far preferable to have an escort of one Jedi, especially this Jedi, than that wall of armed guards.

And besides, Obi-Wan had promised. While Captain Typho may not appreciate the import of such a gesture, Padmé does – Obi-Wan Kenobi’s word is worth his weight in solid aurodium bars and more. He has nothing left to prove to anybody, on that count.

At the threshold to the main garden, wide flowering pathways thronging with diplomats and officials and lackeys alike, Obi-Wan takes in a resigned breath. “Once more into the breach,” he proclaims, with tragicomic stoicism.

She cocks her head at him in sympathy. “Straight to the dance floor,” she advises, and they set off, she steering him in the proper direction. “I doubt even a Bothan will try to cut in on a Jedi.”

Obi-Wan snorts under his breath. “Her Highness is grown very devious, in her slippery Senatorial position,” he murmurs.

“And Master Kenobi very witty, in his old age,” she shoots back.

Obi-Wan favors her with a grin, a real grin, full and shining with rarely displayed pleasure. He bows to her, ushering her onto the formal dance floor with a graceful sweep of his hand. “You had better hope your earlier supposition is correct,” he says, eyes glinting with the same clever playfulness she’d seen in him earlier. “The Bothan senators have hooves, you know.”

#pan sharing star wars fic in 2021 - no one could have predicted #anyway as i said these are seven years old #please forgive them #XD #star wars #fic

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sailormoonandme · 4 years

Text

Why I think Sailor Moon lends itself so well to fanfiction

It’s no secret that there is a very active Sailor Moon fanficiton community.*

Whilst every fandom has its fanfic authors in my experience Sailor Moon fanfiction proportionally forms a far larger part of the fandom than in many other fandoms, the only exception I’ve encountered would be say Harry Potter. I do not for example find as many people posting or discussing fanfiction within Power Rangers, Lord of the Rings, Marvel, DC or Doctor Who circles.

Oh, there are plenty of people who talk about ideas and concepts they have. But there seem to be far fewer actually making stories themselves, or at least willing to post/share them, nor even discuss making them.

Why is this?

Well, I’m sure there is a discussion to be had regarding fanfiction, female authors, female audiences and obviously that’d tie into how Sailor Moon is primarily aimed at (and enjoyed by) a female audience.

But I’ve not really researched that so I don’t feel confident enough to dive into it.

To me though, when we break down the nature of Sailor Moon’s story, I very much feel it practically encourages fanfiction and taps very directly into the sort of things fanfiction writers and readers seem to like.

One stereotype of fanfiction that, in my observations, is absolutely true is that there is A LOT of romantic and/or sexual content. In fact it’s an open secret that professional erotic fiction pales in comparison to the breadth, quantity and quality of fanfiction ‘smut’.**

One might argue ANY story that features romance in it is therefore ‘encouraging’ such fanfiction. But the situation with Sailor Moon is a little different as romance is utterly baked into its foundation. The first story arc, initially intended as the entire story, revolves around Sailor Moon and Tuxedo Mask’s relationship. Between the manga and the anime the love life’s of almost every single major character is touched upon one way or the other. Minako’s affections for Allan. Rei’s disdain for men in the manga and romances with Mamoru and Yuichiro in the anime. Makoto’s sempai and her tragic string of men even vaguely similar to him. Ami and Ryo’s relationship in season 1 and her shyness about anything romantic thereafter. Even side characters like Reika, Motoki, Unazuki, Umino, Naru, Nephrite, Zoisite and Kunzite make their love lives at least discussed.

Then of course you have Haruka and Michiru, who’s relationship also clearly hints that they’ve become physically intimate.

Often with more sexually explicit fanfiction the authors are diving into parts of the characters’ lives rarely even discussed (if at all) in the original canon. Whilst Sailor Moon’s focus upon romance made sex a logical leap, the show plays a Hell of a lot with innuendo, symbolism and subtle hints to the point where it was giving fic authors plenty of ‘ammo’ to work with already.

This of course extends into the realm of queer pairings. Another stereotype of fanfiction (and again, I’ve not really researched this so I dunno how true it is) is that they engage in romantic or sexual stories where the characters have a different sexualities from their (apparent) canon ones. Perhaps the most famous (infamous?) example is Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Between Haruka and Michiru, Mamoru and Fiore, Zoisite and Kunzite and implications a plenty in the manga and anime (especially under Ikuhara’s rule) writing the characters as interested in people other than the opposite sex was a relatively easy and believable leap, hardly even breaking the verisimilitude of the canon.

Speaking of verisimilitude, Sailor Moon…didn’t make sense. I love it and adore it but we all know this is true. Even beyond the mindblowing miraculous magic it employed there was more than several instances where characters did not behave realistically or even consistently. Contradictions in the anime especially were rife.

Regardless of what that does or doesn’t say about the canon, for the purposes of fanfiction, this is something of a boon. It enables all sorts of wacky riffs and directions that aren’t going to create too large of a cognitive dissonance for the writer nor the reader.

Want to write a story that wouldn’t be realistic? So what? This was the story where the world almost ends but society is never fundamentally changed.

Want to write a story with elements that’d be anachronistic So what? Our heroes were named after planets that didn’t get those names until thousands of years later.

Want to do a story that unfortunately would contradict a canon fact or canon characterization?...Have you watched SuperS…?

The flipside to the messier parts of the canon is that it equally encouraged some authors to engage in fix fics, to address what they felt were problems with the characters and narratives.***

It’s very much a getting your cake and getting to eat it too situation!

Additionally, the ‘monster of the week’ format for the show enables all sorts of wacky riffs and spins to be imposed on the characters and narrative since these monsters each had their own gimmicks. Body swap characters? Make them shrink? Make them evil? Alternate Universe? Space travel?

Ostensibly anything and everything is on the table for fic authors to work with, just as it was for the official creators of Sailor Moon.

Alongside the ‘monster of the week’ format, the innate concept for Sailor Moon encourages the creation of original characters. There is no end of stories about ‘Sailor Sun’ and ‘Sailor Earth’ of course. But since any planetoid, celestial body or what have you in theory could have a Guardian authors could go nuts, drawing upon real list astrology or simply invent their own planets for whatever story they are doing. So the story is ripe for world building and expansion!

However, things need not go to that scale. Sailor Moon, especially the anime, revolves around the everyday lives of teenaged characters. Their ages means authors have the opportunity to write the characters growing up or having grown up and take them in any direction they like and again not create too much of a cognitive dissonance with the canon. And they can do that by drawing upon their own life experiences fairly easily without having to consider what the first day of college might’ve been like for someone on Middle Earth or whatever.

Furthermore, because romance was baked into the story, there was a greater focus in the stories upon the characters internal thoughts and feelings. This wasn’t strictly about their romantic feelings, but my point is a good 2/3 of your average Sailor Moon episode will be taken up with slice of life stuff before the Senshi go into action.

Why is this relevant? Because that kind of internal exploration lends itself far better to the prose format than action set pieces, especially action set pieces trying to emulate those of a visual format like a manga or an anime.

All the above actively encourages the creation of fanfics but there is aso something deeper going on.

After all, plenty of movies leave room for characters to be expanded. Plenty of manga offer opportunities for world building. Plenty of TV shows make the creation of original characters a synch. Plenty of comic books have contradictory continuity that warrants patching up. And romantic elements are present in the overwhelming majority of fiction, even fiction that isn’t predominantly about that.

What makes Sailor Moon a particular strong candidate for fanfiction though is that it has all those things whilst also having strong concepts, endearing characters and a rich mythology to hook people in the first place.

In other words, the fact that Sailor Moon was good made people love it. And that love I think is the essence of why they wanted to read and produce more of it.

*For the purposes of this post you should understand that by ‘fanfiction’ I’m specifically referring to prose fanfiction, i.e. the stuff you’d find on FFN and predmonantly on Ao3. Obviously audio plays, comics, art, cosplay performances can all fall under the label of fanfiction to one extent or another. And in some cases these are far more prevalent than prose fanfiction.

E.g. there is plenty of fan art in the Marvel fandom and there is a frightening amount of audio based Dr. Who fanfiction.

**Even I know that and I do not typically care for that type of stuff myself.

***Or expand upon characters they felt there was more to do with. I know many people who feel that way about the manga versions of the villains and the Senshi (sans Usagi), the anime version of Mamoru and the supporting cast like Usagi parents.

#My Essays #Sailor Moon #fanfiction #fan fiction #bishoujo senshi sailor moon #bishojo senshi sailor moon #pretty guardian sailor moon #pretty soldier sailor moon #ao3 #fanfiction.net #Doctor Who #Harry Potter #Lord of the Rings #Marvel #Marvel Comics #DC #DC Comics

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gb-fics · 3 years

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Dressed in Confidence

Fanfiction:

Kiryuuin Shou x Kyan Yutaka (Golden Bomber)

Note: So, you might have seen the self-cover Shou shared yesterday and it inspired me to write a fic right away. For the context: The character originally performing the song has a magic suit that makes him confident and popular with women. Please, don’t question how it works, we’ll just pretend a suit can magically change Shou’s appearance and personality in this fic ^-^ Also, if you haven’t seen the video, please check it out, because he is gorgeous in it and maybe it will make the story seem a little less random ... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lgzL_Ccmr1Y

„Just go over and talk to her already”, Yutaka urged quietly.

He didn’t know whom of the girls Shou had set his eyes on, but the glances he kept sneaking at the group of women opposite to their booth at the bar were more than obvious. Yutaka had waited to speak up until Jun and Kenji had went over to the counter to secure new drinks for themselves though. Shou was naturally self-conscious and Yutaka hadn’t meant to make him uncomfortable in front of the others. But his silent longing was becoming hard to bear.

“I can’t just do that”, Shou protested. Obviously, he knew what Yutaka was talking about immediately. He didn’t even seem surprised that Yutaka had noticed. “I’m not some kind of gigolo.”

Yutaka frowned. Although he was pretty good at seeing Shou through, he sometimes didn’t understand his reasoning anyway.

“Chatting up girls in bars and being a gigolo are two totally different things.”

Next to him Shou squirmed on the bench seat.

“I just don’t have that kind of confidence”, he whined.

“You are handsome, famous and you have money. Women have every reason to be interested in you. So, pull yourself together.”

Yutaka had lost count of how often he had given Shou similar pep talks already.

“I’m not”, Shou said right away. He cleared his throat. “I mean, I’m famous. And I do have money. But I’m not handsome.”

It was difficult to come up with the right reply to that. Yutaka never found the right words to talk about Shou’s looks.

“You should let them decide for themselves”, he pointed out.

Shou shifted his weight again. He reached down to check for the bag he kept on the floor between his legs. He had kept checking for it all evening, as if he was scared it might suddenly disappear.

“Please, if I go over there, I won’t even be able to look them in the eyes.” Shou winced.

Yutaka hoped that Jun and Kenji would hurry. The conversation was starting to make him uneasy. He didn’t know how to cheer Shou up without praising him, and he didn’t know how to praise him without making him uncomfortable. Being Shou’s friend could be difficult.

“What’s in the bag anyway?”, he changed the topic. Not the best solution, but at least a way to distract Shou from his self-pity.

“Ah, I wrote Party wo Tomenaide for that franchise, remember? They’re currently working on this magic suit and they gave me a prototype when I recorded the video for the self-cover. It’s supposed to make you cool and confident and popular with women.”

“And you brought it to the bar?” Yutaka hadn’t meant to let disdain sneak into his voice, but Shou pulled up his shoulders instinctively as if he wanted to shield himself from potential judgement.

“Just in case”, he said defensively. “We sometimes end up talking to women, when we’re in a group and I thought it might be a good chance to try it out. See if it even works. In case there is ever something I’ll need a lot of confidence for.”

Yutaka felt soothed to think Shou had only eyed the women as test objects to sate his curiosity about the suit and that he had not fallen in love from across the room. His tendencies in that regard were sometimes worrisome.

“Well then, give it a try”, he suggested. He had heard about the suit but hadn’t known Shou actually owned a prototype. He was curious, if it would work. Shou’s confidence could surely use an occasional boost and it would be great to no longer be the one responsible for it.

“If you insist”, Shou mumbled, but he was already fumbling with his bag. It was obvious he had only waited for some sort of permission.

He pulled out a suit coat and inhaled soundly before he got up. For a moment, he just stood there with the piece of clothing in his hands indecisively. Then he slipped it on in a surprisingly smooth motion.

All Yutaka did was blink and the next second, a completely changed person stood in front of him. Shou’s traditional Tamiya shirt had miraculously transformed into a silky, black suit. It even came with matching dress shoes. But it wasn’t just that. His hair had changed, too. It was styled in perfect shape and showed green streaks that made his look seem edgy and interesting. He was even wearing makeup that differed his usual style. A bright yellow flower stuck in his buttonhole.

Shou had transformed into someone so conventionally attractive, he might indeed start working at a host club.

Absent-mindedly he straightened his suit coat and turned towards the group of women.

He looked dazzling, but almost like a stranger.

Yutaka was surprised that he hesitated for so long before approaching the women anyway. He followed him with his eyes, curious how this would turn out.

Shou’s posture seemed straighter than usually as he walked through the room, yet he still managed to look awkward. He looked like a person who was arguing with himself about every step.

Finally, he stopped right behind a cute girl with bangs. Yutaka should have been able to guess it was her whom Shou had been watching. He would have chatted up her more light-haired friend, but when it came to Shou, she was just his type.

The girl didn’t notice him, though.

Shou just stood for a moment, although her friends had already noticed him. Seemingly, Shou had no idea how to draw attention to himself. He hesitated for far too long, before he reached out and tapped the girl on the shoulder. She flinched, which caused Shou to jolt in return and the whole situation was so awkward to watch, that Yutaka winced under his breath. The good looks and the confidence to approach women had done nothing for Shou’s coolness.

The girl turned around and even from across the room, Yutaka could tell that she seemed startled at Shou’s appearance. Her expression wasn’t annoyed but spoke of pleasant surprise. If a girl looked at you like that at first sight, it was very difficult to blow it.

Even from across the room Yutaka could tell that Shou would blow it.

Instead of looking at the girl while talking, he kept his eyes on the ground and his posture shifted, making it seem as if he wanted to curl back up into himself. He looked exactly as miserable and self-conscious talking to women as he had as a teenager. Everything about his body language radiated insecurity.

Yutaka sighed.

The woman shook her head. Instead of taking it with dignity, Shou managed to look even more miserable. Knowing him, Yutaka assumed he was probably blushing. He still didn’t make eye-contact.

After a very painful minute, Shou turned around and shuffled back to their table. He no longer seemed confident at all. His outward handsomeness remained, but it didn’t match with the way he carried himself at all.

“Sorry”, Yutaka said. “At least now you know.”

Shou sat down on the bench next to him again. Yutaka noticed that he wasn’t slumping down as usual, though, but sat surprisingly straight. It made him look taller and more self-assured.

“Too bad the suit is not working.”

“Oh, I don’t mind”, Shou said and turned towards him. His voice wasn’t as quiet and gloomy as Yutaka had expected. He spoke smugly. “I’d rather spend my time with you anyway.”

Yutaka eyed him suspiciously. The makeup suited him; his features looked more contoured and his skin smooth. His lips were always wide, but tonight they glistened invitingly. It was still Shou’s face, but the makeup brought out all its good qualities more strongly.

“What?”, he asked.

“Why would I waste my time with these women, when I can spend the night with a pretty guy like you?”, Shou asked. He was meeting Yutaka’s eyes head on. That was rare for him already, but tonight his gaze was challenging rather than stubborn.

Yutaka was so irritated by his unnaturally confident tone, that it took him a moment to realize what was going on.

“Oh, ha ha, very funny”, he said dryly.

“I mean it”, Shou insisted and placed his hand on Yutaka’s shoulder. He often did that, especially when he got tipsy and he had already had a couple of beers tonight, though by no means enough to justify him acting so out of character. His touch right now felt different, however. He wasn’t just seeking out body contact, he was using the gesture as an excuse to lean in, bringing them closer together. Suddenly, Yutaka was very aware of how close Shou was sitting.

“Let me buy you a drink”, he said, before turning around. Shou usually hated calling over the waiter and when they went to a restaurant together, he normally left it to the others. He was too shy and polite to raise his voice at strangers.

Now, he raised his arm and called out loudly: “Excuse me?” to make the young waitress turn around. “A bottle of champagne, please. Your most expensive one.”

The waitress nodded and headed off.

Shou turned back to Yutaka.

“Champagne? The expensive one? What’s gotten into you?”, Yutaka asked, still irritated. Before this, he could have written it off as a joke, but Shou would never waste money just to prank him. “You never order anything high-end.”

He still felt like he was talking to a stranger.

“Nothing but the best for my kitten”, Shou said.

Yutaka chocked.

“What?! What did you just call me?”

“Kitten”, Shou repeated. He sounded hoarse. His eyes trailed down Yutaka’s body and he didn’t try to hide the fact that he was shamelessly checking him out. It made Yutaka feel unexpectedly hot.

“Unless you prefer another pet name?”

And then Shou smiled.

It wasn’t a smug, cocky smile. His smile was warm and genuine and it looked just a little bit insecure as if he worried that he had crossed a line. It made Shou look shy and kind and charming. His teeth weren’t showing, but his lips seemed even wider and absolutely gorgeous and the small dimple on his left cheek didn’t seem as misplaced as usual, but it fit in perfectly with his handsome face. The smile turned him from a stranger into nothing but Shou, but the best version of Shou that he could possibly be. It was Shou the way he would look if he were no longer worried and self-deprecating; still shy but no longer scared.

Yutaka’s knees grew weak. But it wasn’t just his knees. It was his shoulders that suddenly held no tension anymore and his arms, that turned into butter and his whole body felt like it might just melt away when Shou smiled at him like this and called him cute names.

“Uhm”, he said.

“Your champagne”, the waitress interrupted them and Yutaka turned hastily, glad for the interruption that allowed him to clear his head. Something about this suit seemed to be working at least.

The waitress placed a bucket filled with ice on the table, that held a bottle of champagne. Steam was rising from the bottleneck, indicating that it had just been opened. Yutaka hadn’t expected it to be done for them already, but it was probably better that way. They would surely have created a mess otherwise.

The bottle came with four glasses and only their sight made Yutaka realize he had completely forgotten about Jun and Kenji. He wondered what was taking them so long.

“Let me get that for you”, Shou offered, although Yutaka hadn’t moved to fix himself a glass at all.

Shou placed his fingers on Yutaka’s wrist as if he wanted to physically stop him from helping himself. Once again, the gesture wasn’t untypical for Shou. He often touched people while talking to them, but this time, it had a different quality. Usually, his touches were distracted as if he didn’t really notice what his body was doing at all. But right now, he looked down on his hand resting on Yutaka’s bare wrist, and then he looked up, meeting his eyes, as if he wanted to make absolutely sure, that Yutaka became aware of the contact. His touch was fully intentional this time and Yutaka sensed heat creeping up his neck.

The touch lasted just long enough to not feel accidental, then Shou pulled back and reached for the bottle of champagne instead. He closed his long, slender fingers around the bottleneck firmly and took up a glass. His movements were secure and controlled. Yutaka had always admired Shou’s hands, that seemed too elegant and coordinated for someone who moved the way he did. But when it came to his hands, Shou always seemed to know what he was doing.

He poured a glass of champagne without spilling a drop and held it out to Yutaka.

Yutaka thought that with all the things that had changed, Shou’s hands had stayed exactly the same.

He took the glass and Shou held his gaze for a moment. It was Yutaka, who looked away first. Shou was wearing coloured lenses and his eyes were bright and intriguing. He didn’t seem in a hurry as he poured himself a glass as well.

Yutaka watched his movements closely. He could still recognize Shou’s way of moving, but he seemed less stressed and therefore less awkward. The only real difference seemed to be, that he was relaxed for a change and Yutaka wondered, if Shou would always look this sexy, if only he managed to put him at ease more.

Shou placed the bottle back into the bucket and held up his glass to Yutaka while meeting his eyes again.

“To a night full of fun”, he said. He said it like he was thinking of something dirty.

“To a fun night”, Yutaka agreed and clinked his glass to Shou’s. He did his best to make it sound less suggestive.

He emptied half of the glass in large gulps. The champagne made him feel bubbly inside, but he doubted it was because of the alcohol. This version of Shou made him nervous.

“Tastes expensive”, he observed lamely, although he couldn’t tell one champagne from the other.

Shou smiled again and once more, Yutaka thought that his lips looked stunning tonight.

“Oh, you guys ordered champagne!”, Kenji’s voice chimed in unexpectedly.

“When did you change, Shou? Is that the magic suit?”, Jun asked and pulled up his chair to sit down opposite to them.

Although Yutaka had hoped to be rescued from this weird tension, he still felt mad at them for interrupting.

Kenji placed himself on the bench next to Shou.

“He brought the suit to the bar to pick up girls, but it doesn’t work”, Yutaka declared maliciously. He was no longer sure if he was annoyed with Jun and Kenji for showing up, or for staying away for so long, or with Shou for acting so weird in the first place.

Shou patted the bench next to himself.

“Here, Kenji, come closer”, he said.

Kenji shuffled closer.

“Why?”, he asked. It was very much like Kenji to comply first and ask questions later.

Shou raised his hand and ran his forefinger across Kenji’s sharp jawline.

“So I can get a better look at your handsome face.”

Something inside of Yutaka constricted uncomfortably. He didn’t know why he felt so upset, but he couldn’t deny that he felt jealous of Kenji. Since the suit hadn’t worked on the girls, he had assumed it was only him having this effect on Shou.

“Oh god, what’s up with you?”, Jun asked, sounding seriously worried.

Kenji gave an embarrassed sound, but started pouring champagne for him and Jun as well without waiting for an invitation.

“The suit is turning him gay”, Yutaka explained nonchalantly and emptied his own glass.

“What’s turning me gay is sitting here with such cute guys”, Shou said lightly. He didn’t sound embarrassed at all. Rather than joking, he seemed flirting.

“That’s disturbing”, Jun said somewhat too loudly. “Someone get him out of this suit!”

Shou batted his eyelashes before looking right at Jun at the other side of the table.

“Please, Jun”, he said. “If you want to undress me, all you have to do is ask.”

Jun made a startled noise that turned into a mixture between a nervous laugh and a cough.

Yutaka placed his glass on the table too soundly.

Shou turned towards him. He leaned in closely.

“Don’t be jealous, kitten”, he said lowly. “I haven’t forgotten about you.”

Yutaka wondered how Shou had noticed his feelings without even looking at him, when Yutaka had troubles naming them himself. He felt oddly happy when he heard the pet name again. Shou hadn’t used it for Jun and Kenji. Maybe that meant something.

“I’m not jealous”, he lied and reached for the bottle of champagne. “I just need more alcohol, if you’re going to stay like this.”

He poured himself the rest of the champagne until his glass was so full, it nearly overflowed, before he put the empty bottle back onto the table.

Shou pulled the flower from his buttonhole. Up close, Yutaka could tell that it was a yellow rose.

“Here”, Shou said. When his voice was so low and deep, Yutaka’s body turned into butter again. He wondered, if Shou had the same effect on Jun and Kenji while wearing the suit.

“What are you doing? Get that thing out of my face!”

“Take it”, Shou insisted. “This one is only for you. To remind you, that you’re special to me.”

Yutaka hesitated. He wished Shou would sound joking, because a joking Shou was something he knew how to deal with. He still had the feeling that he was getting pranked, but he didn’t know how to avoid it.

He took the rose gingerly and placed it on the table plate demonstratively instead of keeping it in his hands. Shou’s facial expression was impossible to read. Yutaka could not tell, if he had offended him.

“It’s empty already?!”, Kenji complained. He had taken up the champagne bottle and studied it in disbelief.

“I can order another round!”, Shou offered right away and already raised his hand, but luckily, Kenji stopped him.

“It’s fine”, he said quickly. He seemed to be a little uncomfortable around this new version of Shou as well.

“Yes, I think it’s time we all go home”, Jun confirmed.

“No!”, Shou protested. “No, no! This party can’t stop! We have to keep drinking! Let’s celebrate all night.”

“It’s late”, Kenji pointed out.

“And you seem to need rest the most”, Jun agreed.

“You should take off this suit”, Kenji added. He spoke very gently, not like he was soothing Shou, but as if he was seriously worried about him.

“They’re right”, Yutaka said softly. He realized that he was worried about Shou, too. Tonight, he seemed unpredictable and possibly reckless. “Let’s pay the bill and then I’ll take you home.”

Shou turned and looked at him cheekily.

“I see, so you want to continue the party elsewhere.” His tone left no room for wondering what kind of party he had in mind.

“What? No!”

“I’ll take you to a fancy hotel”, Shou suggested and this time, he leaned in so far that Yutaka involuntarily pulled back. “Just give me a chance. If you let me, I’ll make you feel things that no woman has ever made you feel before.”

Yutaka’s neck felt hot again and now his face started to heat as well. He thought of everything that entailed. He thought of feeling Shou inside of him.

“Just let me try”, Shou coaxed, but he no longer sounded flirtatious. He sounded like he was begging. The despair in Shou’s voice scared him. He didn’t know what to do with it.

“Shou”, he said as sternly as possible and grabbed him by the shoulder to push him back. It felt like dealing with someone, who was very, very drunk. “It’s really time you take off that suit and get some sleep.”

Shou pulled back from his touch and wrinkles were showing around the root of his nose. The lines made his face look so characteristically himself, that Yutaka felt almost relieved.

“I don’t want to”, Shou said and finally, he sounded like his stubborn self again. “I don’t want this party to end.” He seemed to be repeating the words like a spell now and gestured towards the table as if he wanted to include everything. “I don’t want this night to end. I want to stay with you all night.” He gestured towards himself. “Like this.”

Yutaka didn’t fully understand what Shou meant, but his emotions seemed so raw and honest, it pained him anyway.

“You can’t, Shou. You are not yourself.”

Shou hung his head.

“I am”, he said. “I am.”

“Hey”, Yutaka said gently and touched his arm. Jun and Kenji stayed out of the conversation like they always did, when Shou turned difficult. It was only ever Yutaka, who managed to soothe him. “You need some rest.”

“Fine”, Shou agreed reluctantly. “But you have to take me. And I’m keeping on the suit.”

“Okay.” Yutaka sighed. He figured they could argue over the details later. He looked up at their bandmates. “Why don’t you guys go pay? We’ll pay you back later. I’ll make sure Shou gets home safely. Maybe the fresh air will help.”

“Alright”, Jun agreed. The fact, that neither of them argued about splitting the bill immediately although it contained the expensive bottle of champagne proved they were all irritated by Shou.

“Come here”, Yutaka said as gently as possible and took Shou’s arm to pull him up from the bench. “Let’s get you home.”

Shou followed without resistance. He picked up his bag, that was now empty and allowed Yutaka to guide him over to the front door of the bar.

It was colder outside, although the temperatures were warm enough that they didn’t need a jacket. The cold air cleared Yutaka’s mind a little, but finally getting some distance to Shou certainly helped as well. Inside the bar, he had started to feel dizzy.

Yutaka pulled out his phone and opened an app.

“I think I’m going to call us a cab, alright? We can’t take the train with you looking like this. Also, you might try to pick up random guys, if we don’t get you home straight away.”

“You’re jealous again”, Shou observed and this time, he sounded gleeful.

“I’m not”, Yutaka muttered and requested a ride before putting the phone back into his pocket.

When he looked up, he realized Shou was standing awfully close again. The suit seemed to be making him taller as well, because Yutaka had to look up to him slightly. Maybe it was just his straight posture in combination with the heel of the dress shoes though.

“Have you heard of personal space before?”, he complained and took a step backwards.

Shou took a step forward immediately. If anything, he was standing even closer than before.

“Sorry, that my handsomeness is making you nervous”, he said with a sleek grin. Yutaka had not thought that to be sentence he would ever hear from Shou unironically.

“Uh”, Yutaka said. He had been meaning to deny it, but Shou’s face was so close now, that he forgot how to say words.

“Shh, kitten”, Shou said quietly. He reached up and cupped Yutaka’s face with both hands. His touch was gentle but very secure. Yutaka could sense how bony and strong his fingers felt. They were surprisingly cool.

He knew that he was supposed to pull back, but he stood frozen, and he felt guilty for that. He knew that Shou was not himself and it was up to him to keep the situation from getting weird. But truth was, that he liked the way Shou touched him and he liked it when he held his gaze for so long and he liked it, when he called him kitten.

“Don’t”, he forced out softly anyway. “You can’t just do something like that in public.”

They were the only ones out on the street, but someone might walk out of the bar any moment. Anyone could see them.

“I don’t care”, Shou said. “I don’t want to worry about who could possibly see us. I’m tired of always worrying. I just want to kiss you.” He paused. “May I?”

Yutaka knew exactly what the answer was supposed to be. Under no circumstances could he allow this to happen, because it was reckless and dumb and moreover immoral.

“Yes”, he whispered.

Shou leaned in and kissed him with astonishing force. His kiss wasn’t hesitant at all. He kissed like he knew what he wanted. His lips were soft and his hold on Yutaka was firm. It made him feel very safe and oddly frail. He parted his lips and allowed Shou to kiss him like no one had ever kissed him in a public space before. Their teeth clicked together and Shou’s nose brushed his cheek and when he pulled back eventually, Yutaka was out of breath.

Shou looked at him and he broke into that sweet, bashful smile again, that looked so much like him, except lighter and happier than Yutaka had ever seen him before.

For a moment, he thought that he might just give in. He considered going back to a hotel with this new version of Shou, who would hold him in his strong arms and whisper sweet nothings into his ear and kiss him full of confidence. Yutaka would grow weak in his arms, because he was handsome and cool and self-assured.

But it wasn’t real.

“Stop it”, he said as gently as possible as Shou moved to lean in once again. “This is no good.”

“We can go somewhere more private”, Shou offered immediately.

Yutaka shook his head.

“It’s this suit. There is something wrong with it. It obviously works on men instead of women. It’s making you weird. You need to take it off.”

“No, no, please”, Shou said and he reached up instinctively, clawing his hand into the lapel of the suit coat as if he was scared Yutaka might try to tear it off. “This suit is not changing me. It’s just making me more confident. It’s … This is me. This is the version of me that’s in my head. It’s who I want to be. All the time. I don’t want to … I can’t let this end. I want to stay this version. I don’t want this party to end.” Vaguely he gestured back to the bar.

“So, you want to be someone, who promiscuously hits on all of his bandmates?” It had been meant as a joke, but it came out bitter. The way Shou had touched Kenji’s face made their kiss just now meaningless – regardless of whenever it was the suit or something Shou repressed violently.

“I want to be someone who is at terms with and open about his sexuality”, Shou blurted out.

Yutaka was pretty sure that the surprised was written all over his face. Before tonight, Shou had never indicated liking men at all.

“I want to be able to joke about it”, Shou said. “I don’t want to hide from the people closest to me. But most importantly, I want to show you how I feel. You’re the person I …”

He finally let go of his suit coat and his arm dropped down by his side as if he no longer had the energy to gesture at all.

“I wanted to try if the suit worked. I thought, if it does, I’d one day wear it to tell you. I wasn’t meaning to do it right away. Things got out of hand. I was scared of this night ending, because … I don’t know what will come afterwards.”

Yutaka licked his lips.

“So, you …?”, he started, but didn’t know how to finish the question.

“Yeah”, Shou confirmed. “I love you. And when I’m wearing this suit … when I’m wearing it, I’m cool and handsome. I’ll keep wearing it. And if you give me a chance, I think I can make you like me a little too. You allowed me to kiss you like this. You are at least somewhat attracted to me in this suit. I can be this version of myself for you. I’ll keep being it.”

Yutaka shook his head slightly.

“What are you going to do?” He wasn’t mocking Shou. He was sad, because Shou sounded so desperate. “Keep wearing the suit in your sleep?”

Shou shrugged and smiled helplessly.

“I hope they’ll design magic pyjamas soon”, he said.

Yutaka looked at Shou and all he saw was a handsome host. He had no idea where the despair in his voice was coming from. It was as if he couldn’t see below the pretty surface at all.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”, Shou plead. “I confessed to you. Don’t I deserve an answer?”

“Please, take off the suit”, Yutaka said. He suddenly felt exhausted. He was tired of dealing with this person in front of him. He just wanted to talk to his friend. “I want to give you a proper reply, but I can’t when you are wearing this suit.”

“It makes me better”, Shou insisted.

“This …” Yutaka gestured towards Shou and the green streaks in his hair. “I feel like I’m talking to a stranger. I need to make sure it’s really you.”

Shou looked at him for a long time and Yutaka was convinced he would decline. But then he nodded and slowly took off the suit coat.

He blinked and then Shou was already different.

He was back in his Tamiya shirt, his arms bare and pale and awkwardly holding on to the suit coat. His hair was blonde again and looked uncombed because he had run his hands through it early this evening. His face was flushed and bare and his eyes were tiny, but dark and so much warmer than when he was wearing coloured lenses. He kept his eyes cast down and yet Yutaka had the feeling he was seeing them for the first time tonight. He seemed small, hunched over once again and his head too large for his shoulders, making him look frail and in need of protection.

Yutaka felt a giant wave of affection rushing through him and he had to stop himself from wrapping his arms around Shou.

He had missed him. He had missed him so much more than he had ever expected. And he thought that this awkward little guy with the small eyes and the messy hair was the most beautiful version of a human being possible.

“Hey”, he said quietly.

Shou looked up briefly, but he didn’t manage to hold his gaze for too long, just as it had always been.

“Hey”, he replied.

“Do you …?” Yutaka broke off. For a moment, he considered that Shou might have forgotten about everything that had happened tonight. “Do you still feel the same? Without the suit?”

“Yeah”, Shou confirmed. “The same. Plus, an awful lot of regret for saying it out loud.”

Yutaka chuckled.

“I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable.” Shou looked down onto the suit coat in his hands. His hands still looked the same. “I behaved awful tonight. Sorry for putting you into a position like this. Let’s just forget I ever said anything. In fact, let’s just forget about this entire night.”

Worried lines were showing everywhere on Shou’s face. His face looked all weird and wrinkly. He looked like his old gloomy, over-thinking self again.

“I should probably burn this thing to make sure I never do anything this stupid again.”

“You probably should”, Yutaka agreed.

Shou had looked happier when wearing the suit, more relaxed. Yutaka wanted him to look this happy always, but he knew they’d have to find a different way for that.

“Sorry”, Shou mumbled again.

Yutaka paused for a moment.

“Though, if I’m honest, I’m going to miss you calling me your kitten”, he confessed jokingly.

Shou looked irritated. Yutaka let him suffer for just a few seconds more.

“I’m also going to miss you kissing me”, he added.

Shou looked up and sucked in his lower lip. His teeth were showing visibly. He looked by no means conventionally attractive and Yutaka loved him for that.

“Really?”, Shou asked insecurely.

“Really”, Yutaka assured him without hesitation.

Shou started smiling and it was the same smile as before. The warm one with the cute dimple, that made his lips look gorgeous and that was shy and hesitant, but finally happy without a trace of worry. And Yutaka thought, that they were going to get there and that they wouldn’t need a magic suit for it at all.

“We can always work on that”, Shou said. “Right, kitten?”

#Golden Bomber #Kiryuuin Shou #Kyan Yutaka #kirikyan #fanfiction #fanfic

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tmntxreader-fics · 5 years

Text

TMNT Leo x Reader: Warming Up To You

Summary: You had long dismissed the idea of becoming friends with the icy leader in blue as it seemed to be an impossible mission. Finally, both of your frustrations lead to an explosive encounter; providing you both the opportunity to warm up to each other.

Find Raph’s Version HERE!

A/N: I HAVEN’T WRITTEN IN A WHILE I’M SUPER RUSTY. Yeehaw we got a LEO version of this fic!!! We stan a tsundere king. He’s almost got a predatory vibe to him and I’m not exactly sure where it came from but I think it’s kinda hot so here we go.

WARNINGS: Cursing, Leo scaring the reader half to death during a sparring match, AND TYPOS!

You’d think that Raphael would be the unapproachable one.

In fact, even Donatello had the potential to be unreachable when any one of his projects were involved.

But the leader of the group? You’d have figured that at least he would be someone who had qualities relating to friendliness. The success of his role depends on being communicative; surely he would carry that trait off the battlefield?

You were so wrong.

When you had first arrived you’d assumed his indifference to you was simply because of your unfamiliarity. You were, of course, a stranger. He had a duty to protect his family and you were obviously a threat to that; there was no way he’d give you the opportunity to ruin the life they had set up for themselves.

However, as the months rolled by, he never came around.

Each attempt to conversate was blown off with a polite exit or an awkwardly executed excuse to avoid talking. You were literally only asking about the weather, not attempting to uncover his family secrets.

You watched the way he interacted with April and Casey, maybe he was simply a quiet person. Lo and behold, he had absolutely no issue speaking to them. He spoke, he joked, asked them to join him when eating and hung around them fairly often when not attending to his duties or training.

Something in your chest stung with each rejection and you couldn’t help but become slightly bitter with the attitude he held towards you- simply because you knew it was you that he was avoiding. After a few days of digesting this new revelation, you decided that if you genuinely made him uncomfortable with your attempts of friendliness then you would step back completely and remain professional.

Each time he asked you a question when mapping out a mission, you’d begun to clip your tone just as he had been. Each word was stiff and your sentences were minimal. While the others were a little confused by the change, Leo refused to pay you any attention. He probably appreciated the intangible distance you had put between you and him.

The third time you’d done this, it was clear that he, in fact, was not appreciative. At the strange silence that stretched across the table, you looked up from the sheet beneath you to catch eye contact with Leo. His gaze was narrowed, the piercing blue was almost suffocating. Your heart leaped into your throat and you stood frozen in place when his bottom lip curled a little; a clear implication of frustration. He leaned back and opened his mouth as if he were preparing to say something or question you.

Then he closed it.

There was absolutely no logical reason for him to be irritated with you. You weren’t withholding information from him and you were effectively communicating your points.

Raising an eyebrow, you rested a hand on your hips; daring him to make a comment. Instead, the leader grit his teeth, exhaling slowly before returning his gaze to the strategy splayed across the table. There’s a long silence before he continued to talk- but at that point, your heart was beating too loud for you to focus on his words.

Raphael glanced between his brother and yourself, a picture of bewilderment. You ignored him.

Just as you had ignored Leo for the entirety of the following week.

Well, perhaps ignore is the incorrect term; rather, you were indifferent to his presence.

Each time you were alone in the kitchen together, you made no effort to spark a conversation with him. Instead, you’d nod your acknowledgment before making a swift exit- just as he had done to you countless times.

What had piqued your curiosity was the fact that all of a sudden, the number of times you’d been caught in a situation alone with Leo has risen significantly. He had begun to appear in places that you’d otherwise never see him, at times that were completely off from his usual schedule.

The most drastic example would be today’s training session. You had swaggered into the room, ready to provoke Raph until he snapped and kicked your ass. It had become a sort of unorthodox tradition, one that left you sore but you’d look forward to it nonetheless. It was the only time for you to really test your skills without him worrying too much about being careful with you.

However, this particular session made you halt your steps, suspended in motion within the doorway.

Leonardo was there.

You blinked.

He’s still there. Brandishing his katanas with lethal grace and performing his kata’s flawlessly. Raphael was nowhere to be seen and you’re just about to turn tail and escape before you make eye contact with the turtle in the center of the room. His gaze was intense and the air felt different, as if it were alight with a thick tension.

Leonardo didn’t avert his stare like he usually did; instead, he lowered his arms to his side and straightened his stance. You gulped and your brain worked to churn out an excuse to leave, the last thing you wanted was to have the leader judge your training routine.

“I’ll just come back later then,” you blurted, shattering the silence with a small wince. To your surprise, he had shaken his head almost immediately.

“No,” he began, eyeing you carefully. “I’ll stay to my side of the room while you train.”

Your breath hitched and it felt as though someone had stuffed cotton into your mouth. “Uh,” you desperately searched for another excuse, “I usually spar with Raph. I’ll just come back another time.”

You thought you had him, there’s no way he could come up with a rebuttal unless he planned to bring in Raphael. However, when his reply was almost instantaneous, your heart thrashed in your chest.

“Spar with me.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

He spun a sword in his hand before moving to rest his weapons against the wall. Leonardo turned back to you with a raised eyebrow ridge. “Spar. With. Me.”

“I can’t,” you heard yourself say, your voice almost a whisper as you took an involuntary step back. Your heart pounded beneath your rib cage at the mere thought of training with the blue-clad turtle.

“Sure you can,” he said with a slight shrug, slowly advancing towards you. Each step he took made you want to flinch away.

Raphael was an intensely brutish opponent but his techniques were very straight forward. Everything about him was bared for you to see, unashamed in his temperamental disposition and foul language. Leonardo was a completely different story, the idea of being put against him in a sparring session genuinely terrified you.

Especially with the new demeanor he had obtained, one that was almost predatory in nature. He was frustrated and you could clearly sense it.

“It’s fine I’ll just wait for Raph,” your voice was a breathy whisper as he came to a stop only a couple feet before you. That was the closest he had ever been to you voluntarily, usually opting to steer clear of you as if you were the plague.

His eyes flashed an electric blue, crackling with an energy that you had never seen from him previously. He reached for the bag in your hand, maintaining eye contact as he gripped it tightly, skin brushing against yours. “I insist.”

You swallowed heavily when you realized he was no longer asking you.

After nodding quickly, you're finally able to catch your breath when he leaned back with your gym bag in his hold.

Following him further into the room, he placed down your things and met you in the center. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, simply taking to observing you.

“How do you want to do this?” You questioned, nervousness rattling around your stomach as he rolls his shoulders lightly.

“Win by submission.”

The simple statement had you grimacing.

"I really don't think this is a good idea," you muttered, casting your gaze to the floor.

"Then stop thinking," he said, supplying a solution you would never enact. You rolled your eyes, glancing at him with a bemused expression.

"For someone who's meant to be wise, you're not exactly adept at giving good advice," you snarked, fuelled by the growing stress and pressure of your current situation. You were in uncharted waters with your new opponent; someone you had spent so long playing against with an unrecognized advantage on your side. Now that he had finally given you what you wanted, you realized that maybe gaining his attention wasn't as satisfying as you'd originally thought. More like terrifying.

His eyes hardened at your words and you immediately knew you had made a mistake by jabbing at his position. "Get into your stance," he ordered with a narrowed gaze, "now."

"I really don't-" you began, heart thrashing with panic when he cut you off.

"Now," he repeated.

Hesitantly, you shifted your feet into the correct position, raising your shaking hands to guard your face. You felt as though you were going to be sick when he bowed, a sign that the sparring session had begun.

He returned his gaze to meet yours as he straightened up and you could hear the blood rushing through your ears. Yes, you thought, puking could definitely be an option here. Your bottom lip quivered on par with your trembling hands guarding your face.

This was not right.

You had sparred with Raphael, of all people, multiple times. You never feared an ass whooping from the temperamental turtle; so, why are you afraid of the leader? Someone who has constantly exercised restraint where his brothers would usually indulge? Out of all of them, he would be the least likely to hurt you. Hell, Raphael had fractured bones every now and then.

The leader launched forward, breaking you from your chain of thought as you sloppily dodged a reaching fist.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

You stumbled backward, forced to be on the defense. There was no time to even attempt an offense with the speed that Leonardo was operating at. He was a flurry of kicks and well-placed punches and you knew that you were immediately being overwhelmed.

“Leonardo,” you rasped desperately, squeaking when he answered only with a sweeping leg in which you barely escaped. The intensity of this fight was way too high for a spar that had only begun 20 seconds ago.

“Just hold on!” You cried out after a failed attempt to throw your own punch. Another right jab on your behalf had only resulted in you almost being snatched up by the blue-clad whirlwind.

Each attack that he executed had built in the force behind it, forcing you back with each blow. You were quickly realizing that physically blocking his moves was not going to work out well for you and you opted to jump out of the way instead.

All of a sudden you felt like this was less of a sparring match and more of a slaughter-to-be.

“Press pause!” Your screech was reinforced by sheer panic when he feigned right and you fell right into his trap as you twisted your body away from him. Leo moved with you and you squeaked when he finally caught a tight grip on your arm.

In that split-moment, your eyes met his, an electric blue that made your wildly racing heart just stop. His hooded gaze was steely and the pent up frustration was thinly veiled, boiling beneath his skin and communicated through his movements.

You suddenly realized that this fight was about to end very, very quickly.

With a flash of his teeth, Leonardo wrenched you towards him.

You can’t breathe as your splayed palms connect with his chest, your body pressed against his. His hands moved down to your waist and you want to puke when you instantly realize he’s about to launch a very painful maneuver on you.

It felt as though everything was suddenly in slow motion as his fingers tightened above your hips, bringing you off the ground. You had no idea how to stop him, how to save yourself from what was about to occur. Racking your brain, you screamed the only words that came to mind and prayed that they would work.

“I submit!”

Leo’s entire body froze as if someone had pressed the pause button on his remote controller. You could hear the blood rushing through your ears, mingled with his unusually labored breathing.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Your words were nothing but a breathless whimper and you squeezed your eyes shut in an attempt to stop your body from trembling. “I submit.”

There’s a pregnant pause, in which neither of you moved. You were vaguely aware of your face buried in his chest, latching onto his shell as if that would’ve stopped the further attacks. The feel of his body rhythmically rising and falling beneath you with each breath felt strange, you would have almost described it as intimate if it weren’t for the current situation. You only noticed that you were suspended a few inches off the ground when Leo, ever so gently, lowered you back down.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated quietly, heart pounding in your chest. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

And it was out.

Leo’s fingers tightened fractionally on your waist and you heard him take a sharp breath.

Then he sighed.

“I’m the one who should be apologizing,” he murmured, his voice rumbling in his chest against your ear.

You don’t know why but for some reason you weren’t actually expecting a response from him. You’d almost expected him to disappear in a puff of smoke, something he had done many times in your presence when you confronted him with conversations.

“I tried to keep a respectful distance,” Leo began, faltering slightly in his words. You held your breath. “I didn’t mean for it to become like this.”

You assumed that “this” meant growing bitter and resentful towards each other for absolutely no logical reason with no visible end.

“Respectful?” You couldn’t help but scoff softly, pulling your face away from his shell. You turned your gaze upwards to meet his, startled by the close proximity. “You gave me the complete cold shoulder. Ostracized me.”

Leo’s gaze narrowed slightly, electric blue gaze searching your own for an answer to a question only he knew. “You certainly weren’t innocent, either.”

You felt the heat rush to your face, indignation building in your chest as you hissed, “don’t make me say “you started it”. Don’t make me do it.”

He sighed through his nose and glanced away for a brief moment before turning back to you, “I know, I’m sorry. I was avoiding distraction by avoiding you and it was the wrong choice to make.”

You frowned lightly, “distraction?” You scoffed as you glared up at him with guarded eyes, “You’re fine with April O’Neil but I’m the distraction?”

You watched as his jaw moved while he grit his teeth. That electric gaze flickered away from you, suddenly seeming insecure. “You’re different,” he muttered finally, voice softer than you had ever heard it.

Suddenly you’re very aware of his gentle but firm grip on your waist, his thumb subconsciously rubbing lightly against your skin. His hands were hot, setting alight every place that they touched.

It seemed you were not the only one suddenly aware of your compromising position.

Leo was observing you intently, lips parting when his gaze traveled to where your hands rested against his shell. You couldn’t bring yourself to correct your position even when under his study.

“Let’s start over,” you whispered, watching him snap his attention back to you at the words.

There’s silence between you both until Leo swallowed thickly, exhaling a shaky breath. Extending an olive branch would be your final attempt, your last hurrah. The air was charged with energy you couldn’t decipher as you leaned into him, meeting his bewildered stare imploringly. He doesn’t budge other than the grip on your body tightening a fraction.

You’re almost prepared for rejection until you catch the corner of his mouth shifting upward ever so slightly.

“I’m Leonardo,” he said, and your hearth thrashed in your chest as a charming smile stretched against his full lips. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

#tmnt #tmnt x reader #tmnt leonardo #tmnt leonardo x reader #tmnt leo x reader #leonardo x reader #leo x reader #tmnt 2014 #tmnt 2016 #tmnt 2012 #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt 2018

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asphora · 4 years

Text

01. Technicolor | hvc

Your rules have always kept you grounded, helping you navigate a world driven by color without fail. It isn’t until you meet Hansol that you realize, sometimes, there are exceptions to the rules.

soulmate(ish) au

wc: 7402 | fluff, f!reader, modified idol!verse, cursing, best friends to lovers

a/n: I’ve finally gotten around to editing this cause I realized what a mess it was initially. I know its long, I’m such a lil bitch for long fics and world building ahhhhh ;A; lemme know what you think or don’t it’s all cool k thanks byeeee

01 . 02 . 03 . 04

Growing up in the kind of world that you do, you find that there are only a few fundamental truths one has to live by. Of course, everyone is different, but these truths you’d learned had, even in the most devastating times, held you together. This world is governed mostly by one factor and its color. It’s what sets people apart: those who can see in color, those who are in love and have found someone to love truly and unconditionally; and those who are only able to conceive of varying tones of gray, those who have yet to find love or maybe never will.

Not classes or hierarchies. Instead the world is moved by and moves through color. People, or at least most of society, like to think of it as some kind of “soulmate system”. A way by which only true happiness can be achieved. One could have multiple soulmates throughout their lives, but never more than one at a time and if one had color in their lives, they would do anything to keep it.

You on the other hand were less naive. You knew it wasn’t some kind of magic system that put two people automatically together. It surely didn’t mean that once you found someone who brought you color, it was one and done. A person could go their whole life knowing someone and only start developing color for them years down the line. It wasn’t something instantaneous and it surely wasn’t something that happened at first sight. It took time and patience, growth. Likewise, a person could go their whole lives never knowing color and living a perfectly happy and successful life. The notion that only one or the other was worth living for was a laughable notion to you.

If anything, you found that the color system was more of a poison than anything else. It was a lie people liked to buy into to feel secure in their existences and meaning in this lifetime. Color couldn’t give someone purpose just as much as it never ensured lasting love, it only ensured love in that moment. And love, you learn, is a fickle thing.

People lose and gain color every day. Once the love faded, so would the color. Of course, it was crushing. Color was like a drug, the highs leave you higher than the top of the world, while the lows left you plummeting and spiraling into an infernal abyss for months on end. You knew the experience first-hand.

That’s why some people become junkies. Almost everyone who didn’t have it was desperate to, and those who’d had it but lost it just can’t live without it once they’ve had a taste. Some even going as far as participating in underground meeting rings, illegal gatherings where sex and booze were rampant. Anything to find a connection, anything akin to love that would give them the high of seeing even the faintest tints of color in the corners of their irises, before they’d come crashing down, the cold gray hues seemingly darker than they seemed to remember and unbearably colder in comparison to the memory of color.

1. There is no such thing as soulmates.

When you first meet him, it’s at a dimly lit bar with some sort of open mic night that a close friend has invited you to come to, maybe even sing a few songs at. The place is mostly empty, save for a few regulars and scattered groups here and there that have come to listen to the performers drunkenly bare their souls out to the equally intoxicated public.

He’s there when you get on the platform stage after much coaxing from your friends, not that you really notice. Truly, you probably wouldn’t have even gone up if one of your friends hadn’t promised to shoulder the next round of drinks as long as you sang. You supposed you were just selfless like that; you’d take one for the team if it meant a round of free drinks.

On stage, you’re a bundle of nerves, but your body language is quiet and if you were shaking, you surely didn’t show it. You give a tentative nod to the person who manages the music, quietly whispering your song of choice to him. Your legs feel like jelly, but the rest of the crowd is too immersed in slightly buzzed conversation to notice.

When the music starts, the humdrum of chatter doesn’t subside and you’re thankful to be as invisible as you are, that the people don’t seem to pay too much mind to you. As you start singing though, your voice pierces through the talking like smooth whiskey down the throat of unsuspecting first-time drinker; there’s a sudden heat about the room. Something about the way your first notes hang in the cramped space and fill it completely with amber sound makes the air feel suddenly electric. There’s a sudden sizzle and tension that there wasn’t before, and the chatter of the crowd decrescendos into a whisper. All eyes on you, seemingly hanging onto every word.

Not one to revel in the spot-light or enjoy being the center of attention, you give what you think is somewhat of an awkward smile, lips upturned into a barley there smile; like remnants of a waxing or waning moon. You don’t know it, but the expression you make leaves the crowd completely disarmed; your quiet charm, along with the cooing depth of your voice capturing them all and leaving them spellbound, especially a particular regular.

The first time you hear his voice, it comes from behind you. You are at the bar sitting with friends, talking and laughing.

“I loved your number a while ago.” His voice is striking; it’s boyish but with a deep and almost gruff quality to it that made it an unmistakable sound. Such a distinct sound that seemed to effortlessly cut through the drunken laughter in the establishment. There was something almost foreign sounding about it despite the perfect syllables he let out, the subtle confidence in his tone making the hairs at the nape of your head stand. If anyone catches the shiver you let run down your spine, no one says anything.

You aren’t completely sure if he’s talking to you, so you pretend not to hear. It would have been absolutely mortifying to give a response to a stranger—an attractive sounding one at that—when he wasn’t even referring to you. So when the friend your facing taps you and points to something behind you, you feel your heart start to race.

So, he was talking to me.

“Hi?” You let out shyly, not meaning for the words to sound more like a question than a greeting. You hadn’t planned to say more after already opening so awkwardly, and being naturally quite soft spoken around strangers, you thank the universe because once your eyes land on the obviously much-too-attractive-to-be-talking-to-you male, you feel your heart jump into your throat, choking down any kind of words that may have been lingering there.

He looked like something out of a movie scene or a marble statue come to life, except that Galatea would have probably paled in comparison to his beauty. The seemingly soft but still masculine features of his face, the strong jaw—he seemed to be an Adonis in the flesh—the rest of him as equally enchanting, dressed in a crisp and clean looking dress shirt with one or two buttons too many left undone. You stop your eyes from traveling down the porcelain like skin and look into his eyes and at his face as he talks.

“I loved your song,” he flashes you a set of pearly whites held in a gummy smile as he talks, the expression reaching his eyes in a way that felt so sincere and too genuine. When he smiled like this, he didn’t seem nearly as mysterious as he sounded with your back turned, and you feel yourself relax, returning his smile with your own.

“From um, a while ago, I mean I guess you only sang one song though...” He rambles on, his hand moving to scratch the nape of his head.

It’s a shock to your senses, albeit quite refreshing though, how such an attractive individual could be so confident yet simultaneously awkward. It makes a giggle bubble up from inside you and spill out softly, as you reply, “Thanks.”

He chuckles a bit, the sounds of both of your laughter intertwining in a hush. There was something about him that was just so charming. You couldn’t help but feel slightly more relaxed despite just meeting him.

“Um, is this seat taken?” He points to the vacant barstool next to you, the pads of his fingers lightly grazing the leather of the stool. You meet his eyes and he’s patiently waiting for your response, eyes watching you with a soft but also curious expression. As if saying, I want to talk to you some more, do you want to talk to me some more?

Yes.

“No, it isn’t.” You reply, eyes lingering on him just a little too long, as he fills the space next to you. When he’s secure in his seat, he looks back at you and you pretend to busy yourself with drink in your hand. If he notices, he doesn’t let on and you’re glad he’s a gentleman like that.

He watches you swirl the liquid around, dainty fingers against the cool glass. “Can I get your next one?” He offers, eyeing the hard liquor in your glass. He’s hoping he isn’t sounding too forward, the nerves in his stomach settling momentarily then running a rampage the instant he hears you giggle.

“You’re offering to buy my next drink, but I don’t even know you.” The words come out as a soft but confident drawl. If he had color, he would have noticed the slight blush playing at your cheeks at how forward you’re being. It isn’t something you’d usually say, but something about this boy and the whiskey in your blood was making your heart do somersaults, pushing the blood to your head that was already swimming from the alcohol, effectively boosting your confidence and lowering your inhibitions.

“You don’t seem like you’re trying to get me drunk though,” you admit before he can formulate any kind of come-back, “you seem like a nice guy.”

You offer him a softer smile, one that isn’t so teasing, and that’s all it takes to lessen the tension that’s built up in his stomach and shoulders.

“My name’s Vernon.” He says the name with a different accent and it sparks a crinkle in your brow.

“That can’t be your real name.” You retort and he almost chokes on the swig he’s taking from his drink at how unusual your reaction is. It wasn’t like he didn’t look like a foreigner, and yet here you were, a perfect stranger, questioning the validity of his identity.

“It is my real name.” He counters, his voice losing the nervous edge, replaced by the playful and almost whining tone of a child who desperately wanted you to believe him, despite having been completely caught in the act.

“Oh c’mon! What’s your Korean name then?” You roll your eyes in a joking manner and he fights a smile that’s slowly getting wider on his lips, desperately biting it down with his teeth as he’s shaking his head.

“I’ll show you yours if you show me mine.” You raise an eyebrow at his innuendo but decide not to call him out on it. Instead you’re laughing at how silly this all feels. All over one name, not even his full one at that, the two of you were already crossing lines that wouldn’t have usually been crossed by a regular pair who’d just met. The strangeness of the situation isn’t lost on you, but you give in and tell him your name anyway.

He listens intently, repeating the syllables of your name again in a whisper. Drinking up the syllables as if it is something for only him to hear and know, imprinting the name into the soft skin of his lips before he proceeds to tell you his.

“Hansol, it’s Hansol.” He tells you, almost dejectedly and you nod. It wasn’t bad at all, you thought, trying to figure out why he’d wanted to hide it from you, when it rolled of your tongue so much more effortlessly compared to Vernon.

When you don’t immediately reply or say anything, quietly musing his name to yourself, he tries to fill the space with idle talk, “You know, Hansol, like Han-solo from Star Wars?”

His remark pulls you completely out of your reverie and into a fit of laughter. If you had been trying to be soft and dainty just a few moments ago, that was clearly out the door now; tilting your head slightly back and covering your mouth to suppress your sounds.

“It was fine before you said all that. I mean, was that supposed to be a save?”

“Yeah! Star Wars is cool.” He defends. His tone completely serious, pressing down on the last syllable, saying it as though it’s the highest universal truth there is, completely unswayed by your laughter which it at this point thankfully dying down.

“Wait, don’t tell me you don’t like Star Wars, because honestly that’s a deal breaker for me.” This time his smile is back, accompanied with light laughter and you can tell he’s joking now.

“Oh my gosh, how can someone so good looking be such a dork?”

He’s just as surprised at the words that tumble out of your mouth along with your laughter, and it makes him do a double take at you, “Wait, you think I’m good looking?”

There’s something about his completely stunned and dumbfounded expression that stops you from feeling even a single bit of shame or embarrassment at your slip up. Instead you steal your expression, look him in the eye and let the tension of silence pull for just a few more seconds before exhaling a disappointed sigh, “No, I don’t like Star Wars.”

He blinks. Once, twice. As if his brain is too slow to register the words, his eyes staring into your completely serious ones.

“Aw, shit.” The sound is completely disappointed, as he shakes his head in dismay, desperately trying to hold on to the serious facade. he can’t help the laugh that accompanies it, and the sound is so musical and sincere that it breaks your poker face. “I guess we’ll just have to watch it together so you can gain some taste.”

“It’s pretty cocky for you to assume I’d say yes to a second date, don’t you think?” You counter, taking a sip and finishing your drink.

“It’s pretty cocky of you to assume that I’m asking you out on a date, or that this is even considered one,” he smirks, “don’cha think?”

Fuck, he got you there.

His laughter reassures you that the exchange is purely in jest though and you laugh along with him, lifting your empty glass to your face in an attempt to hide your embarrassment.

“We can make it one though, if you want?” Your laughter subsides, your embarrassment slowly following suit at his question.

“What do you mean?”

“I can buy you that next drink and we can call it a date?” His eyes look anywhere but at your face and your confusion turns into fluttering in your stomach. His sudden shyness effectively calming the wild horse that is your heart in that moment.

“Sure, I guess.” you drawl and his entire frame perks up, eyes landing on you with what you could only describe as a shocked puppy dog expression, before calling out to the bartender for another two drinks.

That night you learn that Vernon is actually his middle name—his mom’s maiden name—and that he uses it ‘cause it usually sounds cooler than Hansol. To which you reply a jumbled, Hansol is just as cool though. You learn that his dad is Korean, and that he has a younger sister he adores. He says he loved your singing voice since he can’t, for the life of him, even hold a fucking tune. You learn that he actually likes rapping though and that while he’s working on other things, he’s an aspiring rapper and musician.

You learn that his eyes have a different sparkle when he’s talking about rapping and that you could probably listen to him for days on end just going on and on about it. You learn the way a soft smile naturally lifts the corners of his lips when he talks about his sister, Sofia, and how wonderful she is. You learn that he’s a good listener and that he nods a lot when he wants to show you he’s listening despite his eyes sometimes being far off if they aren’t intently staring and boring holes, and you learn that despite the initial awkwardness and the embarrassing first conversation you shared, he’s really easy to talk to.

When both of you are quite buzzed already, whether from the alcohol or high off each other, you’re both talking in quieter, hushed tones, sitting closer at the now, less populated bar.

“I’m guessing you have color, huh?” You can hear the disappointment in his tone as he trains his eyes on the liquid in his glass, as if it will suddenly respond to him.

“If you’re asking that glass of wine, I doubt she can answer.” You joke, nudging his shoulder lightly, “But I can’t tell you what color she is either, cause it’s all gray for me too.”

At your words, he slowly lifts his head to meet your amused gaze. “Don’t tell me you believe in that soulmate bullshit, ‘cause that would really be a deal breaker.” You echo his words from earlier, still smiling, but watching intently for his reaction.

You’re relieved when he smiles and shakes his head, “No, no, I don’t.” He lets out a breath he seems to have been holding in a laugh, “There’s no such thing as soulmates.”

“Have you ever had it?” you ask tentatively, not wanting to pry, but knowing that Hansol will let you down easy if it’s something he doesn’t want to talk about.

“No, never.” Is his quick response. “Have you?”

“Yeah, once.” You reply. This time it’s your turn to talk to your glass of whiskey, finding the liquid more forgiving than human interaction, “It was a long time ago.”

He doesn’t ask further and if he notices any sadness about you in that moment, he doesn’t call it out.

“So, wait, shouldn’t you know what color wine is then?” Instead, he opts to make you laugh. “I mean, since you’ve had color before, right?”

He doesn’t fail and you find yourself leaning into the strong muscle of his arm as you laugh. “It’s maroon or plum, but really dark,” you tell him, “but since you’ve never seen color, you don’t know what I’m talking about so...”

He laughs with you at the silliness of it all and despite the tones of gray that fill your sight, you think that this is how the memory of color feels like. Not quite the same, but something like the remnants of a dream after waking up; familiar but distant and foreign all at the same time.

You’d been friends for months now, keeping in close contact since that fateful night you met, but it felt like you’d known each other for lifetimes. His friends—all twelve of whom you’d already met at this point—often joke that you’re practically dating already (despite both of you deciding and explaining to all of them that you would stay friends first, and adamantly denying their accusations). Often berating Hansol with taunts of: “You don’t have to hide it from us, we’re practically family” or the common trick of crashing yours and Hansol’s hangouts and movie nights at his place while asking as casually as possible, “Hey Hansol, does my outfit today match?” or “Hansol, what color is this?” while holding up a random object trying to trip the boy up.

In times of desperation, they’d even go as far as try to trip you up with their relentless questioning, with you happily playing along, teasing them just as hard and trying to fool them back.

“Do you think the color of Hansol’s eyes are pretty?” Mingyu asks as you’re sitting on the couch next to Hansol while reading a book.

“Mingyu, don’t bother her.” Hansol reprimands unenthusiastically as he flips through the channels on the television.

“Yeah, they’re a really pretty shade, Gyu.” You drawl out, almost lazily, not even bothering to look up from your book.

Mingyu practically jumps at your words and Hansol almost drops the remote, both needing to do a double take at you from the shock your words elicit.

“I knew it, Hansol! I fucking knew it!” the former screams and practically bolts out of the living room area into a bedroom, running back to where you were with two socks in his hands.

Calling out to you, he holds one sock in each hand. “Tell me the colors of each sock!”

He’s so excited that it’s a struggle to keep your face completely deadpan, but you manage it for the sake of the punch line. You look at the socks for a while as if studying them closely and from your peripheral vision, you can already see that Hansol’s caught on and his fighting that adorable gummy smile of his from showing.

“This one,” you point to the sock in Mingyu’s left hand, “is gray.” Pointing to the other in his right, “And this one is dark gray.”

Hansol’s laughter is wild and roaring before you can even finish. His mouth is wide open, his eyes squinted from the laughter and he’s clapping like a monkey who’d just been told he’d won a lifetime supply of bananas. Grabbing your neck, Hansol pulls you in for some kind of hug that, really feels more like a wrestling move, his other hand snaking around your waist, pulling you flush to him and squeezing you. You laugh as you let him, your book discarded somewhere on the couch as your hands move to his head, ruffling the hair there.

“That’s right!” he laughs, your name mixing with his laughter, as he’s rubbing the hair on your head. To add insult to Mingyu’s injury, he continues at you, “I love your beautiful gray eyes too!”

The taller boy says nothing, his face twisting up in irritation as he throws the socks at you and Hansol as he glares at the two of you, a pile of tangled, laughing limbs.

"We love each other so much!” You say with sarcasm dripping from your tone, as you hook your leg along Hansol’s while he’s making sloppy, disgusting, and wet kissing sounds.

“You guys suck so much.” Is all Mingyu can retort, his bottom lip jutting out in what is probably the most convincing puppy dog pout both you and Hansol have ever seen.

“Aw, c’mon, Gyu, don’t be like that. You know we’re just playing with you.” Hansol laughs, putting on his best gummy smile and flashing it at him, trying to butter the taller male up, to no avail.

“Besides,” you add, siding with Hansol, “you know Sol and I are friends, serves you right trying to tease is like that.”

Hansol hugs your face into the crook of his neck, silencing you, muffling whatever words you plan to say next, and preventing from further irritating the already frustrated Mingyu.

“Just shut up and let me do the talking, you suck at getting on people’s good sides” Hansol whispers into your hair, muffled but just loud enough for you to hear.

You shake free of the headlock and look accusingly at him, “What the heck do you mean by that? I got on your good side, didn’t I?”

He gives you a barely convincing disgusted expression before saying, “I mean, did you? Did you really?”

Your jaw drops in mock disbelief and with your hands that are already wrapped around him, you reach for his ticklish spots which you know by heart. Laughing and desperately wriggling in an attempt to get free, Hansol tickles you right back, also knowing your weak spots by heart. You wrestle until both of you decide to call a truce, neither able to breathe or take the other down.

As yours and Hansol’s laughter dies down, Mingyu plops down on the couch next to the tangled mess of tired limbs which are you and Hansol. He ignores the two of you, grabbing the remote and casually flipping through the channels.

“Whatever.” He pipes up after a few seconds, “When you guys finally realize you’re in love, I’ll be right and you’re gonna eat your words.” His tone is so childish and butt-hurt that you almost expect him to stick his tongue out at both of you.

The mental image, along with his tone, have you on the brink of laughter as you desperately attempt to bite it down by physically biting down on your lower lip. Hansol notices your face, knowing full well what is going through your head by the looks of you tearing up from fighting your laughter so hard. His jaw drops in an open-mouthed silent laugh and just when his expression is about to drive you off the edge, he clamps a hand down on your mouth and hugs your head into the crook of his neck again with his free hand, the two of you shaking from the silent bubbles of laughter finally erupting.

Despite the way you both initially met, after countless late nights spent exploring your shared ideas on humanity and existence, you two had decided not to rush into anything, neither of you in any particular hurry to put a label on what you were. And while you were both obviously attracted to each other, the pressure of having to lock it down, wasn’t something that either of you felt looming above your heads.

It wasn’t so much that commitment was a big and daunting thing. It was just that everything was so effortless. You and Hansol both knew this. While most people feared destroying a good friendship with romantic feelings, Hansol was extremely chill, telling you honestly that he just wanted to be friends first and see where that would both take you. whatever it was that you two had simply flowed and ebbed like a river; wherever you turned he turned, wherever he was rocky and shaky, you easily followed suit, ridding the highs and lows with him. Simply being with each other, laughing, talking, it was always enough.

You were thankful for this arrangement, because despite having already experienced color, you were in no rush to do so again. If you were truly being honest with yourself—which admittedly most times, you were no good at—you knew the real reason you were so relieved he’d decided to keep things casual was because you were still wounded from the last time someone had loved you and only left you hurt. While most people were adamant about labels and defining their relationships, you were more than happy to be, and remain in the gray area—both visually and in your relationship with Hansol.

So when it starts, you don’t notice it at first. It’s slow and gradual, and with living day-to-day life, with Hansol practically always by your side, with the amount of sleepovers, parties, hangouts and movie nights you had, you barely picked up on it. You suppose color is sneaky like that. It’s isn’t glaringly obvious until it’s there, and it isn’t there until you notice it is. It creeps up on you, slowly trickling into your vision like poison, but once you saw it, it wasn’t something that could be ignored or unseen; like a burning car, once you had seen it, you just couldn’t look away.

It’s just a regular day when it happens. You’re walking down the street with Hansol and he’s talking animatedly, hands flailing and mouth wide, as he tells you about a new producer he’s met who wants to take him in as an apprentice. You’re watching him intently, unable to fight the smile that pulls on your lips as you watch him talk so passionately, completely in his own bubble as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist. That’s when you see it.

Just behind the gray of his hoody, peaking behind the gray of the looming buildings in the distance. The sky. Something bubbles up in your stomach, a familiar feeling you can’t quite name and don’t try to. You’re too focused on what you’re seeing. As you walk, your eyes are trained in the distance, as if trying to really scrutinize the clouds. They were the same kind of clouds you saw every day, gray and wide dancing in the expanse, but something was different today that you couldn’t quite place.

You almost stop right where you’re standing, his words meting away into the background noise, when you see it, really see it. It’s fairly light at first, like something playing on the edges of your vision, forcing you to chase it like something running at the corner of your eye. As elusive as it was, you could also feel it pulling all your attention, seemingly hypnotizing you. It’s barely there in your peripheral, but when you focus enough on the sight it’s unmistakable.

Blue.

A soft shed of pale blue brushes at the edges and seemingly melts into the gray expanse of your vision. If you hadn’t had color before, you probably wouldn’t have noticed it this early, but you recognize the color all too well, its vibrance becoming increasingly opaque the more you let yourself focus on it. Suddenly, the gray seems a little less gray and more tinted, like cellophane over your irises.

It’s beautiful.

You look to Hansol who is still talking, completely unaware as you match his stride. He and the rest of your vision is predominantly gray, save for tints of blues and hues caught in the corners of your eyes. Suddenly, as you watch him, you heart starts drumming in your chest, increasing in speed and crescendoing in your ears as you realize what’s happening and what this all means.

You were falling in love with him.

Oh, fuck.

2. Color is just a feeling; don’t get too carried away.

You should leave. You know this better than anyone. You have always been the most rational person you knew and every instinct and hair in your body is telling you to run. If your fight or flight instincts had their way, you’d be soaring miles from his tiny apartment; you would cut the proverbial chord before it strangled you, before something great turned into something horrible. So, two months later, when you are lying in Hansol’s bed with him, just talking, you wonder where all the rationality you’d prided yourself with has gone.

Neither of you were even naked, but lying like that, face to face, both of you with hands tucked under your head and talking about fearing failure and career paths, it was enough to get your head swimming. By this point, you could already see pretty much every color in the spectrum and Hansol was pretty much in color, save for his eyes and hair, along with some hues on his clothes that still remained relatively grey.

“I just don’t want to give it my everything and find out that I’m just no good, y’know?” Hansol’s warm breath brushes your face as he talks and you shut your eyes as you listen, desperately trying to ignore the existence of color and just wanting to be there for someone you cared about deeply.

“You are good, Sol.” You reassure him, opening your eyes and looking directly and only into his grey ones, “Your producer, she wouldn’t have taken you in if she didn’t think you weren’t good.”

“I knew you’d say that, but you’re just saying that ‘cause you love me though.” His words make your breath catch and you almost choke on it. You fight the fear and stress that rises in your chest, closing your eyes and slowing your heart rate down with deep steady breaths.

“I mean, okay, I’m good.” He continues and you’re thankful that he’s completely oblivious to your predicament. “But what if this is it? What if I’m just good and this is the best I could ever be?”

“What do I do if one day, I realize while I’m good, maybe I’m just not good enough to reach my dreams?” You listen intently to his words and focus only on the undertone of panic and sadness in his voice before opening your eyes to meet his deeply worried ones.

You’re quiet for a few seconds, watching him. All thoughts of color or hiding your feelings are out the window, and all you see is him. Your precious Hansol who is baring his soul to you, tormented by his thoughts and his aching heart. Thoughtlessly, your free hand reaches to cup his cheek and he closes his eyes, melting into your touch and leaning into it.

“Then you keep dreaming that same dream and keep working on yourself until you get it. Even if you think it won’t work out, I know you, Sol, you’d rather die trying than ever give up.”

You rub soft circles into the soft and supple skin of his cheek, “With a heart like that, how could you ever fail?” The words make his lids flutter open, then you see it.

Brown. His eyes are brown, and they are the most beautiful fucking thing I have ever seen.

He smiles, touched by your words, as you return the expression. You feel heat prickling your eyes and tears quickly filling them and slightly blurring your vision. You breathe out a shaky laugh, rolling your eyes to diffuse the moment and in an attempt to hide the tears you know he’s already noticed. “You’re turning me into a fucking softie, Sol, I swear to god.”

He laughs, taking you into his arms and pulling you flush against him, burying your head in his chest so he can no longer see your face, because he knew you hated letting anyone see you cry.

“Sorry.” He exhales the word into your hair through a laugh, “But seriously, what would I fucking do without you?”

“You’re the best.” And there they were. The three words that seemed to override any rational thought, any fear or better judgment you had. Three words you lived and breathed for, that kept you here, in his bed, in his arms every time you came to your senses and tried to run. The moment you heard them; you melted every time.

Breathing in his scent, you wrap your hands gently around his waist, returning the hug and letting the tears spill from your eyes. Game over. Your worst fear had finally come to fruition; not that there would be nothing left that you could do to fight this, but worse, that you didn’t want to.

The two of you fall asleep like that.

You are a really fucking good liar when you want to be, you realize; still perfectly playing the role of the wonderful doting best friend. Never mind that you’d often cry yourself to sleep on the rare nights you slept alone in your own apartment, or the lingering longing glances you gave Hansol when he wasn’t looking. As far as anyone was concerned, those moments of visceral lucidity did not exist. If you had been broken hearted over your unrequited love, there was absolutely no sign, none would be the wiser and you were going to keep it that way.

That aching heart, the lonely and isolating pang of jealousy you felt whenever women flirted with Hansol, the almost unbearable need to reach out for his pale hand as you walked down the street, the burn in your chest and on your skin that you felt whenever you two were alone and Hansol was in a particularly touchy and clingy mood—fuck ‘em. They weren’t real if you didn’t acknowledge them and this feeling wasn’t real as long as you didn’t say anything.

You’d die a thousand deaths in a million lifetimes before you let yourself ruin something as wonderful as your friendship with Hansol. So, you continue the charade, lying to Hansol, to your shared group of friends and even to yourself.

I’m fine, I’m okay. This is fine.

“Hey, so I have this gig tomorrow down at that bar where we first met, d’you remember the place?” Hansol’s question tears you from your thoughts and you take a few larger strides to match his pace. If he was paying more attention, which he usually did fairly well, he would have been taking smaller steps to match your pace, but since he was busy looking at the items on display as the two of you walked through the park bazaar, he was absentmindedly walking at his normal pace.

“Yeah, of course I remember.” You reply, now beside him, “Don’t think I could ever forget the day a stray decided to cling to me and never let go. By the way, his name was Hansol, if you were curious.”

“Oh, so I’m a puppy now?” He laughs.

“Seriously? A puppy, Sol? Don’t kid yourself. You’re not nearly as cute as puppy.” You quip, eying the small trinkets and pastries in the stalls.

“Har har, you’re so funny.” He rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile playing on his lips, “Why don’t you leave the witty remarks to me, huh?”

“Okay, Mr. Rapper-Man-Who-Walks-Way-Too-Fast-For-His-Friend.” You joke, bequeathing him with a new title on the spot.

Finally, he looks up at you from the various goods, and gives you a sheepish gummy smile. “Oh shit, sorry.”

You laugh, “It’s okay, you big loser. Just stop leaving me behind.”

“Here,” he raises his elbow, offering it to you, “so that I don’t forget to walk slower and so that you don’t get left behind. It’s a win-win, loser.”

You don’t hesitate to link your arm with his own. It’s nothing, friends can do this kind of thing, you tell yourself, it would have been more suspicious if you’d declined and made it a weird thing.

Arms now linked, the two of you resume walking and talking—Hansol being the one doing most of the latter, telling you about his gig.

“Anyway, my producer said they were so impressed with my demo, they wanted me to—Hey, look!” He stops walking, the abrupt stop causing you to jerk as you get caught in his arm.

“This is really pretty,” He holds up the scarf to your hair, as if to check if it matched. He was always like this, mister fashion expert, always offering advice on what looked nice with what kind of shape or style, of course, despite the fact that he was practically blind to color.

“Lavender really brings out the color of your eyes and it matches your outfit...” He trails off, eyes widening. His mouth opens and closes without a sound like a fish, he shakes his head and the panic that’s all over his face makes him look even paler than he usually is. It looks like he’s about to throw up before something shifts in his eyes. His shoulders sag as he sighs and he closes his mouth resolutely, his eyes lingering sadly at you, then to the ground in shame.

You gaze at his face that’s now completely crestfallen, your expression of surprise plastered to your face for seconds that, to Hansol, seem to last forever. Fighting the elation that bubbles up from your stomach and fills your chest, your eyes dart everywhere except to Hansol’s face which you can’t bear to see so dejected for even another second. You look through the various items on sale, arm still linked through his and lightly tugging him along with you, until you find the perfect one.

“This!” you practically shout, making Hansol flinch and pulling him out of his deflated state. In your hand you hold it up to his face, a navy-blue beanie. “I think this will go really well with the blue undertones in your hair,” you smile sheepishly hoping he would get the message, “y’know since you dyed it silver last month.”

He stares at you, beanie in hand, his face expressionless and his eyes wide but unreadable. You worry that maybe he hadn’t gotten the hint and so you turn to the other various things on sale and pick up a phone case. “And this, this uh,” you look at the bright yellow phone case, “really brings out the brown of your eyes?”

It was a stretch you had to admit, and suddenly you felt absolutely embarrassed. Nice going, real smooth, you thought. Hansol unlinks his arm from yours and the action, along with his accompanying laugh cuts through your thoughts and completely catches you off guard. The sound makes you panic, simultaneously making your heart race and your stomach drop.

You start to spiral, putting the items down as your mind raced a hundred miles per hour. Oh shit, did I read it wrong? Maybe he was just kidding? Fuck, was he just puling a prank and I—before you can spiral any further, you feel the warmth of his palms on either side of your face, thumbs rubbing your cheeks in soothing motions and forcing you to look into the dazzling brown of his eyes.

“I got it the first time,” He smiles as he says your name, once again flashing that heart-melting gummy smile of his, this time even more disarming and seemingly brighter than you had ever seen it. He was smiling fully, with completely abandon, to the point that it looked like maybe it hurt.

“I’m not stupid, y’know.” The lighthearted comment catches you, once again off guard, making you laugh.

“Really? I didn’t notice since you’re always being a dumbass.”

“By the way,” his hands are still gently cupping either side of your face, “it’s pretty bold of you to assume that you’re the one I’m in love with?” He mocks, echoing his words from the night you two first met.

Surprised but not thrown off by his words, you pretend to play along and give him a taste of his own medicine. Feigning shock and dismay, you back away slightly but not enough for him to untangle himself from you, “It’s not like you hang out with any other girls, but—oh god,” you gasp, and his eyes widen. You can tell from his face that he thinks his joke has gone too far and he’s about to clarify the joke, but you beat him to it, “Don’t tell me you’re in love with Seungkwan?”

His worry immediately dissipates and he’s back to laughing, albeit there’s a slight fake annoyance in his expression as he rolls his eyes and grabs you in a playful chokehold.

“Fuck you, okay,” he laughs, “Just fuck you.”

“Serves you right, you fuckin’ loser!” You laugh despite his grip on you, “I can’t believe I’m in love with such a fucking asshole.”

Loosening his grip and letting you stand, but still keeping his hands on you, he looks you in the eyes and firmly tells you, “I’m in love with you too, you’ve brought color to my life.”

It takes a second before the very intense but tender moment sinks in for both of you, before you simultaneously crinkle your noses and exclaim, “ew.”

“That was too much, Sol.”

“Ugh, I know right, sorry,” he says, slinging his arm around your shoulders as you finally resume walking, “I thought it would be romantic and cute like in the movies, they always make it so good.”

“That’s why those are movies, Sol,” you intertwine your fingers with the hand that he has around your shoulders, “If you ever do that again, I’ll punch you in the dick.”

“Honestly, I would let you.” He nods, and you both laugh.

Fin.

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