Bakugou asks you to join him during one of his photoshoots for a pro hero campaign. he doesn’t understand the point of it, nor why he has to only be in his underwear, but he doesn’t mind it much when he gets to look over to your shy little face.
you’re propped up in a corner on an old couch, laptop perched in your lap, its glare bright despite the way you never really look at it. you’re supposed to be catching up on some work, but you’ve been distracted by the glorious sight that is the love of your life.
when he looks at you, do you duck down, eyes suddenly focused on your screen again. it only makes him smile a little, step away from the assistant of the photographer who comes up to him, calls out your name.
“Huh?” your head whips up with a quickness neither of you expect, goes to show just how invested you really were with your work. but Bakugou only grins at you now, jerking his chin over to you as he grabs the bottle of oil the assistant was trying to pour over him.
“C’mere and gimme a hand, won’t ya?” he asks you, boyish smile gracing his face as he tilts his head at you. immediately, your face warms as you put together the request that’s suddenly dropped in your lap. everyone in the studio looks at you, with both envious and excited gazes, and it only makes you shrink in on yourself.
“I hate you.” you mutter under your breath when you finally rise up from your place on the couch, which he somehow hears. but Bakugou only laughs at you, grabs you by the waist when you’re close enough to kiss you breathless in front of everybody, before he’s handing off the oil to you.
“Such an attention whore,” you whisper when you’re close, the air between the two of you thick. everyone tries to look away, give you guys a bit of privacy, but it’s hard when such a soft and amused look passes over the usually rough and hardened hero’s face.
“Only for your attention.” he grunts back to you, holding his arms out for you to start dripping the oil down his skin. it’s a sensual gesture, the softness between you two sliding into something more, something that you only ever reserve for the bedroom.
you tip the bottle over his shoulders until it drips down his chest, massaging it all in with your hands in crude, circular motions. you can see the way he bites his lip, ignore the way he looks at you down the bridge of his nose lest you two create a scene not meant for the public eye. you gather more oil, warm it between your palms, kneeling in front of him to help massage it into the defined muscles of his stomach.
you ignore the twitch in front of you, swallowing thickly, glancing up to Bakugou who hasn’t taken his eyes off of you yet. you mouth at him to behave, but he only grins, something feral.
“We only need it above the waistband.” the photographer suddenly calls out, snapping you back to attention. you stand on shaky knees, nodding with your eyes casted low, ashamed, that your freak of a man had you doing something so…so—
“Go wait in my dressing room, yeah?” Bakugou asks you, pulling you in close to peck at the corner of your mouth. “Gonna wrap this shit up.” he promises you, and you can only nod silently, mind going a mile a minute. but before you go, you remember to grab the oil. just in case.
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Inquiring minds want to see your take...8 INT Tav meets Haarlep in the Boudoir.
asjdaksjdasd oh my god okay, well obviously taking massive inspiration from your og: 8 INT Tav
this got... impossibly long. don't blame me, blame the two competing peacocks.
Raphael rematerializes within the familiar walls of his bedroom, still pinching the bridge of his nose. He normally prefers to arrive at the front hall, to allow his servants to see and feel his presence in their midst, but today… He’ll grant himself an allowance, just this once. A familiar rustle of wings unfurling has him spinning around, looking for the slightest opening to lash out and satisfy even some portion of his wounded pride. He is not kept waiting long.
Haarlep’s mockingly dulcet voice lilts out of the shadows across the room, eyes alight with glee. “How was the visit with your dear paramour, Unseelie lord?”
Raphael raises a clawed fist in their direction, discordant notes like distant screams gathering at the tips. Haarlep leans forward with anticipation, the byplay between them familiar if not yet entirely banal. Just before he releases it, tips them over the edge into simple violence that might ease but not soothe the indignity he has suffered today – and every day since meeting that impertinent, irritating girl – a thought strikes him. He grins, slow and toothy.
Haarlep is far too accomplished a fiend to do anything so obvious as blanch, but they do blink twice in rapid succession, a clear sign of their startlement from one who knows them as well as he. It is not often that he misses a step in their masquerade.
Letting the accrued magic dissipate entirely, Raphael raises his hands to his mouth in an expression of carefree thought, a fine and cutting edge to it that he knows the other feels.
“Why, how delightfully cordial of you to ask after her, Haarlep. In fact, she has been doing the same, nigh incessantly!” He watches the other’s face with barely-hidden glee, tracking every visible micro-expression.
Another blink. Confusion. Haarlep doesn’t see the game yet. And, after all, how could they? That girl is absolutely incalculable. Raphael soothes his vexation with the thought that, at least this time, he can make someone else play the victim to her unique form of nescience.
A brief mantling of the wings. They have determined their gambit then. With a sultry movement of their arm, Haarlep gestures to themself. “But of course! Who could possibly resist such a delicacy in truth? I am glad to hear the little darling has come to her senses and reconsidered.”
Raphael lets them preen, their eyes still watchful behind their long lashes, a moment longer, then claps his hands sharply.
“That’s settled then. I’ll be just a moment, and then the two of you can get reacquainted.” He lets some portion of his own power rise around him for just a moment. No need to put too fine a point on it. “And, Haarlep? I do expect you to give a more proper welcome to guests of the House in future.”
Haarlep looks away for that moment, a pretense at nonchalance, but Raphael trusts his message has been received. He discorporates himself with a moment’s thought, feeling a malefic cheer rising as he considers the treat in store for him.
Haarlep remains where they stand, loath to cede more ground and mistrustful of this turn of their little brat’s whims. They cast back to their first, brief meeting with the subject of his – unwitting and unwilling – current attentions, but nothing materializes that could explain the specific turn of his disposition. She had been too insipid to intrigue, yet somehow survived her visit unscathed where countless others had not.
Their thoughts are suspended by the familiar metaphysical crackle that heralds the rematerialization of Raphael’s preferred method of conveyance. This time, he does not arrive alone. Held stiff and distrustful within the loose circle of his arms is… her. The moment she sets her eyes on Haarlep, they go limpid and soft.
Raphael speaks, face inscrutable but voice tremulous with his mirth, “See, dear one, I told you I’d had a… crisis of conscience. You’ve worn me down with your keen moral arguments, and I’m prepared to… see sense, and let you speak to Haarlep again.”
Haarlep blinks, genuinely caught off guard for one of the first times in recent memory. What… is going on.
The girl steps forward, turning back to give Raphael a solemn, approving look, before approaching Haarlep tentatively. It is, however, not with the understandable caution they are accustomed to from mortals, but rather underpinned by something saccharine and soppy. Their well-honed survival instincts prick at them as she opens her mouth, warning them without even a bare moment to flee that whatever comes out of it will be harrowing indeed.
“I know, Haarlep. I know what you are.” She reached out toward them with supplicant hands. “You aren’t stuck here. You can be free.”
Haarlep blinks once, then again. “... What.”
She elaborates, but does not in any way elucidate. “I’ve seen this before, you know. It’s not hopeless. Whatever these fey have told you, your nature does not make you one of them. You belong on the Material Plane, with others like you.”
Behind her, Raphael’s face begins to crack into a grin worthy of a true fiend. Haarlep’s distrust is growing exponentially with each passing moment. They paste on a smile and lean forward, “Others… like me. And just what would those others be, little interloper?”
“Oh, Haarlep…” To his stark disgust, a single tear drips from one eye. Gleeful micro-vibrations emanate from Raphael, propagating a shimmering haze around him.
She continues on, after a brief pause in which she stares at him mournfully, “A changeling, of course. I’m so sorry you’ve fallen prey to their lies, that you had to find out this way.”
She clenches her fist, a mawkish determination filling her entire body. “I’ll find a way to free you. I promise.”
[Haarlep.exe has stopped responding.]
On the resounding heels of the vacuum left by her pronouncement, Raphael vibrates himself into the wall of the next room over. His cackling still reaches them unimpeded.
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