*°• Moonlit •°*

open. indie. multimuse.

feat BNHA, Tokyo Revengers, GoT, Fruits Basket, Castlevania & others

MUSE LIST FOR MOBILE

The teacup halfway to his lips never quite makes it to its destination, instead, it lowers again with painstaking care until porcelain meets the table without so much as a clink. Kazuma is not an easily overwhelmed individual, but in this moment, the swell of emotion that bursts unexpectedly in his chest is almost dizzying.

Kyou wants to get married.

His gaze overflows with pride, mingled with something achingly bittersweet. There had been a time not so long ago, when his son couldn't imagine a future beyond surviving the next day. Now, he's facing the rest of forever, alongside the girl he loves, and more importantly, who loves him back.

Kazuma's hands fold loosely in his lap, allowing Kyou the dignity of not commenting on the crimson staining his visage, though the sight is endearing enough that it takes genuine effort for his smile not to widen further.

"I don't think there's such a thing as a perfect place." He admits after a thoughtful pause. "People spend so much time trying to make it memorable that they forget why they're asking. If Tohru is the person you want to spend your life with, then she'll remember your sincerity far longer than she'll remember whether there were cherry blossoms or candlelight."

Hatori is a kind young man, he always has been. Nevertheless, Kazuma knows that if he were milk, he would have been well and truly curdled by the dragon's sour tone. The dojo master knows better than to probe, really, but just because he is guardian to Kyou, and on occasion some of the other children, does not diminish his concern for the cursed adults--On the contrary, their family doctor seems in dire need of reprieve more than most. 

"There's nothing to forgive, Hatori kun, I have known you long enough that I can tell the difference between impatience and cruelty." That was not the latter.

His gaze falls solemnly to the steam rising between them, thoughtful. "Kyou has always had a talent for convincing himself that if he feels well enough to train, then he must be perfectly healthy. I suspect he believes avoiding this house somehow postpones the possibility of hearing something he'd rather not."

The realisation he's been caught longingly staring settles like wet mud, prompting a prickling heat to creep traitorously up the column of his neck, flushing his alabaster skin in a furious pink. Wonderful, of all the humiliating ways to spend an afternoon, being caught absentmindedly ogling the resident orange idiot ranks surprisingly high.

"I thought I saw a thought forming in that vapid head of yours..."

Yuki folds his arms across his chest in elegant fashion, the shield of cool indifference he's honed to perfection over years anchored into his features.

"I've yet to reach a definitive conclusion, stand still a little longer."

The faintest splash of dark pink creeps along the shell of his ears as Hitoshi violently veers his gaze sidewards with a quiet, awkward huff.

"I know." He mutters under his breath, pulling at a loose thread from one of his hero uniform sleeves while avoiding direct eye contact with Kaminari at all cost. "Why would you be?" A crooked, self conscious smile lines his lips, pressing them into a thin, tense line.

Hatsuharu considers Kyou's charges donning his usual blank expression, unaware that unloading a whopping ten minute's worth of high school gripes was going to cost him. That's a first...he's never considered the cat to be a businessman type, sneaky sneaky Kyou. He pats at both his pockets before turning them inside out with theatrical disappointment. 

"Damn." Haru exhales a soft sigh. "I only brought thirteen dollars and seventy five cents." He offers a casual shrug, clearly unbothered by his lacking funds.

The night's hunt concludes with clouds of dust settling back into the cemetery paths now that the last vampire had been reduced to nought but ashes. Alucard slips his sword back into its sheath with the graceful fluidity of someone who has repeated the same motion for centuries, golden hues drifting to Buffy as she poses the question.

The request itself is simple enough, the word however, still belongs to this bewildering century rather than his own. Naturally, he's seen the brightly lit storefronts, sniffed at the admittedly heavenly scent of baking crust and melted cheese wafting onto the street whenever they pass one, but had yet to be tempted enough to step inside and sample the popular dish. His gloved digits, still dusted with ash, come to rest at his hilt as he considers her offer.

"If that is what you would choose after a patrol, then I see no reason to object."

Neji's palm hovers, suspended mid air against the weather worn timber of a training post. The afternoon sun filtered through the leaves of the surrounding trees, casting dappled shadows across his bare shoulders. Each breath he inhales is calm, controlled, despite the thin sheen of sweat glistening on his skin, tracing the contours of his defined musculature. 

Shikamaru.

Curious as to what brings him here, Neji casts a glance over one shoulder, his Byakugan activated gaze seeking out the other shinobi.

"You might enjoy it even more if you come closer." Neji beckons with a single, curling motion of a bandaged index, reaching for the towel draped over a low hanging branch nearby. He drags it across the back of his neck, wiping away the evidence of his exertion.

Haru glances down as though he's only just now noticing the presence of the oversized shirt hanging off one of his shoulders, its hem easily reaching far below his waist. 

Touya is so tall.

He pinches the fabric between two fingers, studying it with exaggerated concentration, the pad of his thumb tracing the seam with deliberate slowness before shooting Touya a wide and disarmingly vacant stare.

"...No."

"This is a shirt....It just happens to resemble your shirt." The ox tilts his head with complete, unwavering innocence that is not to be trusted, the movement causing the shirt to slip further down his shoulder, exposing the pale curve.

Woah…What…Wait…Whaaat?

Dino's eyes grow wide, a deer caught in headlights. He blinks, once, twice…

"...I'm sorry?"

The question slips out before his brain garners the chance to remind him that this is Hatori asking. Hatori, who happens to be his family doctor, who has undoubtedly asked that exact same question to hundreds of patients without attaching a single thought to it beyond clinical necessity.

Unfortunately, out of nowhere, Dino's brain also suddenly catches up with a revelation that's been lurking in the shadows for months. He's been blind, willfully or otherwise, and now the truth hits him like a freight train; ah, his doctor is…kind of handsome.

Really handsome...shit.

His jaw tightens as a hot flush creeps up his neck, threatening to stain his cheeks a telltale pink.

"...Right." He laughs, the sound too loud and too forced, bouncing off the sterile white walls with a hollow ring. "Of course, a physical exam. That's...what doctors do."

His fingers scramble for the hem of his shirt, curling around the fabric as though to lift it, but then freeze mid motion, mind drawing a complete blank on how disrobing actually works. Dino forces the dry lump lodged in the back of his throat down with an audible gulp!

"See, I'd love to, Hatori…"