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mysteriouslyme221b · 1 year

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I'm writing a fic for me, you are welcome to my mindscape.

Based off the line from Mulan 2 " Crickey, I'm gonna break them up!"

Idk where this story is going I have no plan I'm writing and we'll see. This is for me, but please feel free to leave a comment.

" Good moring!" Layla says rather loud and enthusiastically to another student as they all slowly trickle into the class.

Layla is young, 22 year old. She is also a teacher in her home town. Layla never thought teaching would be her calling, but she is really amazing at it and seeing her head start kids recognize words and have fewer bathroom accidents brings more joy then she ever thought possible.

Layla has always been young at heart, although she is in her early twenties, she is still mistaken for a student at the school. Often hearing the tell tale " Why aren't you in class?", from another teacher who isn't familiar with her always makes her laugh and roll her eyes.

Layla teaches head start, it's a program for low income kids to start school a year early so that the child and parent feel prepared for the start of kindergarten. Although head start is an excellent program that all families wish to send their child to and can.

When Layla started her new position at the school, just a few months prior, the room they gave her was obviously used as summer storage. The room was essentially a blank canvas, meaning she could freely arrange the room without the input of the teachers who have been there longer. Hopefully.

As soon as she finished placing the last chair and cleaning the dust off, there was a knock at her door. It was Principal Barkely, the man who hired Layla, smiling with what looked like two paper to go cups and a large box of some sort.

During the interview with Principal Barkely, Layla got the sense that he found her attractive. Being the beautiful young women she is, she got this vibe from many people all the time.

Layla likes to say she was never pretty until the day of her graduation. She was 17 at the time, and her father told her she was beautiful. After that day, she started to pay attention to how clothes fit and hung on her body. This unfortunately led to a horrible eating disorder. However, with her mother being a well-respected and well-known nurse in this small town, it was easy for her to set up an in home rehab for her little girl.

Layla mom always told her she was amazing. Her father always told her she was his favorite. However, neither her mom nor her dad ever commented on her beauty for the simple reason that they thought their daughter knew just how beautiful she is. She didn't.

Now, in her twenties and one failed relationship in her back pocket, Layla is aware of just how beautiful she is. And how beauty can attract the worst kind of people.

Layla has beautiful tan skin. It's the shade of khaki but brighter, and her undertones are red, pink, and deep chocolate. She has amazing full lips that are chocolate lined and plump red that deepens when she bites them. Her hair is wild, with curls and coils. Having bleached, dyed, cut, and shaved it, it continues to bounce back stronger than before. She is on the short side, being 5'2, with wide hips and a flatter stomach. She is a natural beauty. )She hasn't gone to a gym since sinor year, and she hopes to keep in that way. )

So when her new boss walked into her classroom, that is coincidentally down the hall from the principals office, she knew boundaries were going to have to be set in place.

"Hi!" She greeted happily, not wanting to come off as rude if he was just being friendly.

" Hello, I see you have been more than busy" Mr. Barkely looked around in amazement.

He knew what the old storage room looked like before he hired you. Although he did offer to have a janitor or two help you move things. You told him you wouldn't want to bother them, with the school year fast approaching. Layla was hired last minute as, the previous teacher hired quit with zero explanation.

" Yes, like I said. I'm a hard worker, a fast learner, and I love creating a base love for learning in young children." You said just as you practiced the morning of your interview.

" I moved some old cabinets, to the other storage. I kept a few for art supplies, a place for extra clothes, and sheets, blankets, and cots for nap." Layla begins to explain but Mr. Barkley waves her off with a smile.

" You don't have to explain anything to me..." he starts.

"This was storage if anything had a name that's one thing. " Layla starts to shake her head, going back to think if anything had a name, but she was sure nothing did.

"But you were and still are free to anything you see. I want you to feel comfortable and welcome." He said as he smiled.

Layla smiled in return and swiped her hand across her forehead. It was still August, nearing the end, but that didn't stop the heat.

" Speaking of feeling welcome," Mr Barkely raises the items balanced in his hands, " Don't worry, it's not coffee, it's ice tea to help with the heat." He chuckles.

Layla walks over tword Mr. Barkely, reaching her hand out for the cup. " Thank you, Mr. Barkely." Layla says in a sigh truly thankful, for the drink.

She had come in early, around 6:30 in the morning. She slipped in with a janitor after some convincing that she was indeed a teacher and not a kid wanting to pull a prank. Unfortunately, this meant that she had been working non-stop, for what seemed like maybe a few hours. But when she checked the clock she cleaned and put fresh batteries in at 8, it told her it was now 1:30 in the afternoon.

As she accepted the drink, she could smell what was in the box before she saw. Pizza. It was from her favourite shop downtown.

" Also, a little something to eat, I asked around to see when you got here, and they told me it was early. I saw that you hadn't stopped to eat, so lunch!" He said a little breathless and happy. Layla appreciated the sentiment and motioned over to her new desk and one of the many empty chairs for him to join her.

Layla and Mr. Barkely talked for a minute. Mostly small, talk and some lesson planning.

When she looked at the clock again and noticed it was now 2:15, the pizza was all crust and ger tea was gone.

" Well, would you look at that." She started to say with a yawn. " I have been here almost a full 8 hours! If this is how time works in this building, the school year is gonna fly right by!" Lalya exclaimed .

Mr Barkely turned his head to the clock that hung above the door, and nodded with a frown. " I don't want to keep you any longer, but I do have something else to talk to you about." He started. Layla shifted in her seat, hoping nothing was wrong.

" Because, of what happened woth the teacher prior to you. We canceled the head start program. However, after we hired you, a new list of students started and the old list was forgotten." He looked at Layla trying to say without saying a huge mistake was made.

" So," he continued, " with this being a small town word got around and the parents of the students from the first list are demanding ' first come, first served and they are correct. So the class size for you have unfortunately doubled and you will need an assistant. "

This wasn't bad news at all, maybe a little nerve racking to Layla at first having never had a class size over 10.

" So how many, lovely dovley's are we talking about?" She asked in a little chuckle.

" So far 20, but with an assistant you can have up to 25." Your eyes widening. " They would all alternate days, so you wouldn't have more than 12, but it's gonna be tight ."

Layla is ok with this. She doesn't have much choice. " ok, so who is my assistant?" Layla is curious and hopes whoever they are, likes how she set up the class.

" Again with this all being last minute, the assistant gym teacher, Victor, will be in with you. For the time being, at least. "

Layla loves this idea, a gym teacher has energy and probably very easy going. She hates having children at tables all day. She hates, being at tables all day, so this will bring a little extra energy to the classroom.

Smiling, she says, " I can't wait to meet him!"

#self serve fic #yandere #black characters #black reader #teacher fic

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stiltonbasket · 3 months

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If you do Bingyuan prompts:

Bingge discovering/realizing that his children’s beloved head teacher is the friendly Shizun from the other world would be a delight!

(Shen Yuan with a miniature army of tiny heavenly demon children who adore him is just super cute!)

By the age of twenty-five, Luo Binghe possessed—or thought he possessed—all the wealth and treasures in the world that a man could want. His vengeance upon the Cang Qiong Mountain sect was complete, the mountain range burned and its peak lords slain but for the master of Qian Cao Peak and Qi Qingqi, whom he had spared for Liu Mingyan’s sake—and he had long since established himself as Emperor of the demon realm, with no small amount of influence in the world he was born to by virtue of his marriage to the Little Palace Mistress, Hua Zhihan.

But then—half-way through his twenty-seventh year, and three years after the construction of his great fortress close to Huan Hua Palace—he stumbled through a rent in the very skin of the world and found himself back upon Qing Jing Peak, cradled in the arms of a man who wore the face of Luo Binghe’s hated shizun.

He had hardly been there an hour before he discovered that that Shen Qingqiu had been nothing like the jealous fiend who tormented Luo Binghe in his youth. On the contrary, he had welcomed Luo Binghe into his home and bed like a new bride reuniting with her husband at the end of a long day’s work; and for several months after Luo Binghe returned to his own palace in the demon realm, he found no satisfaction in his endless riches, or the tens of wives in his harem.

He spent a full season hunting for that Shen Qingqiu in his own world afterwards, for he knew somehow that the living Shen Qingqiu who had married the other Luo Binghe and his own former Shizun were not one and the same. The Shen Qingqiu Luo Binghe knew had nothing in common with that man other than his face, and even that had been so altered by the spirit living behind it that Luo Binghe had not recognized him as Shen Qingqiu at first sight; but the other Luo Binghe reminded him a great deal of his own child-self, and how single-mindedly he had loved Ning Yingying in those early days at Cang Qiong.

But years went by, and Luo Binghe found nothing—no shadow or trace of that gentle Shen Qingqiu, whether living or dead—and at last, he drank himself sick on dragon-blood wine and unburdened himself to Ning Yingying, confessing that nothing under the sun had brought him joy since that one jewel-bright day with Shen Qingqiu three summers earlier.

Of course, he did not breathe a word about what had actually happened—for Yingying and the others believed that the strange, bewildered husband who stumbled into the hougong that day was none other than Luo Binghe himself, and he had never seen fit to disabuse them of the notion—but she seemed to understand that the better part of his life’s joy had left him, and said:

“A-Luo, if we sisters can’t make you happy as we used to anymore, do you think—do you think a child might make you happy? We’ve been married for nearly ten years, and I hoped…”

Luo Binghe thought for a moment, still dizzy from the six pots of wine he drank with his evening meal; and amid the soft haze clouding his thoughts, he realized that he would have died of envy if the poor imitation of himself from the other world had had a child with his Shen Qingqiu.

But the only children he had seen on Qing Jing Peak that day were a handful of young disciples in their early teens, far too old to belong to that pitiful Luo Binghe. It struck him that this was something that other Luo Binghe could never have—must never have, lest Luo Binghe know what had happened and find his way back to that dream-world to quell his jealousy by ripping his other self limb from limb—and then—

“It might not be a bad idea,” he heard himself say. “What about Yingying? Would you like a child?”

“Very much,” Yingying whispered, taking Luo Binghe’s hand.

Their first daughter, Suoxin, was born the next year; and when the head taiyi placed her in Luo Binghe’s arms, a tiny mote of the tumult in his soul grew calm, and never returned to trouble him again.

The birth of Suoxin’s younger sister Changying followed exactly a hundred days later, for Hua Zhihan had demanded a child of her own as soon as she heard that Ning Yingying was pregnant, and Luo Binghe saw no reason to refuse her. Several of his lesser wives had attempted to follow suit, but he was adamant that no children should be born to them until the children born of his five chief wives had safely reached the age of about three or four: especially after the tragedy that accompanied the birth of Luo Binghe’s first son.

The taiyi later discovered that his mother—Qin Wanyue, who had suffered a miscarriage at Sha Hualing’s hands some six years earlier—had been born with a deformation in one of the chambers of her heart; and due to her general good health and the strengthening effects of her cultivation, Wanyue never noticed it. But her cultivation was not sufficient to protect her from the strain of childbirth; and scarcely five minutes after the baby took his first breath, Qin Wanyue drew her last, dying without knowing anything more of her child than a single, snatched glimpse of his small red face.

The infant was given the name Luo Nianzu, in remembrance of his mother, and handed over to Liu Mingyan to raise. Mingyan had not wanted a child of her own, though she was more than willing to bring Nianzu up in Wanyue’s stead.

And in the wake of Qin Wanyue’s passing, Luo Binghe vowed to himself that he would never sire another child. He had been the instrument of her ruin, wittingly or not: and with three healthy heirs, of whom one was a boy, he refused to risk a second death in the harem.

But his resolve had not hampered Sha Hualing’s plans: and in truth, Luo Binghe should have known better than to expect otherwise. One night, she took Xin Mo from the stand beside his bed and stabbed Luo Binghe straight through the shoulder—rather more ferociously than usual, he thought—and absconded from the palace with three phials full of his spilt blood, returning a fortnight later with a fat baby boy swaddled in one of her own silk veils.

“Did you give birth to him?” Luo Binghe frowned, after he tasted the child’s blood mites and found that they were nearly identical to his own. “You were only gone for two weeks.”

Sha Hualing only laughed at him, and asked that he give their son a name. Luo Binghe named him Shunlei, with the shun for obedience and the lei for thunder; and though Hualing took the hint at once, she was so well-pleased with Shunlei’s name that Hua Zhihan spent the next month sulking about it.

The three years that followed Shunlei’s arrival were peaceful ones, for the demon realm had been brought to heel with Sha Hualing’s aid, and Mobei-jun grew more ruthless towards Luo Binghe’s enemies with every passing day. Yingying and Mingyan governed the harem both kindly and firmly, calming any disputes among the lesser wives and punishing those whose bids for favor put their sisters in danger; and they never faltered in their duty to the little ones, so that Luo Binghe went untroubled by the children’s needs until Liu Mingyan declared that Suoxin and Changying were old enough to begin studying with a trained taifu.

“I already have a candidate in mind,” she said to him over dinner one evening. “Will my lord permit me to look after the arrangements myself?”

“I don’t see why not,” Luo Binghe replied. “Do what you must. Only ensure that the taifu is well educated, and knows how to teach little children without frightening them.” One Shen Qingqiu was bad enough, after all.

And so, preparations went forth for the children’s education. Liu Mingyan wrote to the prospective taifu, who accepted the offer of employment and asked for a month to settle his affairs before moving to the palace; and Yingying began teaching Nianzu and Shunlei how to read, in the hope that the taifu would agree to instruct them alongside Suoxin and Changying.

Luo Binghe, having nothing further to do with the matter, left for the northern desert with Mobei-jun and Sha Hualing.

Linguang-jun had decided to rebel against his nephew’s rule again, and Luo Binghe was weary of indulging him. In the aftermath of Shang Qinghua’s betrayal, he and Mobei-jun had both decided that Linguang-jun’s continued existence was far more trouble than it was worth.

All told, he remained away from the palace for over two moons. When he finally returned, in midsummer, he went straight to his own courtyard and slept for three days without moving a muscle.

And then he awoke, and heard a soft strain of qin music issuing from the other side of the wall.

Luo Binghe froze.

That courtyard was meant to be empty; it had been empty since the day it was built, eight months after he met that other world’s Shen Qingqiu. Luo Binghe had filled its four rooms with books and bamboo furniture, and even the double bed in the inner chamber had been a replica of the one the other Shizun slept upon—and the courtyard’s little garden had a pavilion with a built-in table for a qin, since the construction of that Shizun’s house and garden made it plain that he liked to practice out of doors.

Who had dared set foot in that courtyard while Luo Binghe was absent?

Hua Zhihan? Qin Wanrong? Certainly not Yingying or Liu Mingyan; it resembled the living quarters at Qing Jing far too closely for either of them to find any peace there.

Trembling with fury, he pulled on the robes he was wearing last night and rushed over to the adjoining courtyard, where he stopped short at the threshold of its white-painted moon gate and gaped at the spectacle awaiting him within.

There was a man sitting at the qin table in the pavilion—a man, in the compound where Luo Binghe lived with his wives—playing a rearrangement of “Flowing Waters,” with Luo Shunlei on his lap. Suoxin and Changying were seated on either side of him, armed with child-sized guqins of their own, and Nianzu was nestled against the man’s shoulder, asleep.

And his face—

Luo Binghe had never seen such a face before. It was not the face of Shen Qingqiu—not the Shen Qingqiu he knew, at any rate—but the light in his eye and the warmth of his voice as he spoke to Suoxin were very like that Shen Qingqiu’s, though Luo Binghe noticed that there was a shade of difference between the two.

He is older, Luo Binghe realized at once, as his heart thundered inside him. The other Shen Qingqiu was young, judging by his manner—perhaps forty, at the very oldest—and my Shizun never even reached the age of fifty.

The other Shizun had worn green, he remembered. He preferred the same clean-cut style of dress that Luo Binghe’s shizun liked to wear, and of course their bodies and faces had been the same, as well; but this man wore s different face entirely, and his worn silk robes were a clean, stark white, like the garments of the wandering rogue cultivators who used to pass through Luo Binghe’s hometown when he was a boy.

The trappings of his flesh made no difference, however.

Luo Binghe knew him for what he was at first sight.

It struck him then that this must be the taifu Liu Mingyan selected for the children. He could not fathom why she would have housed an imperial tutor in the hougong, of all places: but now that he was here, Luo Binghe would rather walk through the Endless Abyss again than permit him to leave.

Luo Binghe could have stood in the doorway and stared at him for a lifetime; but then the taifu looked up and clambered to his feet, tugging the little girls along with him. Shunlei remained where he was, gripping the soft front of the taifu’s gown like a baby monkey clinging to its mother’s back; and Nianzu, securely balanced on the taifu’s hip, slept on without noticing that the man had moved at all.

“My lord,” the taifu said, bowing. “This humble servant offers his—”

“Xin’er greets Father!” Luo Suoxin cut in, glancing up at her teacher for approval. “Did I do it right, Shizun?”

“Yes, except for the part where you interrupted me first,” the taifu laughed. “Go on, Changying.”

Luo Changying nodded and stepped forward.

“Chang’er greets Father,” she said, rather more gracefully than Suoxin.

“Well done,” said the taifu. “Now, Shunlei…?”

Shunlei blinked and tightened his grasp on the taifu’s robes.

“A-Shun is hungry,” he complained, refusing to meet Luo Binghe’s eyes. “Shizun, snack time.”

Luo Binghe bit back a smile. This man was somehow more indulgent with his young charges than the other Shizun had been, and the sight of him holding Nianzu and Shunlei was so desperately sweet that Luo Binghe nearly reached out and touched him.

“Daozhang is the new taifu, I suppose?” Luo Binghe asked instead, taking another step forward. “Your name?”

The taifu nodded.

“This one is called Zhu Qinglan, my lord,” he replied, trying in vain to coax Shunlei down to the ground. “Now, A-Shun, my good little disciple…”

“Shunshun won’t look at him,” the baby insisted, his little voice muffled in the folds of Zhu Qinglan’s coat. “I want to eat cake, not see Fuqin.”

To Luo Binghe’s astonishment, Zhu Qinglan sat down on the steps below the pavilion and drew a wrapped package of sesame cakes out of his sleeve.

“Your imperial father has come back to see you after two months, and you act like this?” he chided, placing one of the cakes on Shunlei’s outstretched palm. “Now, eat your cake like a good child; and then you must get up and greet your father properly, like Xin’er and Chang’er.”

Luo Binghe lifted his hand.

“No need,” he said mildly, watching with half-crazed eyes as Zhu Qinglan stroked Luo Nianzu's fluffy hair. “Shun’er is always upset after this lord returns from his travels abroad. I do not see the children as often as I would like; but I try to dine with them at least once a week, and that little demon in your arms refuses to speak to me for days on end if I ever dare to arrive late.”

With that, he turned on his heel and swept out of the courtyard. He could not stand in Zhu Qinglan’s presence any longer, lest he do something that would terrify his children and turn their Shizun against him forever; and as it was, the little demon servant who brought breakfast to his quarters ten minutes later nearly died of fright at the sight of him.

“Zhu Qinglan,” Luo Binghe said to himself, after the petrified lackey made his escape. “The name suits him, whether it is a false one or no.”

He drained the last of his tea, and smiled.

“I’ve finally caught you, Shizun.”

#svsss #bingyuan #binggeyuan #the scum villain's self saving system #my fic #i live to serve and i have delivered #this is my first foray into multichapter svsss fic so please reblog if you liked it/would like to see more!#shen yuan's name is still shen yuan btw #we will unravel the backstory behind the name he's using Later #as well as some other.....backstory #;)

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alittledizzy · 11 days

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What if I declare it fic sharing amnesty day and if you have a fic you didn't think got enough attention and you want to share again, you can do so now because I'm literally asking you to? Like for whatever fandom.

#this is so self serving #i just want to read more fics #and i'm afraid there are some that slipped between the cracks #also buddie people i'm willing this to reach you too #bc i'm there i'm ready #ready to dive back into reading buddie fics #even if it's not a fandom i'll probably write in

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kiame-sama · 1 year

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Donut Rings- (Yandere!Chrollo x Chubby!Reader)

Warnings; this whole thing is almost entirely self serving, fem reader, short and busty reader, chubby reader, general perversion, cursing, adult themes, adult conversation, jealousy, possessive behavior, yandere, yandere relationship, yandere behavior, mention of aggressive behavior, unwanted flirting, slight objectification,

~~~~~~~~

"Can't fuckin' believe it..."

A long and frustrated sigh left the lips of the blond man standing with his arms crossed. The blue and green jumpsuit he wore seeming over the top given that he was not going jogging, but at an airport. He had an obvious scowl on his lips and certainly seemed less than pleased with the situation he found himself in.

"What has you so displeased, Phinks?"

A man with black hair in a fur lined coat glanced curiously at his compatriot, a single delicate brow raised in question. The two belonged to the larger group that seemed rather disjointed together despite being together. Twelve in total stood together as others ambled past them towards whatever gate would get them to their flight.

"You should have seen it, Boss, Phinks got flat out rejected by some chick."

The largest of the group- both height and muscle mass- snorted out a loud laugh that earned more than a few glances. His wild gray tinted hair made him appear to be almost feral in how he grinned in amusement at the dejection of his comrade. One may compare the large man to that of a bear or a wolf given the wide grin and decidedly feral appearance.

Phinks sighed loudly again as he pouted, clearly unhappy with his rejection and the teasing he received

"Not just some chick, she's the short one with the huge fucking tits at the donut place!"

He cupped his hand beneath his chest to emphasize his point and phantom-mime the size of the breasts in question. Even with the nonexistent chest he 'held' in his hands, he seemed to be yearning to touch the real breasts he was talking about. Hands slowly moving as if stroking the air where the soft globes would be.

"What do her tits have to do with anything?"

One of the smaller members of the group- a woman with bright pink hair and moderately sized breasts- frowned in the general direction of Phinks. She seemed less than pleased with the way the man was talking about the apparent attributes and almost seemed tempted to smack his cupped hands. Out of the group, the pink-haired woman had the smaller sized breasts compared to the other women present.

"You wouldn't get it, Machi," Phinks complained, dismissively waving his hand, "it's a guy thing. If you can get a big tiddy bitch to ride you, it's so fun to watch them bounce. Plus, probably the best thing to fuck other than pussy. So soft, like humping two giant marshmallows."

Phinks moved his hands to mimic holding two breasts at crotch level and thrusting his hips into them to show just what he was talking about. It wasn't as if any of the group were clueless to the intimate actions he spoke of, but he was content to show the action all the same.

The twelve stood near a donut shop inside of the airport, a constant stream of people entering and exiting the line with various baked confections. There was an apparent sweet scent wafting through the air around the bakery as more of the goods were baked and decorated. For every tray of decorated donuts, two trays seemed to be emptied every ten minutes.

Machi glanced up at the window that showed where the employees were decorating the donuts and putting the rich icing onto them. Behind the glass stood the woman in question as she worked to put the sugary icing onto the warm baked rings. She seemed oblivious to the group that stood casually discussing her and watching her work, though a slight glare took over her relaxed visage as Phinks thrust his hips provocatively.

"Is that the one who rejected you?"

Chrollo asked, gesturing to the woman behind the glass as she lifted the tray of donuts and walked away to place them out for sale. Phinks nodded with a solemn look, as if lamenting the fact that the woman was clearly less than pleased with his presence when she wasn't ignoring him.

"Yeah. I was even trying to put on the works for her, you know? Sweet talk her a bit, make a joke or two. But she couldn't even give a fella the time of day!"

"Good."

This caused a surprised laugh from several in the group as Phinks stared at Chrollo incredulously. If he didn't know any better, he would say Chrollo was intentionally being cruel for the sake of being cruel.

"Damn, Boss, that's cold!"

Chrollo shrugged in response to the amused and surprised remark by the feral man that gleefully teased Phinks. It seemed as if the raven haired man was not at all perturbed by the surprised words, glancing back at the window as the woman returned. She still ignored thr group and began decorating the next set of rings without glancing up at the onlookers.

"Spider or not, I don't feel particularly fond of others flirting with my girlfriend."

This made all of the color drain from Phinks' face as he took in Chrollo's casually stated words. If there was one thing that none of the group wanted to do, it was anger their beloved leader. Flirting with Chrollo's significant other certainly seemed like a surefire way to anger him.

"Wait. Wait, wait, wait, she's your-? Forget everything I said about her nice juicy tits! And what I said about humping them-! I mean- fuck!"

"Phinks, I think you should probably just be quiet."

The other blonde in the group laughed at the flustered reaction and stuttered words Phinks hastily choked out. Shalnark was as amused as ever with the quick way the other blonde attempted to retract his statement now that he knew he was talking about Chrollo's girlfriend. If Chrollo were quick to anger, Phinks would have been struck down for his words about the woman who still had yet to look back at them.

"Idiot."

One of the short men with black hair scoffed at the foolish behavior of Phinks, not needing to put effort into a greater response than the slight jab. It was frowned upon for the group members to try and start fights with the others and trying to take a significant other was sure to cause a fight. Luckily for Phinks, Chrollo was not witness to the brazen flirting.

"Didn't know you had a girlfriend, Boss."

The blonde female stated with a relaxed tone, masking the clear curiosity in her voice. Chrollo did not seem like one to keep a consistent partner as he often used sex to extract information from others. Regardless, no one in the group was about to question their beloved leader beyond simple comments and inquiries.

"I do. (Y/n) is not a plaything or a target to be hassled, nor should she know of our exploits. She is far too innocent for that and may try to flee if she realizes the full breadth of our actions. So, until I choose to enlighten her, no one is to mention what we do or where we come from, understood?"

The others were quick to agree to the unofficial order of silence, now more curious than ever to figure out just what about this woman managed to entrance their blood-thirsty leader. For the time being they decided to keep quiet and observe as the woman emerged from the donut shop, seeming rather tired and uncomfortable on her feet. Chrollo was quick to leave the group and approach (y/n) with an affectionate smile, surprising the shorter woman as if she had not expected his presence.

"Chrollo? What are you doing here?"

"Do I need a reason to visit my lover?"

"Only when I'm working. How did you get past security? They're usually pretty strict about letting anyone who isn't traveling or doesn't work here past the entrance."

"I have my ways."

"Right," she let out a short huff of amusement, "next you're going to tell me you have diplomatic immunity."

Chrollo chuckled softly, wondering just how his cute little darling would react to knowing even half of the truth about him and the things he's done. With everything he had done there was no way that he would be allowed into the airport legally. Of course, for those who knew his sordid past, seeing him casually flirt with the short, large-breasted woman was an unusual experience. One that Phinks couldn't help but pout at.

"No fair, why does he always get the hot ones?"

"I'm telling Boss you're talking about his girl again."

"Oh, fuck off!"

#kiame-sama #yandere #x reader #yandere x reader #reader insert #tw yandere #hxh yandere #yandere chrollo #self serving fic

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4lph4kidz · 3 months

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i was thinking about your dirk and hal poll and i want to mention that i think your concept for ink and iron where dirk creates hal from his reflection by enchanting a mirror is so cool 😌

thank you! hal's predicament and purpose within the canon narrative is so fascinating and i felt it was really important to find a way to explore what i find most interesting with him. i can't take full credit for the concept though i took inspiration from a few placees (one of my friends pitched the idea of the mirror accidentally dumping him onto jake's doorstop for example) but overall i think the idea is very fun and i'm really excited to write more hal stuff!!! also i'm going to take the opportunity to share this oldish doodle i found:

the mispelling of angel as angle was NOT intentional (<- dyslexia haver) but it probably explains a lot. he's pointy

#obviously an AU is going to be different from canon #but i like AUs specifically *because* i have a lot of fun trying to translate canon ideas into another setting or genre in general #in this case its a riff on the fairy tale magic mirror #hal is still an experiment gone wrong/artificial being created to serve a purpose trapped in a non-physical form and denied personhood #as well as being an extension of dirk's selfhood and very literal expression of his self image #this time with extra gender problems as per my original intentions for the fic. which now feel more than a bit heavy handed but whatever #point is hal gets to play up the trapped demon/spirit/almost genie-esque angle isntead of the artificial intelligence schtick in canon #which i am having a lot of fun writing!#he is also a very important plot device. multitalented 💕#for anyone wondering i&i is NOT an abandoned project its just huge and whipping it into shape is slow going #i've taken breaks to work on other stuff too #ink and iron #i guess that's a tag i should start using #even though i'm not too happy with the title still. lmao

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liass-21 · 6 months

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hhhrg a benthan soul marks au is rattling around in my brain

#starting the doc i fear #benthan #my fic #benthan soulmate au #what if i was hugely self serving and included all my personal favorite tropes…w hat if

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angelsaxis · 11 months

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ooh this video essay is good. i forget the whole quote but the gist of it is about how media consumption in fandom is so focused on the individual and the self and how they can project themselves onto a work that youve got people who approach a work and their immediate goal is to change some aspect of it (headcanon, fic). the OP doesnt think fics and hcs are bad btw and neither do I. but theyre also right

#angel posts #that self serving approach to everything is also how we get fics shamelessly published as books #with the added insistence by the author and the stans/fans that #they really did work hard #despite taking someone elses IP and key word changing a few things #rather than make their own #and lots of these fics-to-books tend to be rather masturbatory for that reason as well

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blindmagdalena · 11 months

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so glad this fandom is getting into soulmate au’s now 🙏🏼 literally one of my favs out of any trope frfr

i know!!! i don't know why i slept on this as long as i did, haha. i've been fully consumed by the prospect of enemies to lovers soulmate au, so that's probably going to be the next piece i work on after i clean out some WIPs.

on a related note, i'm thinking about arranging some kind of homelander writing prompt event, like a promptember/tober where i pull out a list of tropes (soulmate au, power imbalance, monster/creature au, etc etc) and doing just a month of little fics/headcanon posts based on those prompts. i just need help figuring out what should go on it!

#also i can't make graphics or format a post for the life of me but #i had soooo much fun when everyone was talking and writing soulmate au stuff when it came up #i love seeing the community going feral over shared tropes/topics #also this is a very self-serving act on my part because i want to read more homie fic lmao #darling anon #ask and you shall receive #homelander x reader

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rawliverandgoronspice · 1 month

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Thralls has the already pretty complicated objective of making Ganondorf's perspective a compelling (if very flawed) one, but the even taller order and my real agenda here is to convince people that Impa is a compelling character u_u

#thoughts #shitpost #thralls of power #animatic project #impa #ganondorf #I was browsing Ao3 yesterday evening and there are so little fics about her?? that center her I mean #and so I must continue the propaganda #also because 30-to-40 year old women who are placed in a mother figure kind of role need to be main characters far more often #“older” (???) women still have stories in them worth telling!!!#beyond serving as guidance to the youth and self-sacrificing for them #(I mean they can also do that but I feel like they deserve better than to *only* be that)

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tenthousandyearsx · 1 year

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Smut game

Thank you for tagging me, @maraudersaffair and @crazybutgood! I loved reading yours. ❤ I'm going to do 10 smutty dialogue quotes instead because I'm not feeling any of my first lines and I'm curious to see what you all choose.

Rules: pick any ten fics, select some smut or pre-smut dialogue, and tag ten people. If you have written less than ten, feel free to share anyway!

These are all Drarry.

ㅤ

Keep your hands on me (E, 21k)

“They just… they want to satisfy an itch, Potter. It’s not… It’s not really the same.” Harry pressed a kiss on Malfoy’s lips. “They don’t want to wreck you like I do, you mean.” “Yes.” “Do you want to be wrecked, Draco?” “Fuck, yes,” Malfoy groaned. “By me? Or by anyone?” “By you.”

Just a trial run (E, 9k)

“You had a fantasy about paying to have sex with me?” Potter asked, frowning. Draco snorted. “No, just having sex with you in general. Potter’s eyes glazed over. “How – How old is this fantasy?” Draco took a sip of his drink. “Quite old.” “You wanted to fuck me at Hogwarts, Malfoy?” Draco’s eyes were on him, appraisingly. “Isn’t that what that was all about?”

Trouble with your tie, Potter? (E, 6.7k)

Harry’s face grew warmer, his heartbeat picking up. Malfoy reached out and put his hands on Harry’s hips, pressing against him, his front to Harry’s back. “I bet –” He kissed Harry’s neck. “I bet I could turn you around, tug your tie just slightly, and you’d fall on your knees for me.” Harry shut his eyes, not even bothering to hide the small noise that escaped him. “Yeah,” he said. It was true anyway. He tilted his head a bit, baring his neck for Malfoy, and Malfoy’s hands tightened on him. “I’d do that.”

Truth be told (E, 2.3k)

Malfoy smirked. “Really, Potter. I should have guessed you just wanted to be fucked.” He slid a hand under Harry’s shirt and a moan escaped Harry’s throat. “You do, don’t you?” “Yes,” Harry groaned. “I thought we’d already established that.” Harry was on bloody Veritaserum, had just spilled his guts in a room full of Slytherins, and it was all Hermione and her stupid inter-house parties’ fault.

At wand point (E, 2.8k)

Harry’s mind went hazy, sluggish. “Blackmailing me, Malfoy?” Malfoy smirked. “It’s not blackmailing if you offer, Potter.” He leaned in slightly, lips almost brushing Harry’s, and murmured, “You are offering, aren’t you?” Harry wanted to pull him into a kiss, wanted to drop to his knees and mouth him through his trousers right there and then. Instead, he said, “What if I am?”

Imperio (E, 3.8k)

Malfoy caught Harry’s hair and yanked it back hard, still panting against Nott’s cheek. “What is it? Tell me.” “I don’t like it when you kiss him,” Harry said obediently, because he didn’t, even though he was too turned on and blissed out to find it really upsetting. “Oh?” Malfoy said, sounding delighted, and then laughed and pulled Nott into a furious snog again, Nott’s cock brushing Harry’s parted lips. Harry swallowed at the sound of their moans. “Like this?”

Good (E, 300)

“So good,” Draco murmurs, stunned and a little breathless, lips dragging over Harry’s jaw. “Are you always this good, Potter?”

Why (E, 100)

“This is fucked up,” Draco says, and Harry bites down on his thigh. “Why?” “Fucking hell, Potter,” Draco whines. Harry adds another finger. “Yesterday, we weren’t even on speaking terms.”

Under the Invisibility Cloak (E, 100)

“Shhh.” Draco flicked his thumb. “You don’t want them to hear you, do you?”

You can, now (E, 100)

“Like that,” Ginny murmured. “Open your mouth. You’ve wanted this for so long.” Harry whimpered. He let Ginny guide his head forward, let Draco’s cock slide past his lips. “You’ve wanted him all along, haven’t you?”

Tagging @orange-peony, @magpiefngrlrl, @nv-md, @ladderofyears, @makeitp1nk, @sweet-s0rr0w, @roseharpermaxwell, @wolfpants and anyone who feels like sharing smutty goodness!

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warpedpuppeteer · 2 months

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WIP Wednesday

Completely forgot this in the drafts so its not actually Wednesday but anyways. As always, tagged by the wonderful @scknight05 (go check out his fic on ao3!).

Buck gets a new boyfriend. Eddie reacts to this in a completely normal and sane way.

Buck laughs again and God, Eddie thinks. He sounds so happy, so fond, so in love. Eddie's never heard Buck call anyone baby before. The pear gets crushed in his fist. He doesn't even notice it. He doesn't notice it because Buck is leaning down to kiss Riley. And...Buck is tall. Eddie and him are only a few inches apart and he knows that when they're standing together, it's not that jarring but Buck is objectively taller and bigger. It's just that he's never realized how tall and big he actually is to others until he sees him with Riley now.

Riley is…small. Buck has to duck down low and Riley has to get on his toes, pulling himself up with his hands around Buck's neck to reach him and Buck has to hold him up a bit with his arms around Riley's waist. Buck looks like he could engulf Riley in a hug and the smaller man would disappear. Buck's arms - Eddie's breath hitches- fuck, his arms. Buck is big and Eddie has just realized this and it makes that feeling in his gut return and Eddie wants to throw up. And Buck is kissing him. Riley. He's… Eddie has never been so aware of every single move Buck makes outside of work - where it's needed - until now. Buck is gentle but firm, coaxing Riley to tilt his head back a bit for a better angle. It makes Eddie wonder what it would be like to be kissed by Buck. If his lips are firm or soft and if he'd go all in like he does with everything or he'd hold back. If he'd immediately use his tongue or will slowly get there. Will he take control of the kiss? Of the pace? Eddie is not as short as Riley, so he just would need to tilt his head up a bit to kiss Buck and he's much broader than Riley, so Buck doesn't have to hold him up but it would be nice, Eddie thinks, to have Buck’s thick arms wrapped around his waist to hold him close and for Buck to kiss him like the world is ending. Eddie wants to laugh hysterically, he's thinking about Buck kissing him while he's there kissing his new boyfriend! Chim wolf whistles and Buck and Riley break the kiss, laughing. “Sorry”, Riley says sheepishly. Buck kisses the top of his head before turning to everyone again and Eddie wants to punch something because it's such a soft and adoring thing to do. Such a Buck thing to do.

'I wish he'd kiss me like that', a part of Eddie's unhinged brain supplies and Eddie freezes, rattled for a moment at the thought. At the implication. Eddie would like the ground to open up and swallow him whole actually. Here lies Eddie Diaz, a fucking embarrassment.

The thought process behind this was basically:

Me: i need jealous buck like i need air

My brain: i gotchu *writes jealous eddie instead*

This is an early draft and things can change. It's also definitely not a full on Eddie is jealous kind of fic. He just sees them together and has Realizations™️ but has no ill feelings towards Riley. I also just wanted to give Buck a cute ass boyfriend tbh. And have Eddie have a crisis at seeing Buck being cute with another guy.

#basically just buck getting a new bf and being smitten with him #and eddie going that should be ME #can you tell i have a size difference kink??#because yes #eddie i know you've suffered a lot #but for the sakw of this fic you shall suffer a bit more #with gay thoughts #this is a very self indulgent fic that serves no purpose except to give me joy #literally having so much fun writing this #buddie #buddie fic #buddie fanfic #wip wednesday #I'm also not one to use an OC for major roles but this was very much needed and riley is sweet as hell #endgame buddie of course #eddie diaz #evan buck buckley #evan buckley

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zenkindoflove · 2 months

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I'm trying desperately to get this stupid one-shot done so I can post it tomorrow and have precious weekend time to work on Summer Heat, but my stupid ass starts writing smut and I basically make every fic two times longer than it has any right to be.

#a one shot is really more about intent and spirit right #anyways this fic is so stupid and self serving #but in a fun chaotic way

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hauntedpearl · 2 years

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blue minutes (ao3)

1.9k, post-canon, Dean/Cas, Fluff and Angst

Some nights, Cas slips out of bed.

The dreams wake him. The memories wake him. Sometimes, the chill in the air wakes him.

And then the world shrinks.

So.

Some nights, Cas slips out of bed.

He presses a kiss to Dean's brow before he does, curls his fingers in the air behind his ear. Feels the soft puff of Dean's breath on his throat.

He lets it be the thing to remind him of his skin.

He touches the things that mark his life as he moves about the house. The iron doorknob. The wooden railing. Picture frames on the wall along the stairs.

He'll sit down, then, in one of the lounge chairs out on the patio. The brand new couch by the fireplace. The hand-painted chairs in the kitchen by the window.

A moment, then another, then another, then another.

The world grows bigger.

If he squints, he can flatten it. The greys and the blues and the purples dissolve into the black. The dimensions collapsing into one unknowable expanse.

Into nothing.

It is quiet. Always, always, so quiet.

His mind is foolish enough to believe that he's back where he once was. Back where he never wants to go again.

He closes his eyes. His heart pounds. His ears ring.

He could scream.

(He is afraid the sound will stick to his throat.)

He could scream.

(He is afraid to find out.)

So, he bites his tongue. Sits in the quiet. Tells himself that this is not what it seems to be.

And it isn't.

It isn't.

When he touches his chest, he feels the softness of his shirt. The warmth of the muscle underneath. The outline of his ribs. The steady thumping of his heart.

When he touches his chest, it swells.

His body breathes, despite his mind.

His body breathes, because it must.

His body. His home.

He turns his palm over, knuckles pointing to the ground, and the weight of the world settles on it.

It is light. It is heavy.

It is.

By the heavens, it just is.

That is how Dean finds him that night.

"There you are!"

The timbre of his voice is low and rough.

And yet.

It fills the world. Lingers in the air.

Cas opens his eyes. Curls his palm into a fist against his sternum.

"Shit, Cas," Dean says, moving around the edge of the kitchen table to kneel at his side. "I woke up, and you weren't there. Scared the living daylights out of me, man."

Cas blinks down at him.

Dean's face, close to his chest. His palm settling over the meat of his thigh.

His skin tingles where Dean touches him.

And suddenly, he is aware.

Of his breath. Of his bones. Of the warmth of his skin.

The breeze whistling past his ear.

He wonders if Dean knows that he carries the world with him. That he brings it into every room with his voice.

That Cas can forget sometimes, and Dean reminds him.

Of this soul. Human, and frayed, and bright.

Of this body.

His body. His home.

Even if he can't see it now, he imagines he can feel the light of Dean's soul — its heat setting the darkness afire.

Something like a shiver races through his body, then. And Cas clutches at Dean's hand.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?"

Dean's frowning up at him. Softening his voice for him.

Cas looks at the way the skin of his forehead creases. At the way his brows tilt.

The back of Cas' eyes sting.

Nothing, he wants to say. Stop frowning.

It's nothing.

Nothing. Nothing.

Nothing.

He cracks his parched mouth open. Cups Dean's cheek in his hand.

Nothing, he wants to say.

Instead, he says, "The weight of the Earth's atmosphere, the pressure of it... that's what keeps you alive, Dean."

The worry in Dean's eyes morphs into confusion. His gaze turns searching.

"About fifteen pounds of air on every square inch of your skin. Remove it, and death comes to you swift. Your blood boils. Your skin stretches. Your heart...bursts open."

The look of abject horror on Dean's face is almost funny.

Almost.

"Uh, Cas...," Dean begins, but Cas cuts him off. Digs his fingers lightly into Dean's skin.

"That's what it's like."

"What?"

A whisper.

A terrible innocence in it.

Cas pinches his eyes closed. Clenches his jaw.

(Nothing, he wants to say. Stop frowning. It's nothing.)

"That's what it's like," he repeats, through gritted teeth, words fighting their way out from behind the lump in his throat, "when The Empty takes you in your vessel. When—"

He gulps, forces the heat crowding his mouth back down into his chest.

Still, his voice shakes.

His lashes grow wet.

"When it took me in—in this body. That was what it was like."

A terrible silence. An echoing one.

Cas doesn't want to look. Doesn't want to know.

He looks anyway.

Dean is gaping at him, eyes wide and bright. The veins in his temples twitch

Cas turns to him fully and brackets his body with his knees.

He cradles Dean's face in his shaking hands and says, "I know it's over. I know it is. You saved me, Dean."

"Cas—"

"You did, Dean, you saved me. But, sometimes. In there, I couldn't — I wouldn't— It wouldn't stop. And now, it has. But—"

There.

There, on his fingertips, a pearl of a tear.

On his cheeks, the cool slide of one.

Their weighted breaths in the space between their bodies.

Cas' gaze flits between Dean's eyes. He clutches Dean harder, lets his palms slide so he can hook his thumbs around Dean's ears.

"I don't know how to forget," Cas says, and his voice is breaking. "I don't know how to forget, Dean."

And he doesn't.

He doesn't.

He wants to, and he doesn't.

When he sleeps, his dreams wake him. His memories wake him.

And the world shrinks. Widens. Darkens.

Takes him back.

He doesn't know how to make it stop.

And he's tired.

Of trying. Of doing it alone.

He's just so very tired.

"I'm —," he begins. Swallows a hiccup that rises to his throat. Blinks, and blinks, and blinks, dislodging the tears. Dean holds onto his wrists, quiet. Waiting.

Cas tries again. For Dean. For the silent tears that graze the base of his thumb.

"I'm tired, Dean. I'm just so tired."

A sob slips past his lips. A wretched thing.

A wretched, broken thing.

"Cas," and Dean's voice is raw. Scraped and sandy and dry.

He bows his head for a moment, then turns. Presses his open mouth to the center of Cas' palm, to the juncture of his wrist, the curve of his forearm.

Then, he stands, taking Cas with him.

Dean wraps his arms around him, holding him tight. Cas clutches the back of Dean's shirt in his fists.

The world is just the two of them.

The world is their rapidly beating hearts.

The world has never been so full.

"Oh, sweetheart," Dean says, his palm cradling the back of Cas' head. "I've got you."

And —

(It's the damnedest thing)

Cas believes him.

He buries his face in Dean's neck.

And for the first time in his long, wonderful, weary life — he weeps.

Dean keeps up a steady litany of soothing whispers. He cards a hand through Cas' hair, rubs circles into his back with the other.

"My darling," he says, peppering the side of Cas' face with wet, sloppy kisses. "I'm here. We're alright."

Oh, sweetheart. Darling. I've got you.

Weeping, Cas notes absently, is a little like drowning. The way the world narrows until all you can hear is the blood in your ears. All you can feel is the water clogging your lungs, your throat, your mouth.

He has drowned before.

He doesn't remember the surfacing. But he had, anyway.

He does so now, too.

There is salt in his lashes. On his cheek. His lips.

His face pressed into the wet spot on the shoulder of Dean's shirt.

He grimaces when the fabric rubs against his skin.

It isn't — pleasant.

He lifts his head and hooks his chin on Dean's shoulder instead. Sets his forehead against Dean's temple. Buries his nose in his hair.

A moment, then.

The settling of his heartbeat against Dean's. The cool touch of a breeze on his itchy, ruddy cheeks.

Something soothing in the air by his ear.

Something incredible in the press of their bodies. The —

—sway of them.

Because that's what Dean is doing.

Dean is swaying them.

Singing under his breath, words that ring familiar through the hazy veil of Cas' human memory.

There's a somebody I'm longin' to see

I hope that he turns out to be

Someone who'll watch over me

Cas' snort of laughter surprises them both.

Dean stills.

A beat.

Resumes this pseudo-dance, nudging Cas' feet with his own this time.

Then—

"I can't watch over you like I used to," Cas whispers, clutching Dean tighter. "I'm not an angel anymore."

Dean stops singing.

And yet.

The music lingers in the air. The impression of his voice. The warm lull of it.

It weaves between their bodies, keeps their feet moving. Keeps them swaying.

"You'll always be my angel," Dean says, his mouth pressed against Cas' temple. "And, hey. It's my turn, anyway. To watch over you. You can rest a while, sweetheart."

Dean told him once, about a future he never thought he'd have.

A home.

Someone to build that home with. Someone to hold.

Children.

Dean told him once, about watching Garth and Bess through their living room window. Arms wrapped around each other, bodies swaying to the croon of their old record player.

Not a care in the damn world at that moment, he said.

Made something twinge here, man, he said, thumping his chest. Made it ache.

Cas wonders what Dean thinks of them, like this. Red nosed and puffy-eyed. Clutching each other, desperate and white-knuckled.

He wonders if Dean's chest still aches.

"I don't know how to make it stop, either," Dean says to him, later, punctuating his sentence with a kiss to Cas' thumb.

Cas lays on his side, facing Dean, letting the tip of his finger trace the freckles on his cheek.

"But I do know that it gets better. With time. You just. You gotta let yourself be miserable, once in a while. Gotta let someone take care of you when you are."

"Mm," Cas hums, tilting his head into the pillow under his cheek. Raises a brow. Presses the pad of his thumb to the corner of Dean's mouth. Says, "That so?"

Dean grins at him then. Huffs a laugh. Rolls his eyes.

He surges up to fit his mouth to Cas'.

Dean kisses him deep and open-mouthed, rolling them over so he's hovering over Cas, one hand buried in the mop of his hair, the other skimming his side.

"Quit bein' such a smartass," Dean mumbles against his lips when they break for air, brushing their noses together.

“You love me anyway,” Cas says, his thumb brushing over Dean’s cheek.

He is awed that it’s true. That he can say it at all.

Dean’s grin softens. Brightens.

(He is awed by that, too.)

And kisses him.

“Yeah,” Dean whispers.

#doe's writing #destiel fanfic #destiel ficlet #spn fanfic #uh...more self-indulgent nonsensical romance for you #i do apologize for serving up barely mediocre content but i had worms and i exist here so this is now everyone's problem #like i wanted to write about dean and cas slow dancing and being sad but they didn't even slow dance until after 1k bro im so bad at #planning this shit. also still writing that one dad dean and jack fic it's coming #also you can literally put this at any point in canon and it'll work #garth and bess reference notwithstanding #deancas fics #feathersforcas #oh lmk if you want to be on the taglist fr because i think im posting more regularly now!

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gellavonhamster · 2 months

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genre conventions

One Piece || Smoker/Tashigi || set during the timeskip ao3 link rus || ao3 link eng

“They’re not such idiots if they still haven’t got caught,” Tashigi points out tentatively as she wipes her glasses with a handkerchief. She can feel a drop of sweat roll down between her shoulder blades with agonizing slowness, as if it is making fun of her.

Of all islands she’s had the chance to visit after Loguetown, Anemone, the southernmost islet of the Coral Archipelago, is definitely making the top five of the worst despite not having, say, quicksand or human-sized carnivorous plants. Sweltering heat and the air that feels thick enough to cut through with a knife. On day three, Tashigi gave up, said goodbye to shirts – even the short-sleeved ones were hard to survive in – and since then she’s been wearing only tank tops. Her subordinates approved of her new look with such fervour that she had to threaten the loudest commentators with the katana. It must be for the best that she didn’t bring any shorts and, consequently, is not tempted to put them on.

And so they’ve been marinating in this little tropical hell, because they have an order to help the local Marine branch track down and apprehend a smuggling ring presumed to have picked the island as their base.

“Idiots,” Smoker repeats huffily and takes a drag on another pair of cigars. The smell hangs in the humid air like laundry on a line. “'Cause in their line of work, only idiots would voluntarily slap on identification signs. Pirates are another thing, there’s…” he gestures vaguely. “Nothing but panache, every other one’s a performer. Smugglers, if they’ve got any brains, should keep it low.”

“Well, it’s not like the tattoos are on their faces,” Tashigi puts the glasses back on, having made peace with the fact that soon they’ll fog up again. All she does on Anemone is make peace with something. With most of the clothes she’s brought with her on this voyage not being suited for the unbearable climate of the island. With having to pin her hair up in a way she doesn’t like, so that not a single strand touches her permanently damp neck. With not expecting the local Marines, whose captain greeted them drunk (on duty! on Tuesday afternoon!), to be of much help.

“Face or not, sooner or later someone would see.”

“Some of us wear clothes,” murmurs Tashigi. She has also made peace already with her commander dealing with such hot weather by walking around not even with his jacket open, as usual, but completely shirtless. The fact that it is high time she got used to the way he dresses – or rather, does not dress – but instead she finds it harder and harder not to stare at him with each passing day seems to be another thing she has no choice but to make peace with.

“Huh? What was that, Captain?”

She knows him well enough to distinguish a shade of a grin on his eternally stern face and know he’s not actually angry.

“Nothing, sir.”

Tashigi doesn’t know when it started. In retrospect, she is aware that generally speaking, she has always found him attractive, because she has eyes and can see, even if not so well. But that did not matter much back when neither of them had yet learned how the other takes their coffee, when neither of them had yet sat by the other’s bedside in the sick bay after the battle, when her hair hadn’t yet absorbed the smell of cigar smoke to the point that no shampoo could wash it off. Back when she didn’t yet find it exciting that his smell lingers on her as if he’s held her in his arms – which, of course, has never happened, and never will.

The smugglers may not be idiots, but she certainly is.

“We’ll cover the northern coast tomorrow,” Smoker says. “Judging by the map, it’s rockier than on the other sides, harder to approach. If there are no traces there either, we’ll return to the port. Perhaps the drugs are shipped right there under the guise of other cargo. Perhaps someone in the administration is involved. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

The little shabby bar across from them is finally open – the bartender and the waitress have brought out the chairs and thrown open the doors and a couple of patrons have already arrived, lured in by the music. Tashigi keeps swinging her leg to the tune until she recognizes it as the Soul King’s latest hit. Smoker puts his cigars on an empty tin can that someone has considerately left on the bench as an ashtray, and opens a bottle of water. Tashigi catches herself watching his Adam’s apple bob with each gulp, and digs her nails into her palm.

She’s going to lose her mind on this island.

“Can I have some? I’ve finished mine,” she hears her own voice say, and he passes her the water without a second thought, because normal people don’t think about the way drinking from the same bottle is kind of a little bit like a kiss.

Like many lonely children, Tashigi used to read a lot as a kid. Fairy tales, myths, legends, later – and still, when she has time on her hands – stories of great blades and the swordsmen who wielded them. Stories were not a passion like swordsmanship, not as integral to her life and soul. But she remembered: they could provide an escape, if only for a while. And an escape was precisely what she was seeking some time ago when she picked up the kind of books she had always looked down upon before. Someone else’s passions to distract her from her own; someone else’s affections being returned while for her it was not in the cards. She was hoping that would help.

It didn’t help one bit. Rather the opposite.

The main problem with romance novels, at least with the most popular ones, the kind sold on every newsstand of every island, was not even their quality, but the way in half of the cases heroines fell in love with pirates. Every time it outraged her like the first time. They are risking their lives in the Marines to protect civilians against these villains, yet the civilians in question keep on romanticizing them! In most other cases, the main male characters, while not pirates, were so clearly modelled after real-life pirates, Warlords, or even Emperors that it was probably even worse. In one book, a poor orphaned shepherdess was rescued by a golden-haired knight on a white horse. In another, a nightgown-clad ingénue with a candlestick in hand wandered the dark hallways of a grim castle belonging to an equally grim lord – haughty and cold, but with such wonderful eyes! In yet another one, a village beauty was protected from the landlord’s advances by a charming red-haired, one-armed bandit. And as recently as a month ago, she literally threw another masterpiece at the wall when she realized that the inspiration for the love interest was none other than Monkey D. Luffy. Obviously, Tashigi can’t boast that she knows him intimately (not if she could help it!), but based on the impression he made on her that was simply ridiculous. That was the last straw, after which she swore she wouldn’t touch such rubbish ever again.

But it was too late. Because another problem with romance novels was that while reading them, you could pick up certain… ideas. Ideas that settle in your head all by themselves, sit there quietly for some time, and then comes a point when they seize you in an iron grip – and you give in to an impulse and obey them.

She’s not planning to seduce him. It won’t work anyway, and thinking of potential consequences of such impertinence gives her the shivers. She just wants him to look at her. Really look at her just for once. The way she looks at him. She will bury this one moment deep in her heart to take it out occasionally, spend some time looking at it, and then replace it. Press the bottle to her lips not tightly enough; let a trickle of water run down her skin into the neckline of her tight tank top, into her cleavage. Her shoulders are too strong, her arms are too muscular, but at least she has breasts – even bigger than she would’ve preferred them to be every time she wears tight-fitting clothes. She doesn’t want everyone and their dog staring at her. Just him.

She puts her lips around the bottle neck, throws her head back a little, and…

…spills it all on herself. Of course. Naturally. She bursts into coughing because water has gone down the wrong way, even got into her nose, and then she glances down and sees that her top is all soaked and even her pants are wet here and there. At least it doesn’t look like she peed herself. Small mercies.

Smoker sighs crossly. That look on his face is also familiar enough to her – he must be doing his best not to snap at her. Like every time she drops one thing or bumps into another.

“Excuse-me-I’ll-be-back,” she blurts out, places the bottle on the bench, springs to her feet, and rushes to the bar.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Hey!” yells the bartender as soon as he sees the new customer dashing right for the door in the corner. “Bathroom’s for patrons only!”

“Okay, okay,” Tashigi replies without looking at him, and pulls on the door handle.

One of the stalls is occupied. Tashigi takes some toilet paper in the second one, pats her neck dry, presses it to her chest too but instantly throws it away – it will just stick to the fabric and won’t help much anyway. The clothes will dry on their own. That’s not what she’s here for. She’s here to try to calm down before the urge to break into disappointed tears takes over.

The dingy mirror above the sink is cracked in two and carelessly duct-taped. Tashigi leans on the sink with both hands and glares at her reflection in the mirror. Her lips are trembling against her will. Good job, well done. Then again, what else should she have expected?

That will teach her a lesson. There is no use trying to jump into a romance novel from a crime story.

Or a situation comedy.

The waitress that was putting out the chairs outside earlier comes out of the second stall, and Tashigi lets go of the sink, steps aside, and starts cleaning her glasses again. The woman – young, shapely, with long lilac hair – washes her hands and bends over the sink, almost pressing her face to the mirror – must be trying to see if something is stuck between her teeth. Tashigi puts the glasses back on, and her eye catches the tattoo on the small of the woman’s back, visible between the low-rise pants and the yanked-up T-shirt. A dagger wreathed in ivy.

The same as that of the two smugglers whose descriptions they were given.

Her face must be betraying her, because as soon as the waitress sees Tashigi’s reflection in the mirror, she turns around at lightning speed and takes a swing, aiming for Tashigi’s jaw.

It all happens swiftly and chaotically. Hand-to-hand combat is not her preferred type of fighting; it lacks the grace and dignity characteristic of a sword fight. But she doesn’t have Shigure with her – because this evening her and Smoker were meant to be not Marines but simple tourists simply strolling about and certainly not watching out for anything suspicious. Her adversary doesn’t seem to be in possession of weapons either, but she’s strong, twice as strong out of desperation. Tashigi dodges her first punch, but when they catch hold of each other, the waitress seizes the initiative, presses her against the sink and tries to smash the mirror with her head. Tashigi manages to wrench herself free, and when the supposed smuggler comes at her again, she grabs her, turns around, and slams both of them into the door. The door comes unhinged, and the two of them fall into the barroom; something’s crashing, someone’s screaming, but she’s not paying attention to anything around her until she finally pins the waitress to the floor.

When handcuffs are dropped on the floor next to her, she doesn’t question where they came from – just grabs them, puts them on the culprit, and only then raises her head. There are drinks spilled and broken bottles scattered all around and a couple of chairs knocked down close by. Two elderly patrons are making their way to the exit, having taken their glasses of beer with them. Smoker is looming over the bartender, whose arms are twisted behind his back and handcuffed and face is pressed to the counter. There is a dagger tattoo above the man’s left elbow.

“You alright?” Smoker asks, unfazed.

Tashigi gets up and clumsily helps the waitress sit up under the counter where they can see her. Another reason she doesn’t like fistfights – in the end she always feels like she acted dishonourably, even if that isn’t true. Her knees are hurting, her shoulder is burning, her glasses have cracked, but strangely she’s much more alright than several minutes ago, when she was trying her hardest not to burst out crying with shame.

“I’m alright. How did you get here?”

“I saw you through the window kick the door down with your body and that wench. Thought that was too extreme for you.”

Tashigi rolls her eyes.

“This guy here, instead of breaking up the fight, tried not to let me in,” Smoker continues.

“Let me guess: you punched him a couple of times and then just stood there watching me?”

“You had it all under control. Or am I wrong?”

Did she? All of it? Hard to tell at once. But she knows that if forces really were unequal, he would’ve come to her aid. More importantly, if he had thought her too weak from the start, she would’ve been mad at him and at herself.

She straightens her back.

“No, you’re right. I’m sorry, I…”

“Stop. Why are you apologizing again? Right now – what for?”

“I don’t know,” Tashigi says honestly.

Smoker opens his mouth to say something, but then the suspiciously cheerful Pike and Bomba barge in – so cheerful that Tashigi could have assumed their local comrades-in-arms are a bad influence on them. That is, if the personnel of G-5 wasn’t managing just fine without any outside influence.

“Helloooo, sir!”

“Hey there, sir!”

“I see you didn’t waste no time!”

“Ooh, Captain, what a scratch you’ve got! Gotta kiss it better…”

“I’ll kiss you worse!” snaps Tashigi. This is when pointedly unsheathing a sword would have been on point, except she doesn’t have a sword at hand. However, her countenance turns out to be enough for the jokers to back away.

“Take them to the base,” Smoker nods towards the bartender and the waitress. “Don’t let them out of your sight. We’re gonna interrogate them.”

Bomba flashes a wicked grin.

“Leave that to us, Vice Admiral, we’ll loosen their tongues in no time…”

“Don’t.” Smoker flicks his lighter, puffs at another pair of cigars, and looks the arrestees up and down with an even more sinister look on his face. “I’ll deal with them myself.”

The waitress, who doesn’t know that the Vice Admiral sticks to much more lawful interrogation methods than his crazy subordinates, blanches slightly.

“Ma’am,” Pike winks at her and places his hand on her shoulder. Bomba, a little disappointed, pushes the bartender to the exit.

Tashigi watches them leave.

“I called them as soon as I dealt with the bartender,” Smoker explains. Tashigi comes closer to him and leans against the bar counter. All of a sudden a terrible weariness descends on her; she doesn’t want to go back to the base, doesn’t want to interrogate anyone, doesn’t want to move at all. She just wants to stay where she is, elbows resting on the sticky counter top. “Guess they must’ve been in that tavern around the block.”

“Dutifully looking for the smugglers, no doubt.”

“In every glass.”

She giggles.

There is a mirror on the wall behind the counter too, cleaner than the one in the bathroom and not cracked, and in that mirror she sees herself – the too-strong shoulders, the too-muscular arms, the damned tight tank top, the fresh scrapes, the disheveled hair, the tired smile.

And on her right – Smoker, standing still, his eyes fixed on her.

She thought she had already learned all the expressions of his face, but she’s never seen a look like this before. Steadfast, heavy – but not with disapproval or displeasure, it’s just that it seems like she can physically feel its weight and heat on her body. Feel it flow down her skin like water before, but thicker, viscous. Like wax. Or honey.

She hasn’t seen the way she looks at him at times, lost in thought, but she suddenly realizes: this is how.

Tashigi’s breath hitches.

A moment later he glances at the mirror and notices that she’s noticed him. She feels caught red-handed – even though he started it first, even though he was the one secretly looking at her. Tashigi turns away hastily.

“Is everything okay, sir?” she asks, hoping that she sounds relaxed enough.

Smoker nods slowly. His face is inscrutable, but it seems to her like a vestige of that look is still smouldering in his eyes.

“Pike was right. Your shoulder’s royally scratched,” he says. “You’d better put something on it when get back to the base.”

Were the poor orphaned shepherdess from the knight novel in her place, she would’ve just cast down her eyes shyly. On the other hand, the heroine of that book she threw at the wall – a ruler of a small island country – might have echoed Pike’s recent joke.

How about you kiss it better then?

“There must be more of them,” she says instead. Maybe she shouldn’t bother trying to change the genre; nothing good will come out of it anyway. She is as far removed from romance novels as could be. She doesn’t belong there. “The sailors from the Ernestine saw two men, but neither was described to look like that one. And I don’t think that girl can be mistaken for a man even from afar.”

Smoker nods again and breathes out a lacework of white smoke.

“Yeah,” he says. “Well, let’s see what they tell us. They might like to have their sentence reduced. Let’s go.”

She belongs in a procedural about the daily life of law enforcers.

But so does he, so she finds she doesn’t really mind.

#girl that's not a procedural that's a narrative about realizing the system is broken & you can't serve it anymore. when will you understand #one piece #tashigi #white hunter smoker #op smoker #smoshigi #smotash #idk what their ship name is; i've seen both of these used #gella talks one piece #talk talk talk #my fic #y'all said to write self-indulgent fic. well here i am writing

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