#thank fucking god that 'friend' cut you off when they were actively insulting you and betraying your trust

[craycraybluejay]

yes i am an adult male who loves high school dramas this is because i literally never experienced normal coming of age drama like ever and am disconnected from the collective experience of having a relatable peer group forever hope that helps

#i JUST want to experience high school #without like. my whole shitty life thing having gone on #i want to go to high school and have stupid drama and sexuality crises and worries about grades #not... That #i never had that im never going to have that #can i get (one) permission to go a little crazy if i survive into a university #fuck everyone befriend and be-enemy everyone get all up in peoples stupid mind numbingly low stakes drama #i want that sweet golden experience where the worst thing ill ever fear is annoying my classmates #or accidentally spilling something on someone at a dance #i deserve it i deserve to have had a childhood and a young adulthood and a life #i deserve to have dealt with unserious issues to prepare me for bigger ones #rather than serious danger that leaves me permanently severed from normal people and life #and makes me incapable of reacting proportionally or finding it in me to care about less serious problems #like yes it sucks your mom is going to miss college graduation #but i thank my lucky stars that you are not dying or being abused or starved or beaten or exploited #i literally dont know how to take things seriously a lot of the time like im not able to even if i try #because to me the mildest real problem is someone purposefully isolating you and ruining your health #the MILDEST #i try to care ab simple stuff i really do i just CANT #and it sucks so much trying to be a good friend and kind feeling like i cant do enough #the loud thought 'i wish that hapoened to me/i wish i worried about that/i wish the people i love only had that as a problem' #i get so envious. like thank fucking god your parents divorced like normal adults when it should be over #thank fucking god that 'friend' cut you off when they were actively insulting you and betraying your trust #thank the fucking universe that shitty partner dumped you before you fkn hurt yourself over them #yk? #and its a 'mean/cold' way to think about it but i just dont have the capacity to think or feel the little picture #i can imagine my friends subjected to such horror even tho i dont want to

[daguerreopher]

is ur Joseph jealous? also would he treat his partners different depending on gender? (more pertaining to women but it's up to you. like considering how he's old fashioned would he tolerate male friends etc.) srry for spamming these couple of days😭 I just really appreciate ur depiction of Joseph but I don't wanna like overwhelm you or anything like that. thank you and take care!

you are always free to send in asks

i enjoy answering them, even if sometimes it takes time.

I've personally never seen Joseph as a jealous type. It's probably not accurate to canon, but my Joseph just doesn't really feel jealousy. He might be a little insecure at times, but not truly jealous unless the person was actively cheating.

As for friends? In the event his partner is a woman, he might consider it a little uncouth if she had close male friends, but that's because it looked bad in his time, not him actually being jealous. He might even ask from time to time if she loved them. Because if she loved one of her friends more, Joseph would wonder the reason, and in the end consider it might be best the two go their separate ways (which would be the same if his lover was man who had other men friends).

Not without wrestling with his own mental health issues, of course, and Joseph would still want to stay close just in case his former partner ends up in trouble some how. He'll still want to "save" them if they grow old or get sick, or god forbid he thinks his former lover is being mistreated.

Of course, if his partner is a lady, Joseph would insist on such things like walking closer to the road, helping her around puddles and spills, caring for her in general, and defending her honor.

Though he does quite enjoy seeing a partner just destroy someone else for insulting the both of them, no matter the gender.

Now as someone who is willing to polyship as long as everyone involved agrees... Surprisingly, the main issue would be Joseph trying to figure out if he's actually important.

Because of his time and culture, Joseph doesn't really consider polyamory a possibility, so if he's in love with someone who's in a relationship already, it's like pulling teeth to make him admit it. And even if he's convinced to try it and accepted, Joseph goes by the logic of "they were together first, their relationship is more important" even if he's unaware of it. He has a habit of sidelining himself and assuring that what he wants is never as important as any plans the other two have, and he fucking internalizes this to a problematic extent.

And because Joseph is a noble, he has too much pride to admit when such things hurt him. If his partner doesn't catch it, he can grow quite distant and cut himself off, or even bitter and passive aggressive about it, claiming he knows he's not wanted. All while assuring he's fine and "the unflappable photographer".

If his partner falls in love with another after he and they are already together, Joseph could easily be convinced to secretly let them be a poly. But if his partner gathers more and more lovers, he'll be inclined to wonder if they actually love him. Joseph would then either insist on spending much more time together, or just ending the relationship and pretending he's fine.

In short, Joseph's toxic trait wouldn't be jealousy, but covering up how he feels because boy does he have issues admitting he has emotions.

#head canon #out of photographs

[duckymcdoorknob]

hi, im not sure if this is a emergency request or not, but feel free to deny this if you want. I've been very burnt out after exams ended two days ago, i tried doing different activities that might help me brighten up again, but nothing is helping. i just want to either stay in bed or study all day. can you do oikawa with reader who's currently experiencing this?

This is exactly an emergency request! Thanks for coming :)

Sorry about how long this took!

I’m defaulting to platonic and High School since it wasn’t specific.

BUT if you would like romantic, or uni, please feel free to send in another request!

Never be afraid to light up my DMs if you need help!!

CW UNDER THE CUT: burnout reader! Food mention! Platonic nicknames that are both cute and insulting.

𝑇𝑜𝑜𝑟𝑢 𝑂𝑖𝑘𝑎𝑤𝑎

Finally! Exams were over and you can relax!

Wouldn’t that be perfect?

But as luck would fuck you, that was the exact 180 of what actually happened.

When you woke up the next morning, you found yourself unable to enjoy any activity you took part in.

The hobbies you had once adored were just… dull.

Every single morning was the exact same. You’d wake up, have some sort of bland breakfast, and try to entertain yourself.

Whether it was aimless scrolling on your phone, watching some sort of boring movie, trying to cook some kind of new recipe. Etc. 

But nothing would suffice.

It felt like you were underwater.

You couldn’t hear any music or tv you tried to put on.

You couldn’t feel the materials of the crafts you tried to do.

You couldn’t taste the food you made

Nor smell the candles you had lit.

You just felt… null.

What to do when you feel null? There’s nothing you can do.

So you do what you do every day, lay on the couch and pray for a miracle.

A sudden twinkling “interrupted” your tv show.

It was your phone ringing!

“Hello…?” You strained, having just pressed the button to pick it up.

“Hey bitch! Me n’ Makki are gonna go celebrate the end of exams, you coming?”

“…Maybe another time Tooru.”

On the other end of the line, Both Makki and Oikawa stopped dead in their tracks.

You never call him by his first name… and that tone?? What’s going on?

The brunette took the call off speaker and went off to a different area.

“(Y/N)? What’s going on, babydoll?”

“I just… can’t feel anything.”

“Like physically? Is your body numb? Do you need me to call an amb-“

“Tooru I just feel like static.” You whisper as you start to sniffle.

Oikawa’s eyebrows knit together as he takes in your words. He covered the receiver with his hand and placedhis phone by his hip.

“Makki we-“

“Don’t even worry.” Hanamaki said with a smile, holding both hands up, “Go see them”

“You’re the best, Makki.” He mouthed, “Okay darling, you stay right there.”

And with that, Tooru was rushing to a few stores, and then your family home.

Within fifteen minutes, your best friend was knocking hastily on your home’s front door.

“S’open.” You mumbled weakly.

The door flung open, and Oikawa dropped the bags of your favorite things, rushing to the couch you were laying on.

“(Y/N)? Hey. It’s me.” He sits next to you and places a hand on your shoulder.

You shot a gentle mumble back at him, ears falling deaf once again.

“Okay sweetheart you are scaring the shit out of me. Come here.”

Much to your displeasure, Tooru lifted your uncooperative form into his embrace and laid you against his chest.

“What in god’s name is going on?” he whispers, placing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head.

That little gesture had been something you two started ages ago. You can’t remember where it originated, but it makes you both feel loved.

“Tooru I just… I’ve spent the past month of my life doing nothing but studying and working. I can’t feel anything.”

“Mhm.” He replied, rubbing your arm.

“I wake up, try to “entertain” myself and go to bed. Nothing works.”

“What if I make it work?”

“What?”

“You heard me!” He cooed, “I’ll make life fun again.”

“Only if you’d like…” you replied gently.

“I would love!” He chimed, “It’s hot bitch summer! Tooru Oikawa’s bestie has to participate. Now up on your toes, lovebug!”

“Mmm. I’m gonna regret this aren’t I?” You said as you slowly struggled to an upright position.

“Totally.”

“Tooru I don’t want to get up.” You whined softly, “I don’t think I can do this.”

“(Y/N) if you don’t get up right now, I will tickle you.” He stated with a deadly seriosity.

“Go ahead” you replied with a tinge of malice in your tone, flopping backwards against him and pushing him further down into the couch.

“Waaaah! (Y/N)-Chan! You’re squishing me in!! I’m trapped in the couch! What a world, what a world!”

You whipped around and raised your arms high, forming your hands into dinosaur claws, “I’m gonna getcha! Raaaawr!!”

“PFFFFT!” Oikawa threw his hand over his face as you both erupted into laughter at your childish antics.

You flopped backwards off of him and onto the other end of the couch, the both of you still laughing hard.

As the chuckled died down, you wiped a single tear of delight from your eye.

“I told you I’d help you.” He chimed, finally sitting up.

“One event isn’t going to magically change my mood, Oikawa.” You replied, sitting up yourself.

“Well, you called me Oikawa. That’s a start, no?” He beamed in reply.

“I suppose…”

The setter had one more trick up his sleeve…

“Stand up, for real this time.” He demanded, grabbing the remote for your TV.

You obliged with a sigh, jumping to your feet with an awkward smile.

Tooru dramatically sticks his hand out, “Dance with me!”

“Oh my god-“

“(Y/N)-Chan I’m prosed to share the most secret-iest secret that I have. You should say yes.”

“Well shit, yes then.” You took his hand and he clicked play on his Spotify playlist.

Your living room filled with the lively music of the 1960s.

“HAHA!” You screeched in delight, “No freakin way you like sixties music!”

“TAKE IT TO YOUR GRAVE!” He replied, spinning you through a terribly executed dance.

And within minutes, the setter had you both giggling as he shared his favorite songs with you.

And you? You don’t remember a time you had ever had this much fun…

—————♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎—————

#haikyuu #haikyuu!! #haikyu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu Oikawa #haikyuu x reader imagine #haikyuu comfort #haikyuu x reader comfort #Oikawa x reader #Oikawa comfort #tooru Oikawa x reader #Oikawa imagine #tooru Oikawa imagine #tooru Oikawa comfort #Oikawa tooru x reader #Oikawa tooru imagine #anime #ducky’s emergency requests #emergency #haikyuu emergency requests #haikyuu emergency request #emergency requests #emergency request #anime x reader #anime imagine #anime comfort #Oikawa tooru #tooru Oikawa #Oikawa

[pr1ncessm00n]

for sale or wanted — jean kirstein x fem! reader

series masterlist

prev | next , part two

warnings: cursing, porco being toxic lol. dates are wrong once again sorry !!

[ playlist : love again - dua lipa ]

eight.

Half asleep and ready to go to bed, Y/N fell back into her bed. She picked up her phone, hoping to mindlessly scroll through some TikToks. Instead, she was met with two messages. Audibly gasping as she read Porco’s name, she dropped her phone, hitting herself in the face in the process. “Ow!”

Porco? Y/N thought incredulously. What the hell does he want?

Contemplating asking Ymir and Sasha for advice, Y/N then decided against it. This was her life, she couldn’t expect her friends to guide her though it. But God, was she such a coward when it came to Porco. It wasn’t like he was Prince Charming, but Y/N had an extreme loyalty complex. She couldn’t ever allow herself to let go of people. Porco used to berate her for that constantly.

Why are you so clingy? He would ask.

Who’s the clingy one now? Y/N thought bitterly. She decided to ignore Porco’s text until she could think of a reply that wasn’t along the lines of “No, fuck you.” She slid her thumb over to Jean’s message.

Great. Another text asking to talk. Why couldn’t people just send their question and save a girl the anxiety? Y/N scolded herself for allowing her egotistical ex to ruin her mood. Jean didn’t deserve her snappiness.

Jean sighed in relief. Thank God she replied. He didn’t know if he could handle the mortification if she didn’t.

Y/N pondered for a bit.

Y/N laughed quietly to herself. So Jean could in fact match her sense of humor. She exited out of their chat, mindlessly scrolling through social media. She actively avoided Porco’s message, not wanting to burden herself with the chore of responding to him. What could he possibly have to say? She headed to Twitter, hopefully finding something relatable to retweet. As Y/N scrolled, she saw a familiar face appear on her timeline.

Recommended for you from contacts, the header read. Below it was about 3 profiles of people in her contacts she had not followed yet. Among them, was Jean.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

Should I? She questioned. Would she be overstepping some unspoken boundary? What if she hurt her own feelings by stalking and seeing something she wouldn’t like/had no business seeing? Maybe she should just ignore it. She doubted Jean was some internet creep… but wouldn’t it be good to know if he was? Curiosity getting the better of her, Y/N decided to invade that boundary and look at his account.

He didn’t have much content from what Y/N could see. He just retweeted fancy cars and some funny memes. She spotted Connie, Sasha’s lifelong friend and Jean’s infamous roomie. She mentally hoped Jean didn’t tweet like Connie. That would be the ultimate ick.

Y/N’s thumb stopped scrolling, hovering over a tweet. Her heart beated ten times more rapidly.

well she is pretty lol, Jean’s tweet read. Tweeted just an hour after he met Y/N.

Could it be? Y/N wondered. No way. There’s no way it’s about me. I’m just jumping to conclusions. Why would he say that about me? I’m just being self absorbed.

She brushed off her inquiries, deciding to just stop stalking his account entirely. From what she already saw, there wasn’t anything suspicious or icky enough to make her want to not interact with him. And she was already paranoid, so every tweet she saw she would begin to assume it was about her as well. She was just getting her hopes up.

Rolling over on her side, Y/N placed her phone to charge and went to sleep. It was late, which was probably what was causing her mind to become fuddled.

——

“You should’ve told me Sasha’s third roomie was Y/N,” Reiner had said to Jean in the truck. “I totally blindsided her. Top ten worst encounters of my life.”

“Uh, care to enlighten me? Do you guys have beef or something?” Jean asked, perusing the radio stations.

Reiner sighed. “She’s dating- was dating- my childhood friend, Porco.”

Jean felt his stomach drop. “Oh.”

Reiner glanced at him before stopping at a red light. “I said dating. He dumped her like a week ago. It was pretty trash.”

Jean secretly felt more at peace hearing that. Poor Y/N, but.. she could probably do better than this Porco person.

“So what does that have to do with you?” Jean asked.

Reiner shrugged. “I guess I didn’t really help. She said she felt a little betrayed. Like I agreed with Porco and my friends that she’s the crazy one.”

Jean nodded. “So you were a bystander.”

Reiner sighed again, tilting his head in an I guess motion. “It’s just hard. Porco’s like my brother, and I don’t agree with how he acted… but maybe I should have spoken up sooner.”

Jean patted his shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself, man. That was between them.”

“Yeah. I could have at least told Porco to step it up, though.” Reiner murmured.

I’m glad you didn’t. Jean snickered to himself.

“So, you think she’s cute?” Reiner shot Jean a devilish grin. Jean rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, I guess. You goin’ to Historia’s birthday?” He slyly changed the subject.

“Is it open invite?” Reiner’s eyebrows scrunched up.

Jean shrugged. “I have an invite. Maybe you can be my plus one.”

Reiner made a “Hmm” sound in response, weary at Jean’s invite. “What are you dressing as if you go?”

“I was thinking swag era Justin Bieber.” Jean replied, smiling widely.

Reiner gave him a look. “You for real?”

Jean’s smile dropped. “What?”

Reiner laughed. “I’d pay money to see how badly you embarrass yourself with that.”

“It’s a 2000’s party?” Jean was confused.

“Yeah, but everyone does like, early 2000s. Think Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake.”

Jean shot him a curious look.

“What? Pop culture is my guilty pleasure.” Reiner explained himself. “And everyone knows Britney Spears.”

Jean hummed in response. “I just think you got a thing for pop girls.” He referenced the earlier Becky G mishap.

“I’m not even gonna deny it anymore.” Reiner agreed, defeated.

——

“Guys,” Y/N said the next morning. Ymir and Sasha were at the breakfast “nook” (a corner of their miniature kitchen designated for a small table that barely fit all three of them), Sasha eating cereal and Ymir chomping on an apple while scrolling on her phone. “Porco texted me last night.”

Ymir continued scrolling, unfazed. Sasha’s eyes widened and she swallowed her food before speaking. “What? Why?” Y/N glared at Ymir.

“Thanks for your interest YMIR, but as i was telling Sasha-“

“I’m Sasha.” Sasha cut in, obviously confused.

Y/N gave Sasha a look.

“Did you say something?” Ymir said, bored. She still hadn’t looked up from her phone.

“Ymir!” Sasha scolded. “Y/N’s telling us Porco texted her!”

“Who’s Porco?” Ymir replied, monotonous.

Y/N sighed in exasperation. “Are you stalking Eren again? I already told you to stop comparing your subscribers-“

“I’m not stalking Eren!” Ymir snapped defensively. “I’m…” She mumbled the next part incoherently.

“Huh?” Sasha and Y/N asked in unison.

“I SAID,” Ymir repeated, annoyed. “I’m looking up Britney Spears outfits. Historia wanted us to go as different eras of her. But I can’t find anything that matches my style.” She grumbled.

Y/N’s heart melted. It was adorable watching Ymir struggle to find a matching costume for Historia. It was like Marilyn Manson wanting to get along with a CareBear.

“Just go as JT,” Sasha said, chewing her cereal.

“One, close your mouth, and two, Historia asked for us to go as Brittney. I can’t just show up like a dude.” Ymir visibly deflated as she scrolled through countless pictures of a younger Spear’s iconic looks.

“Why don’t you try her bandanna phase? That wasn’t so over the top, and she wore mostly jeans.” Y/N suggested as she squeezed into the corner chair.

Ymir sighed. “I don’t want to wear a skirt or some bimbo shit. That’s y’alls look.”

“How do you manage to sound endearing trying to please your girlfriend while simultaneously insulting us?” Y/N wondered aloud.

“It’s a talent.” Ymir waved her off. “What did you guys get her though?”

“A giftcard to Urban Outfitters,” Sasha replied. “I got tired of searchin’. I put $50 on it. I think that should be enough for like, a shirt and a half. She better like it, too. ‘Cus I’m broke.” Sasha pointed her spoon at Ymir accusingly.

“I got her the Taylor Swift vinyl she’s been wanting. And some pink film for her camera.” Y/N added. Ymir nodded approvingly.

“I hope she likes my gift. I don’t know if I’m moving too fast though?” For the first time since Y/N mer Ymir, Y/N hadn’t ever seen her this distraught.

“Calm down,” Y/N reassured her. “You’ve been together for years now. I don’t think you can move any slower.”

Ymir rolled her eyes, leaning back im her chair with arms crossed. “It’s a small trip to Seoul. I know she’s been dying to go. It’s not like it’s anything she hasn’t seen before with her family… but I figure it’d be different with just us.” Y/N’s heart melted.

“That’s so sweet!” Sasha exclaimed, eyes watery. “I want an Ymir!”

“Well, you can’t have me!” Ymir laughed. “It’s not a big deal. The sponsorship I managed to land gave me a decent payout.” Ymir sheepishly replied, her cheeks a faint red

Y/N nudged her. “Look at you, being modest.”

Ymir waved her hand. “Shut up. How does this look?” She turned her phone to Y/N, showing a picture of Britney Spears clad in low waist jeans, a black tank top and sure enough, a yellow bandanna.

“That’s perfect.”

Ymir smirked, smug. “Just like me.”

“Y/N!” Sasha shouted. “Go back to the Porco thing!”

“Oh, yeah. What did Oinky want?” The girls turned to face Y/N, who shrank a bit back in her seat.

“That’s a new one,” Y/N chuckled. “I thought of one last night, too,” She paued for dramatic effect. “Porker!” She gasped out, giggling, hitting the table in a slight fit of laughter. Sasha and Ymir gave Y/N a blank stare, unamused at Y/N’s mediocre roast.

“Not funny, didn’t laugh.” Sasha spat.

“If your career was stand up you’d be living in a box.” Ymir deadpanned.

“Tough crowd,” Y/N sighed, wiping imaginary tears from her eyes. “But if you must know…” She purposely stalled a bit, knowing it would send an impatient, jittery Sasha over the edge and annoy Ymir even more, even if she pretended she was not interested in the relationship drama between Y/N and her disgraced ex.

“Just say it already!” Sasha begged.

“I…don’t know. I haven’t responded.” Y/N finally admitted, putting her head in her hands. “I just-“ Her words were muffled by her hands.

Ymir removed her hands from her face. “Your words, darling.” She scolded, voice oozing sarcasm.

“Ugh,” Y/N groaned. “I’m too pussy to respond. He just asked if we could talk. What could he possibly want? What if he wants the couch? It’s just too much.”

Sasha gave her a sympathetic gaze. “Just leave him on read! If he wants to talk so badly he’ll find a way to say what he needs to.”

“For once, I agree.” Ymir added.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Y/N stretched. “But it did keep me up at night wondering what he wanted.”

“Y/N, forget him! Historia’s party is soon, there’s no time to worry about ugly men!” Sasha stood up, rushing to put her bowl in the sink. “I got a lecture in a few, but you need to find your costume! We’re all going as Britney!” She said before disappearing into her room.

“Um, who’s gonna tell her we’re not all dressing as Britney?” Ymir inquired.

Y/N snorted. “Not I. I’m probably going as Suki from Fast and the Furious.”

“Niiceee,” Ymir fist pumped Y/N. “She was my sexual awakening.” Y/N choked on her muffin.

“Ymir, what’d we say about uncalled for horniness?” Y/N reprimanded. Ymir made her way to the coat rack, searching for her car keys in her leather jacket’s pocket.

“If I was gonna be chewed out for liking women I would’ve lived with my parents!” Ymir called out. “I gotta pick up Historia!”

“Will you be back?” Y/N shouted back.

“Get off my dick!” Ymir shut the door. Laughing to herself, Y/N picked up Ymir’s dish to place in the sink. She was, out of the three, the more tidier one. Ymir did the best cleaning, but she was selectively lazy.

“Bye, Y/N!” Sasha shouted before leaving in a rush. One thing Y/N had grown used to was the fairly chaotic mornings. She secretly hoped they would be like this for a long time.

Since Y/N had transferred, Ymir and Sasha had been the best roommates she could ask for. Yes, Ymir was snappy and Sasha was a bit ditzy, but it was the perfect combination and they were respectful. Y/N had transferred from Sina University purely for academic reasons, but she had not expected to fit in so well with the girls or their group of pre establish friends. She worried she would not fit in since they had already been so tight-knit, but found that wasn’t the case at all. They were open, accepting and loyal. Y/N couldn’t be happier where she was, and even though she wouldn’t admit it, she was grateful for how close they had all gotten in their short time together. Who knew randomly assigned rooming would provide her with friendship to last a lifetime?

Which is why every time she thought about Porco she kicked herself. How could she have let some… meathead ruin her freshmen year of college? She should have been having fun, interacting with Ymir and Sasha’s friends more, lived her own life. But no, she chose to become involved with a self absorbed fraternity guy of all people. Now she was semi-heartbroken, extremely humiliated, and about a year’s worth of time and effort short. She had allowed him to take advantage of her so much, that he felt he could contact her still after basically using her. The thought made her want to rip her hair out and scream.

Almost as if through divine intervention, her phone beeped with a notification.

What the actual hell? Y/N thought.

She froze for a second. What does she do? Respond? Ignore? Block?

After a few seconds of mental deliberation, Y/N finally decided. She was fed up with the lack of bravery she showed and decided to just end it once and for all. Typing out a response, she clicked send and decided to go to the mall for the retail therapy she was sure to need after whatever Porco said what he wanted to say. Turning the shower on, she braced herself for his response. What could Porco want? She couldn’t wrap her mind around it.

This better be good, Y/N thought.

taglist : @tsunderehokage @lagrimasdeglitter @snowyseungs @mukeovernetflix @bakugouswh0r3 @punicorn999 @deadlyaffairs @usernamehere91 @calumsfringe

a/n: woohoo!! long chapter. so to recap: i graduated!! i am finally free from the clutches of high school. i might do a face reveal :) bc i loved my grad dress. anywho, my fever cleared up, i have chapter 9 already completed (just need to revise + edit) and this is NOT proof read!! it’s 2 am guys i’m tired. but i hope you enjoyed this :) sorry for the weird cropping too. peace out

#aot headcanons #aot imagines #attack on titan x reader #jean kirschtein x reader #jean kirstein #jean kirstein smau #jean kirstein x reader #jean x reader #shingeki no kyojin #aot #snk smau #snk #snk x reader #snk headcanons #snk fanfiction #snk jean #jean aot #jean x female reader #jean kirschtein #jean kirchstein headcanons #jean kirschtein scenarios #attack on titan social media au #attack on titan #aot smau #aot fanfiction #aot x y/n

[anotheranimestan]

hi! I just read “all bark no bite” and omg it was so good!! looking forward to more of your writing and possible a part 2 if you get the chance!

Thank you!!!!!😃🧡 Your wish is my command!

All Bark No Bite (pt. 2)

Bakugo angst + sexual tensionnnn

Read part 1 here

wc: 3k

I hope this is as fun for you to read as it is for me to write! Also why is he 👇 this fineee for no reason.

The next morning, you woke up trying to convince yourself it was all a dream...or a nightmare. But the way you could still feel the softness of his fingers around your neck completely contradicted your wishes. You also had to keep wiping little smiles off your face throughout your entire morning routine. You tried to combat them by listing all the things you hated about Bakugo but it was helpless. Every train of thought ended with the shape of his lips and how nicely they molded with yours.

You and Mina walked to class together and you swore she’d developed a mind reading quirk. You felt her eyes on you like a blazing sun. Although this was really all in your head. She only asked “are you okay?” because you kept looking at her like you’d committed a hate crime.

You and Bakugo didn’t look at each other once during class. No leg shaking, pen stealing or insults. Not even a well timed scoff when you were called on to answer a question. You tried your best to clear your mind and forget everything that had occurred in that hall last night. After a while of this torture you even were having a little bit of success.

But of course your peace was ruined as you walked to lunch. He couldn’t let you have anything. And of course he wasn’t going to leave you alone.

“Hey Little Bite, I hear we get to pick our groups for combat training today. All Might is going to make me a team captain, obviously. So if you want to be on my team let me know. I mean I assume you don’t wanna lose. You just gotta ask me nicely.” His usual cocky tone crept under your skin.

You desperately tried to ignore him as he followed you. Each footstep he started gaining on you being more annoying than the last. But what really did it was the pencil he threw at your head.

“Please, actively do not pick me.”

He ignored your objection and continued on his line of bullshit.

“I suppose I could take you. Your quirk would be useless, I’m all the attack power we’d need to win but I could use you as a decoy or something.”

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t want to be on a team with you, moron. Your pea brain doesn’t know how to do anything but blow shit up. You’re like an explosive cave man. Besides being too close to you for too long makes me wanna vomit.”

He cackled. You knew exactly what he was thinking and immediately regretted your words.

“That’s weird—“

You picked up a rock from the ground and threw it at his head. But he just caught it and made it explode with a smug look on his face.

“Ugh. I cannot stand you.” You groaned.

“You sure about that?” He said with a suggestive eyebrow.

He was so hot....it made you want to punch him in the throat. Without thinking you shrugged off your backpack and swung it at his face. His reflexes bested you again though and he caught the bag, yanking it from you. The force was harder than you expected, it sent you flying into his chest. You both tumbled to the ground and landed shoulder to shoulder. Your skull hit a small rock with a wack. Rubbing the back of your head, shooting pain surfaced.

“Ow!! That fucking hurt dumbass!”

“Sor—“

You swung your arm, aiming to kill, and hit him in the stomach.

It must have really knocked the wind out of him because he made a loud grunting noise that hinted at his surprise. It wasn’t often people got to land a punch on Katsuki Bakugo. King Explosion Murder.

“Do that shit again Little Bite! You’ll regret it!” He grabbed your wrist, attempting to clear a way to get you back. You both started wresting trying to punch each other in the gut. Literally rolling around in the grass in a red hot death match of who could out curse the other.

“Omg, are you guys about to kiss right now?” Mina teased from out of absolutely nowhere, scaring the shit out of you.

You both froze solid as the blood drained from your face. She knew about last night? How did she find out?!

“You told her!?” Bakugo’s entire face was contorting through a whole range of emotions. Shock, horror, embarrassment, accusation, cheekiness, embarrassment again.

“What!?” You panicked. “No! I didn’t!” You swear you didn’t. You replayed your whole morning in your head just to double check.

You turned to your pink friend. Her eyes were wide and her mouth fell open. You watched the gears turn in her head as she realized she’d stumbled upon a miraculously juicy discovery.

“OH. MY. GOD!!! No freaking way!!” She squealed unable to contain herself.

She started blabbering as she attempted to cope with this information. She had absolutely no idea what to do with it.

Your stomach fell as you realized this fatal error. Wait....this wasn’t your error. You pushed him off you and you both scrambled to your feet.

“This is your fault! Why’d you say that!” You shoved a finger in Bakugo’s chest. Which actually hurt because....he’s solid.

“Don’t yell at me!” He yelled back at an even louder volume.

Mina started running around in little circles. “They kissed!!!” She then abruptly stopped in her tracks and you watched a lightbulb flicker on.

No.....

“KIRISHIMA!!!! KAMINARI!!!” She screamed as she ran toward the cafeteria.

“MINA DONT YOU FUCKING DA—“ Bakugo exploded into a full sprint to chase her down. But she was like a rocket.

You chased after them desperately trying to reconcile all this is your mind. But it was no use, your brain was melting. Everyone was about to find out. The relentless jokes...they would never end. You could die right here.

Both of them ran so fast you fell horribly behind. By the time you rounded the corner and caught up to them a whole event had already taken place.

Bakugo was screaming on the top of his lungs. You could practically see the steam coming off the top of his head.

Kaminari was standing there in his stupid form with a half torn shirt. Jesus, what did Bakugo do to him?

Mina and Kirishima were laying on the ground, their face covered in tears. They were laughing so hard no sounds were even coming out.

“Oh my god,” Mina squeaked out between gasps for air, “Bakugo has a crush.”

“It’s so adorable!” Kirishima said wiping the tears from his eyes as he attempted to stop laughing. With no success, they both bursted again after seeing Bakugo slamming his fists into the grass. The teasing was making him want to rip his eyes out. He couldn’t stand it.

“Shut up Kirishima!!!” He jumped on top of his friend and started repeatedly banging his head into the ground. Of course this did absolutely nothing to the hard head. It just made him laugh even more.

Poor Denki just stood there drooling with a little smile on his face and giggling.

You were frozen. Stunned. It was like watching a comedy movie in which you were the punchline.

But all the laughs fell a silent as a furious voice cut through the air.

“What is this.” It wasn’t a question. Mr. Aizawa looked like he hadn’t slept in three days and this used up his last bit of patience.

“Bakugo. Get off him immediately.” He growled.

You knew how this looked. Bakugo was attacking Kirishima after successfully making Kaminari fry his own brain. Your friends’ laughter wasn’t enough to hide Bakugo’s apparent violence even if it was over something as stupid as a kiss. Mr. Aizawa couldn’t possibly know that.

“I overlooked your behavior yesterday, picking a fight with Miss. y/n. But now attacking your other classmates as well? This is violent behavior is unacceptable.”

“Mr. Aizawa—“ Kirishima tried to defend his friend but it was no use.

“Not another word.” Your teacher was glaring at Bakugo with laser beams.

The hot head just stood there in silence with a scowl on his face and two tightly clenched fists. He was really just going to take the heat for everyone? No arguments?

“I’m putting you on house arrest for the rest of the day. No more classes and no combat training.” You watched the dagger go through Bakugo’s chest. Today was going to be offensive training with All Might. You knew he was looking forward to it. Guilt punched your core.

“Mr. Aizawa wait. I’m the one who picked a fight with him yesterday. I challenged him. He shouldn’t get into trouble because of me.” You shuffled toward him timidly. He was scary when he was like this.

Everyone looked at you in surprise. They all knew it was true, that you’d egged him on. And he wouldn’t be raging right now if you hadn’t kissed, so today was also partially your fault. But they were truly surprised because you normally would revel in Bakugo getting scolded. But you weren’t fucking evil. And this wasn’t Bakugo’s fault at all...although he really needed to get his fucking temper in check. Idiot.

“Is that true?” Aizawa asked Bakugo.

The hot head took a deep breath. “Does that sound like me at all? I’d never give into her weak attempts at baiting me. I fought her because I wanted to.”

Your eyes popped out at his words. He lied. Why the fuck would he do that?

Mr. Aizawa escorted Bakugo to the dorms, lecturing the entire way.

“This sucks.” Kirishima said with a frown.

“I know. I feel so bad!” Mina cried sadly.

You had no words. The four of you walked to lunch with drooping heads. You held Kaminari’s hand the whole way until his brain recharged.

Recalling you’d left your backpack in the quad you ran back to get it. Upon arrival you realized Bakugo’s backpack was also there. He wouldn’t even have his stuff with him to finish homework or study during house arrest. You groaned. This guilt was horrible. It ate at you for rest of the day. The rest of your friends didn’t feel any better. And combat training wasn’t the same for you without that familiar sound of explosions going off in the background. It actually made the class feel kind of empty.

As usual at the end of the day you sat in the common area with the rest of the girls.

“So...is it true y/n?” Ochaco poked hesitantly.

You glared at Mina. Loose lips as usual.

“Sorry y/n. I talk when I’m stressed.” Mina cried only kind of regretful.

You sighed. You didn’t have the heart to actually be upset with her. You were the villain here. Getting Bakugo into so much trouble.

“Yea.” You huffed out. Talking about it made you cringe. It was like admitting your sworn rival had defeated you somehow. Even if you sort of didn’t mind the way he did it...

“What was it like?” Mina asked excited for the details.

“Is he a good kisser?” Ochaco added.

Your mind fell into a fog as you replayed the kiss again. Your skin went electric as you remembered the feel of his hands on your waist and those noises he was making. His lips wrapped around yours....

“Oh my god...Ochaco shes in love!” Mina concluded from you zoning out for what ended being like 15 seconds of you staring into space with a little smile on your face. She was practically singing.

“I am not!” You yelled flustered.

“Why are so many people yelling today?” Kirishima chuckled as he rounded the corner to join the couch.

“So is he mad?” Mina’s voice had changed into the sad one from earlier.

“I don’t know. Every time I knock he just tells me to go away. But that’s not that different from normal honestly.” He smiled. Their friendship was so odd.

Suddenly his backpack flashed through your mind. It was sitting in your room.

You got up to leave. You tried to be sneaky about it as they discussed how to cheer the victim up. But to no avail, they’d never let you sneak off again.

“Where you going huh?” Mina’s voice was painfully suggestive.

“To my room!”

“Uh huh, we’ve heard that one before.”

You stuck your tongue at her.

Kirishima twisted to face you over the back of the couch. “So if I ask Bakugo tomorrow if he saw you tonight he’s gonna say no, right?” Who knew he could be this ruthless. No mercy.

You pinched the bridge of your nose in frustration. You’d been cornered.

“Look. He left his backpack earlier and I’m just going to give it to him! Jeez do you want to do it or something Kiri?” You were seething.

“Nahh, you should do it. He’ll just yell at me to go away again.” He winked. It made you cringe again.

You could peel your skin off from this teasing. But you know someone who hated it even more. You knew that’s why he wouldn’t let Kirishima into his room.

You ran off before they could crack any more jokes.

On your way to the elevators you heard a creepy cackle come from somewhere. You spun around, alarmed, as a “what the fuck” escaped your lips. Your eyes landed on one eyeball peeking through the crack of a doorway.

“Can I get a kiss too?” The voice was wet with drool and lust. “Just one?”

“I will kick your face in Mineta.”

The door quickly shut. Did Mina tell the fucking whole class!?

With more haste now you stormed to your room to get the stupid backpack that was causing you so many problems and made your way to your other problem’s door.

Before you knocked you realized your hands were shaking. Nervous? Seriously, over this moron? You shook it off with resolve and knocked.

“Fuck off Denki, for the hundredth fucking time I’m busy!” A gruff voice yelled from behind the door.

“Oh please, busy with what?” You retorted reflexively. Earlier you had decided you were going to try to be nicer but that sentiment wore off as soon as you heard his annoying voice.

The door swung open.

“What do you want?” He said with a raised eyebrow.

Your mind went blank. He was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. Of course it made his biceps look better than normal. He was wearing a black t-shirt that made his skin look perfectly tanned and was snug in all the right places. And why did he always smell so good damn. Today it was like vanilla and woodsy aftershave.

Stop staring. Stop staring. Speak bitch.

“Here’s your backpack. You should keep better track of it. I had to carry it around all day. That’s annoying.” You tossed it at him.

Why couldn’t you say anything nice? He took the heat for everyone. It’s like your mouth was rebelling against you.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Maybe you should work out more weakling.”

Panic panged in your chest as he started to shut the door in your face.

“Wait—“ you stopped it with your hand.

He paused. Mild interest dawned his brow.

“Why—why did you lie?”

“What?”

“To Mr. Aizawa. You could have told him it was my fault.”

“What do you care?” He pressed. His tone always managed to infuriate you.

You spun on your heels and started to walk away. “Nevermind.”

“Because I felt bad. You hurt your stupid head.”

You’d forgotten about that with all the guilt that had been overrunning your head. It didn’t even hurt anymore. You were surprised he’d even noticed.

“Oh.”

“But obviously you’re fine now so I guess it was all for nothing.” He added quickly trying to sound indignant.

The guilt punched you again. Especially now that you were face to face with him. He didn’t even look mad. He actually looked calm. And he looked good. You tried to deny your attraction to him. But flashes of his hand on your waist started invading your mind again. You could feel him wrapped around your neck. The way he was gentle and rough at the same time.

“Instead of just standing there you could actually make yourself useful. You owe me anyways.”

You snapped out of it trying not to look flustered. You shot him a confused and slightly offended look.

“Fill me in on what I missed in class...” he explained. He wouldn’t make direct eye contact though.

“Are you saying you need my help?” You had to do it. You couldn’t not take an opportunity.

“Tch. Obviously no—“

“Let’s do it. Move.” You said as you pushed past him into his room. Your hand made full contact with his abs and you felt that heat again.

He shut the door behind you and your heart started off like a race horse as you heard him lock it.

You suspected it was to lock the other boys out. God forbid they catch you in his room after all this.

Shit....you were in his room. Alone. With your hot head. The day after he kissed you. The evening after he took all the fury of Mr. Aizawa for you and moments after he asked you to help him study even though he gets way better grades than you.

He cleared a spot for you to sit on his bed and then leaned back into his chair with his hands locked behind his head. His flexing muscles were distracting you again.

“You better actually remember everything.”

“Shut up.” You rolled your eyes at him.

His words were supposed to rile you but the way he looked at you, like he was secretly loving that you were here was making your stomach flutter. You could feel your face red and you prayed he wouldn’t notice. At this rate you were going to throw yourself at him before he had the chance to kiss you again. As long as you two didn’t start fighting again first.....

~~

💥 YES there will be a pt 3!!! 💥

It’s going to be called “sTuDyiNg” HAHA (hint: Bakugo doesn’t actually wanna study “dumbass”)

Update: Pt.3 is up now!! Read it here

#fanfic #bakugo angst #mha bakugou #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugo #bhna imagine #katsuki bakugou #mha angst #my hero headcanons #mha fanfiction #mha fluff #katsuki bakugo x y/n #katsuki bakugo angst #bakugou fluff #bakugou x you #bakugou headcanons #bakugou smut #katsuki bakugo imagine #Kirishima #mina ashido #denki kaminari #ochaco uraraka #mr aizawa

[catzula]

dreams that smell of caramel

Hello, hello. I know I disappeared for a hot minute, i blame depression for everything. i think I’ll be more active from now on, and thank you for reading!

btw, I did take a break form my 400 followers event cuz I burned out really really bad sorry about it

pairing: Bakugou x gn!reader

genre: fluff

warnings: cursing, 3.6k

synopsis: Really, who falls asleep in a subway? Apparently, you do, and Bakugou can’t help but feel protective over it. It’s because he’s training to be a hero, right? It’s not like he likes you, right? Right?!

Bakugou hated the subway. 

There was almost nothing there to like. It was dirty, caused Bakugou to feel like he couldn't breathe, and frankly, ever since the day he read that the air in a subway was %30 pieces of human skin, he didn't want to breathe, either.

The traumatic effect that piece of information had on him was something he never got over. But it wasn't only how dirty the air was, either. It was dusty and dry, and it always caused his eye contacts to dry on his eyes, causing him to see blurry for a while, and there had been many incidents where Bakugou had furiously rubbed his eyes, and made himself blind for a good few minutes.

People there always seemed to be almost as rude and angry as him, most of them thinking they had the right to sit wherever and whenever, and people invading his personal space wasn't something unusual, either. And the smell, oh god, the smell. Some people obviously hadn't discovered what a fucking soap or deodorant was since he could sometimes feel the smell in his brain. 

All this, even though he hadn't even seen the real torture. With the mean, scary look on his face and the way he stood that screamed, stay away from me if you're smart enough, people usually tried to do just that, so Bakugou didn't know what his space being invaded actually could be, or how bad the smell could get.

It was a warm day when he had met you. When he saw you barging in the last second, right before the doors closed behind you, he scoffed, slightly amused. You looked like you were running for your dear life, chest heaving, a thin layer of sweat forming on your temples, clothes disheveled, and hair messy, but you had a proud smile on your lips despite all that.

Crimson eyes followed you as you happily sighed when you noticed the seat across Bakugou was free, dropping yourself on the hard surface. You looked around, realizing there was almost no one around the 10-meter radius of you, the seats were vacant, but people were crowding a bit further down the subway. Your brows furrowed with confusion, and only then did you notice the ash-blonde across you, his gaze piercing through you, the mean scowl on his lips reminding you of a wolf. 

The moment your eyes met, Bakugou had expected you to jump to your feet and run away since he had become well-known after the sports festival and many incidents that had forced him to the tv. And even if someone didn't recognize him, the slightest glare from him was enough to make people run with their tails between their legs, but not this time, apparently, since you dared to cock your head to the side and smile at him.

Smile at him! It was almost an insult! When was the last time anyone actually did that? Especially a stranger? Or maybe you weren't a stranger, was that it? Looking at it now, you did have a familiar face, and it felt like he had seen you quite a few times before. But the more he tried to remember, the more the memory of you went deeper into his brain, causing him to grit his teeth subconsciously and look at you even more intensely. Bakugou wasn't aware he was staring at you like he was trying to see your soul, red gaze never faltering a second away from you.

It was when you tilted your brows slightly upwards, your pretty smile turning into an awkward one, he realized he was staring for the past station. Bakugou's brows snapped together, annoyed at himself, but he was also aware of how his face felt warmer than usual. He gritted his teeth with an angry grunt, looking away from you and fixing his eyes on the stupid advertisement that was right across from him, and he could swear he heard a muffled laugh coming from your way. Bakugou was surprised at how much he wanted to look at you, but his pride wouldn't let him do so, and so he kept staring at the poorly made advertisement brochure. 

Bakugou was a proud, smug man, and he always prided himself on the amount of control he had over himself. But that day, he had let himself down. What was this stupid force that kept making him flick his eyes your way almost every five minutes? It felt like his body was possessed, and it was impossible to suppress his curiosity and not look at you. Bakugou had looked around if there was anyone else looking at you and to try and see if this was a quirk of some sort since it made no sense. 

He grunted in annoyance when he couldn't help himself once again and glance at you, but it wasn't a curt look this time. His eyes narrowed and widened when he took a glimpse of you, of your relaxed body, head falling back and eyes closed. 

"What the hell?" He muttered to himself, leaning forward slightly to try and understand just what the fuck you were- were you sleeping? The realization of how you were, in fact, fucking sleeping had hit him hard, brows shooting upwards, his eyes were wide with confusion and a wave of slight anger. 

Were you dumb? Did you have no rational part in your brain? General knowledge of some sorts? Who in their right mind slept in a fucking subway? Where criminals swarmed, thieves lurking in the corners, waiting for people to slip for a second so they could steal a watch, phone, or a wallet easily, and you were sleeping? 

Bakugou had no idea why he was so fired up about someone he had seen only half an hour ago. He couldn't help but jump in his place, ready to fight, hand itching for a punch whenever someone as much as walked before you, growling and shooting a dirty, scary look when he caught anyone looking your way more than half a second, even the baby that stood in the corner.

He was a hero, after all, right? It was only normal he wanted to protect you, right? Right? God fucking damn it, when were you even going to wake up? He had no idea how you were so relaxed to be able to sleep in a subway, but it caused him more stress than he had felt the past ten years. 

When Bakugou noticed you finally shifting in your place and opening your eyes the second the next station's name was announced, he took a breath of relief. You started to gather your stuff as if you hadn't just woken up from a deep ass slumber, yawning and checking your phone for the time. Bakugou was watching you dazed, shocked at how someone could even do that. If pulling his interest and gaze towards you wasn't your quirk, this had to be it. 

You glanced at him, his gaze meeting yours, and you smile once again, causing his heart to make an odd fucking pause, a snarl appearing on his lips, and he scoffs. But instead of that making you furrow your brows and turn around, you laugh again and turn around. 

~~~

Bakugou had replayed that day over and over again in his head and had arrived at one conclusion. 

You were mad.

You had to be at least a bit mad since it wasn't the most normal thing to smile at strangers as if you knew them for years, especially with a smile as charming as yours, and it was straight-up insane to sleep in a public place, a dangerous place like a subway. 

But whatever conclusion he ended up with, he still couldn't get you out of his mind. It was the stupidest fucking thing ever, made no sense thinking about a stranger you had seen once, but you somehow didn't feel like a stranger. Of course, he didn't feel like he knew you for years, (even though Bakugou thought everyone else but him were just extras, he never forgot a face he saw), but you didn't feel like a threat, either. 

The alerting feeling that formed in his stomach whenever he was around people he didn't know, or sometimes even with the people he did know, wasn't there that time. 

Maybe he was just overthinking. 

Of course, he was over fucking thinking. He had been thinking about a stranger for almost two days straight. (And he hadn't seen you ever since.)

It was such an odd behavior of him that even his friends had noticed something was wrong. Mina had done her best to get a word from him but failed, and Kirishima and Kaminari had declared it their mission to try and cheer Bakugou, and it only meant more for him to deal with.

"Hey, Bakubro, I'm going to the mall today with friends, wanna tag along?" Kaminari asked him the 20th time that day, not even aware it was the worst thing to say if he wanted Bakugou to come. "Look at me you damn Pikachu," Bakugou finally snapped, "If you ask me that one more fucking time, I swear to god-"

"Hey, hey, let's not get violent." Kirishima interrupted before Bakugou finished his threat, thinking it was the best before he spat some illegal shit out. "Then make him fuck off." Bakugou snarled. 

"Yeah, actually, Kami? What are you even trying to do, asking him to come to your date?"

"It's a fucking date?" Bakugou burst, but Kaminari had already sprinted out of the room. "Did he ask me to third fucking wheel? How dense is he?!"

"Calm down, Bakugou." Kirishima sighed. "What's up with you these days, even more irritated than normal?"

"Huh, what the fuck does that even mean?"

"I'm just sayin'." Kirishima shrugged. "You're acting extra grumpy these past few days. You know you can talk to me if you-" 

"Ah, don't start with the cheesy shit, shitty fucking hair. I'm fine." Bakugou cut him off, but his frown was now a bit softer, voice calmer.

"If you say so," Kirishima shrugged. "Hey, by the way, I'm going downstairs to the general studies to change something about my costume, wanna come?"

"General studies? Why the fuck would I go there? You've been visiting that place a lot lately, too." Bakugou asked a little too aggressively, his brows raising when Kirishima grinned. "What, afraid I'll steal your fan?"

"My fan?"

Fan? Bakugou had a fucking fan? Not that he cared, of course, but it still did feel-

Kirishima shrugged with a grin. "You know, the cute student who helped with your gauntlets? Maybe pay a visit to them sometime, they seem to like you a little." Kirishima chuckled when Bakugou kept looking at him blankly. All Bakugou could remember about the person who did his gauntlets was just how pretty their eyes were since he hadn't seen anything but that. He remembered how they always had a flimsy mask on, so it could filter the dust that covered everything in their work station, including the open half of their face.

"I'm not gonna go see an extra just because they like me." He scoffed, but Kirishima could see how Bakugou was dying inside to learn more about this fan of his.

"Sure, whatever you say, bro." He grinned cheekily, gathering his bag and walking downstairs.

~~~

It was the third-day Bakugou had finally stopped thinking about you nonstop, and it felt like freedom. The third time was the charm, wasn't it?

Of course, not. 

You just had to show up the day he was over it, didn't you? You had once again sprinted through the doors just before they closed, heaving in the dirty air, face flushed. You stood up, trying to regain your composure as you smiled proudly at yourself and looking around to find a free seat. 

It didn't take long for you to spot the angry blonde, lips pressed together angrily and vermillion eyes looking directly at you. 

A bright smile appeared on your face just then, and even though you hadn't expected him to do anything, you were surprised when he averted his eyes away from you with a curt nod and a grunt. It had to mean he had acknowledged your smile, right? Well, you hoped it did since you were grinning stupidly at yourself.

You sat on your spot across from him, noticing how people stood even further away from you this time. Glancing at the handsome blonde across you, you tried and couldn't catch his crimson eyes. 

You sighed, frustrated, not aware that Bakugou was even more so. He had promised himself that he wasn't going to be a creep and stare at you like the last time, but your occasional side-eyes and those doe-like glances weren't helping his case the slightest. He wanted to meet your gaze, he really did, but Bakugou also had pride that forbade him from doing so, so he was left there, frustrated and confused.

He was able to keep that up for eight minutes (he had checked, eight minutes and 34 fucking seconds) before he had finally looked at you. Apparently, all it took was eight minutes for you, too, to fall asleep.

You had fallen asleep.

Again?!

"For fucks sake." Bakugou cursed, pressing his fingers on the bridge of his nose and clenching his teeth. He had already concluded you were mad, but a second time? Was this a fucking habit or something?

He grunted in annoyance, but he couldn't take his eyes off you. You looked so relaxed and calm, the smallest smile on your lips, your head moving along with the movements of the train, hands weakly clutching your bag and phone. He felt almost jealous of how reckless you were.

Almost being the keyword, though.

"Don't you fucking get close." He snarled at the man that had been watching you for a few minutes, and he had only taken a step towards you before he heard the blonde and immediately retreated.

His 'come a little closer and I'll bite your head off' look never once faltering, Bakugou was feeling exhausted when he heard your station's name announced, and you opened your eyes. (despite the earbuds that were in your ears? You couldn't have heard the station's name, so how were you able to wake up right on time?)

You gathered your stuff and raised on your legs, just as the train took a sharp turn and caused you to lose your balance, stumbling over to the blonde. "Fuck!" You muttered as you tried to gain your balance back, but the hand that caught you from your wrist did it for you.

"Th-thank you." You told him, sounding a bit out of breath. You chuckled when he grunted. "Be careful, dumb- just be careful." He muttered, eyes slightly widening when he realized he was about to insult you.

You chuckled once again, and Bakugou had to stop himself from smiling back. "See you later, Bakugou-kun." You waved a shy hand, expecting him to sit back in his place, but instead, he looked at you, baffled.

"How do you know my name?

It was hard to surprise Bakugou. Not only was he extremely smart, but he was also very cautious and usually thought almost everything that could go wrong or not.

But he was genuinely, very sincerely shocked when you had started laughing at his question. Out loud, too. You were bending slightly forwards as you laughed, and Bakugou was both amazed and afraid of the motion. You had one of the prettiest laughs he had seen or heard, but this was the most awkward time you could have shown him that.

He had asked you how you knew his name, and you were laughing? He was starting to think you were even crazier than he thought you were. "You're quite popular, you know." You told him. "It's almost impossible to not know about you, especially if- well, after the sport festival, I'd say." You shrugged, pressing your lips in a mischievous smile, and Bakugou had noticed how you stopped yourself before something had slipped out of your mouth.

"Of course, I am." He replied smugly, but his eyes were watching you now even closer as if he was trying to solve a puzzle.

"Well, I have to go now, thanks again!" You smiled and waved goodbye, and Bakugou couldn't stop his scowl turning into an awkward smile.

~~~

It had turned into an odd form of agreement. 

As days passed, you found yourself sitting closer to him, and after almost a week of bumping into each other, you were now sitting next to him, and he had no complaints. 

He thought it was a bit better, actually. Not because he liked, it, of course, he didn't like being so close to you that your shoulders brushed when you moved, your head falling on his shoulder after only a few minutes of riding the train, sitting so close that your smell filled his senses. 

No, of course, he didn't like that, and Bakugou liked having you sit so close to him because that was more convenient, and nothing else. It was easier to scare people away, to track if anyone walking before you was picking and sliding your phone into their pockets. 

And maybe, just maybe, he might be liking your conversations, too. It wasn't much since you were almost always asleep, but when you weren't, Bakugou decided it wasn't the worst. 

"So, mr. future number one hero," ah, and there was that. You referred to him as that often, and even though he was well aware it was mostly teasing, he had to admit it did affect his ego. "How was your day?"

"Fucking long." He sighed, and you giggled. "You always say that!"

"That's cause every day is fucking long!" He groaned, but he had an odd, almost affectionate smile on his lips that just made your heart giddy. "Well, that's hero course for you." You chuckled, biting your lip as you debated whether he'd push you off if you dropped your head on his shoulder now.

This had become your favorite part of the day. Not only was his caramel scent addicting, and it caused you to have the best sleep of your life (you found yourself unable to sleep without caramel scent and the safe feeling it brought to you, so you had to purchase caramel-scented candles), but he was also always warm.

So you did, deciding to live the moment to its best, closed your eyes and dropped your head, half expecting to be thrown off. But he didn't, chuckled instead, the vibrations of his laugh sending chills through your body. "Sleepy already?" He muttered into your hair, surprising you since you thought he wasn't the type to be comfortable with intimacy much, but he looked relaxed.

You could almost feel him smirking when you nodded softly. "Your day was obviously fucking long as well."

~~~

"Ah, man! I forgot my phone downstairs." Kirishima cussed, rolling his eyes at himself. "Hey, Bakubro, I have to leave immediately, but could you pick my phone up for me?"

"Do I look like a fucking maid from there?"

"Please, please! I have to go, and maybe you'll see your fan, too!" Bakugou's brows furrowed, "Whatever, if it'll make you shut the fuck up." He sighed annoyedly, he wouldn't have agreed any other day, but he had nothing better to do since you had texted him about an hour ago that you were going to be late for the train that day. Something about the school, you had told him.

"Really? Dude, you're a lifesaver, thanks!" Kirishima sighed relieved. "Just wake them up if they're asleep! They're like a cat, almost always sleeping in a corner." He added before he left the room. 

Somehow, that description sounded awfully familiar, Bakugou thought.

"Oi, is anyone fucking here?" He called into the dim litten room when he arrived, mumbling to himself something about extras and dumbasses. He had visited the room once or twice when he was having his gauntlets remade, and why did he feel like he was missing something?

"Oi?" He shouted one more time, red gaze stumbling on the figure that was in the corner of the room, almost hiding behind the table, sleeping. His eyes found a half-melted caramel-scented candle on the table, wondering if it was safe to have a candle in a workshop like this one. A mask and workshop clothes stood right next to the candle.

"Hey, I'm fucking talking to... you." His voice trailed off when they lifted their head, stretching their arms when their eyes found the dumbfounded blonde.

"Oh, hey Katsuki-kun!" You cheered, rising to your legs. 

"What the hell are you- why are you... What the fuck?"

You kept your silence, a mischievous smile on your lips as you waited for him to regain his thoughts. You watched as he connected the pieces, a lightbulb almost visible above his head. "You're a fucking student here!" He yelled, and you couldn't help but giggle at how accusing he sounded. 

"Guilty as charged." You raised your hands, teasing him, knowing this was a one-time chance.

"Ah, would you look at the time." You spoke, inspecting the nonexistent watch on your wrist. "We should hurry if we want to catch the next train, you know." You grinned, watching him as he tried to suppress the smile creeping upon his lips. 

"I guess so." He muttered, frowning as he looked away, but it was only to hide the blush that was settling on his cheeks. 

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou imagine #bnha scenarios #mha imagines #bnha x you #bakugou katsuki x reader #mha bakugou #mha fanfiction #mha x y/n #bnha bakugou #bnha bakugo katsuki #bnha x y/n #bnha x gender neutral reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugo x reader #bakugou fluff #bakugou x fem!reader #bakugou x you #bakugou x y/n #bnha bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo x y/n

[ukaisprincesss]

a/n: happy birthday to the one and only 😌

word count: 2.8k

semi-edited

———————————————————————

warnings: *inhales* 18+ smut, reader obsessed with dabi, quirk use, degradation, betrayal, oral m!recieving, name calling, dumification if you squint, dabi with a dick piercing, cursing, very minor blood mention, deep throating, slight violence, implied fighting, humiliation, smoking, inaccurate timeline, mind control kinda, choking, slightly insane reader, fingering, breeding kink if you squint

“Bye y/n! See you later for training!” Izuku waved at you with a grin on his face. You waved back before turning around and taking the route home. Your third year at UA was almost over, sometimes it felt like you were still a first year marveling at the wonders UA held for you.

Humming your favorite song Hero Too, you skipped along the sidewalk taking in the sounds and smells around you. This invoked a new melody inside you, your quirk taking over. You let out peals of notes inspired by your surroundings.

Your quirk, Melody, enabled you to use your surroundings and inspirations to create songs and tunes. You could use these tunes to overload the enemy with your inspiration. If you were inspired by a certain smell and the enemy heard you singing, that smell would invade your enemies scent overwhelmingly so. The same applies to their other 4 senses.

You always made sure no one was in range when you used your quirk to sing, you learned that the hard way as a kid.

Hmm, maybe you should stop and get something to eat. You only had a light lunch and still had a few hours before dinner. Deciding to get some Yakitori from a nearby stand, you changed direction and walked into town. The noises and smells were more harsh now, making it a bit difficult to not activate your quirk. Years of practice has helped you keep a hold on it, particularly when you’re in cities or at get togethers.

“Thanks!” you said to the woman working the stand, you handed over the respectable cost and searched for a good place to eat. Seeing a lone bench against a graffiti covered wall, you made your way toward it nibbling on your food. Before you could take your seat you were pulled backward and your vision went dark. A large hand covered your eyes.

“Guess who?” A husky voice spoke in your ear, cold staples brushed against your face sending a shiver up your spine. Your heart pounded in your chest as you let out a shaky breath. You kicked your lips before speaking. “Dabi...what are you doing here?”

Removing his hand you turned towards him, placing your hands on his chest. You stared into his icy eyes, the spark of emotion only present for you sent your heart soaring. He leaned down to press his lips against yours. Licking along your lips, he thrusted his tongue to entangle with yours. You let him take control, gripping his hair as you sunk into a lust filled haze. There was just something about Dabi that made you want to carry the world for him. You would do anything for him.

Dabi pulled away, you whined and leaned forward for more. He gripped your jaw, holding you in place. “You didn’t forget did you y/n?” He muttered, a frown on his face. You shook your head, smiling at him with adoration.

“Happy birthday baby, I was going to surprise you later but...it seems like you couldn’t stay away from me for too long.” You giggled and missed the flash of annoyance in his eyes. You thoroughly believed the villain was just as infatuated with you as you were him.

“Hm, yeah thank you. Anything new happen? When’s your next trip out of UA?” He questioned. What you didn’t realize was he was getting intel for the League of Villains. You thought he just wanted to know about your day and schedule. You were aware of the villainous role he played in the League of Villains, but that didn’t stop you from loving him. “Well, nothing yet but Mr.Aizawa won’t be here for the next few days. Izuku and I have some extra training tonight around 8 by the old wareh-”

You were cut off when Dabi pushed you to your knees, clearly hearing enough. “You know what to do y/n, I think it’s time for my birthday gift.” He looked down at you with a regal stare, effectively turning you on. Your pussy tingled as you rubbed your thighs together, eager to please the man you worshipped. You unbutton his pants and slide them down to land around his feet. His cock slapped your face, you were prepared as he usually went commando. You practically drooled at the sight, to you it was perfect. A large vein on the underside of his cock reaching the silver barbell that lay underneath his large mushroom head.

“What are you waiting for? Do your job slut.” Dabi looked down at you, teeth bared in irritation. You let out a purr of amusement and stroked his dick, pressing kitten licks along the head. Dabi huffed in annoyance, fisting your hair. “Stop teasing,” he muttered. You looked up with wide eyes, slowly taking his large cock into your mouth. No matter how many times you’ve sucked him off, you could never take his whole length by yourself. Relaxing your jaws as best as you could, you pushed your head forward and started to gag. You didn’t even have half of his cock in your mouth, you whined in disappointment and squeezed his thigh.

“God you’re fucking useless, I’ll have to get myself off as I always do.” Dabi growled and grabbed your head with both his hands, shoving his dick down your throat. You choked and gurgled, drool spilling out the sides of your mouth. The humiliation of not being able to please him hurt more than your mouth being stuffed with his cock. Maybe he didn’t mean it, maybe he just wasn’t in the mood. You were brought out of your head as the lack of oxygen kicked in. You struggled to keep your mouth around his cock, your mind telling you to pull back for air. No, you had to please him.

“You better not pull back whore, you’ll regret it.” Dabi gritted out, inhaling sharply. He threw his head back and let out a loud moan, not caring who could hear.

You willed yourself to hold out for a bit longer, but soon it was too much. You wrenched your head back with a gasp, breathing in heavy gulps of air. Tears trailed down your cheeks, you sniffed and looked up, taking his cock back into your mouth. Twirling your tongue around the head, right hand stroking the base of his cock and the other fondling his balls.

“Fuck y/n, that’s it, just like that. You suck my cock so good, my little cock sucker.” Dabi grinned, laying down more lewd words that went straight to your cunt. You could feel your juices slick your panties, your throbbing clit begging for attention. Hollowing your cheeks, you bobbed up and down his cock , his moans of pleasure spurring you on. Dabi came with a grunt, shoving his cock deep in your mouth, sending his seed down your throat. You swallowed as quick as you could, his large load burning your throat. He slowly pulled out, excess drool and cum covering his dick.

You sat up on shaky legs, the grit from the ground beneath you had dug into your knees and left small dots of blood and dirt marks. “Is it my turn now Dabi?” You asked excitedly, cunt throbbing at the thought of his long talented tongue.

He pulled up his pants and lit a cigarette with the tip of his finger. Dabi inhaled and let the nicotine run through him. He sure needed it after that. Turning to you, he blew it on your face, smirking as you let out a series of coughs.

“You know I hate when you do that.” You whined.

“Yeah, I know.” Dabi retaliated, taking another drag. “It’s time for you to leave, I have things to do.” He quickly brushed a scarred hand across your cheek and walked down the empty alley before you even had a chance to whine. You huffed angrily and dusted off your knees before grabbing your bag that fell in a suspiciously green puddle. It was upsetting having Dabi leave so soon, especially on his birthday. But if everything went right, you would see him soon again.

When you arrived home you took a shower and lounged around, waiting for the clock to hit 8. That was when you and Deku were going to train in a place where you could let your quirks out. You had to be in top shape for an upcoming infiltration mission. Your quirk was extremely useful in these situations, having only three limits. Whenever one of your senses were blocked, you couldn’t use that sense on other people. If your vocal cords are restricted in some way, then you wouldn’t be able to sing. Range being the last. If someone couldn’t hear you, your quirk didnt affect them.

It wasn’t long before your phone went off, alerting you that you had an hour before it was time to meet with your friend. You sat up and stretched, crumbs falling off your shirt from your snacks. Your mind drifted to Dabi again as you cleaned up the living area and put your costume on. You couldn’t shake the feeling that he was acting a bit odd, did you really piss him off that much? Shaking that thought away, you made sure you had everything and took the short walk to your destination.

~

“Are you sure about this?” Shigaraki hissed, not trusting the young adult one bit. Dabi threw his head back in exasperation. “Come on now, you assigned me to her in the first place. She’s fucking dense and tells me everything. Are we going or not?” Dabi’s insult to you hid his true feelings well. For the most part he saw you as only a pawn in the grand scheme of things, something he would chuck aside when the time came. But he couldn’t deny that small twinge of attention you took from him that manifested into something bigger.

“Of course we’re going!” Shigaraki slammed his cracked fist on the bar counter. “I won’t get another opportunity like this any time soon. Gather everyone and let’s go.”

~

“Hey Izuku!” You jogged towards your friend who sat on a bench waiting for your arrival. His fluffy green hair reassuring you it was him. Hearing his name being called, he looked up from his book and greeted you. “Oh, hey y/n! You’re a bit early.” You nodded and laughed, standing in front of him. “I was just sitting around so I wanted to come quick and train. I want to try out that new strategy of yours.” Izuku nodded and stood up. The two of you stretched and began practicing some light moves.

You failed to notice the pair of turquoise eyes on you, beckoning you forward. Dabi turned to Shigaraki and said, “Have dark hole over there warp me behind y/n. She doesn’t see me.” Shigaraki stared at the boy before turning towards Kurogiri. Kurogiri stepped forward and warped a portal in front of Dabi.

“Step in,” he instructured.

Dabi stepped through, hands lit with blue flames.

y/n and Izuku had briefly stopped their training to catch their breath. If the villians had taken an extra moment to pay close attention, they would’ve caught y/n’s moving throat and the low pitched noise that met their ears. You were singing.

The moment Dabi warped behind you, before he could even reach out, heroes from all around struck upon the Shigaraki and the others. The unprepared villains bunkered in a nearby abandoned building desperately fell on the defense as the wave of heroes blocked their exits. Kurogiri was the first one secured.

“Well would you like at that?” Dabi hissed, the faintest sign of nerves present. “Time for us to leave sugar.” Sending a burst of flames to the green-haired boy who was racing around the two, Dabi secured his grip on you and raced away.

“Dabi over there!” You cried out, clutching his shoulders. You pointed to an old warehouse that was used for quirk experimentation back in the day. A large padlocked fence holed it in. He scaled the fence with ease and darted around the side. Vaulting through a broken window, he set you down and peered outside.

“Well y/n it seems like-” Dabi was hit with a wave of pure lust. He sniffed the air, what was that intoxicating smell? He turned around dazed, peering at you with hooded eyes.

“y/n no,” he garbled, stumbling towards you. He lifted up his hand, lighting a weak flame. Another wave of unbearable lust flashed over him. He groaned and fell to his knees.

You stalked forward and kneeled down next to Dabi. You didn’t need to sing anymore, your job was done. Sending the most intoxicating and sexual smells and sounds from yourself to Dabi’s sense, you had turned him into an insatiable sex machine.

“You’re probably feeling a bit betrayed right now.” You said in the most sensuous voice Dabi ever heard. “I only lied to you a bit though. I really am infatuated with you, just not in the way you think. Forgive me?” You pouted, hand under his chin to meet his eyes.

Dabi was too busy palming his cock to answer. A wicked grin spread across your face. “Ah, is my Dabi all hard? Do you want to fuck me one last time?” You questioned, fingers trailing down his torso.

“God y/n, please I cant help it. I need your tight cunt.” Dabi moaned, his cock pulsing in need to stuff your wet pussy. You chuckled and cooed at him. “Don’t worry baby, I’m all yours for the taking. Use me, fuck me with all the hate you have for me.”

Dabi growled and lashed out, pinning you beneath him. He rutted against you with breathless moans, hands on your throat. He squeezed tightly, cutting off your airway. You clawed at his hands, loosening them to laugh manically. Dabi burned several holes in your costume shredding it off you.

“Fuck,” he groaned out, staring at your soaking wet panties. “You’re still such a slut for me.” He pulled them aside not having the patience to take them off before stuffing two fingers into your cunt. You moaned and lifted your hips, his fingers scissoring deep inside you. Pressing his thumb against your clit, he rubbed in slow circles. You scrambled for a hold on the ground, back arching as you came. Your pussy quivered around his fingers, clutching onto them. He pulled them out with a drunk grin and sucked them into his mouth. “Your cunt is the tastiest thing I’ve ever had.” He moaned out, licking the sides of his fingers to collect every drop of your juices.

You sat up on your elbows with a dazed expression, watching him lick his fingers. It turned you on, leaving your cunt to drip on the concrete beneath you. Dabi grabbed your ankles and pulled you to him. Tearing his pants off in haste, he picked you up and sat you down on his cock with a heavy thrust.

“Oh fuck!” You both moaned out in sync, gripping onto each other. Dabi thrust into you unrelentingly, moaning out your name. “This tight cunt is mine y/n, all fucking mine. No one is going to take you from me.” He howled out, mind taken over by the smell and sight of you. He leaned forward taking your breast in his mouth. He sucked harshly, leaving your nipple swollen.

“D-dabi fuck!” You stuttered out. The stimulation of his fat cock in you and his lips on your nipple drove you to orgasm. Your cunt tightened around his dick, inciting a groan from him.

He grunted and wrapped a hand around your throat, holding you up with one arm and his cock. “That’s right slut, cum around my dick. Your pussy is so needy for me.” He thrusted deeply, hitting your cervix. Your eyes rolled back as you gurgled out a moan. He battered your cervix relentlessly, leaving you a pathetic drooling mess. Pressing you against the wall, he placed his hands by your head and fucked you at a new angle. The pleasure was unbearable, your mind swirled with nothing but Dabi’s continuous thrusts.

“I’m g-gonna cum y/n, fuck I’m gonna cum. Your pussy s’good.” Dabi was just as incoherent as you were, drunk on lust. Rooting himself deep in you, he groaned as his seed spurted against your womb. His eyes rolled back at the thought of breeding you, leaving you pregnant with his kids.

You were left quivering, his twitching cock triggering another orgasm. You gasped and clawed his back, biting your lip. Dabi pulled out his now soft cock, his piercing leaving a burning sensation against the walls of your battered pussy.

Dabi slumped to the floor, his vision spotting. You crawled towards him out of breath. “Happy Birthday Dabi,” you muttered, pressing a kiss against his lips. Dabi slipped into unconsciousness, not once waking up as he was taken away by the pro heroes to live an imprisoned life in solitude.

#mha #bnha #my hero academia #dabi x reader #dabi smut #dabi filth #dabi x y/n #dabi #fuck this killed me #happy birthday dabi #i need to get better at tags #mha smut

[canary3d-obsessed]

Restless Rewatch: The Untamed Episode 11 first part

(Masterpost) (Other Canary Goodness)

Warning: Spoilers for All 50 Episodes!

Okay! This episode is a real slice of healthy family dynamics, not triggering in any way. [Uh if this is your first Restless Rewatch: that is sarcasm, dear readers]

Goodbye to You, Goodbye to Everything We Knew

Nie Huaisang asks why Meng Yao has to leave and Meng Yao says "I killed a guy without permission, so your brother fired me." 

Ha ha ha ha no he doesn't. But he does give Nie Huaisang a sweet, sad smile; he seems touched by NHS's distress. 

Meng Yao carefully removes Nie Huaisang's hands from his shoulders and bows to him, wordlessly signaling the change in their relationship from intimate friends to formal strangers, while Nie Huaisang looks crushed. 

They will return to intimate friendship in the future, but falsely. Meng Yao believes that truly loving a person can include destroying their family and using them as an instrument in your murder plots as long as you don't directly harm them.  Nie Huaisang eventually learns to use people just as brutally, but he doesn't lie to himself about what he's doing. This farewell may be the last harmless moment between these friends. 

Jiang Cheng is distressed by what's going on, while Wei Wuxian crosses his arms and watches, fully in Sherlock Holmes mode, instead of his more usual concerned-for-my-friend mode. This may signal mistrust of Meng Yao, who refused his initial attempt at friendship, and not in a sexy, slice-your-face-off way.  Or it may mean that he's reserving judgement on a complicated family situation. He maintains his uncharacteristic reserve through the entire encounter. 

(more behind the cut!)

Nie Huaisang runs in and asks his brother WTF happened. Nie Mingjue says "he killed my subordinate without permission, when he knows perfectly well power must flow from the ruler; it's like he didn't even read that Foucault book I gave him."

Ha ha ha actually he just yells at his brother, as if NHS doesn’t have his own relationship with Meng Yao after being wonder twink powers with him for probably a couple of years now. NHS has to sit and process his loss and confusion in silence.

As a younger sibling who would make friends with my older siblings' girlfriends and then lose those friends if they broke up, for reasons having nothing to do with why I liked their girlfriends, I super feel Nie Huaisang's pain here.

OTOH, older siblings are entitled to have break ups and not explain themselves to anyone besides their lover because that's the nature of intimacy. The moral is, uhh...don't have a family curse that makes you unreasonably angry. 

Jiang Cheng steps up to advocate for Meng Yao, because Meng Yao is injured, and because Jiang Cheng is actually a born leader who knows better than to throw away a useful subordinate. For example, even when Wei Wuxian is at his drunkest and most defiant, Jiang Cheng tries to reform him, not kick him out, only drawing the line at having unpopular zombie friends.

Wei Wuxian continues to keep his mouth shut, waiting for Nie Mingjue to calm down, and speaking only about the tactical situation. He clearly knows there's more to this story but he's pretty good at keeping his head down in a family ruckus, and we're about to learn why.

Yunmeng Town

The Yunmeng bros go home to Lotus Pier, where they are greeted in town with bows, smiles, and free stuff.

We've mostly been seeing them in their roles within the cultivation community, where Jiang Cheng is grumpy and anxious, and Wei Wuxian is sassy and iconoclastic. Here among common people, they are both charming, friendly, and polite, like the imaginary good kind of gentry.

They hear the news from a local lotus seller that the small clans are coming to the Jiang Clan for shelter, but that otherwise everything's ok, which doesn't sound like everything is ok at all. He gives Wei Wuxian a giant bag of lotuses for his sister to make soup from.

Home to Lotus Pier

All the disciples practicing in the courtyard at Lotus Pier are excited to see them, and one girl goes running to tell Jiang Yanli. Thanks to the admittedly beautiful design of Lotus Pier, she is running for a long time.

A long, long time. Getting around on all these insane walkways must be a real drag if you're not the flying sort of cultivator.

Discipline and Punish

Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian immediately go and kneel while they wait for their official punishment. Jiang Cheng is kinda worried about the punishment and Wei Wuxian is like, I'm good at being punished, just let me do it. 

Much later, and for a really long fucking time

He also tries to get Jiang Cheng to stop being mad, even giving him skritches while he says they should be brothers after they die.

Which they will, as it happens, although Jiang Cheng after the Wen torture is only mostly golden-core dead, while WWX dies for real.

When Jiang Fengmian shows up Jiang Cheng starts to explain that they were with Lan Wangji, but Wei Wuxian hushes him; he is still keeping the secret of the Yin Iron. Although he's keeping it in exactly the manner that a teenager keeps their weed stash secret: immediately tell literally every teen friend about it, but keep it extra secret from everybody's parents. 

Happy Families Are All Alike

Now we get to meet Yu Ziyuan, who is generally styled Madame Yu but who I'm going to call by her name just as if she was a male character. More on that concept in a minute. She rolls up looking, smelling, feeling like a million yuan, with her two murder bitches in tow.

Her marriage is an unhappy one, and her husband does his best to avoid her and avoid conflict, lying to the kids that she's tired and then sending her away later with the same line about being tired, which is a particularly gendered kind of gaslighting. She is obviously not tired, other than being tired of Jiang Fengmian's shit.

I'm not going to say she's the worst mother ever, because parenthood in a feudal society entails a wide range of skills, many of which she has in abundance. She starts off with a relatively tender greeting to Jiang Cheng, tuning up his always-amazing sartorial style, which is exactly like her own. They are all ready for the mommy & me fashion show.

That said, she dishes out hellacious verbal abuse to everyone in her family. She targets each one in turn, making Wei Wuxian the focus of most of her ire, but without ever directly speaking to him. He is not, in her view, part of her family. 

The Stages of Family Dinner

1. Try to fix it and defuse the situation

2. Yeah no

3. Just keep your head down and be glad it’s not your turn in the hot seat

This family meal hammers home how much Wei Wuxian is not, actually, part of the family. Jiang Fengmian adopted him into the clan, and told A-Cheng and A-Yi to treat him as a sibling, but he didn't give him the Jiang name, and he didn't get his wife's approval. He also doesn’t expect him to dress like any other clan member, apparently. 

Compare this to how Lan Wangji, actual good parent, fully integrates his own adopted son into his clan and family, starting with giving him the Lan surname.  

The hits just keep coming as she goes after Jiang Cheng for being less gifted than Wei Wuxian, Yanli for performing labor for Wei Wuxian, and Jiang Fengmian for possibly begetting Wei Wuxian.

On first watching this scene I took her question "Is this how you raise someone else's son?" to mean that she thought Jiang Fengmian was being too nice to a kid who was actually an outsider, taking resources away from the real kids. But on rewatching, it's pretty clear that she's saying his favoring Wei Wuxian is evidence that Wei Wuxian is NOT someone else's son; that he's Jiang Fengmian's bastard. 

Jiang Fengmian doesn't say a thing to this, or to her mentioning WWX’s mother. This shit is why WWX is running around in the world desperate for any crumb of info he can get about his Mom; he hears about her all the goddamn time at home, but only as insults to her character.  

A Bitch is Not Wrong

Here's the thing, though; a lot of what Yu Ziyuan says is correct. 

Jiang Fengmian should be a lot more concerned about the danger to the children, and should not leave it up to the kids to decide who's going to bear that danger.

Yanli does a lot of food=love, which is ok in the right doses, but causes her to pretty extremely lose face during the whole "soup for Jin Zixuan" debacle. And her doting on Wei Wuxian is...kinda excessive. I mean, yeah, she’s more like a mom than a sister to him, but still. Running out onto an active battlefield to look for him, frex, will be a skosh too much. 

I have a dictionary too, mom

Jiang Cheng, as the future clan leader, shouldn't let his attachments affect his decision making, and should let Wei Wuxian, who's the superior cultivator, fend for himself more often. We love Jiang Cheng for those moments where he puts himself in harm's way to protect his loved ones, but it's not a good strategy. He constantly yells at Wei Wuxian for the exact same thing he does all the time himself; he just limits who he does it for.

After she roasts the shit out of everyone for these failings, she leaves, and everyone sits around being miserable and not talking about what just happened. 

Not to be gender studies-y on main but: the awful things she says to her children are really not very different from the things that Jiang Cheng says to Jin Ling, although her targeting is more adept. JC also says a lot of mean things to WWX when he’s angry. When a man says cruel or insulting things, it's often presented as real love hidden under a rough exterior. When a woman does it, she's a monster.

If you enjoy this sort of interaction you should definitely have a look at Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf and the plays of Eugene O'Neill.

Road Runner

Oh thank god, moving on

Lan Wangji is headed back to Cloud Recesses, and gets ambushed by the roadside with the most ridiculous trap this side of Wile E. Coyote.

Wen Chao thinks the "rug over a hole" trap is a good idea for someone who can literally fly.

Lan Wangji doesn't faff about with sword riding, he just fucking goes up in the air and stays there until he is good goddamn ready to come down. A hole in the sidewalk is really not going to be a problem for him. 

Wen Zhuliu does get in one kick before Lan Wanji yeets backwards away from him, in a moment that's scarier on rewatching, now that I know what Wen Zhuliu is capable of.

Wen Chao talks some smack to Lan Wangji, hilariously complaining about "your patronizing tone" to a man who has literally never spoken a word to him, IIRC, and certainly isn't speaking now. Maybe it's a mistranslation and should be "attitude," or maybe Wen Chao is just that dumb.

Apparently Wei Wuxian made a stack of talismans for Lan Wangji to take on the road with him. This talisman is a twin to the one Lan Wangji brings out way, way later in Yunping, when Wei Wuxian says "you even have kept it until now." Missing scene alert! What else did he make for him?

In Yunping this talisman is used to distract some random harmless street bullies. Here it is used against a seven-man murder squad.

This works.

Assault on Cloud Recesses

Forgettable disciple #1, Su She, comes rushing in to tell Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen that Cloud Recesses is under attack.

I'm pretty sure these dudes already know it, because they are meditating extra hard with a buttload of incense, and Lan Qiren is about to cough up some blood. So I think they're trying to hold the ward, rather than just, like, chilling while their disciples get stabbed.

Cloud Recesses is super on fire, you guys; it's going to totally burn to the ground; look at that conflagration, oh the humanity, etc.

Lan Qiren Rises to the Occasion

Ok, I like to rag on Failmaster Qiren and he is definitely an authoritarian dick a whole lot of the time, but in this scene he is fucking amazing.

He starts off worrying about Lan Wangji, not just out of affection but out of strategic planning, probably in equal parts. All three of these Lans take their clan responsibilities extremely seriously.

Then he calmly assesses the situation while imperturbable Lan Xichen freaks the fuck out. 

Lan Xichen is right to be alarmed, because he knows his uncle, he knows one of them is likely to die, and he knows that Lan Qiren will choose to take the hit.

I love, love, love Lan Qiren's physicality here; how centered and assured he is, as he holds his nephew steady and explains what is required of both of them.

Lan Xichen knows Lan Qiren is right. He is utterly fucking devastated, and all he can do to show his love...

...is to obey. 

This whole scene just. kills me.

Su She and forgettable disciple #2 are in the room for this whole conversation, and they join Lan Xichen in this deep bow. Note: I will be reminding everyone of this fact in Part 2.

Whew. This episode is a LOT. Part 2 Coming Soon!

Writing Prompt: What other goodies did Wei Wuxian put in Lan Wangji's care package before Lan Wangji hit the road without saying goodbye?

Soundtrack: 1. Michelle Branch, Goodbye to You 2. Ludacris, Stand Up

#fytheuntamed #the untamed #the untamed gifs #wei wuxian #yu ziyuan #lan qiren #restless rewatch the untamed #the untamed spoilers #lan xichen #canary3d-original #my gifs #the untamed meta

[asweetprologue]

Words: 2618, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: The Witcher

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion

Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion

Additional Tags: Fluff, geralt has a fixation on jaskier's hands, Pining, Confessions, it's about the hands tm

Inspired directly by this post by @valdomarx​

“I didn’t even ask you to come this time, witcher. I don’t know why you’re acting so dour,” Jaskier pouted. He was standing in front of a small mirror that he’d propped up against the table, the only thing with a reflection in the small inn. His shirt was untucked over his tight pants, which were a startling peacock blue this time around. It was a fetching color, nearly matching the bard’s eyes, though Geralt would never voice such a thought aloud. He was fiddling with the ties at the front of the cream shirt, trying to decide on a complicated pattern of lacing that was well beyond Geralt’s understanding. The smell of wisteria and honeysuckle filled the room, overwhelming in its recent application. Jaskier rarely used scents beyond soaps while they were traveling, and Geralt preferred when he could more easily smell the distinct musk of the bard himself, rather than cloying perfumes. 

He grunted in response to Jaskier’s comment, leaning against the bedpost. The inn was nice, actually, even though it was small. The sheets smelled fresh, the mattress was free of holes, and there was even a full bath off of the main room. Jaskier had sunk more funds into their accommodations than usual, expecting a big payout from the ball he’d been hired to perform at for the next several nights. “I’m not being ‘dour’,” Geralt said, watching Jaskier tug his shirt closed. His fingers played over the laces, easily working them into a tight series of delicate knots. Geralt wasn’t lying, truthfully. He wasn’t so much dour as… distracted. His eyes followed Jaskier’s hands as they tucked in his shirt, revealing his slim hips. The bard tugged here and there on the fabric, his fingers fluttering about as he searched for just the right amount of artful dishevelment. 

Geralt noticed Jaskier’s hands. 

He wasn’t sure if this was a universal experience or not. Over the past few months, he’d overcome the initial shock of realizing he was interested in the bard. He’d known Jaskier for years - closer to decades - and it certainly was a notion that took some adjusting to. One day Geralt had just looked up and realized that the gangly limbed youth he’d met in Posada had turned into an extremely attractive man, a man Geralt very much wanted to put his hands on. The thought had been startling, and he’d spent full weeks telling himself that it was a fluke. And yet he was captivated by Jaskier’s broad shoulders, his strong thighs, his infuriatingly dexterous fingers. It was embarrassing really. 

But, he reasoned, he was in good company; literally half the Continent wanted to fuck Jaskier. Geralt was particularly unique in that regard. It was honestly more spectacular that he was a person who wanted to sleep with Jaskier who hadn’t. It was a bitter draught to swallow, but Geralt accepted it. Few people wanted a witcher in their bed for more than an hour, and he knew that it could never be a simple one time roll in the hay between himself and Jaskier. Geralt was already spending much of his time reminding himself that he was not and could not be infatuated with Jaskier, the famous bard, womanizer and, above all, his best friend. He was at least self aware enough to know that Jaskier’s rejection would be painful, and that losing him as a companion was unacceptable. 

Still, this left him with a predicament. While he assumed Jaskier had caught on to his developing feelings quickly enough, Geralt didn’t want to make the bard uncomfortable with his attentions. He tried not to let anything change between them. He didn’t reach out to pull Jaskier closer when they shared a bed at night, he didn’t give him the best cuts of meat during meals, he didn’t buy small, intricate rings or beautiful leather bound journals for him when they went to the market. He would think about it and then turn away, and keep things how they’d always been. Jaskier was bright and loud and annoying, and Geralt was quiet and snappish. If the bard had wanted anything more, he would have made it clear long before now. Geralt was doing a pretty good job of keeping things platonic, he thought. He probably would have been totally successful if Jaskier hadn’t chosen a lute, of all the cursed instruments, as his primary tool of the trade. 

The issue was that Geralt had something of a preoccupation with Jaskier’s hands, which may be a common experience but might be unique to Geralt himself, much to his dismay. They were just exceedingly nice to look at. They had long and elegant fingers with wide, reassuring palms that had spent hours cleaning, patching up and comforting the witcher. They were unscared except for a thin white line under his right ring finger, where Jaskier said he’d been punctured by a nail as a child. Though that wasn’t to say that they were totally unblemished. Years of playing had worn deep calluses onto the tips of his fingers, rougher skin that made Geralt shiver when they played over his scalp as they so often did. 

They were nice hands, but it wasn’t just that. They were expressive, an extension of whatever Jaskier felt at the moment. Geralt never knew what to do with his hands if he wasn’t in a fight, but Jaskier’s moved constantly. When he was angry they curled into fists and pointed fingers, elbows tights against his body as he raged at some perceived slight. When he was happy or excited, they darted about him in wide, sweeping gestures, an unspoken language that Geralt thought he might be able to read now without words. When he was tired they dragged, lingering on Geralt’s shoulders or pulling at the seams of his armor as he bullied the witcher into bed. Those moments were almost the worst, picking away at Geralt’s already frayed control, but he found it got to him the most when Jaskier was playing. 

To say that Jaskier transformed when he played was not quite accurate. It was closer to say that he became. Jaskier was always intense, bright and focused and vibrant, but when he picked up his lute and stepped onto a stage he was resplendent. When Geralt had first met him, he’d thought maybe Jaskier was a siren, or some kind of incubus, luring men in with his honeyed words and saccharine melodies. He’d quickly realized that no, Jaskier was as human as they came, but it didn’t stop others from acting like they’d been bewitched when he was around. Jaskier performing was Jaskier at both his least and most genuine, distilled into whatever the crowd needed him to be most at that moment. It was enthralling, to say the least, and Geralt wasn’t immune to the draw. 

At first watching the lute had been a defense mechanism, of a sort. Watching Jaskier himself was almost too intense, and Geralt felt exposed anytime their eyes met across a crowded room. So he’d taken to watching Jaskier’s hands, flying across the strings of the lute and dancing up the neck. Initially it had been only intriguing, and he’d found himself impressed by the bard’s skill. He was faster and more precise than any other player Geralt had come across, while remaining gentle in his ministrations. Jaskier touched the strings of his lute with such tenderness, as if he were caressing a lover.

One night while watching the bard, Geralt had though, Sometimes he touches me like that. And after that he was well and truly lost. 

“I’m just saying,” Jaskier said, bringing Geralt sharply back to the present, “while I would never begrudge your presence, I don’t think the response to Toss a Coin will be as enthusiastic if the titular witcher is off glowering in a corner.” He reached for his doublet, a green jacket picked out with yellow thread that looked like gold in the right light. It was beside Geralt on the bed, and he nearly flinched away from Jaskier’s grasping hands. He thanked every god above that he no longer had the ability to blush the same way a human did, knowing that he would be pink in the face after watching Jaskier lace up his shirt sleeves. The man was actively putting clothes on and Geralt was nearly sweating from it. 

“I’m not going to glower in a corner,” he grumbled. 

Jaskier gave him a look that displayed an insulting lack of faith in Geralt’s word. “Well,” he said, “at least you’re dressed appropriately.” He’d managed to wrestle Geralt into a black jacket and a pair of dress trousers, though Geralt had won the fight to keep his boots and his swords. It was better, Jaskier allowed, that the people be able to see the tools of the trade. The bard reached out to adjust the collar of Geralt’s shirt. The witcher forced himself to still as Jaskier’s knuckles grazed his Adam’s apple. His skin hummed where they’d made contact. 

Jaskier gave him a pat on the shoulder and turned away. “Well, we’re as ready as we’ll ever be,” he said, giving himself one last glance in the tiny mirror. With a grin, he turned to Geralt and said, “If you’re very good I’ll buy you one of those tarts from the market for breakfast tomorrow.”

The words if you’re good rolled over Geralt in a disconcerting way, curling up at the base of his spine and settling like they intended to live there. Shit. He made a slightly strangled sound of agreement that he hoped just sounded annoyed. 

As Jaskier reached for the door, Geralt noticed that the ties of Jaskier’s undershirt had gotten twisted around one of the buttons of his doublet. He must have accidentally pushed the clasp through a loop in the laces while he was doing them up. Geralt wouldn’t have noticed unless he was watching Jaskier’s hands, but it seemed like he was always watching Jaskier’s hands nowadays. Watching, anticipating, hoping for the next touch. Geralt reached out and snagged the bard’s wrist before he even really knew what he was doing.

“Um,” Jaskier said, eloquent as ever. Geralt turned his hand over - in for a penny, in for a crown - and started undoing the buttons on the doublet. Jaskier hummed in realization, seeing where the laces had twisted into a knot. Focusing on his task, Geralt bent his head slightly, pulling the thin string loose from its tangle. As he did so, pale, unmarked skin was revealed through the parted fabric, a spider web of delicate blue lines branching out before Jaskier’s warm palm. Geralt’s thumb brushed briefly over the veins, Jaskier’s skin as smooth and soft as fresh rose petals under his rough fingers. He was seized suddenly by an overpowering urge to put his mouth there, to breathe in the scent and find Jaskier hidden under all the oils and the smell of crisp linen. Without thinking too much of it, Geralt bent down and pressed his lips to Jaskier’s wrist, just below the swell of his thumb.

Jaskier gasped. 

It was like taking a mouthful of Thunderbolt - the world coming sharply into focus, his mind keenly aware of his surroundings. Geralt nearly jumped back, flinching away from the sound. Fuck. Why had he done that? He’d been helping with a fucking sleeve, it hadn’t required his mouth. Jaskier was going to be pissed. He was going to demand that Geralt stay here while he went to the banquet and then he would find someone to bed for the night and he wouldn't try to find Geralt in the morning, and Geralt would have to set back out on the Path alone all because he couldn’t control himself enough to lace up one sleeve - 

“Geralt?” Jaskier's voice cracked slightly. The witcher clenched his jaw, wincing. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. His voice sounded strained even to his own ears. He couldn’t meet Jaskier’s gaze. “That was… inappropriate. Have fun at the ball.”

“You’re not coming?” Jaskier asked, sounding distressed now. His scent was still free of the sour stench of fear and anger, but Geralt could hear his heart beating faster. “Geralt, look at me. Just - Are you alright?” Hands came to rest on his shoulders, and Geralt was startled enough at the contact that he raised his eyes to meet Jaskier’s. 

The bard looked nervous, but there was something else in his face too. Something softer. Geralt swallowed heavily. “I shouldn’t have touched you like that,” he said. His face tingled with the phantom of a shameful flush. 

Jaskeir smoothed his hands gently down Geralt’s arms. A comfort the witcher certainly didn’t deserve. “I don’t mind,” Jaskier said, impossibly. He bit his lip, his tongue darting out to sooth the spot. Geralt couldn’t help but follow the motion even as Jaskier gave him a wry smile. “I wish you’d do it more, if I’m being entirely honest. After all these years, I assumed you weren’t interested.” He took a breath, as if he was about to launch into a very demanding ballad, or perhaps jump from a cliff. “But I very much am. Interested.” 

Geralt stared at him for a moment, allowing the words to sink in. Jaskier was looking at him with wide, expectant eyes. His infuriating fingers played anxiously over Geralt’s, not quite holding on. Unsure of what else he could reasonably do, Geralt kissed him. 

Jaskier’s hands flew away from his own, and Geralt had a singular crystalline moment of panic before he felt them threading through his hair. Jaskier twisted closer, throwing himself into the kiss with little of the finesse he was so renowned for. It was too hard and too fast, but Geralt drank it anyway, inviting Jaskier in with his tongue and trying to convince him to stay. His fingers tangled in the loose ties of the shirt sleeve, and he could feel Jaskier’s pulse against them. It was almost more intimate than the kiss itself. Jaskier’s heart beat quick and steady under his hand, a rapid tempo just for him. 

Finally Geralt pulled away, breathing hard as he pressed his forehead to the bard’s. “This is a fucking terrible idea,” he said. 

Jaskier jerked back a bit to glare at him. “How so? Counterpoint: I think it’s a singularly marvelous idea, actually.”

Geralt shifted slightly, uncomfortable. “I can’t… I don’t want to ruin this. You. What we have.”

“We could have more,” Jaskier said, uncharacteristically fragile. Geralt wanted so badly not to break him. “Anything. If you just want a fuck, that’s fine. We can do that. If you want more than that, I… That’s okay too. Or not. Whatever it is, whatever you want.” His fingers smoothed down the back of Geralt’s hair, just at the base of his skull. A caress, as soft as if he were playing his favorite instrument. Maybe he was. 

“I’m going to want you,” Geralt said, like a warning. “Longer than you want me.”

Jaskier looked indignant. It was one of Geralt’s favorite expressions, when it wasn’t directed at him. Maybe even then. “I doubt that very much,” Jaskier bit out. The fingers in Geralt’s hair tightened, and the witcher let out a shaky breath. “I have loved you for almost my entire adult life. I doubt I’m going to stop anytime soon.” Jaskier still looked nervous, but there was more anticipation in it than before. Something closer to hope. “So I’ll say it again: Whatever you want. What do you want, Geralt?”

“You,” Geralt said, leaning in again. He pressed the words against Jaskier’s lips. “Always you.”

“Then you have me,” Jaskier said, and he did. 

#my work #my fics #the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #dandelion #geralt/jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #fan fiction #fan fic #witcher fanfiction #valdomarx

[honeysidesarchived]

THE LAND OF GODS AND DEVILS, a sequel.

—part ii.

word count: 9.2k

rating: m for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop, tags will be updated accordingly.

warnings: naughty language, massively canon-divergent, roman gets his own tag because he’s a fucking nutso, canon-typical violence, established relationship that might not be the healthiest, age gap, domestic murder family. if you’re here i imagine you know exactly what he’s about.

notes: hello! it has been a hot minute since i updated, but i promise i am not dead. i just went on a real vacation and juggling two longfic projects at once is (surprise) very time consuming! but i am here with chapter two. it's a lot of roman pretending not to be jealous when he's actually seething inside (we love to see it), as well as a few little drops of intrigue. yes, i know, i TOO wanted an entire longfic about roman and varya just making out between dramatic proclamations of their violent devotion for each other, but alas, alack.

special thank you to my beta @starcrier who of course helped me proof a good portion of this, and is eternally my cheerleader and the loml, as well as @shallow-gravy who put her eyes on the very very rough draft of this when i wanted to bash my head into the top of the desk a-la-roman's theatrics. without you this chapter would not have happened!

and thank you to everyone who has read this so far! carry your throne was truly my baby and so getting to write a sequel for it is the most incredible feeling. your support means the world to me. <3

Roman did not like sharing his things.

It was perpetually difficult enough to have let Varya waltz around the club so that she might have happily enjoyed being lavished attention on (attention that was, to be kept in mind, not his)—but watching a stranger, an interloper from her past, indulge himself in her, that was excruciating. Because that’s what it was, in the end; less about his girl enjoying herself and more about people enjoying her, realizing they would never have her, that she would always be his.

So as Irina took the twins back upstairs and Roman ushered her back into the throng of partygoers, he did so with intent; Roman watched Varya wind her way from person to person, lingering at their friend Dorian—dutiful member of the press always content to show her in a good light—before she and Maxim connected.

Roman watched them. He watched the way Maxim beamed at her, the way he ducked his head to hear her say something. He laughed and rocked back on his heels a little, and when Varya brought the glass to her lips, Roman saw it—saw Maxim’s eyes dart down to her mouth, their ascent short-lived as he busied his hand with sweeping a stray curl from her face. Maxim seemed very comfortable touching Varya, he thought. Men were never comfortable touching Varya. They were either—he had found, at least—aware of her proclivity for having hands cut off or (what he could only argue was the most correct deterrent) understanding of the simple politeness that came with not putting your hands on another man’s woman.

More than anyone, Roman appreciated having the things which others could not, so that he could be envied: but this?

This was treasonous. Poisonous. Heretical. Not in my fucking house.

Puzzling yet was Varya’s willingness to let her childhood friend conduct himself in such a way. She was a greedy thing, his girl; he knew that she so loved the attention, preening and glowing under the adoration. Greedy and hungry for love. Had she always been so active a participant in the act of touching, of being touched? Even by a stranger?

Not a stranger, he reminded himself tartly. Childhood friend, the man whose father she killed. That’s two fathers now, in her ledger—her own and someone else’s. And petulantly, he thought it a bit unsettling that it was a bond he could never have with her—dear old dad was already dead as a fucking doornail, wasn’t he? No chance Varya would want to ice him for Roman a second time.

He had determined to swallow his pride (impressive, gracious, generous) and make his way over when Dorian swept in; Dorian, preening and wrapping his arms around Varya from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder and making the noisy announcement, “Stealing her away, thank you!” just before he steered her past Maxim. There, the crowd shifted and scooted out of the way to reveal the birthday cake getting wheeled out on its little tray, decorated in gem tones and sparklers.

The determination to close the distance between himself and their newfound associate did not abate, even with Dorian’s well-timed interjection. As he wove through the crowd of milling partygoers, accepting compliments on his good work, he waited until he got within a foot or two of Maxim to stop. Everyone was applauding the cake. Everyone was having a great time looking at the expensive cake glimmering under the oh-so-obnoxious chandelier, but mostly he thought they were applauding his wife.

So, Roman clapped. He clapped, because the cake was out and the sparklers were fizzing and popping prettily, dancing golden light across his wife’s delighted face. He clapped, because everyone else was clapping, too. He clapped, and he flashed an all-teeth smile at Varya from over the top off the elaborately decorated cake (tasteful, not gaudy, of course).

Over the fizzing and popping, and without taking his eyes off of Varya, he said to Maxim, “Did you fuck my wife?”

Maxim clapped. He clapped, too, and he stood there for a moment and blinked a few times and replied, “What?” His accent was thicker than Varya’s, and thicker than Ilarion’s had been.

“You speak English, don’t you?” Roman snipped, his words and perhaps some of his annoyance masked by the party chatter. Varya shrieked delightedly when Dorian dabbed frosting on her nose. “I asked if you’ve fucked my wife?”

The blonde cleared his throat. He rubbed the back of his neck, apparently grateful that the attention had gone from clapping now to cutting the cake. In the corner of his eye, Roman could see Zsasz lurking—watching, keeping an eye, making sure he didn’t need to intervene on Roman’s behalf. Always a good man.

“No, Mr. Sionis,” Maxim replied, talking over the din of music and laughter.

Good, Roman thought. And then: “Do you want to?”

“Want to what?”

“Fuck,” Roman bit out, “my wife?”

Maxim barked out a laugh. He looked caught off-guard by the question—like maybe he wasn’t sure if Roman was asking to threaten or offering to join their marital bed—and then he said, “You have put me in an uncomfortable position. If I say no, I am insulting my childhood friend. If I say yes, I am insulting my new boss.”

There was something about this that flared a little spike of victory in Roman’s chest. Yes, that was right—he was Maxim’s new boss. And Maxim should be nervous about pissing him off, shouldn’t he?

“But,” the blonde plunged on, “I imagine having something that other people want feels good, does it not?”

His eyes narrowed. He smiled thinly. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? “Yeah,” he agreed, “it sure fucking does.”

There was a moment where it looked as though the other man was going to say something, his mouth opening but no words coming out, brows knitting together at the center of his forehead; but then silk and warm stretches of skin were filling up Roman’s vision, Varya having swept around to come to him, eyes bright. They’d only been at the party for a little while, but already his fingers were itching—he wanted, having stood by idly while greedy hands brushed against his Varya, and it was time to erase them all, he reasoned. Wipe her clean of them as best he knew how.

Still, she had not looked so happy in a while, he thought. Varya always beamed around the twins, practically glowing radioactive from the inside out, but it had been a long time since he’d seen her so delighted without them in her arms. And surely, this was a testament to his doing—his meticulous, flawless planning, regardless of whatever wrench Maxim Kuznetsov was trying to throw. Yes, Roman thought, he had done exceptionally, in this as in all things.

“Romy,” she said sweetly, “are you playing nice?”

“I’m always nice, kitten,” he demurred, sliding his arms around her waist and nosing the hair at her temple automatically. Every time she came around, the gravitational pull was inevitable—hands on, hands on, hands on, making sure everybody knew exactly who she belonged to. “But you can ask your little friend, if you’re worried I’ve hurt his feelings.”

He said, you can ask, but he kissed her after he said it, purring against her mouth and keeping her otherwise preoccupied; when she did pull away, still encircled in his arms, she smoothed her hand along the exposed skin of his sternum and looked inquisitively at Maxim.

Roman mimicked the tilt of her head. The blonde regarded him for a moment, and then Varya, and then smiled.

“Your husband is very accommodating, Varushka,” he told her, shrugging as if to say, and what else would he be? “I have never met a man like him.”

He felt his mouth downturn—Varushka, the same pet name Ilarion had used with her. It was one thing to accept that his wife’s twin brother would always be held in high regard in her memory, that he’d had to endure the Varushkas and the closeness that they had shared that purposefully, intimately excluded him.

“That’s because there’s nobody like me,” Roman idled, despite the venom thrumming in his veins. He was cool. He was cool and fine and totally cool. Varya hummed and planted a kiss against the slope of his jaw; her nose brushed the hollow of his throat, more than content to remain there.

But even though their exchange remained pleasant, for a second, the blonde Russian regarded him with the same deadpan, venomous gaze that Ilarion had so often. It was so close to the way his wife’s twin had looked at him, in fact, that the disdain which had been almost exclusively reserved for Ilarion himself now prickled up the back of his throat like a bile—instinctual, muscle memory.

He had seen the same look crossing the faces of the men from St. Petersburg, flown all the way to Gotham to meet their new pakhan, as Varya had put it: disdain. We’re not for you, those fleeting glances said, despite the acknowledgment in all other things that they were. What do we want with some American gangster?

He was vaguely aware of Varya and Maxim saying something, exchanging words, but their voices had dulled to the cartoonish wah wah wah of an old-time cartoon, with Varya’s occasional laugh vibrating against his sternum. Maxim waved a hand dramatically. There was ink, there; he hadn’t noticed it before. He’d been too busy inspecting the man’s stupid fucking face, trying to find the lip of his mask somewhere in there. False fucking face, that’s all it was.

And yet: Roman could not help but feel a little burn of intrigue at the sight of the inked Cyrillic letters on the back of the man’s hand.

“—stairs, my darling?”

Varya’s voice bled through the dull static that had overtaken his mind. He glanced at her, reaching up and tracing the slope of her jaw with his thumb, his other fingers splaying along the spine of her neck. Obediently, her chin tilted. She was complacent like this—docile, even; he could have snapped her neck if he wanted, dug his nails into that warm, dusky skin and watched the blood well, and she would have let him—so much so that he wondered at it for a moment. All of his hard work, all of his tempering, cupped right there in his hand; she was his.

Rather than admit to having checked out of their conversation, Roman pressed the pad of a gloved thumb against her lower lip and deferred, “Whatever you want, kitten.”

Briefly, the thought that he had agreed to let Maxim into his loft occurred. Oh, what a dreadful thought.

“Then it’s settled,” she replied. “You can stay while the party goes on, of course, Maxi.”

Maxim lifted his head, regarding them with a gaze that was no longer venomous, but playful. “Of course.”

“And you’ll leave the address of where you’re staying with Armazd?”

“If you want it, I will.” He cocked his head, smiling politely. “Goodnight, the both of you. I am happy to finally put a face to the name Roman Sionis.”

What the fuck is it with these people, he thought wearily, and with no absence of annoyance. This is just how it had been before—everyone saying things beneath the things they were saying, layers and layers and layers, piling up over each other. Didn’t any of these stupid fucking gun dogs say anything exactly the way it was?

“Yes,” Roman agreed, “I bet you are.”

With great purpose—and having determined that Varya was quite done with the evening—he planted his hands on her hips and turned her, steering her towards the doors which exited out of the club and into the hallway housing the elevator. It was her birthday, after all; there was nothing he could do except whatever it was she wanted.

“Goodnight, Maxim,” he said over his shoulder, steering the brunette in his grasp toward the door. A distressed ugh! sounded to his left, and he turned to see Dorian glaring at him accusingly.

“You get her all the time, Roman,” the journalist announced. “Surely you can spare her for a little longer?”

“Afraid I can’t,” he replied over his shoulder, squeezing Varya’s hip when she stifled her laughter. “You see Dorian, close to a year ago, Varya and I decided that we had plenty of other uses for cake to be explored on our birthdays—”

Another disgusted sound came, but it was too late; Roman was already nudging Varya through the doors to the hallway, and down to the elevator. Once the door clicked shut behind them, it was quiet; it was the one area of the building where it seemed like the air conditioning didn’t quite reach, having so many accesses to the outside, and so the air already felt a little humid and muggy.

“Oh, we forgot the cake,” Varya pouted, trailing ahead of him. She’d collected the hem of her silk dress loosely in one hand, keeping it from the floor as she wandered to the elevator to push the button. The neon red of the Exit sign cut across one side of her, illuminating her in half crimson and half shadow. It reminded him of the night he’d come back to the loft to find her covered in another man’s blood, kitchen knife in hand.

And mine, he thought. Varya Astakhova, the gem of St. Petersburg, only living heir to the Astakhov gun-running fortune, his wife.

“Darling,” she purred, breaking him out of his thoughts, “are you going to just stand there all night?”

“Maybe,” he replied idly. “Maybe I will just stand here all night and stare at my wife, hm? Who would stop me?”

“Well, certainly not me,” she demurred, turning to look at him fully now. “But you can hardly kiss me from there. And what am I suppose to do, go without cake and without your hands on me?”

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Roman thought about the way Maxim had looked at him—just for that tiny split second—all of the disdain and venom welling in his gaze before it was wiped away. Your husband is very accommodating, I’ve never met a man like him. And that fucking tattoo on his hand. It nagged at him, dragged his attention away from the very, very delicious task at hand.

“Roman?”

“You go,” he announced. “I’ll be up in just a minute.”

A plush, ruby lower lip pouted out. Roman sidled over to the elevator, planting a gloved hand on the doorway so that the doors wouldn’t close, and she prompted, “What could you have possibly forgotten when all you need is right here?”

“You are most spectacular,” Roman agreed, reaching up and twisting a curl around his finger. “But it’s just a quick thing. Don’t worry that pretty head, kitten. I’ll be up in no time, and you had better—”

When he leaned in, their noses brushed; Varya hooked her fingers in the space between the buttons of his collared shirt and tugged a little, playfully, humming sweetly.

“—have this dress off,” he finished, voice pitching low and warm, “by the time I get up there.”

“And what if I don’t?” The cloying, saccharine tone of her voice belied the little spark of rebellion in her words. Roman made a pleasant sound against her mouth, a humid warmth plunging down his spine when she closed the tiny space between them to kiss him; it was entirely unhurried, and on instinct his free hand went to the small of her back, pulling her more flush against him as her lips parted prettily beneath his to sigh.

He said into the kiss, “Why don’t you try it and find out?”

“Is it a test?” Roman felt her smile. “I love tests.”

“Get upstairs,” he growled, unable to resist a final kiss. “Wicked thing.”

Varya did pull back, reluctantly and with a dramatic, long sigh. She’d always had a thing for the dramatics. “Fine, I will go upstairs all alone,” she drawled. “Don’t keep me waiting, Romy.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He stepped back, dropping his hand from the elevator door and turning around to head back to the club. The party was still in full swing; people wouldn’t even begin to start leaving for another few hours, patiently and dutifully babysat by Armazd and Zsasz (well, mostly Armazd—Zsasz was not good at being ‘patient’ or ‘dutiful’ if it didn’t include face-carving). It was like having three nannies on payroll, instead of just the one.

The door swung shut behind him. People chattered brightly over the music, lingering around tables in clustered groups. He could see at least half a dozen mobsters and their families, associates of Varya’s from overseas, socialites she had charmed and wealthy businessmen determined to get into their good graces before the weapons chokehold came into full effect.

But there was only one man he wanted to see.

Dorian Young had been smitten with Varya since the moment they’d met, through Roman—and since then, they’d been nearly inseparable. Dorian had even done her the kindness of writing Ilarion a flattering obituary. It would have been annoying, if Roman considered Dorian a threat in the least. He did not.

“Dorian,” he barked out, catching the brunette’s attention. He smiled, full-teeth and as charmingly as he could. “Buddy-mine. I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Oh?” Dorian arched a brow loftily. “A favor outside of the eternal wisdom of Gotham’s madonna, Roman? How scandalous. You know I can’t resist a special in.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Roman adjusted one of his gloves absently, glancing around the room before inclining his head and taking a few steps outside of the cluster of milling partygoers. He didn’t have many concerns about being overheard, given the noise level, but it was better safe than sorry. “You have access to certain records, don’t you?”

Now two perfectly-manicured brows arched upward before Dorian cleared his throat, dark eyes fluttering in a bat at innocence.

“I’m a journalist, Roman,” he intoned somberly. “If someone were to give me access to records that were anything but public, it would be a grave and disgusting infringement on the American Privacy—”

“Yeah yeah yeah, shut the fuck up,” Roman interjected, waving his hand. “I don’t give a shit about that. How about this: you don’t use the records you aren’t able to access, and you don’t dig up literally everything you can on Maxim Kuznetsov.”

“The ex-boyfriend?” Dorian tsked his tongue. “Roman, green is not your color.”

“Hey? Dorian? Don’t be a fucking moron.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Well just say you’ll do it.”

“You mean,” Dorian amended, “that I won’t.”

Roman let out an exasperated noise, clapping a hand onto the man’s shoulder and giving him a little jostle that was meant to convey he wished that he could instead be strangling him in that moment. Varya would have been upset if he did. Dorian flashed him a pearly grin.

“Consider it done. Or not-done, as the case may be.” He took a swig of his drink, sucking his teeth. “Anything I should be on the look-out for?”

“Any red flags. Suspicious shopping behavior. Outgoing calls to private numbers. He’ll likely have two separate phones—one burner, one not.” Roman dropped his hand from Dorian’s shoulder. “Armazd will have his address, if you want to get that from him before you leave tonight. And—one more thing.”

The journalist looked at him expectantly, waiting.

“Not a word,” he continued. “To anyone. But especially not to Varya.”

“If you’re sure,” Dorian ventured.

“The surest.”

It was when he turned to depart the party—for real, this time; he was tired of waiting to unwrap his wife—that Dorian said, “Roman?”

A deep, calming breath. I need Dorian, he reminded himself, and V’s fond of him. Roman pulled another one-eighty. “Yes, Dorian, beloved of my wife?”

“How is Varya?” Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “I mean, really?”

The question was not one that Roman had anticipated. Why would she be anything other than great, glowing, in love with her life? Sure, the last year had been full of turmoil—but they had come out of it fine. Better than fine. Roman had gotten everything he had wanted, and Varya—well, much the same, hadn’t she?

Dorian’s prying reminded him of the way Varya’s body had stilled, the way her expression had hardened, that dark, wild look slipping into her eyes when the lights in the club had blinked on to reveal the surprise party. She’d looked frigid, the softness wiped clean from her in that split moment.

“She’s fine,” Roman replied after a minute. “I mean—she’s great. What do you mean?”

“I can’t get a good read on her. You know,” Dorian pointed out. “And she did watch her supposed-to-be-dead daddy unload a round into her twin brother while she was drugged to the gills on ketamine.”

Well, when you put it like that, Roman thought dryly.

“Some of us, Dorian,” he said primly, “are able to rise above our trials and tribulations and come out better, hm?”

The journalist smiled. He didn’t looked swayed by Roman’s words, but eventually he said, “I’ll contact you as soon as I find out anything.”

“Good man.”

It was only a few minutes from the club’s main floor up to the loft, but those few minutes felt like an eternity; stretching out, impossibly long and endless in front of him. Varya’s birthday was supposed to have been a problem-less occasion, and now he had several problems lining themselves up in front of them. Chiefly, Kuznetsov. And the rest of them, too, but mostly Maxim.

Roman tugged the gloves from his hands and shrugged the suit jacket from his shoulders as the doors to the loft slid open, the gentle ding announcing his arrival. Faintly, he could hear the classical music that Varya favored to play in the twins’ room as they slept; there would be a little speaker on the table closest to her side of the bed, so that she could rouse the second either of them needed her, but they were good babies, like she’d said; it was rare when they didn’t sleep through the night.

He tossed the articles he’d disrobed from onto the long dining table as he passed, nudging the door to the bedroom open.

“Ah,” he sighed, eyes roaming expanses of warm, dusky skin exposed to him as Varya lay stretched out on the bed, “I see we went with behaving tonight?”

“I told you,” she replied demurely, “I love a good test. I can hardly resist the challenge.” Her eyes glittered playfully, and she propped herself up on her elbows, the silk of her underclothes rustling in a way that beckoned him—his hands, his mouth. “You didn’t bring any cake up?”

A quick laugh billowed out of Roman as he sidled over, stepping out of his shoes before climbing onto the bed. “It’s vanilla, you know. Not chocolate. It would have been sacrilege, in memory of our first big fight.”

“Was it chocolate?”

“Oh, yes,” he told her gravely. “I’d never forget. Don’t you remember? You were a terrible brat to me, and then you didn’t speak to me for a week, and then you showed up with a cake—”

“Terrible brat?” She laughed, feigning insult. “On my birthday, no less.”

He grinned. Leaning down, he pressed a leisurely, open-mouthed kiss to the top of her sternum, hooking one hand in the crook of her knee to yank her down the bed so that she was more firmly under him, eliciting a playful little shriek out of her before he tugged the tie of her robe loose.

“Your birthday, yet here I am, unwrapping a present,” he murmured, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the slope of her jaw. He rumbled, pleased, “I’ve been thinking about you all day, you know.”

Varya made a sweet little sound. “Is that so?”

“Mmhm.” Roman kissed down the pillar of her throat, dragging his tongue over a faded love-bite bruise. He’d need to renew that. “Especially when you put on that dress. Admittedly, I am a bit disappointed—I was looking forward to cutting it off of you if you misbehaved.”

“For someone who spent all day thinking about me,” she murmured coyly, “you certainly spent long enough coming up here.”

Roman paused in what he was doing—his fingers hooked in the top hem of her underwear, scandalous things that they were—and glanced up at her. He was trying to gauge where she was actually at, emotionally, but true to what Dorian had said, it was almost impossible to get a read on her.

“It’s just business, baby,” he replied.

“Oh. Of course.”

“You see? I told you not to worry about it.”

“Yes,” Varya agreed, “what would I know of business?”

Roman groaned, pressing his forehead to the smooth plane of her sternum. The scent of her jasmine perfume washed over him, and even though he was this close to indulging himself (which he, above all others, deserved the most), he knew Varya wouldn’t let go of the conversation so easily.

“It’s nothing,” he insisted. He let the fabric of her underwear snap back into place against her hip bone, sliding down her body to kiss down her abdomen. “Focus on enjoying your birthday,” he added, “and let your man worry about everything else, hm?”

Varya’s lashes fluttered lightly, eyes watching him hungrily as he worked his way lower and lower still.

“Ambitious,” she murmured, “to think that I will let go of it so easily.”

“Well,” Roman replied against her skin, “I suppose it’s lucky that I love tests, too. And I always—”

The thin, silky fabric of her underwear made the most delicious sound as it ripped, tearing satisfyingly. Varya made a soft, sweet sound, and he glanced back up at her.

“—pass with flying colors.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

In his experience, Roman found that the best time to approach Varya about things was first thing in the morning. If he was exerting any amount of true self-awareness, of course, he would have acknowledged that “approaching” Varya about anything was not about the time of day, but rather how it was done—a skill Roman thought he had only honed in their short time together.

It was nearly ten; they’d roused late, thanks to the previous evening’s festivities—including an after-hours indulgence that Roman was more than pleased to drag out— and now Varya was chatting conversationally with Zsasz, who provided minimal noises between mouthfuls of food. It was as though her annoyance from the previous night had faded with the glow of morning, which left only the bones that Roman had left to pick.

Therefore, in a show of good faith, he let the chatter carry on for a little while before he decided to Broach(TM).

“So,” he said, sitting in his usual spot at the head breakfast table, “Maxim is funny.”

To his right, the brunette hummed and idly stirred her coffee. The gentle clink-clink of her spoon against the side of the mug was almost soothing; little creature comforts Roman hadn’t realized very often that he truly liked.

“I don’t remember you ever mentioning him,” Roman continued casually.

“I do not like to talk about boring things.” Varya’s brow was furrowed, lips pressing into a little line as she read the newspaper. “Pass me the cream, my love?”

She was feigning disinterest, but he thought she might have been listening more closely than she let on; one wolfish little ear swiveled in his direction, always.

He did as she asked. “He has an interesting tattoo on his hand.”

“I did not notice.”

“No?”

Varya finally tilted her head to look at him, dark eyes inquisitive. She didn’t ask what it was she was thinking, not right away; instead, she waited, did that thing where she let him sit in silence, maybe in the hopes that he’d fill it with his own chatter. He didn’t, of course. He wasn’t stupid.

“Romy,” she said sweetly, setting the paper down and resting her chin in her hand as she gazed at him, “won’t you just ask me what you want to ask me?”

There was no room to stop the irritated noise that came out of him at her words. He scoffed and settled more comfortably in his chair, lifting his chin a little and watching her.

“Or we can play the little game,” she acquiesced, as though she were speaking to a particularly tedious child. “You don’t really care about Maxim’s tattoo. You just care what I think of him.” She fluttered her lashes. “Hm?”

“No,” he replied tartly. “I’m curious about the tattoo.” He paused. “And also what you think of him.”

“I think he is boring.”

“Well, I could have told you that.”

A smile curved her mouth, delicate and fine a gesture as gossamer spread across those soft, Renaissance-features. That painting of her that had been done in the ballroom of the Astakhov mansion was still around somewhere, wasn’t it? Not that he needed a painting when he had the real thing, but maybe he’d hang it in the foyer, as a reminder to anyone who just happened to pass by.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Roman continued idly, “this man of yours—”

“My man, is he?”

“—is just one more obstacle to getting what I wanted. How do you think he’s going to react when he finds out that you put his daddy in the ground?”

“If,” Varya replied. “And what do you mean, obstacle?”

Another scoff came out of him. “Varya,” he chided, voice welling with a patronizing tone, warm and buttery, “come now.”

“Roman,” she replied. Her tone mimicked his. “Explain it to me like I am five.”

“I know the oh-so-omniscient lords of St. Petersburg and Moscow are dragging their fucking feet because they don’t like me.”

“You are trying too hard.” She settled back, dipping a bit of cream into her coffee and stirring again. Clink-clink. It offered him no comfort now; it had become a way for Varya to dismiss him. Don’t you see, Roman, how busy I am? “They are like cats. If you try too hard to gain their affections, they will balk and bolt. They hate being coddled, except by a woman. It’s terribly outdated, but what can you do?”

“I’m—” A sharp, incredulous noise came out of him. “I haven’t spoken more than a handful of words to the lot of them!”

“You see? That is already too much.”

“Well, I don’t want them to like me,” he managed out, feeling the bubbling frustration rising up in him. “I couldn’t give a shit if they like me or not. I want them to accept that leadership is changing hands and they have a new boss to answer to, now.” He leaned forward, forearms rested on the table. “And I know Daddy Astakhov liked to brand his things, hm? So what’s Maxim’s tattoo mean?”

Varya leaned forward, too. “I do not know,” she replied evenly, “and I wish you would stop bringing that man up in my presence.”

“I can’t very well erase him from the conversation completely when I’m inheriting his business.”

“My,” she snapped out viciously, suddenly, “you are inheriting my business, Roman.”

It was just a split second. It was only a split second of venom welling up in her expression, suddenly so wicked that not even Roman was shielded from it; it was worse, now, than it had been before. Those times he’d seen the switch inside of her flip had been under great duress. Was this duress to her, now?

Women, Roman thought, watching her smooth dark hair from her face and collect herself. Perhaps motherhood had not made her soft, but rather emotionally volatile. He couldn’t afford to look more hysterical than his wife, so he waited—with great patience and grace, he thought—for her. She cinched the silk robe at her waist more snugly.

“You know that I am happy to do so,” she continued, as though she’d not just bitten his head off in front of Zsasz, “and that I have no problem with it. I just want...” Now, her voice trailed off, and she skimmed the pad of her index finger along the rim of her coffee cup before she picked up the newspaper again, as well as the red-ink ballpoint to her right. “I want it done right, that is all. And if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.”

A buzzing sound vibrated from the marble hallway leader to the elevator. Roman was waiting for Varya to issue her apology (which she was certainly going to do), and Varya wasn’t looking up from the newspaper.

“Who could be coming so early?” his wife idled, spurring on that molten-hot frustration inside of him as she continued to avoid the topic at hand. “Not someone you called on, Romy?”

The buzzer was the last thing that Roman wanted to think about, let alone deal with. He had much more on his mind; Varya’s elegant dodge of his questions, and—most importantly—her blatant dismissal of his concerns about their current timeline. She was all well and peachy over there, wasn’t she, drinking her coffee and reading her paper and not doing him the courtesy of looking at him?

She had always been a needler, Roman reasoned; she had always had a wild, stubborn streak in her. He’d watched her sit and push Ilarion’s buttons for an entire dinner, once, just to see him get to the edge of snapping at her. She was good at it. He liked it about her, liked watching her do it; might have even made a past-time out of the whole sport of it. How quickly can my little viper unravel a man? Place your bets, gentlemen, time ends when the idiot’s screaming his fucking head off in a public place.

And he would have been foolish to think that she never did it to him.

“Zsasz,” she said, without looking up from the paper, “be a darling and get that, won’t you?”

Zsasz, who had been sitting at the far end of the table watching all of this unfold the way a man might watch a trainwreck happen, moved to come to a stand. Roman barked out, “Stay,” and the movements stilled considerably, immediately. It was satisfying, at least, in an exchange which had been everything but up until then. He turned his gaze to the brunette on his right.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” he said tersely. He gestured to Zsasz. “Sit.”

The blonde did. Roman could feel Victor’s eyes darting between them.

“Oh, darling, you are spoiling my morning.” Varya set the newspaper down on the table and smoothed it out primly, the thin paper edges fluttering between her fingers. “Why would you ever say such a silly thing?”

“Varya.”

“Surely you do not mean to.”

“V,” he snapped.

“Well, I do not know what you want me to say,” she replied after a minute, leaning back in her chair to finally look at him. “My father never deigned to share his operations with me. It was always ‘what a tedious child you are, Varvara’ this, and ‘since love and fear can hardly exist together, if we must choose between them, it is far safer to be feared than loved’ that. I mean, the man spent most of my life quoting Machiavelli at me. Do you think he told me what all of his little art projects meant?” She shrugged, picking her newspaper up again, ignoring the second sound of the buzzer. “You could just ask.”

The irritation spiked high and hot in his throat. Of course, he could just ask. Of course, he could, but he was the fucking boss, which meant doing things like asking an employee what a stupid fucking tattoo meant were below him. He replied tersely, “Why don’t you figure it out for me? Clerical work and employee management is your forte, after all.”

Varya hummed. It was a prim, musing hm, the sound she made when he’d said something she found to be particularly annoying. “If you wanted me to personally manage Maxim,” she demurred, glancing at him through dark, sooty lashes, “you only had to say.”

Somehow sensing this particular phrasing was not going to go over well with Roman (it wasn’t), Zsasz said, “Can I buzz ‘em up?”

“Yes,” Varya replied.

“No,” Roman insisted.

“Romy, there’s a guest.”

“I’m not through with you,” he snapped.

“I’m gonna buzz ‘em up,” Zsasz announced.

Roman felt the frustrated note rising in his throat, strangling it before it could quite make its way out of him. His jaw set; his eyes followed Zsasz on his way out of the main room and toward the elevator to—presumably—let up their guest (intruder). He drummed his fingers against the top of the dining table and said, “You think you’re very funny, don’t you?”

“Darling.” Varya leaned forward, elbows on the table, lacing her fingers together and cradling her chin atop them. She looked awfully pleased with herself, the little snake, that gigantic stone sitting on her finger. “If I knew what the tattoo meant, I would just tell you. Why not? I could tell you what the word is, but that is hardly ever what the tattoo actually means.”

Darling, she said, as though she hadn’t just snapped her teeth at him moments before. Roman sucked his teeth. Yes, it was very reasonable, he thought; Nikita had always cherished his son over his daughter, had always anticipated Ilarion taking over the business, as Varya had framed it—and even once, Ilarion had confirmed himself. He wanted you and only you, Ilya, and that’s why you couldn’t look at him when he died. That’s what she’d said, and the memory of that night—of Varya, needling the person she was closest to in the world, weaned from venom and taking so much pleasure from inflicting it on someone else—reminded him that there was still much about his wife left to be unearthed.

And it would be an unearthing. Roman had no doubt that it would be a graveyard he would be turning over, full of skeletons—not just a closet.

From the other room, the sound of an infant’s cry drifted down the hall. Varya’s gaze flickered to the space over Roman’s shoulder, behind him, and she came to a stand.

“I will ask, if you would like me to,” she told him, coming around the table and smoothing her hand along his shoulder in what was supposed to be a peace-making gesture. “But I don’t think there is a reason to bother yourself with the detail.”

He felt his mouth press into a thin line. Fine, he thought, fine, the tattoo isn’t a big deal. But what about everything else? “This is all taking a long time, V.”

“I know.” She paused, and then softened a little, all of her button-pushing and needling having dissipated for the moment; Varya leaned down and kissed his temple, and then the top of his cheekbone. “These things take patience, you know. It is not just a—used car business we are inheriting. There are processes, formalities, the like. The men have to know they can trust you.” She paused, tilting her head and regarding him with dark, inquisitive eyes. “You just have to trust me, Romy.”

Roman sighed. I do, he thought, turning his head to look at her. Don’t I?

Of course, he did. She was his wife, the mother of his children—and Roman hadn’t even wanted kids, not really. Not until he realized how much they, by proxy, made Varya belong to him. There was nothing quite so devoted as carrying someone’s child, was there? So yes; he did trust her, in the same capacity at which he supposed a man trusted a relatively-domesticated panther on a chain. Maybe just a smidge more than that. But enough to expect she’d bite off someone else’s hand, and not his.

“Fine,” is what he said, and the word still came out a little petulant. “I will. I do.” Reaching up, he snagged her wrist when she started to pull away, keeping her in place. She watched him expectantly.

When he didn’t say anything—just watched her, gauging her—she prompted playfully, “Are you going to scold me?”

Roman pressed the pad of his thumb to the pulse point on her wrist. His eyes narrowed. “I ought to, vicious girl. You just can’t resist pushing a button when you see it, can you?”

Her pulse jumped pleasantly under warm skin, whether by the term vicious girl or his touch, he didn’t know. It seemed that storminess had passed as soon as it had arrived; and though she hadn’t yet uttered the words I’m sorry, he almost preferred her like this. Coy.

“You would be bored, otherwise.” Her eyes glittered, mischievous. “Don’t you think?”

His fingers stayed curled around her wrist, but she didn’t try and pull away. Watching the flutter of her eyelashes, the way the corners of her mouth quirked upward in a smile, he felt nearly won over. How tedious, Roman thought, that even when he was irritated with her, he found her endearing. That’s amore.

“Don’t goad me,” he warned, and Varya smiled dreamily at him.

“I love you,” is what she replied, and then leaned down to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Let’s never fight again.”

He dropped his grip from her wrist and she stepped around his chair, the silk of her robe fluttering behind her as she started to the sound of babbling infants. The one or two cries that had roused her initially had melted down into baby-chat. Roman was reminded, once again, that they had a nanny on the payroll for seemingly no reason.

“Varya,” he called, taking the newspaper from where she’d left it on the table, “I mean it.”

Her voice drifted from down the hall: “Of course, Romy.”

The sound of the nursery door opening echoed, and then Varya’s voice; saccharine-sweet, honeyed and muffled by distance. He glanced over the front of the newspaper, but it was impossible to focus on the words—what did they matter, anyway? He didn’t give a fuck about what was going on in Gotham. He had bigger fish to fry. Bigger, Russian, potentially radioactive amalgams of different fish that seemed to be stalling on a deal that should have been up and done with already. Not to mention, one of those fish breaking off of the nightmare-fish and showing up, unannounced, sporting tattoos likely administered to him by Nikita Astakhov himself?

These things take patience.

Roman suppressed a scoff. Like he didn’t have patience. He’d been the most patient. Varya had dragged her feet for about a month after they’d put Ilarion in the ground, but after that, things had typically moved fast—the engagement, the twins. Everything except the thing Roman had been waiting for since the beginning. Of course, he’d never anticipated inheriting the business himself and had only gone into the whole thing wanting an exclusive deal, but now he knew better. He knew what was owed to him. He knew what belonged to him.

The elevator door down the main hall dinged. Roman didn’t bother stifling the sigh that wanted to come out of him; it was only ten in the morning, who could possibly need him and for what? He pushed the chair back from the table and came to a stand, sucking his teeth and prepping what he thought could only be the tranquil expression of a man ready to murder before Maxim stepped inside.

He blinked. The tranquility fled his face. Zsasz trailed in after him, looking uneasy. There was something about his expression that didn’t sit right with Roman, the hard lines of the blonde’s face setting him even further on edge. Would his suffering never end?

“Oh, Maximillian,” he greeted, keeping his voice the pinnacle of lazily annoyed. “Clocking in for work a little early, aren’t we? Over-achieving?”

“I am an early riser,” the blonde acquiesced. He looked genuinely apologetic, the fuckhead, in Dolce & Gabbana, no less. “I hope I did not disturb you.”

“A big wager to make, first day on the job.” Roman trailed Zsasz with his eyes, watching the blonde pace around the far end of the table. What had gotten into him since he’d gone to buzz their guest up? Idly, he sat back down at the table, resuming to glance over the words of the newspaper he couldn’t have given two shits about.

And he said nothing. He instead enjoyed, immensely, the act of letting Maxim stand there in silent uncertainty. It was probably almost a full minute before Maxim cleared his throat, prompting Roman to set his newspaper down with a sigh, as though it were very troubling that he had to stop this thing he didn’t even want to do.

“If you’re here to play catch-up with Varya, she’s busy today,” he deadpanned, turning his gaze reluctantly to where Maxim stood. “And every other day. Generally, I think it would be safe to assume she’s much too preoccupied to assist with whatever problems you might have; that type of work is beneath her now, you know.”

“I am sure being a mother and wife is more than enough to keep her busy,” Maxim agreed soberly.

“And transitioning the business in my name,” Roman replied pointedly.

The blonde shrugged, smiling a little. “Of course.”

He felt his eyes narrow. He leaned back in the chair, interlacing his fingers while his elbows rested on the armrests of the chair. It was impossible to figure out what it was about Maxim that Varya might have liked; the man was painfully well-mannered and non-confrontational, which Roman knew wasn’t her style at all.

Never mind that Varya had not once said that there was a romantic interaction between them. That didn’t matter. He knew how men looked at his wife, and Maxim had been a little too comfortable touching her for there to have been nothing at all.

“But, I did not come here to speak to Varya,” the Russian continued, taking a few steps toward the table. “I actually came here to speak to you, Roman.”

Roman blinked. Well, that wasn’t what he expected.

“What?” he asked flatly.

“I wanted to come and see if you were free today,” Maxim elaborated casually. “I was Nikita’s man. Now, I am yours. It only seems right I get to know you better.” He gestured with his hand. “I know you have more than enough help around here, and I was tied up in Turkey before, but...”

Roman’s lips pressed into a thin line. He saw no trace of yesterday’s venom in Maxim’s face, no indication that he was trying to be sarcastic or pull some kind of joke. Instead, Maxim’s face looked completely open and earnest.

“You’re here to ask me on a fucking lunch date,” he began, “and not Varya?”

“Varya,” the blonde replied demurely, “is not my boss.”

Huh, Roman thought. He swept his gaze over Maxim scathingly, and then looked at Zsasz, who remained unreadable. Well, wasn’t that just the most unhelpful thing? It did feel nice to hear Maxim say it, even if Roman would rather see him crying or begging or bleeding out.

“I’m busy today,” he replied after a moment, turning his attention back to Maxim. “But you can swing by the—”

“Maxim.” It was Varya’s voice. Roman turned to look at her. There was no baby in tow. This wouldn’t have been unusual, if Maxim had been a stranger; she tended to keep the twins as far out of reach of people she did not know as much as possible, nested away for safety. But Maxim had been her childhood friend, hadn’t he?

“Good morning,” Maxim greeted her warmly. “I was just asking Roman if he would—”

“I know what you were asking,” Varya interrupted. “You overestimate yourself, showing up to your boss’ home unannounced, don’t you think?”

Maxim looked about as lost as Roman felt; the sensation that he’d stepped into a fever dream very suddenly was washing over him. He looked at Zsasz. The blonde gave a little shrug, as though to say, Why the fuck would I know?

“Varushka,” Maxim ventured after a moment, “you know I did not mean...”

“I don’t know anything at all,” the brunette replied coolly. “You should have called ahead.” She paused, and then added purposefully: “Temka never showed up unannounced.”

Roman found himself in the very strange position of feeling...bad (?) for Maxim, standing there a little helplessly, the poor thing. Varya’s words had gutted him. He could only assume that she was referring to the blonde’s father when she said Temka, by the look on his face, and that—

Oh, you wicked thing, he thought, affection welling up inside of him as he looked at Varya, you know just how to unravel a man. Sticking a salted hot-poker straight into his grief-wound, aren’t you?

“I am sorry,” Maxim said after a minute. “I did not mean to be so thoughtless.”

“The transgression is not mine to forgive.” Varya swept around Roman then, sitting back down in her seat. She looked at him, expectant. “Roman?”

“Me?” he asked.

“It is as Maxim said,” she replied. “You are his boss, not me.”

He waited to see if there was some kind of strange undertow to her words, but he could find none; just Varya waiting, expectantly, for him to excuse Maxim’s showing up without having called ahead. It was odd, and he couldn’t figure out why it was that she was acting like this toward Maxim now—had it been the Varya is not my boss comment? Was she trying to make up for their little spat?

It was commonplace for nothing to be straightforward, with Varya. This was different.

“So,” she continued primly, turning to look at Maxim now, “apologize to your boss.”

“I am—” Maxim stopped, like he didn’t want to do it, drawing Roman’s gaze to him. Quite suddenly, Roman thought he knew exactly what his wife was doing; putting the blonde in a position where he’d have to put good faith behind his words. Varya is not my boss, he’d said, but did that matter if he couldn’t even apologize to Roman?

He finished, more smoothly now, “I am sorry, Roman.”

Roman beamed. “Insolence forgiven,” he replied, all thoughts of his disagreement with Varya gone now. He reached over the table, snagging her hand and dragging the pad of his thumb across the back of her hand. “As I was saying—I am busy today, but you are welcome to swing by the club later this evening. Before midnight. We get busiest just before the witching hour.”

Maxim ducked his head. “Of course.”

Varya’s nails skimmed Roman’s palm. She didn’t look up when she said, “Was there something else, Maxim?”

“I do not think so.”

“Then,” she replied sweetly, “have a lovely afternoon.”

A moment stretched where the blonde looked a little unsure, and then he cleared his throat and said, “Of course,” and excused himself down the hall. Varya circled something in the newspaper with her red-ink pen, her other hands still interlaced with Roman’s.

“Mr. Zsasz,” she began, “did you let Maxim up?”

Zsasz looked at Roman. “I didn’t,” he replied after a minute. “Armazd did.”

“Hm,” came the reply, even as she noted something in the margins of the paper.

“Were you apologizing for your tantrum, just now?” Roman asked. He would puzzle out why Armazd letting Maxim up was worthy of a hm later. Now, he could see the hint of a smile ticking the corners of Varya’s mouth upward, but she did not sway from whatever it was that had captured her attention in the news of Gotham; instead, she circled something absently.

Varya said, “Did you find it a suitable apology?”

He considered. “Well, I would have liked it better if you’d made him cry.”

“It would have spoiled my appetite,” she demurred, folding the newspaper primly and coming to a stand. “I am taking the twins to the park with Irina. And Zsasz too, if you’ll spare him. I won’t be back until late afternoon.”

“Late? Then you’d better come here, wife.” Roman tugged on her hand, watching her expression warm when he said wife. Once, he might have squinted at loaning Zsasz out to her. Now, he didn’t mind; especially if it gave a peace of mind that she and the twins be that more secure. “So that I can get my fill of you before you’re gone.”

The brunette laughed, letting him tug her down onto his lap. She carded the fingers of her free hand through his hair and brushed their noses together; it was all glowing affection, now, warmth buzzing under her skin.

“Oh, darling, now I want to leave quicker, and more often,” she murmured, “so that you’ll never have your fill of me.”

Roman supposed that was how she’d gotten him in the first place. Hooked him with being inaccessible, with being coveted—as if she had always known he was not a man could resist something considered off-limits—and now that he had her, he couldn’t get enough of her. He’d seen the way that others looked at her, and by proxy him; with want. With envy. Bruce Wayne could eat shit.

“Roman,” Varya said, “I want you to be careful when you are around Maxim.”

He paused, pulling back to look at her a little. She smoothed her hand over the slope of his collarbone affectionately.

“You are right,” she continued. “When Maxim finds out what I did—if he does—he will be angry about it. He is used to being the right-hand man, you know. Do not...” She glanced down, looking for the words. “Do not give it to him so easily. Make him work for it and prove himself to you.”

Tracing the lines of her expression—soft, concerned—Roman dragged his thumb across her wrist.

“I told you, doll.” He planted an affectionate kiss to her wrist. “Don’t worry about these things. I’ve got it perfectly under control.”

“I know,” she agreed. “I know you do, Romy—”

“Then stop this fussing,” he interjected mildly. “You’re spoiling your very charming apology. You know I love a good public humiliation. Which park are you taking the twins to?”

The dark eyes of his wife swept over his face for a minute, contemplative and impossible to gauge, before she smiled at him warmly.

“The one just a few blocks away. It has the most shade. Mr. Zsasz, won’t you bring the car around?”

And just like that, things were back to normal. Varya swept away to busy herself with getting ready and loading the twins, and Zsasz went to pull the car around, leaving Roman at the table for a rare moment of peace. Soon enough, he’d have all the information he needed from Dorian, and he could well-and-truly mitigate Maxim Kuznetsov as a problem, and everything would be back on track. He could bet money Varya didn’t think he’d had the foresight to dig up information on Maxim—it wasn’t his style to get his hands dirty, but extreme circumstances called for extreme measures.

Roman sighed, quite pleased.

Back to normal.

#spilled ink #f: the land of gods and devils #roman sionis/oc #x: this smile is a loaded gun #c: varya astakhova #c: roman sionis #c: victor zsasz #c: maxim kuznetsov #honorable mention to dorian for being a true homie #birds of prey fic #birds of prey oc #i think uhhhhhhhh yeah i think that's it! #thank you thank you thank you everyone who has even given me a tiny bit of love for this #it's definitely a project that's self-indulgent but !!!! #<3

[tosikoarts]

SFW Alphabet | Ogata Hyakunosuke

Writing Ogata is a mental gymnastics and I have weak ankles. You can check tosikowrites tag for more. Warning: there’s a lot under the cut.

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?) 

As a person who hasn’t experienced love (without any exaggeration) in his whole life, Ogata is the worst of all in showing affection, and he will mercilessly tease anyone who will try to do it without manipulative ulterior motive. It is easier for him to comprehend desire for power or use than pure love, so prepare yourself for endless battle with destructive defense mechanisms.

He watches person of interest whenever they do, either openly, brazenly staring or subtly following them with peripheral vision. Ogata doesn’t know why he does it but his eyes are always fixed on their presence. Once some time passed, Ogata actively seeks their attention, he is almost excited to meet their gaze, but only thing they will get of it is a faint crooked smile and awareness of being monitored.

Like in childhood, Ogata continues to hunt but now he has one more purpose. The purpose is to share food with this one specific person. In a big groups, Ogata as always sits away from the group but he moves just a little bit closer to them. Enough to get closer but not enough for others to notice.

Asks what they want. Yes, Ogata straightforwardly asks them if they want anything and if they do what it is. He condescends to putting mind games away and considering their opinion. At least, sometimes. Rarely. But he does it!

And the last one. Ogata tolerates physical affection and later gets adjust to it. Teasing isn’t going away any time soon, but he learns to relax around them without loosing soldier’s alertness. It is a slow process, it takes years for Ogata to learn something so simple, but the results are amazing.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

That friend that got too many sins to ever judge you. Quote “If you tell me you killed a man, I will help you to hide the body” is literal. Ogata laughs loudly after hearing the most cringe-worthy or outright scary stories but won’t ever shame his best friend.

He is the one to offer to go astray together, make problems together, and be petty together. Hardly ever Ogata needs to be bailed out of troubles, but he enjoys living on a knife blade and pulls others along. He lives by the rule “Enemy of my friend is my enemy” and can, without a twinge of conscience, offer to kill someone.

Nicknames and name-calling are common, intentions behind the names are never clear. Is he really trying to insult you or was it a joke? Who knows. Ogata takes pleasure in screwing with other’s people minds.

His best friend has to deal with absence of relationship’s boundaries. Today they are friends, next day Ogata decides to mess around and kiss them, and the day after he is nowhere to be found. Oh, he is definitely the one to suggest to be friends with benefits.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

It is hard to call what he does cuddling but this is what happens when Ogata’s feline side comes into action. As dusk approaches and there is not a single soul around, he gets closer from behind and unceremoniously lays down his head on their shoulder. Sometimes he even lets them sit between his legs so Ogata can press their back into his chest and curl up together. Not a word falls from his lips. If they drop a taunt on how cute or romantic he is, Ogata will immediately move over and frown (early in relationship) or pretend he didn't hear anything (later in relationship). If in a bad mood and his loved one begs for cuddle, he will act all teasingly bitchy just to leave them touched-starved after.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Ogata doesn't really believe that he will live up to the age when normal people want to settle down. His chances to end up in prison or in shallow grave are higher than ever and he is totally okay with it so thought of home comfort never popped up in his head. If his partner brings up this idea, Ogata will deliberately resist it, calling his loved one silly goose that doesn’t know what they are talking about. Good cook and can clean properly if he wants to.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

It can go so many different ways depending on his mood and general perception of the person.

In the later stages of relationship as well as if his loved one is the sweetest angel, Ogata would disappear in the thin air. He doesn’t explain reasoning in any of the options but in this one this wildcat tries not to hurt their feelings much. All traces of his presence are erased, and Ogata tries to get away from them as far as possible.

You have to make it hurt to push them away, right? For active and cheerful personalities Ogata has a strategy that provides the worst relationship experiences, small things like avoidance, detachment, feeling of slowly dying passion. When they are about to give up, Ogata himself breaks up with them smiling venomously, as if to say “did you expect anything else in the first place?”

If they are patient and assertive, Ogata will be the pettiest. Strong personality calls for exquisite torture, so prepare yourself for setups, cheatings, direct insults, and smug smirks as he burns down everything they built together.  

If there is no other way out, Ogata will shoot them. It may completely ruin whatever left of his humaneness but he will do it.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

He gives the dirtiest look when being questioned about marriage. First of all, idea of commitment disturbs him for a multiple reasons. It brings nothing but an official status, it does not oblige couple to happy ever after, and Ogata is a living proof of this axiom. It is unlikely that he will ever change his mind. Remains faithful in a relationship though, he just does not like the concept of being bound by the vows.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Nowhere close to being gentle. Hasn’t been touched emotionally, and physical gentleness is foreign to him too. The only embrace he knows is holding a sniper rifle at cold night so you can imagine how hard it is for him to be in loving relationship. Ogata asks himself “why are they act so kindly?” almost everyday, he expects misdemeanor, he tensely waits for it, and sighs in both relief and disappointment when nothing happens. When it comes to being physical, from unobtrusive hands-holding to make-out sessions, Ogata tenses up to the point when his whole body turns in the taut string. It is a damn mental work to ease off and he needs a lot of practice.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

What is the hug? What is its purpose? Why would they hug him? What the hell? Yes, Ogata is the worst. When his loved one puts their hands around him, Ogata just… stands here with eyes empty and head up. He does not move a bit, doesn’t flinch, he lets them do the thing but does not participate in the process whatsoever. After few weeks, Ogata hugs them back for the first time, putting his hands higher on their back instead of waist, and holding breath like he is going underwater. He is still awkward, but slowly gets used to their warmness and gentle touch. Sometimes you can hear dull low sound like a sigh escaping his lips when Ogata relaxes enough to close his eyes and gives up to soothing caress.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

If we talk about the time frame, I would say, around 2-3 years, but time is not the most important factor in whole confession. Ogata could never say three magic words in his usual emotionally constrained state so he needs a real kick in the ass to squeeze out more than apathetic “you’re good, whatever”. Near-death experience may be an option but getting absolutely wasted, shitfaced, hammered is way more likely. After consuming ungodly amount of sake, getting in fist fight with Katarou (no worries, no Kantarous were harmed), and falling right in front of his loved one, Ogata claims he needs to tell his loved one something special. Few leading questions and he wistfully admits that he never told them he loves them. Then he passes out. Thanks God, he remembers nothing from that night, so there is another day to confess with a clear head and well thought out text.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

If some careless admirer is hitting on his loved one, Ogata expects his partner to instantly push another person away and explain that they are taken. If pour soul is persistent, Ogata will warn them once and shoot them in the leg if they do not take a hint right away.  

And if his loved one goes around shamelessly flirting with whoever? Ogata will be so pissed, oh boy, you will see how mad he can be. Nobody fucks with him like that, nobody. If they think they are the center of his universe, Ogata will quickly bring them down to earth, ignoring them completely, putting them in danger on purpose, abruptly jumping up as soon as they come for the kiss or hug. He’ll knock this vanity crap out of them with sticks since he doesn’t know how to put carrots to work.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

His kisses feel like there is no tomorrow, they are greedy and rough. Ogata, like a natural predator, slowly drives his partner into a corner, squeezes them in the arms, and does not let go even when salty blood oozes from under his teeth. Feral to the fingertips. His partner has to wrap a scarf around the neck since he likes to cover it in small bruises. If we talk about where Ogata likes to be kissed, worth mentioning that he will bite anyone’s fingers off if they try to kiss his empty eye socket. It hurts like hell and bleeds easily, for god’s sake. However, he likes his fingertips kissed, knuckle kisses, and lip kisses. All types of hand kisses give him strange feeling of superiority and dominion.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

No. Just no. He doesn’t want to be anywhere near kids and flatly refuses to have any of his own. Babies, toddlers, or teenagers – they are all the same to Ogata, small versions of adults that require too many resources and for what? To grow up in someone like him? At the same time, he is mediocre in babysitting and can take care of baby, changing diapers or lulling to sleep, but teaching older ones high morals and emotional intelligence is not his forte.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Fortunately or unfortunately, Ogata is difficult to catch in the morning since he wakes up with the first cocks and leaves home quickly for the hunting. Upon awakening his mood is pretty grumpy but it changes to calmly benevolent as he cooks breakfast and thinks about upcoming businesses. It is important for Ogata to put his swarming thoughts in order before greeting his loved one with a peck on the cheek: he does not want to burden them more than usual with talks about the endless nightmares and causes of these bad dreams. After meal, he is ready to get his portion of love or spoil his partner with exclusive attention. Cats are very selective creatures but they are generous with gestures of trust too.  

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Evening is a time of solitude, there is no place for strangers in it. During the day, Ogata overdoses on people so in the evening he wants to stay in the company of a loved one and only them. It doesn’t matter if they drag him to the empty night downtown under the bright light of lanterns or hide him like a favorite toy under the weight of the blanket, he cherishes every second. Evening walk in the garden is his favorite pastime. During cherry blossom season, when gardens turn into a solid pink ocean, Ogata pulls his loved one to sit on his lap so they can both engage in hanami. These short ten days bring peace to his soul and give him belief in a better future with the best person by the side.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

Ogata has no problems in opening up, actually. Of course, he knows some people are slick sleuths preying on facts to use in their manipulations but he also understands people do have conversations and exchange information about themselves as ordinary social ritual. Probably, avoids topics like his family and feelings but other that this Ogata can be pretty forthright. He prefers to take it slowly, without much zeal.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

Well, sniper has to be patient, but it is unclear if Ogata fits this description. You never know if you have crossed the line (and if you did – when did it happen?) because he knows nothing better than smiling mysteriously and planning your demise in silence. Next thing you know there is a bullet piercing your body, blood is spilled everywhere, and Ogata is far gone because Type 30 rifle is so “excellent for sniping and sharpshooting”. In everyday domestic life, Ogata is quite patient and restrained, never rises his voice, and tries to refrain from direct conflict.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

It varies. On good days, Ogata pays more attention to his partner and what they are doing. If they are having deep conversation, he pulls as much information as possible and immediately thinks where it can be applied it in the future. On the contrary, when in a bad mood, Ogata turns a deaf ear even to words spoken directly to him. It's hard to predict weather he will listen to you or not, so it is not uncommon to hear him repeating your words when you thought Ogata was his usual cold distant self.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

Anything that has to deal with emotions, feelings, and confessions because all those things make him both nervous and excited. Actually, first time he confronted them about their feelings and behavior and got confirmation that it wasn’t a dream. Ogata was too tired to provoke them so he sat quietly and listened to whatever they’ve chosen to say in their annoyingly sincere voice. Rational and irrational, critical and non-critical, rude and affectionate. He noticed weird tight sensation in his chest when they murmured something about caring about his stupid cat ass but decided to ignore it. Ogata has little capability of accepting their love and it is not going to change with a wave of a magic wand but he… considers it may be true. It sounds too good to be true though, but he will crawl to them and lie down confused and intrigued.  

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Expects his partner to protect themself in the moment of danger. He is far from knight in white armor trope so do not expect help from above. Ogata refuses to take on the nanny role so his loved one must know basic self-defense or be smart enough to avoid unpleasant situations. In only one case, Ogata can step down from his pedestal and lend a hand: if they are cornered and there is no way out, they will either die or get captured, Ogata will shoot attacker down. After that, he coolly threatens that next time he won't be around to help. Oh, and yes, he has no plans to train them. As the saying goes, help yourself.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

Acts like he owes nothing and does minimum because Ogata wants to be asked for nice things. He likes to hear his partner talk to him in pleading voice and see them making puppy eyes, bating eyelashes, even pouting. This is the kind of game that Ogata has mastered so he knows when to stop and act nicely. He has random outbursts of generosity which promise the partner quaint presents and spoiling. Sadly, they do not always coincide with anniversaries: on important dates wildcat is on his best behavior but you can’t be sure prepared surprises will be pleasing. I mean, being with him is as predictable as Russian roulette. Decent in everyday tasks but doesn’t put all of his effort into it.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

Instability is his second name. Ogata has never had a purpose in the life, finding ainu gold is his first and last goal and there is not a hint on what will happen after that. It doesn’t cause any discomfort to him and Ogata likes it better this way, so for someone who has a prepared plan of action for next few years his company can be pretty unnerving.

Ogata's views on world are also not to everyone's taste. With a dismissive look at human life, he is reputed to be a cynic, he can go into nihilism headlong and completely reject the remaining moral standards. If his partner is principled and proper, Ogata will attempt to corrupt them and bring down to his own level.

It is not a bad habit, but people hate him. Dozen of cutthroat soldiers want to see Ogata dead so his partner may be a potential target of ill-wishers.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Apparently, he is only concerned about the hair being perfectly slicked back. His clothes are more or less clean but not spotless, shoes are never shiny, but Ogata is indifferent. Scars do not bother him either, and Ogata completely forgets about their existence but the loss of eye had some toll on his ego. Just a little bit. Sometimes it seems that people focus their attention precisely on the missing eye, on bandages, and it both makes him bitter and satisfied: Ogata knows what he is capable of even without half of sight but visible human pity gets on his nerves quite a bit.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

If they decided to break up in the beginning of the relationship, Ogata doesn’t care at all. He may make one or two venomous remarks and that’s all. But if it was much later, after he got intoxicating taste of love? Wow, that’s an explosive mix of feelings we’ve got there. Ogata falls on slippery slope of denial because he had to be one to leave, he had to be in control, not them. He is infuriated, his ego is hurt, and, worst of all, people are aware of it. All that remains for Ogata is revenge in any imaginable form, from distancing to pulling off show how he feels himself even with them not being by his side. His behavior is pretty identical to that listed in Ending paragraph.

If they were killed… Um. Surely, he feels unexplained self-pity but it is better than feeling nothing at all. Ogata is lost. He can’t comprehend what's going on in his soul. From outside it seems like wildcat is the same independent cynical bastard but inside days of numbness alternate with weeks when he is boiling with anger. This malice spills on anyone who tries to get closer and it may pushe him to self-destruction.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

We have already seen Ogata in the company of two geishas (though, I’m thinking, they were yujos), he never slept with one and actually despises the idea of it. Despite the scene with Yuusaku and “brother should have fun together” said, Ogata wouldn’t touch a woman of the same profession as his mother was. He could hate her, or pity, or scorn, but thought of becoming the same as his father makes Ogata sick to the guts. So that scene was an idle play to corrupt the perfect Second Lieutenant, a game that was lost in advance.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Ogata isn’t used to a minimum amount of positive attention so both clinginess and neediness will push him away. It creeps him out if another person wants to be with him 24/7, and constant questions like where he has been and with whom are simply annoying.

Manipulations are okay with him until it comes to hysterias. Load, teary and pointlessly pushy, they make Ogata sick. If you want to manipulate this man, be elegant, be smart. He won’t fall for headlong approach, it will only disgust him.

Dogs. It won’t surprise me if Ogata poisoned a few back in the childhood. They seem stupid and gross in their inexhaustible love for man.  

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)

Ogata is light sleeper and has problem with people sleeping right next to him. This feature is due to both the profession and personal reasons: there are enough people in the world who would happily break Ogata’s neck while he sees his third dream. Loud snoring in the room is fraught with consequences.

For the same reasons he can’t fall asleep without rifle lying next to him. It became an extension of his hand so Ogata feels kind of defective when it is not around. No, he is not Hijikata, he won’t give his baby to anyone to shoot bottles or some shit.

Extreme amount of dreams is a usual thing for him. Ogata has a ton of nightmares too, but most of the dreams are colorful nonsense about events that happened the day before. Obviously, Yuusaku is a frequent night visitor and his sweet innocent smile forces Ogata jump up in his bed drenched in a cold sweat. He never leaves, he never will.

#golden kamuy #golden kamuy headcanon #golden kamuy imagine #ogata hyakunosuke #hyakunosuke ogata #tosikowrites

[sohin-ace]

Rohan - A Day In Paris

Happy birthday to my lovely Giovanna @gio-is-writing . I love you with all my heart. Thank you for barging into my life and stealing my gangster's heart. This one's for you.

You huffed and dropped your heavy luggage in the hotel room you were staying at for your short vacation. You briefly glanced out your window, The Iron Lady greeting you from afar.

No time to spare, you had a busy day ahead of you, and your friend would not let you off the hook if you spent your short rare days in Paris lounging around doing nothing.

You took out your phone and called her, struggling to change from your heels to more comfortable shoes.

"Y/N, hello! How was your trip?" Your friend picked up, instantly greeting you with her unmistakable accent and you swore you could hear her sadism.

"Please let me rest, I beg of yo-"

"Nuh huh, sweetie. I have a big program for you and you will make the most out of your trip. You'll thank me later, trust me." She cut you off and you groaned, sleepy and jet-lagged.

Yes. You had to travel to the marvelous city of Paris for a conference meeting, but of course, you could only expect your best and only local friend to make you tour the entire city in a record-breaking time.

She had planned out for you a extended list of activities, museums, restaurants and places to visit during your voyage. Knowing her, you were impressed and almost suspicious that she didn't try to drag you out with her and forced you to meet 'your future husband' through many blind dates.

Losing yourself through confusing subway stations and vintage architectured streets, you eventually found yourself in your most desired destination.

Obviously, whoever thought of Paris thought about the iconic Pyramid of glass. That was the one place you always dreamt of seeing.

"So... That's the Louvre, huh?" You breathed out, almost in disbelief.

You couldn't possibly pass the occasion of visiting one of the most reknown art gallery in the world.

Looking around the vast plaza, you had expected much more people to crowd the area, but you were pleasantly surprised to only see a few strangers here and there. Good, that was much less anxiety inducing.

Not wanting to wait any longer and too eager to finally discover this magical place, you guided yourself in. The contrast between the loud sunny exterior and the dull and quiet ambiance inside forced you to relax.

Hours had passed by without you even feeling them. You were having much more fun that you'd have ever anticipated, even though visiting a museum all alone was a thought repulsive to most people. You loved every bit of it, walking through the  finely decorated corridors, immersing yourself in the eery yet pleasant quietness of the place, learning through the masterpiece's description, imagining the sculptures come to life.

You smiled. You were happy from this simple yet incredible experience. It was crazy how a change of scenery and how art could so easily move you, transporting you into new worlds, new horizons, and make you travel through times and spaces.

"It's like magic, isn't it?"

You gasped and instantly jumped at the sudden deep voice right next to your ear. You looked behind you to glare and maybe insult who ever had just almost given you the biggest heart attack you'd ever have.

"O-Oh my god!" You yelped, already too loud for the place you were in, prompting a few heads to turn your direction. You shamefully toned down, "Y-you scared the shit out of me-..."

"...I apologize, miss," The male's daggered expression looking down at your small frame did not match his polite words and soft tone. "I didn't mean to startle you, but you looked so deep in thoughts and you were blocking the view."

He pointed at the painting behind you and you decided to ignore his left-handed comment, moving a bit to the side and away from the painting. When your breathing finally slowed down to a healthier pace, you took the time to observe his features a little more.

He stood tall in front of you, his frame slim yet sturdy. You were striked by his eyes of emerald and his androgynous facial traits that seemed to soothe you even without contact. His dark green hair was meticulously styled to the side with an intriguing headband adorning his forehead.

You decided to not stare down his body in fear that his expensive-looking clothes revealing his toned abs and lean waist were actually not an illusion from your peripheral vision but his actual look.

Dang it, you thought, he was too hot for you to stay mad at him.

You looked to the side, and mumbled "... Apologies accepted."

"Wow. Took you a long while of staring at me to accept my apologies. Like what you see, maybe?" He quirked an eyebrow, his tone now condescending, which completely contrasted with his earlier princely behavior.

You gasped and clicked your tongue at him, "You-... Are you famous or something? Why are you acting so bratty all of a sudden?" You knew it, your friend had warned you about this type of guy. The type to act all high and stuck up, roaming art galleries and belittling others. More often than not, handsome and wearing sketchbook-filled satchels. "French artists, I swear..."

You saw him lick his lip before scoffing, as if you had offended him. Unbeknownst to you, the man was actually quite amused by you and did not expect this comeback. He had already long forgotten about the painting behind you.

"Oh you're funny. How did you know?" He smirked obnoxiously, stepping up slowly and looming even taller over you. "You should consider yourself privileged to even be looked at by the Great Rohan Kishibe."

You squinted your eyes at his bold ego, but also at the sound of his name. "Rohan Kishibe...? That sounds like a Japanese name. So you're not a snobby French city boy? Disappointing."

He let out a 'tch' of annoyance. How dared you slander his persona? 'Snobby city boy'? 'Disappointing'?

...'French'?!

Rohan huffed and closed his eyes. Oh no, he couldn't let you get to him so easily and give you the satisfaction.

"That's correct, you dense child." He buried his hands in his pants pockets, dismissing the look you gave to his shamelessly visible underwear waistband.

"Oh shut up, you can't be barely older than me." You huffed and blushed, avoiding eye contact with this man getting so deliciously on your nerves.

You wouldn't admit it, but you were quite enjoying this excentric man's company. His manneurisms and the small smirks he showed at your defiance stirred a little something inside you that just made you want to keep him here a little longer and waste his time. He did look like the busy type, after all. Perfect for bothering and messing with.

Oh but you certainly did not expect him to be thinking just the same as you. In any other circumstances, Rohan would have probably lost patience long ago and snapped, not wanting to spend another minute with the likes of you. But for some obscure reason, he wanted to get to you just as much as you did him. Push all your buttons and drive you absolutely wild.

Maybe it was the little grimaces you made at him that he hated to find cute, maybe it was how your small hands mindlessly held the velvet railings protecting the artworks. Perhaps it was your overall form so gracefully holding yourself up, a delicate sight for such a fierce lady. Or maybe it was that little lipsticked wide smile that he wanted to wipe off your face and kiss absolutely senseless.

"Whatever you say... Uh... 'Your Name'."

You swore you felt a vein pop on your flushed forehead. "It's Y/N. Y/N L/N. Get it right next time."

You rolled your eyes at him and whipped your hair out of your face with exaggerated and unnecessary sass. You wanted to giggle but held it back as he stepped forward and uncomfortably close to you.

You thought he wanted to strike you for a moment and froze as he leaned down and poked his index finger to your chest accusatively.

"Listen here, L/N, "He spat your name through gritted teeth and your mind was hazy with the heady scent of his cologne. "Keep that little attitude of yours and I'll pin you to one of these fucking walls next to these paintings. That'll teach you a lesson."

Your face warmed up and your breath hitched shakily at his bold 'threats'.

"Ooh~ woah there, partner. At least take me to dinner first..." You chuckled and pushed gently on his toned chest, trying to conceal how insanely flustered he had made you feel.

"... Fine then. Tonight 8 P.M. Right here, at the entrance of the pyramid."

Rohan straightened up and stepped away from you. The sudden cool air hit your red face and you widened your eyes, only then registering the fact that he had just flirted back.

"Wait... What?!"

"Don't be late."

"Hold on-"

And just like that, the 'Great Rohan Kishibe', as he had comically introduced himself, disappeared from your sight, continuing on his visit as if he hadn't just shamelessly stolen your heart, leaving you both a blushing and a confused mess.

What a smooth bastard. He was actually taking you to dinner.

It would be a fun trip to Paris.

Bonus:

"Girl I can't come with you tonight, I'm sorry." You told your friend on the phone. "I just met a super cute asian boy at the Louvre!"

She gasped and wanted to whine at you. You were leaving her for a cute asian boy? But soon her tone changed to a more suspicious one.

"Wait... A cute asian boy...? At the Louvre...? Does he, perhaps, by all means, coincidentally, maybe, look like a thot, with green eyes and stupid hair?"

"Yeah? How did you know?" You replied without hesitation.

"Oh that's Rohan! Can't believe you found him haha!" She chuckled, barely caring about trashing the poor man left and right, "Tell him I said Hi. Also, have fun, and use protection cause his dumbass won't-"

"Shut up! SHUT UP!"

#jojo's bizarre adventure #writing #jojo #x reader #reader insert #jjba #jojo no kimyou na bouken #jojo part 4 #part 4 #diamond is unbreakable #rohan x reader #rohan kishibe #rohan kishibe x reader #rohan

[thepaperclip]

Lmao hewwo

Been stuck with a months-long writer’s block for this upcoming chapter and it’s taking longer than I’d really like for this to come together. It’s still trucking along bit by bit and I’m definitely still dedicated to completing it and continuing what I’ve started! It’s just a bit slow going especially at the moment and I’m sorryyyyy >.<

BUT here’s an excerpt from what I’m working on under the cut, and thank you all for being patient!!

— — — — — — — — — —

Hirose Koichi is looking forward to his first day of school, all things considered. There’s a little first day jitters keeping him active, but Morioh has been a nice town so far, and the beauty of the spring morning is calming him down. Morioh isn’t a big town, and so foot traffic isn’t as congested as Koichi’s last city. He probably could’ve even left home later than he had, today. As it is, he’s taking his time a little.

He’s not the only one. There’s two other teens, kneeling by the fountain in the town square. They seem to be whispering intently about a turtle crawling on the fountain’s edge. One of them is balking away from the turtle while his companion gives encouragement to get closer instead. They seem busy. Koichi isn’t going to bother them.

“Oi! Kouhai!”

Koichi freezes. “Uh, m-me?”

“Yeah, you,” another teen, a little older than him, jeers. He and his two pals close in around Koichi and now he’s surrounded. “You lost, little man? That’s not the right uniform, you know.”

“I-I’m new in town, actually—“

“Wow, this middle schooler’s pretty far from home,” one of the other delinquents says.

“A-actually I’m, I’m in high school—“

“Bullshit!” The third shouts. “You’re like, five.”

“I’m—I’m 15, actually—“

“You callin’ me a liar, kid?!” The first one shouted in Koichi’s face, making him stumble back.

“These guys botherin’ ya?”

It’s the two students who were at the fountain. They stand on either side of Koichi and the trio of delinquents back away a little. But they don’t leave, they change targets. “It’s Higashikata Josuke!”

“Ooooh, the hafu’s involving himself again.”

“Ah, no, it’s just,” the tall one helping Koichi, whose name was Higashikata Josuke apparently, adjusted a green-striped kerchief across his forehead that kept his scruffy hair out of his face. “You guys seemed to be bothering this kid, and, well, that ain’t cool, yanno?”

“Fuck off,” the first delinquent said. “Just ‘cause you got a rich daddy doesn’t mean that you get to be buttin’ in everyone’s business! You’re still our subordinate! We’re your senpai.” He grabbed the turtle from the fountain and jabbed it at Josuke. “You still gotta pay us some respect, ya damn hafu.”

The delinquent didn’t actually call Josuke a “hafu” this time, he called him the worse version of that. Koichi backed away as unobtrusively as possible because throwing around racial slurs was probably a step away from throwing fists and he was very not equipped to get caught up in a brawl.

“Oi, don’t call Josuke that!” Josuke’s friend interjected. “An’ stop stuffin’ that turtle in his face, he’s got a phobia, yanno!”

“Yeah, thanks Okuyasu,” Josuke griped as he continued to cower away from the turtle without completely losing his ground. “Oh my god could you please stop that, it’s so creepy,” he whined at the turtle.

“Stay outta it!” The guy kept on waving the squirming turtle, this time at Okuyasu. “Little shits like you need ta learn some respect!” He threw the turtle at a lamppost and Koichi cried out as the turtle’s shell cracked.

“And what I’m sayin’ is true anyway! He’s a—“ he repeated the racial slur once more, “—mutt ‘cause of his slut of a mother!”

The air changed. Okuyasu backed away with his fists clenched. Koichi clapped a hand over his mouth. Josuke stood up straight. “The fuck did you say about my mother?”

“Yer ma’s a—“ he didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence when he was suddenly flying through the air at his friends as though launched by a ghost. “The fuck!? My nose!”

“You can insult me all you want, but saying shit about my mother, that really fucking grinds my gears,” Josuke went up to the felled delinquent and stomped on his head. “Ya hear me!?”

Then something truly bizarre happened. The delinquent’s broken nose was…fixing itself? His teeth were even returning to their correct positions. Except—

“Aniki, your face! Your nose!”

“It fixed itself?! But wrong?! What the hell!?”

“And now you’ve really done it,” Josuke returned from where he’d apparently picked up the turtle. Koichi noticed with a start that the turtle’s shell was completely intact. “Making me touch this turtle, which was the last thing I wanted to do. Well?! How’re you gonna make it up to me?!”

The delinquents were still freaking out about the inexplicable nose job. They did, however, get the message and scamper off. Not without also shouting about how much of a freak Josuke was for somehow doing whatever that was with the guy’s nose.

“Whoa! Bro! You’re doing it!” Okuyasu pointed. “You’re touching the turtle!”

Like a switch, Josuke went from enraged to fearful, “Oh my god I hate this I hate this I hate this I hate this,” he rambled as he stiffly but hastily put the turtle back on the fountain. He turned on a dime. “Anyways, are you alright?”

It took a moment for Koichi to realize that Josuke was talking to him. “Ah—ahh, yeah! I’m fine!” Koichi stammered. “Um, thanks.”

“That’s good,” Josuke rubbed the back of his head. “Uh, anyway, I’m Higashikata Josuke.”

“And I’m Nijimura Okuyasu!” Okuyasu added brightly.

“Hirose Koichi,” he bowed, “yoroshiku onegaishimasu.”

“So, you’re new in town, right? What year are you in?”

“I’m a first year.”

“Really? No way! So are we!” Josuke said excitedly. “Maybe we’ll be in the same class.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Koichi said brightly. “Um…I have to ask, uh, what was with—“ Koichi thinks better about asking Josuke about the mysterious invisible magic punch thing. Mostly because he’s not sure if that actually happened, or if he’d get hit with the same thing if he asks. “—the turtle,” Koichi switches tracks.

“Oh, well, you see, I’ve got a bit of a phobia of reptiles,” Josuke explains. “So I thought I’d get over it by doing this test of bravery, and Okuyasu here was gonna be my witness to make sure that I touched it first by my own hand and didn’t try to cheat with my st—“ he cut himself off as though realizing something. He groaned into his hands, “Oh no, I didn’t technically touch the turtle with my own hand first.”

This loses Koichi. He’s even more lost when Okuyasu bursts out laughing. “Looks like you’re getting a pompadour for the month, dude!”

Josuke groaned again.

“Getting into trouble, Josuke?”

Oh god, what now, is Koichi’s first thought, whirling around. He can’t take any more heart attacks today. Two adults are there, one has striking red hair, the other is as large as Josuke and looks very similar to him.

“J-Jotaro-nii!” Josuke jumped. “And Mr. Kakyoin!”

“Wait, that’s Josuke’s brother?” Koichi blurted in surprise.

“Actually, that’s his nephew,” Okuyasu corrected.

“….What?”

#jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo no kimyō na bōken #jjba oc #thepaperclipwrites #preview #jjba #jjba part 4 #diamond is unbreakable #jojo fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #jjba au #the anna timeline #anna joestar #koichi hirose #hirose koichi #josuke higashikata #higashikata josuke #okuyasu nijimura #nijimura okuyasu #kujo jotaro #jotaro kujo #kakyoin noriaki #noriaki kakyoin #thicker than water

[the-art-of-styles]

Ping-Pong

✧ Aylin and Harry go out to sell some jams and come back to a disaster in one of their homes.

Word count: 1783

Warnings: short mention of eating disorder/disordered eating/calories

Part I

Part II (you’re here!)

Part III

Part IV

Part V

Part VI

Part VII

Part VIII

14

   Mrs. Mendes is an old woman, she has lines of love around her eyes and lips that show how happy she was throughout her life, also on her forehead, showing how she was amazed by even the tiniest things that were introduced to her.

   She has lived her entire life in the village, and everyone knows her for her exquisite blackberry jams. Aylin's mom used to buy her 2 mason jars every month for her daughter to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, until Aylin was 10 years old and she stopped.

   "No more, Aylin, you've been gaining a lot of weight. A lot of calories, few wasted."

   Those words had consequences, at the tough and young age of 11, Aylin entered a diet low in carbs and fats, where she lost a lot of weight, but from so much restriction, she began a cycle of sometimes bingeing where she couldn't stop to eat for all that she could not taste.

   For all that she could not live.

   At just eleven.

Eleven years old.

   Already at twelve she had somewhat overcome her eating disorder, according to her mother, she was still a bit chubby, but Aylin was always a strong woman, and when she looked in the mirror she wondered, what was so bad about not being thin?

   She loved food, and didn't think about going back to that hell she went through for months. Fuck the diet.

   Mrs. Mendes walked through the only green park in town until she sat down on a yellow bench and took out of her bag some bread crumbs to give to the pigeons that were listening to human affairs. Aylin was walking her dog, Luna, she has no breed and she rescued her from the street when she was about to be run over. Well, she didn't rescue her, a man who had the necklace of a moon saved her and gave her to Aylin as she witnessed all of it (crying). He did not live there and didn't have the time or the space to have a pet, so there she is, walking her new best friend until she sees the old woman and her heart warms and a smile emanates from her lips.

   "Mrs. Mendes!" She screamed and began to jog with Luna until she reached the old woman, she looked at her and her eyes narrowed at her smile.

   "Oh Aylin dear, you look so big!"

   "Yep, I'm 5'1 now, almost 5'2! Isn't that incredible? I'm going to be so big."

   "I'm sure you will honey. Who's that?"

   After Aylin told her the whole story, the two talked about different things while feeding crumbs to the pigeons who listened attentively to their conversation.

   "Hey darling, you know I sell jams right?" Mrs. Mendes suddenly said, making Aylin look at her smiling.

   "Of course! The most exquisite in the whole town!"

   The woman smiled flattered, "Oh cut it. . . Anyways, in my house I have many done, raspberry, blackberry—"

   "I love the blackberry one!" The little interrupted without thinking, instantly embarrassed to do so. "Sorry. . . continue."

   Mrs. Mendes just laughed, "It doesn't matter. Well, uh, what was I saying? Ah! Yes! So, I don't have a way to sell them, you know, I'm an old lady and I can't go from house to house delivering so I was wondering if you—"

   "Oh god! Can I go deliver the jams? It would be amazing! I would wear white and I would go with a brown basket that I have on my bike and– Ah!" Aylin squealed with excitement, "I could go with Harry! He's my friend, even though he lied to me. . . but I already forgave him, the Smiths adopted him, the house across from mine. Oh yeah, can I, please?"

   Mrs. Mendes got confused every time she spoke to Aylin, she always talked a lot and very fast and changed the subject all the time, but she liked her, she liked that she was fast and not slow, it made her feel young.

   If only that speed so characteristic of hers had remained.

   "Yes, darling, you can. And I'd like to meet this Harry boy."

   "Oh, you'll love him! I love him, he's my best friend."

.

.

.

   "No."

   "Pleaseeeeeeeee!"

   "I really don't feel like selling jams."

   "But it's so nice! People will be so happy! And you'd meet so many people from this town. Harryyyyyy!"

   Harry sometimes feels very exasperated when he’s with Aylin. She always tries to involve him in things of the town; recreational activities, meetings, whatever, but even though the Smiths have kept him and a part of him begins to really believe that this family will be forever, he can't help but not want to get too fond of living there because at this point he doesn't think his heart could bear to bleed in pain once more.

   But anyway, he likes that Aylin is like that, so persistent with him since it's not something that he has lived in his life, they always get bored of him and never look for him, he is the one doing it, but now he is different and the feeling that brings him makes him fall asleep at night.

   Puppy eyes. "Please, Harry?"

   He just rolled his eyes, irritated with himself because he knew exactly what the next word would be that would slide off his tongue in a harsh way, but she would eat it anyway. "Fine."

   She squealed, he groaned.

.

.

.

   "Thank you so much, kids. I missed this jams, and say thank you for my part to Mrs. Mendes, ya?" A woman in her forties with black hair waved them off at the door of her house, exchanging the money for the jams.

   "We sure will! See you!"

   They have been selling since twelve in the morning, now the sky was burning and the clouds too, the cold was beginning to descend and there were fewer and fewer people in the streets and more in their homes. The treetops danced to the sweet whispers of the wind, Aylin joining them on the empty streets.

   "Wasn't that so fun?! We selled everything, we should get into business when we grow up, don't you think, H?"

   "Yeah sure," he replied sarcastically. Aylin always notices the comments that Harry makes and when some are real and when they are not, she is not stupid, she just ignores them because she knows that deep down he must like part of the things they do, because otherwise, he would have left her long ago. Besides, that makes her feel better, she doesn't like to think that she bores people, especially when she knows that it is something real, something that has been said to her face.

   Honestly, Harry must admit that it wasn't a total torture. Hearing Aylin talk so much is fun to him, she always has an opinion on something, and she is always in awe of things that she sees every day.

   Actually, Harry likes Aylin. Not in a romantic way, he knows about feelings and everything, he even knows about porn, but he has never seen her that way and he doesn't think he will ever see her like that. It's not that she's not pretty, he finds her quite cute, but it's just a friendship for him.

   His first friendship.

   As they turned to get to the street where their houses are, the two noticed the great fight in one of them.

   Harry stopped walking, and Aylin kept doing it.

   Her mother was throwing an open suitcase on the head of her father, who fell to the ground and began to pick up his things at full speed while she insulted him.

   At that point, Aylin started running.

��  "Mum! Dad! What – what is going on?!" She squealed in concern, walking over to her dad and squatting next to him to make sure he's okay. "Why do you have a suitcase? Where are you going?"

   "He'll go fuck his assistant, that's for sure!" The mother screamed with hatred, regardless of the language she spoke in front of two children or whoever was listening (and there were several people).

   "His assistant? But, what? Mr. Gomez?" Aylin asked extremely confused with her eyebrows furrowing.

   "Exactly." She spit out to her husband and turned around on her own heels, dragging her feet into the house and slamming the door that almost made the whole town rumble.

   "D-dad?" Aylin asked with her eyes swimming in a sea of tears, but she didn't allow her cheeks to turn into rivers.

   "I'm so sorry, baby. I really am." The father composed himself and stood up, giving his daughter a long kiss on the forehead and then walking with suitcase in hand and head down, like the end of a movie where there is a climax where you think everything will be fine but in the outcome it all goes to shit and they lose everything.

   "Wha– Where are you–" She sighed, her father far enough away not to hear her, "...going." She whispered, feeling a crack form in her heart that hurt like a hundred stabs dipped in the hottest lava of the worst hell.

   Harry was at a safe distance, but he heard everything and saw everything as did some neighbors looking out in their windows to feed the curious cat without risking death. He understood everything and had a knot in his stomach from seeing his friend without life in her eyes, and being so painfully slow.

   What a plot twist. He was gay. The dad, of course.

   Aylin sat dejectedly on the edge of the sidewalk, staring at the grayish of the street without knowing what she was thinking about. She is always thinking, she is always saying something, but now there is nothing in her mind, white paint fell on the canvas and there are no more available brushes to paint on top of it.

   The curly boy did not know what to do, he is not a person of a lot of words, and besides, what do you say to someone in a situation like this? "I'm sorry your dad is gay." Sounds a bit homophobic. So he chose to approach slowly as he usually does, he has always been slow, and although sometimes Aylin is exasperated that he sees everything and does everything in slow motion, deep down he conveyed a certain tranquility that she could not create by herself. Harry sat next to her and rubbed her back.

   He didn't knew if she was crying or not, but he wasn't going to ask anything either, so he just sat with her while she hurt.

   And he wished that swiftness of hers had never gone away.

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles writing #harry styles blurbs #fanfiction #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles x oc

[welllpthisishappening]

Hello there, I see you're back on blue-line drabbles! I love them, I am obsessed with this universe. I don't know if I ever came back to say hi after I read all your big fics, but somehow I liked each even better than the last! I don't know how that's possible! But anyway, I think one of the best signs of a good writer/good story is when you're not ready to leave the world once you've finished, and Blue Line is one of the few fanfics I've read where even well after I've finished it, (cont)

(cont) I want to keep living in it and I end up writing my own fic of it in my head (strange, I know). Anyway, for whatever reason, I got really invested in Roland and Lizzie's relationship. Like, how did they end up dating after knowing each other for literally Lizzie's entire life? How did the adults react? Do you have any Lizzie/Roland stories up your sleeve? They would not go unread :)

————

Hello, yes, listen, this ask has lived rent free™ in my head since I first got it and I cannot properly convey how absolutely, goddamn wonderful it is. I am a broken record of outdated references , but it continues and will always amaze me that people are not only interested in Blue Line (more than three years!!! after I originally started posting) but are also interested in other characters in the story who are, for all intents and purposes, original characters at this point. Like the overall size my heart becomes when reading something like that could potentially cause a serious medical condition.

But, like, in a nice way.

So thank you, thank you, thank you. It genuinely warms the cockles of my entire soul. And, like, if you wanna share those fic ideas of the fic, you’ll never hear me say no. Just like I will never turn down the opportunity to write more stuff. Which is what’s under the cut. This stuff includes:

Roland and Lizzie’s first kiss, what I hope is some legitimate banter, more kissing, obvious flirting, and Roland being something of a sap.

Also, uh, it’s entirely possible that I have also already written: Roland and Lizzie’s first “I love you,” their wedding and some other stuff where their kid is involved. Seriously, guys, I am always down to write other relationships in this ‘verse.

————

It was, she figured, something almost passably close to, sort of resembling, definitely inching somewhere nearer to—

Assured. 

Unavoidable. 

Inexorable

Inevitable. 

That was a bad word. That last word. The third one was pretty impressive, honestly. Vocabulary, wise. She’d have to remember that one later. The last one, though. Made teeth Lizzie wasn’t even aware she possessed ache as she ground them together, a pronounced tension in her jaw that was likely affecting her shoulders as well. That word. An awful word. Boasted less-than-positive connotations, letters practically dripping with lack of self-control and overtly aggressive infatuation, but if the world expected her not to be a little in love with Roland Locksley by the time she turned fourteen and noticed that slight indentation in his right cheek every time he smiled, well, then the world had another thing coming. 

Dimple, that was the appropriate description. Another word. More words. Too many words. All of them bouncing off the slope of her skull and scratching at the back of her brain, nearly distracting her from what should have been the very pleasant buzz lingering beneath whatever biological thing made up her top and bottom lips. 

Which were parted in an emotion very similar to overwhelming surprise. 

That was stupid. 

The whole thing was stupid. God, maybe she was stupid. No, that wasn’t true. She’d made Dean’s List last semester. Stupid was—

A stupid word, really. Despite the blush rising in her cheeks and the wide eyes practically boring into her soul, bated breath that didn’t make any noise because that was what bated entailed, and no one else glanced in their direction. Not once. No one else noticed. 

That the whole world had flipped upside down.

Or right-side-up, maybe. Depending on how the next five minutes or so went. 

Because the last two minutes and twelve seconds, give or take, had seen Roland Locksley tilt his head and let his eyes flutter closed before his mouth found hers for the very first time — at midnight for God’s sake. On New Year’s Eve. Or New Year’s Day, she supposed. His parents were standing on the other side of the room.

Suggesting that Lizzie had ever been just a little in love with Roland was a rather monumental lie. 

As far as those things went. 

“So, uh—” she started, only to find blood in her mouth. From her teeth. Wayward and unpredictable, as they were. Biting down on the side of her tongue and Lizzie hated going to the dentist. Doing irreparable damage to her teeth on what was now legitimately New Year’s Day, in the middle of an annual party, was not on her schedule. 

Metaphorical as it might have been. 

She liked schedules. Had plans. Focus, even. People always said that about her — how focused she was, liked to throw around the word drive with startling regularity, as if they were amazed she wasn’t simply willing to rest on her laurels or the pair of last names she proudly toted around with her. As if Lizzie expected doors to swing open on a glance. 

Rather than consistently preparing herself to knock them down. 

She liked the challenge of it all. Appreciated the way disbelief always spiked something in her blood, and that was likely equal parts genetic predisposition and a product of her childhood, but right now, Lizzie was simply prepared to fight for the schedule she’d never allowed herself to mention to anyone else before and it wasn’t like they weren’t friends. 

Talked outside the group chat, even. 

That meant something. Definitely meant something. Had to mean something. Her lips felt like they’d been doused in liquid nitrogen. 

She didn’t know all the scientific properties of liquid nitrogen, but it always made that rather impressive cloud of steam-type stuff on cooking shows. So, it seemed very likely that it did something similar to cause whatever was happening in the region directly surrounding her mouth. Buzzing and tingling, and whatnot. 

When had Roland last blinked? Lizzie couldn’t remember. That would have been impressive in any other situation. Right now, it was sort, kind of, totally— Pissing her off. 

Color dotted his cheeks, no sign of the goddamn dimple because he wasn’t smiling, presumably couldn’t do that when it was clear he was so intent on pulling his lips into his mouth, and that felt a little insulting. Her tongue had just been in that mouth. 

Lizzie was fairly confident in the abilities of her tongue, so she wasn’t all that pleased to be replaced by a pair of lips that could have been doing much better work against the side of her neck. 

“If you sit here right now and tell me that you are,” Lizzie lifted a finger, “one, sorry,” another finger, “two, anything even remotely resembling regretful,” another finger, wiggling close enough to Roland’s nose to make him just a bit cross-eyed, “or, three, too old for me, I will throw my heel at that bruise I know exists on the back of your left calf.”

His lips twitched. 

He really had impossible eyelashes. Seemingly made so he could glance up from underneath them, to meet Lizzie’s steely expression with what she refused to believe could be cautious hope. Passable optimism, maybe. She’d have to look up what liquid nitrogen did, later. 

“I’m standing.” “I hate you.”

“You wanna go in order, or how do you want to work this?” “Where else are you bruised?” Roland laughed softly, a shift of his shoulders and tiny burst of air between barely parted lips. Feeling that tiny burst meant they were standing very close to each other. How they were standing remained another mystery. 

One of those great ones, Lizzie figured. The kind referenced when people talked about the sweeping potential of life and love and— Ah, fuck. 

“Please don’t threaten to attack me anywhere else,” he muttered, before quickly adding, “you gotta know this was not my end game, Liza.” Narrowing her eyes did nothing to temper the…tempest. Swirling in her gut. Threatening the back of her throat. Eating away at vocal cords and vocal boxes and the structural integrity of her entire goddamn larynx. Possibly her tongue, too, just to be especially efficient. 

“Really? Might’a been mine, actually.”

She’d always liked his eyes. 

How they could widen, and it wasn’t like...a normal brown. Nothing about the way he looked was ever dull. Drifted toward regularly excited, and the sparkles were probably a figment of her over-active teenage imagination, but Lizzie liked to think sometimes the sparkle came from her. Because of her, even. When she’d call because he always wanted to hear about her latest lecture and he’d call because sometimes Western swings were exhausting and loneliness-inducing and—

She knew. 

He knew. 

They knew each other.   

Grand scheme, the sparkle-prone eyes still weren’t particularly close to the dimple. On the list of things Lizzie liked. What left butterflies fluttering in her stomach and her heart hammering against her chest. Sparkle was probably a solid fourth. Behind the precise way his curls fell toward his eyebrows when he didn’t have time to get his hair cut. Which rarely happened during the season. Right now, it was happening right now. Well-defined strands that Lizzie knew felt even smoother than she’d ever theorized between her fingers, and she wasn’t sure what she was going to do with that information. 

Obsess over it, probably. 

For at least the next week, or so. 

Still. Eyes. Eyelashes. Too long and too bright, and that was the wrong description order and she was starting to teeter. On the edge of a rather dramatic free-fall. Into feelings and possibility, and this was way too dramatic. For both of them. 

“Don’t do that,” she mumbled, a scrunch of her nose that apparently demanded his thumb. Brushing against the bridge, and there wasn’t any caution there. No obvious fear or concern. For the way it left Lizzie’s lungs pinched, and there must have been a limit. 

To everything her internal organs could cope with in a limited span of time. 

“What was the last one on the list?” She swallowed. “Too old.” “Yuh-huh.” “Pretty flimsy as far as excuses go. You realize I’m not asking you to marry me right now, right?” He choked. On what, she wasn’t entirely sure. Only that it made her stomach heave and her teeth dig into her lower lip, and that was— “Because I know I said, end game,” Lizzie continued, giving in to the need to fill empty space with the sound of her own voice, “but that sounds like several pop culture references all at once, and you know how much I—”

“Hate to come across as disingenuous.” “Mattie’s the pop culture reference machine, anyway.” “Please don’t talk about Matt when I keep thinking about how much I want to kiss you again.” Her eyes, that time. Widened. Bugged. Did something unnatural. “Yeah?” “You’re kidding me, right?” “You’re not an old man.” Rolling his eyes, Roland’s tongue dragged across the front of his teeth. To torture her, apparently. “I was in college when you were a freshman in high school.” “Yuh-huh.” “Liza.” “Nah, nah,” Lizzie shook her head. Crossed her arms. Tried to stand up to her full height, but even the heels didn’t do much to add to the overall intimidation factor. Roland was doing an awful job of fighting off his smile. “Pulling out ancient nicknames is not—” “—It’s not a nickname; it’s literally letters in your name.” “Nick,” she leaned forward, “name. All personal-like.”

Making mistakes was not something she enjoyed very much. It was that Jones competitive streak. Plus, the Vankald stubborn streak. Created a monster of determination, who knew what she wanted, and feeling Roland’s fingers graze her cheek as a strand of hair hung limply in the minimal space between them was the result of Lizzie’s mistaken movement. 

Even as much as she might have wanted it. 

Goosebumps prickled her arms. Stole whatever oxygen she’d managed to get in the last forty-six seconds, or so. Her eyes fluttered. Head tilted. Towards the touch and the warmth, and for someone who spent so much time on the ice, he really was impossibly warm. 

“This is your fault.”

He didn’t move his fingers. Cupped her cheek, instead. “You were doing that eyebrow thing.” “Expand on that for me.” “Lifting ‘em. Happens sometimes. When you’re listening intently. Like you’re a little amazed by new information. They’re these stupid little arches on your face. Drives me nuts.” “The compliment was in there somewhere, I’m sure of it.” “I am so much older than you, Liza.” “Shouldn’t’a played out a bunch of teenage daydreams at once, then.” She was legitimately worried about the state of his tongue. Barely biting back her laugh, Lizzie let her eyes lift. To find Roland gaping at her, drooped shoulders and puppy-dog eyes. And that goddamn dimple. “C’mon, this isn’t...do you think I haven’t made out with people before?” “Wouldn’t classify what we just did as a makeout.” “No?” His eyes darkened. Shivering was probably not a good move, right? Right. Definitely. She wasn’t shivering. It was just...January. And inside. With dozens of people around them. “I would not, no,” Roland said, and the drop in overall volume was some sort of trick. Or, something. 

“How many people do you think you’ve made out with? Ballpark it for me.” “No.” “Is the issue a lack of appropriate numbers to tally that mark, or—” She bit her tongue, again. At the flash of amused frustration sweeping his face and polluting the molecules of whatever air was hovering between them. Permeating was a better word. Lizzie really needed to work on all of that. Words. Being slightly less jealous of potential make outs that didn’t have anything to do with her and definitely happened because there had to be other people out there in the world who simply could not cope with the existence of that dimple. 

“How many people have you made out with, then?” “Scores,” Lizzie snarled, only to get immediately scoffed at. “I’m really, incredibly popular.” “Oh, I’ve got no doubt.” “Boatloads of guys. Lining up to,” she pointed an imperious finger at her mouth, “make out with this.” “Your well-defined chin?” “I’m going to take my shoe off.” “Draw attention with a move like that.” Whatever fight she had didn’t immediately die. It just, sort of, fell. At her feet, threatening all the bones there and there were too many. All of them far too fragile. For whatever metaphor she was running with at the moment. “And we’re not trying to do that, huh? Draw attention.” “Shouldn’t you be out sowing wild oats?” “Really know how to charm a girl,” she grumbled, and that got her a smile. No scoff. Not even the hint of a smile. The whiplash was hurting her neck. “Trust me, the oats have appropriately sowed. If I was ever particularly inclined to farm work.” “I’m starting to be vaguely embarrassed by all of this.” “Good.” Wasn’t quite a scoff. Was more like a half-hearted laugh, and a tinge of desire and that was better than the other emotions, but the decreasing level of Roland’s eyebrows gave her pause. “What about the status of your oats?”

“Well sowed, rookie season,” Roland said. 

“You’re going to change the name on your jersey.” “Not sure that particular fact has a lot to do with anything else. Seven years, Liza.” “I’m perfectly capable of doing math, you know I took that stats class once.” “Because I double checked everything you turned in.” “Makes you slightly less of an idiot than the vibe you're giving off right now.” “A freeway or compliments.” Pulling in a deep inhale through her nose, Lizzie didn’t miss the way Roland’s gaze fell. To the neckline of her dress, lingering on the jut of her collarbones for a few seconds longer than a strictly platonic friendship should allow, and they were friends. Still. She knew that as well as she knew that he believed she thought he was simply being clever with nicknames. 

And not making vaguely incorrect My Fair Lady references. 

Because he’d always been a little annoyed that Eliza had gone back to Henry Higgins. Instead of Freddie.

It was really impossible not to be a little in love with him at all times. 

“You’re really going to hyphenate?” Roland nodded. “Think of all the new jerseys they’ll sell.” “By the box-load, and Gina’s gonna buy the entire stock. She’s—that’s really nice, you know.” “Just a fact. Little late, but—” He shrugged. Lizzie’s smile threatened to split her face. In that same nice way, she’d been talking about. Her lips were still buzzing. She might have been buzzing. With adrenaline. Happiness. The near-desperate desire to find some type of closet and get her fingers back in Roland’s questionably long hair. 

“Of naming conventions.” She couldn’t begin to guess what the record was for shoulder shifts in an emotionally charged conversation between two people who were simultaneously ignoring the point of the conversation, but Lizzie also knew her eyebrows had been halfway up her face as he’d detailed the reasons for making his jersey say Mills-Locksley. From here on out. 

Maybe that was the top of the list, actually. 

He was a good guy. 

Had always been a good guy. The best guy, really. 

Falling into that chasm wasn’t nearly as terrifying as Lizzie expected it to be. 

“Why’d you do it?” Roland’s lips disappeared. His tongue moved, again. She was staring at the area around his tongue. So, like, his mouth. Directly at his mouth. “Because, I uh—have wanted to?” “Oh, don’t phrase that like a question.” “Wanted to,” he repeated, a statement of fact with a certain amount of conviction. Enough to make Lizzie’s pulse sputter. “Which is kind of freaking me out.” “Come back with more compliments.” “Your dress nearly made me fall over.” “Better, actually,” she laughed. 

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Made sense at the time.” “Be more specific.” “Kissing you,” Roland said, enough emphasis that he leaned forward half an inch as well. It was a miracle their noses didn’t collide. Not the most impressive miracle, but—counted. “If I tell you that you might be my best friend does that make the lamest professional hockey player alive?” “Yes, absolutely.” “Matt might challenge you to a duel if he hears me talking like this, you know.” “God, Locksley, didn’t we just talk about the Mattie rules? Also, that made it sound like Mattie wants to kiss you too, so...”

He chuckled. Fingers still tugging on the back of his hair, like he was trying to ground himself in the pull and the self-inflicted tension, Roland looked up. Back at her. And Lizzie didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Held her position and prepared herself to defend the schedule she’d only ever allowed herself to hope for in the silence of that one corner in her brain. 

Filled, as it was, with memories. Of conversations that didn’t have anything to do with hockey. Others that did. Arguing over blue line placement in the brownstone and college rankings. Of movies watched on two different laptops in different corners of the country, bad jokes, and consistent updates, that deep-rooted understanding that came from a life full of expectations and the exact opposite. No overt pressure, but the need to prove yourself anyway, if only because of the name on the back of the jersey, and Lizzie was going to have to buy a new jersey. 

“You like me? Yes, or no?” Roland smiled. Wide and honest, the kind that ensured the dimple was on prominent display. “Yes.” “I am a grown adult? Yes, or no?” Crinkles appeared around his eyes. From the smile. 

“Yes.” “Meaning I get to make my own choices. Romantically, or otherwise. Yes, or no?” “Obviously.” “Wasn’t one of the options.” “Yes,” Roland corrected, fingers trailing over the bend of her elbow. Lizzie hadn’t uncrossed her arms. Or remembered when she’d crossed them in the first place. 

“Ok, good. Same page, then.” “Liza.” “Locksley.” Lifting her eyebrows wasn’t a challenge, per se. Was closer to instinct, really. Specifics didn’t matter, honestly. She did that thing with her eyebrows, and he did that thing with his mouth, the same one she was staring at and hoping would move closer to her, and then—

Well, it did. 

Hands found Lizzie’s hips, pulling her forward sharply enough that she let out a soft grunt. From the feel of hips bumping against hers, and she honestly wasn’t sure who hissed in their next inhale, only that it did something to the flutter-like state of her pulse and the erratic nature of her heart, and it was slow and fast and good and great and not a single person noticed. 

Miracles were arriving en masse, apparently. 

Pushing her fingers into Roland’s hair got Lizzie another hum of approval, the first brush of his tongue making her lips part and her head fall to the side, but then his hand was wrapped around the back of her neck, and she could not be expected to pay attention to anything except the semi-consistent swipe of his thumb against her skin. It left more goosebumps. Caused another chuckle, the kind that rumbled through her and resonated around her, a tiny bubble of that same cautious optimism from before. 

Like a spark. 

Fanning flames and threatening to burn everything because if this didn’t work, then Lizzie wasn’t sure what would, and that was scary and overwhelming and terrifying was a synonym, but she really was working with very limited word-based resources when Roland’s thumb kept moving. Tracing her. Committing the feel to memory, and she wasn’t sure when they’d established the rocking pattern they were moving in, but something deep in the center of her trusted it. 

Someone who regularly strapped knives to his feet and raced around at top speed knew how to stay balanced. And she was a stubborn idiot. Who got what she wanted. 

“Is part of liking me because I told you I didn’t think it was embarrassing that you still got a little emotional about Miracle on 34th Street?” Laughter pushed past her lips. Took root in the pit of her stomach and the spaces between her ribs. Laced through her heart. In the kind of way that cemented itself. Right in the middle of Lizzie. Right in the middle of this. Them. 

There was a them, now. 

“Was definitely a factor, yeah,” Roland said, not bothering to pull away. “You, uh—you snuck up on me a little, Liza.” “Peak romance.” “Want me to talk about your dress some more?” She shook her head. “Unnecessary. And you didn’t.” “That might be part of the problem.” “Nursing old crushes, you mean?” Her hair hit her cheek. And his hand. He couldn’t seem to let go of her. “Nah, this wasn’t like...there was no torch, not really. I—I wasn’t hanging posters of you on my wall if that’s the picture you’ve painted for yourself.” “Kinda disappointing, admittedly.” “Pick a lane, babe.” No sparkle, that time. Just flash and want and the very thin line Lizzie’s lips had become. “Be more specific,” Roland repeated softly. “You’re not standing on a pedestal. Just you, Rol, as is.” He waited. That was fair. There should have been more. Should have been a detailed list of all the reasons the grown-up version of her liked so many parts of the grown-up version of him, but that all felt a little extraneous when she was still thinking about closet-type possibilities and that stubborn streak was a mile wide, anyway. 

Roland nodded once. “Good.”

Both of them jumped. At the pop of another champagne bottle and Lizzie never understood how Regina managed to order so much champagne every year, but she felt a bit like she was floating on the bubbles, and they didn’t decide. Explicitly. To keep the whole thing—

Secret. 

Another bad word. With bad connotations and shadows that clung to the definition, but this was them and only them and, for right now, that was enough. And if no one noticed the way Roland’s hand drifted over the small of Lizzie’s back during David’s speech, then that was a miracle she was willing to accept. 

#blue line rambles #blue line one shots #these really are just original characters at this point #i have also written: #matt and claire meeting for the first time #henry and ella meeting for the first time #stuff about peggy and jeremy humbert #and i've got a whole list of will x belle stuff #in case it wasn't ovbious people still aren't responding to my emails #oh! also roland and lizzie's engagement #i wrote that too #also if you are so inclined: wilder days by morgan wade played like four times while i wrote this #mylifeisalifestyle #laura rambles

[pettyprocrastination]

Rip Out Our Seams and Stitch Us Together

Pairing: Maxwell Lord x Valerie Lord x Black!Fem!Reader

Chapter Five

Word Count: 7k

Warnings: Profanity, mirror sex, choking, kind of face-fucking? a touch of voyeurism, oral-male receiving, penetrative sex, Mean Maxwell fuckin’ lmao, office sex, angry sex, how in God’s name did we get here I am horrible at writing smut so i just want to say i’m SORRY. 

Chapter Summary: You take the measurements for the richest family in D.C, Valerie is surprised by her how quickly her son has taken a shining to you and Maxwell has a late night at the office. 

Tag List: @captainsamwlsn @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @readsalot73 @cinewhore @this-cat-is-dea @holographic-carmen @honestlystop @favoriteff-allcelebs @teaofpeach

Chapters: 1/2/3/4/

“The Lords are coming by tomorrow.” Cassandra looked up from the book open at the register.

“But Mrs.Lord was just in yesterday.” She told you.

“Not just her this time.” You finished off the seam on the ground in front of you as you spoke. “All of them are coming in, her husband and son, the whole gang of rich folk will be here.”

Ever since Valerie stepped into your shop late at night four weeks ago, she made herself a common visitor. Oftentimes she’d waltz in, plop herself down onto a chair and begin to complain about Maxwell’s secretary with the horrid voice or one of her friends who was less of a friend and more of a pain in the ass. 

You didn’t know how becoming the friend of a heiress meant her throwing herself into your lap everyday to gossip about other rich people but hey, you weren’t complaining. She was pretty good company when the dust settled. 

Three days ago she had called your store, and told you she, Maxwell, and Alastair would be coming in to get measurements taken so you could get the mock-up of their outfits done with their approval to move on to the finished version. 

Before she could say anything else you had asked about her son. 

“What does he like?”

“What?”

“What’s he like?” You asked, as you spoke your hand picked up the needle once more and began to hem the dress in your lap. “You know, DuckTales, Transformers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I’ve got some stuff I always bring out when kids come into the shop but I don’t know how rich kids work. Do I just hand him money and call him sir?”

“Ha ha.” She droned. “You know if life as a seamstress doesn’t work out, you should pursue a career in comedy, you’d flourish.”

“Aw Val, I couldn’t!” You cooed. “You’d miss me too much.”

You heard her scoff on the other line. From across the store Cass looked at you like you’d sprouted a second head. 

“Nonetheless.” She said slowly. “Alastair isn’t into traditional children’s activities. He enjoys chess with his tutors, reading, and playing the cello.”

You fought the urge to ask if these were things he liked to do or things his parents wanted him to do. 

Maybe rich kids were just built differently.

“I’m just calling to tell you certain adjustments must be made for my son.” She explained, in a tone so formal you hadn’t heard it since you first met her. 

“Uh sure.” You sat up, concerned. “What do you need?”

 “Certain textures make him extremely uncomfortable for clothing, so be aware that the lining will have to be a soft, smoother material.”

You sat back, observing the swatches already laid out in the backroom. You could grab a few more of softer materials for him to feel and see which one he liked the most. You already assumed as such, since he’s a kid and you remembered how much you hated wearing your church dress because of how itchy it was. “ Anything else need to be done?”

“He can get overstimulated if places are too loud or crowded at times, but since your store hardly has any customers in it.” You could hear the smirk on her face over the phone and groaned. “I doubt that will be a problem.”

“It’s my pleasure to be of your assistance.” You snipped. A moment of silence passed between the pair of you. “But uh, seriously. Don’t worry about it. I’ve made clothes for kids and people with touch aversions before. No sweat.”

“Thank you.” She breathed out. “Really Stitches, I appreciate it.”

At her praise your lips curled into a soft smile. “It’s no problem Val. One question though.”

“Yes?”

 “Who the hell names their kid Alastair?”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that Stitches, I’ll see you tomorrow.” A dial tone met your ears and you called out to Cassandra. 

“Do we have a chess board in the back?”

---

Valerie walked into her son’s room, clearing her throat so both him and his tutor looked up at her. 

“Alastair honey, can I talk to you for a moment?” The boy, only eight, nodded and closed his workbook before standing. The tutor however, shot a hand out to grab her son’s shoulder. 

“Mrs. Lord.” The tutor, a man graying at the temples who wore ties so bland she’d rather wear a nose, shot her a condescending smile. “I thought we agreed on not interrupting Alastair’s lessons. It’s bad for his focus.”

“Mr. Lanston.” She shot back in the same sickly sweet tone as she tapped a manicured nail against the wall. “Who’s house is this?”

The man swallowed. “Mr.Lor-”

She clicked her tongue, shaking her head side to side as if scolding a dog. “For a tutor you seem to be quite fond of giving out the wrong answers. So I will ask you again, whose house is this?”

The tutor shrunk back. “Yours.”

“Correct. And who is it that you work for?”

“You, Mrs.Lord.” He said meekly. 

“Correct again! Now since this is my house and it is my son you are teaching, I will speak to him if I please. And if you try and insult my son’s intellect by saying a simple chat with his mother will throw him off course, I will throw you out onto the street. Do you understand me?”

The man’s mouth opened and shut like a fish out of water. 

“I asked you a question Mr.Lanston.” Her hand tapped against the Cartier watch on her wrist expectantly. “I expect an answer back.”

“Of course Mrs.Lord.” He stammered out, before turning to her son who just barely came to his hip. “I’m so sorry Mr.Lord.”

“That’s okay.” He answered simply, before taking his mother's hand in his and walking out of the room. 

Alastair Lord was eight years old, had his mother’s bright blue eyes and his father’s dark brown hair (Maxwell visited a hairstylist regularly but would never admit it). He had already skipped a grade but his parents insisted on keeping track of his studies, even during the summer. Maxwell did it in an attempt to feel less guilty about being stuck at work all day instead of  being with his son, Valerie did it so nobody would ever get the chance to use her son’s intellect as a weapon against his own standing. 

The Lords didn’t agree on much. But one thing they did agree on was that they loved their son more than anything in the world. 

“Do you still want to go to the gala with us in September?” She asked him. Her son’s eyes flicked out to the large glass window that proudly displayed their immaculate lawn, a bird flew along the clear pane before flying up and out of sight. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I’ll go.” He said simply. He squeezed his mother’s hand in his with a small smile. “I like going to those fancy parties, you always wear pretty dresses.” He frowned, looking down at the floor for a moment. “I don’t like it when those old ladies try to touch my hair and kiss my cheek though.”

Alastair hated physical affection from those he didn’t know. The last business party of Maxwell’s he went to, a man’s wife tried to give him what she thought was a friendly kiss on the cheek because he was “such a darling little boy!”. Alastair ripped himself away from her in a panic, to which she then got offended and insisted to speak with his mother about his “awful manners.”

When Maxwell came to find his son clinging to his mother’s leg with tears in his eyes, he promptly had the couple thrown out and cut off business ties with the woman’s husband on account of her awful manners. 

From then on Alastair’s parents made sure he knew that if he was uncomfortable with a situation, he was to tell them and they would put an end to it immediately. 

“Your father and I are going to go see a seamstress to get measurements done for the gala. Would you come with us so we can get a suit made for you as well?”

Alastair looked up at his mother, blue eyes shining and ultimately passive at her question. 

“Sure.”

------

It was late at night when he came into his son’s room. Alastair was already in bed, nuzzled under his sheets and head resting against his pillow. Maxwell gently rapped his knuckles against the door before entering, his son’s eyes blinked open. It was always a shock how much they looked like Valerie's. 

“How’s the tutoring going?” Maxwell already knew the answer, Alastair excelled in every subject, but he simply wanted to hear his son speak to him. 

“Good.” His son replied. “Mr.Lanston said if I keep studying hard I might be able to skip another grade.”

Maxwell sat on the edge of his bed. “Would you like to skip another grade?”

Alastair was already a grade ahead, his teachers would message his parents about how well behaved and smart he was. But Alastair hardly ever spoke about his own experiences at school, about his friends or anything other than his classes.

“I don’t know.” the boy shifted for a moment, furrowing his brows in frustration and it was moments like this that he truly did look like his mother. “Mr.Lanston says it’s good for me to stay ahead of other but-” He looked off into the window of his room, a small sliver of moonlight peeking through the blue curtains. “Fifth grade sounds kind of fun, I heard the history teacher is really interesting and takes us on fun field trips.”

Part of Maxwell, the part still drilled into his head by his mother, nagged that he was sending the boy to that school to learn not go on ridiculous field trips. The other part of him, the part that shone when Alastair called him dad, felt guilt when he saw how apprehensive his son was in telling him how he felt.

Maxwell smiled, reached out to ruffle his son’s hair that was damn near a carbon copy of his own (before he got it dyed of course). “Then you’ll stay right where you are champ.”

“Thanks dad.”

The older lord frowned, before sternly pointing a finger at his son. “That’s Mr.Dad to you, young man.”

His son promptly groaned and threw his blanket over his face. “That joke still isn’t funny!” Even at his disgust, Maxwell could hear his son’s muffled giggles through the blanket and smiled.

“Humor is subjective, son.” Maxwell stood up from the bed, knees popping loudly as he did. Jesus, he was getting old. “Goodnight Alastair.”

Maxwell was already out of his son’s room and halfway down the hall when a tiny voice peeped out. 

“Goodnight dad.”

-----

“So what exactly does his son like?” Cassandra stood at the register, head laying in the palm of her hand as she leaned against the counter. The back room had been set full with different fabrics for them to see and either confirm or reject. Which in the classic Lord fashion meant they will either toss it at you with a stiff “this will do” or tell you it’s the ugliest thing in the world. 

You sighed. “Apparently he likes to read, play chess and the cello.” You looked toward the old checkers board set out and shrugged. “That was the closest thing I had so lets hope he isn’t as stuck up as his father or dramatic as his mother.”

“Speaaaaking of which.” Cassandra looked up with an excited grin. “You and Mrs.Lord are like, best friends now right?”

You thought about all the times she paraded into your store before throwing herself into the nearest chair (or your lap) before complaining about her day like a soap opera star. 

“Well I wouldn’t say best friends, but we’ve certainly gotten closer.”

“What’s she like? Has she taken you shopping? Have you seen her house? Is she as mean as everybody says she is?”

You pulled back for a moment, thinking. “She’s nice for a rich lady, no we haven’t gone shopping and I don’t think we ever will, I haven’t seen her house which once again I don’t think will ever happen, and honestly she insults me a lot but I think it’s her way of showing affection at this point.”

Cassandra giggled. “Like a cat?”

You thought about a cat- a fickle creature that will hiss and scratch in one second, and then demand all of your attention right after. 

“You know what? That’s actually a pretty spot on comparison.”

The jingle of a bell met your ears before a stern voice sounded out. 

“My god do you people not know what a broom is?”

You turned around, watching Maxwell enter your store with a crinkled nose. 

“I know what a broom is well enough rich boy, why don’t I go get one so I can shove it up your-”

Cassandra cleared her throat loudly before motioning to the tiny child at Maxwell’s side. 

“Oh, uh-” You realized the boy must've just seen you threaten his father. “Hey little dude. How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you.” The boy responded. Alastair’s voice was just as tiny as he was. He had his mother’s eyes and father’s nose, but his hair was so dark it made you wonder which one of his parents bleached their hair. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, mam.”

Prim posture, perfect manners, not a single hair out of place. He struck you less as a kid and more as a robot but you bit your tongue before smiling back. 

“No need for fancy titles with me, little lord. You can call me Stitches.”

Alastair wrinkled his nose, a gesture that made him look so much like his father you wanted to laugh. “That’s a weird name.”

Valerie tutted at her son, blue eyes cast down in disappointment. “Alastair! Don’t be rude.”

“He isn’t wrong.” Maxwell waved off his wife’s scolding of their son. “Besides, I believe we came here to get actual work done on whatever horrid outfits you're making for the gala?”

“Of course.” You turned on your heel, leading them to the backroom where multiple mirrors lined the wall. “I’d hate to take up too much of your time. You’re a busy man after all, I’m sure you’d rather be off making your secretary cry or something equally as important.”

Maxwell rolled his eyes and shucked off his jacket, ignoring the twinge of annoyance he felt at even the mention of his secretary, someone you didn’t even know grated him so horribly. 

“Well we can’t all run rotten, hole-in-the-wall shops like this that just beg to be robbed.” He turned a sly eye to you with his nose tilted up. “Some of us have standards after all.”

You smiled. “I suppose you're right about that one Mr.Lord, I doubt my skills will live up to your expectations.” You wrapped the measuring tape around his bicep, using it to tug him so close his powerful facade melted into one of shock. 

“And yet-” Your voice curled in his ear like a tempting call, your eyes so focused on taking note of the measurement of his arm Maxwell hoped you didn’t hear his breath catch. 

“-here you are.”

Valerie looked up from the fabric swatches in her hand to notice the way Maxwell stared at you while you were blissfully unaware. It was hungry, surprised and oh so desperate. The same way she looked at you. 

All while you busied yourself with his measurements, unaware of the inner workings between the billionaire and his wife. 

Valerie was pulled from her head when her son handed her a swatch of fabric, a royal blue in color and soft knit against her skin. 

“This one is nice.”

She smiled at her son. Out of the corner of her eye she saw you wrap the tape measure around her husband’s chest. She reached down to playfully tug on the collar of his shirt, also a deep royal blue. 

“You’ll look lovely in it sweetheart.”

The conversation between you and his father was not nearly as loving.

“Do you have to play such obnoxious music?”

You didn’t bother to look up at Maxwell when he snipped back, you simply focused on the tape in your hands and the measurement of his chest which only made him even angrier. 

Obnoxious, what a perfect word to describe you. 

The shirts, the tattoos, everything about you was just so...loud. 

His eyes flicked forward when he felt your fingers ghost over his chest. Mirrors lined each wall, most likely so your customers could see what the clothes looked like on them from each angle. But as you leaned down to measure his inseam, his thoughts went other places. 

Places they definitely shouldn’t have with his wife and son in the same room. 

“Do you have to wear such disgusting cologne?”

Maybe it was your attitude, such defiance nobody openly showed him in fear of losing their job, or the fact that you were so different than the tucked in, prim-and-proper future trophy wives he fucked, or maybe it was simply the fact that your ass looked phenomenal in those jeans, but Maxwell couldn’t help but imagine fucking you in front of those mirrors. 

He wondered if you’d be loud, head thrown back and calling out his name as he fucked into you without mercy, without care. Maybe you’d be shy, you were so stubborn after all. Perhaps you’d bite your lip, trying to keep your noises stifled so you didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how good he made you feel. Maxwell wouldn’t allow that of course, he’d never admit it but he liked having his ego stroked almost as much as his cock. He wouldn’t hesitate to grab your jaw, forcing you to look forward at yourself in the mirrors. 

‘We’re the only ones here.’ His breath fanning out over your neck would make you shudder as you stared at your reflection just as he did. Seeing the way your tits bounced with each thrust and the ways your legs trembled and shook like those of a newborn. His pride swelled at the notion that if his arm wasn’t wrapped tight around your waist and gripping you close, you would’ve fallen to the floor by now. 

‘Let me hear you.’ He grunted into your neck as your whimpers got louder until you were all but shouting his name. ‘Good girl.’

“It’s revolting really.”

The sinful painting in his mind was torn to shreds when your haughty voice cut through it like a hot blade. 

He blinked owlishly, you stood in front of him, tape measure no longer against him but thrown over your shoulder while you crossed your arms. 

“What?”

“Your cologne.” You explained with a smirk. “It’s like trying to take measurements in a chemical factory. A little goes a long way Maxwell.” You gave him a sarcastic pat on the shoulder, one he was too distracted to push off because the way his name rolled off your lips. 

You had never said his name before. 

As quick as the interaction was, you turned to Valerie and Alastair, both sitting at the table behind you. You smiled and held a welcoming hand out. 

“You ready little man?” 

Alastair looked at his mother, who nodded her head and he slid off his chair to hop onto the pedestal his father previously stood on top of. His father took a seat next to his wife who said nothing. 

They both watched their son raise his arms as you held up the tape measure to him with a smile, you were saying something to him, most likely about school or his summer break. Valerie appreciated when you asked her about his interests to make a connection, but knew that was less than likely. Alastair wasn’t one to make connections, something she wondered if he got from his father by instinct or something that was drilled into him by his grandmother. 

Before she had been banned from coming to their house. 

“I’ll be working late tonight.” Maxwell told his wife. He knew she didn’t really care, their marriage was ten years of working late nights. Telling her at this point was just a courtesy. 

“Will your secretary be working as well?”

Maxwell noted the sly dig toward Delilah, but didn’t care enough about the woman to defend her. 

“If she wasn’t I wouldn't have hired her.”

Valerie ignored her husband in favor of the scene in front of her. She watched as you held the tape to her son’s leg, nodding your head as he spoke at length while you took his measurements. To say his mother was surprised would be an understatement, he hardly talked to his parents. Let alone people he’s only just met. 

Maybe something about you just brought out that side of the Lords.

“Alrighty, you're all good Alastair.” The youngest Lord hopped off the little step and you looked toward his mother with a jut of your chin. “You're up, Val.”

Maxwell looked toward his wife with a raised brow, mouthing her nickname in confusion. She was too busy taking your hand as you stepped onto the pedestal to notice. 

“So-” You wrapped the tape measure around her waist, mindful not to let your hands linger. “-how the hell did you two make such a sweet kid like Alastair?”

Valerie smiled at your reflection and ignored the way her heart jumped when you pulled the measuring tape just beneath the swell of her chest. “I’m not sure if that was an insult on my parenting or my personality.”

“Oh definitely an insult on your personality, without a doubt.” You responded seriously, but the tilt of your lips lent it to a gentle tease. “You must be doing something right because that kid is better behaved than you and your husband.” You looked up for a moment and she held her breath. 

“Or should I be giving this praise to some poor underpaid nanny you torture?”

Valerie scoffed. “Oh please, Miriam is hardly underpaid and she doesn’t do a damn thing right. I don’t know why we keep her around these days.”

You snorted. “Miriam?” The tape measure pressed to the side of her hip as you measured down her leg. “God, you people really tic every box off the one percent checklist, don’t you?”

Valerie hummed, painted lips curls into a smile. “We try our best dear.”

You stood up straight, hands moving behind her to wrap the tape around her chest with an awkward cough. Even as you willed all your focus on the numbers of her measurement you couldn't help but feel your face grow hot. 

“How unlady-like.” She murmured, you didn’t look up to meet her gaze but the smug tone in her voice gave it away. “At least buy me dinner, Stitches.”

You chuckled and spared a glance up. 

What a fucking mistake that was. 

Blue eyes stared you down like you have been presented on a silver platter and the richest woman in D.C. wanted nothing more than to devour you right where you stood.

“Something tells me I wouldn’t be able to afford it.”

“I’m sure I can make an exception.”

You realized Valerie was alot like the sun, you couldn’t look at her for too long without needing to look away. 

You stepped back to write her measurements down and put your hands together. 

“I think you folks are good to go.”

You just hoped you wouldn’t end up burned. 

Maxwell stood up and scoffed. “About damn time, some of us have real work to do instead of twiddling our thumbs and sewing little dresses.” As he walked by, his eyes flicked over yours in a poisonous glare and his shoulder knocked against yours with his son following behind him like a little carbon copy.

You looked toward his wife, who looked just as surprised by the worsening of her husband’s mood. 

“You’re one lucky woman Mrs.Lord.”

“Believe me I know.” She leaned forward to whisper with a wink. “But I know a few things that’ll brighten him up no problem.”

You scrunched up your face and pushed out every image that surged into your mind at her implication. “Okay gross, didn’t need to know that but thank you.”

“Always my pleasure Stitches.”

The door shut behind Valerie as she walked out to their car, throwing one last wink over her shoulder before sliding into the backseat next to her son while her husband slammed the passenger seat door behind them. 

“Well-” Cassandra looked over at you with a surprised expression. She must've noticed the fact that Maxwell had seemed to be pissier than usual, you did as well but assumed it was because of some deal that went sour at work or some type of rich people shit you couldn’t even fathom. “-his son seemed nice.”

“Yeah.” Their car turned a corner and disappeared from your line of sight. “They aren’t exactly the fucking Brady Bunch though.”

------

“Daniels-” Maxwell adjusted his collar in the rear-view mirror as he spoke. “-swing by the office. I need to go over some papers for a meeting I have tomorrow. Then take Valerie and Alastair home.”

“Of course sir.”

The driver turned left. 

“Mom?”

Valerie looked to the boy at her side. “Yes sweetheart?”

“Can I come with you the next time you see the seamstress?” Valerie looked toward the passengers seat, where her husband sat just as shocked as her. 

“You want to go see Stitches?” Maxwell asked. “Again?”

His son nodded, too young to realize how surprised his parents were by his answer. 

“She’s funny and nice and she doesn’t talk down to me like other people do.” Alastair looked up at his mother, nervous at her lack of response. “Is that okay?”

That seemed to snap Valerie into action. She smiled and took her son’s hand in her with a loving pat. “Of course sweetheart, Stitches would love to have you around.”

The car came to a halt in front of the Chimtech Consortium building, which stood tall, even against the grit and grime of the busy city streets

Maxwell stepped out of the car before ducking his head into the window. “I’ll be home late tonight champ, alright?”

Alastair held no disappointment nor resentment to his father for the time he spent at work but it didn’t make Maxwell feel like any less of a shit father. 

“Okay dad.”

Valerie leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek, leaving a red lipstick stain in her wake. “I’ll see you tonight darling.”

Maxwell smiled. “Don’t stay up too late waiting for me dear.” He took a step back, watching the car drive out of the sight of his building before he frowned and wiped the lipstick off his cheek, which in turn left a red mark on his jacket sleeve. 

“Damn that woman.”

The moment he entered the lobby, people seemed to pause before greeting him, none of which he gave a response to. It wasn’t until the elevator door shut that he took a deep breath. 

Breathe Maxwell, you’ll run yourself ragged this way. 

A tiny titter behind him made him realize he wasn’t alone in the elevator. Out of the corner of his eye he could see brown leather shoes that he’d wouldn’t be caught dead in. 

“What’s your name son?”

The boy gaped for a moment before he found his voice. “Michael, sir.”

The door opened with a soft Ding! And Maxwell stepped out before turning to face the young man. 

Wiry frame, tall, yet hunched over out of pure insecurity and refusing to meet Maxwell’s eye. 

He was definitely an intern. 

“Well then Mikey-” Maxwell noticed the way his head snapped up as he spoke. “Get me a coffee and bring it to my office, just the way I like it.”

The intern squeaked out a quick “of course sir!” before the doors shut on him. 

Maxwell wondered how long it would take for ‘Mikey’ to realize he never told him how he liked his coffee or where his office actually was. 

He turned sharply around a corner, taking note in the sea of cubicles he passed, every employee pausing to whisper and watch him march past without speaking. The sound of marketing calls dissipated as he grew farther away from the flurry of lower rank workers. Huddled cubicles were replaced with sleek halls and grand windows showcasing the city view. When his eyes landed on the dark brown door at the end of the hall he nearly wept. 

Sweet sanctuary. 

 His hand had just curled around the silver door knob, the final obstacle between him and sweet sweet isolation when a shrill voice broke out. 

“Oh!” Delilah squeaked, jumping up from her chair with surprise. “Mr.Lord, you're here!”

She definitely should’ve noticed that he had gotten here earlier, given that she was his fucking secretary. 

“That I am Delilah.” Maxwell answered gruffly, eyes flicking over to the stack of papers on her desk that she would no doubt forget to file. “I do run this company after all.”  Before she could respond with some ass-kissing compliment, he walked into his office and shut the door behind him. 

Maxwell rolled his shoulders back, undoing the blue tie around his neck as he sank into his office chair with a groan. He spent more time in that chair than his own bed at this point. 

Truth be told there wasn’t much that needed to be done at work today that couldn’t be done tomorrow.  He had no meetings for another three days and he’d worked himself ragged the past few days to play catch up, now he was more than ahead of the game. He simply needed to be alone, to clear his head a bit.

But try as he may, he couldn’t calm the rambling stream of his consciousness no matter how hard he fought. When he opened his eyes again and spared a glance at the clock on his desk, he realized thirty minutes had passed since he first sat down. 

Maxwell groaned, threading his fingers in his hair and pulling in frustration. 

Why can’t you get the fuck out of his head?

That bratty attitude combined with your god awful sense of style should've made you repugnant, somebody he couldn’t stand the sight of and didn’t see as anything worth the metaphorical shit under his eight hundred dollar shoes. Yet here he sat, hunched over in his office plagued with your voice saying his name like a challenge over and over in his head like some sick chant. 

Maxwell ran a hand through his hair, setting each strand into place before he pressed the button on his desk and spoke with authority. 

“Delilah, could you meet me in my office?”

Only a few seconds later, she came scurrying into his office with poorly hidden excitement. 

“Yes sir?” That was one thing he hated about her. 

The fucking voice. 

It wasn’t her voice on it’s own, but it was the way she made her voice sound. She made sure to always talk softly, forcing herself up to a higher octave to sound sweet and submissive like a flute when she really sounded like somebody stepping on the tail of a cat. 

But her boss wasn’t interested in her voice to begin with. 

He pushed his chair out from under his desk by a fraction and unbuckled his belt. 

“Knees.”

She was quick to find her way between his legs with a sultry smile. 

“Did you miss me?”

Maxwell scoffed. “Hardly. Now do something useful with that mouth before I start looking at new hires to take your place.”

The smile disappeared and she looked down, uttering out a small “Yes Mr.Lord” before she took his cock into his mouth. Maxwell let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding in, head falling back with a relaxed hum. His eyes shut as his mind, always his enemy, began to paint a picture he had been longing for all day. 

You sat on your knees between his legs, moaning while you ran your tongue along the underside of his cock. 

You seemed like the type to tease, he didn’t doubt that. But he enjoyed teasing just fine, as long as he was the one doing it. Maybe in the form of a toy nestled between your legs while he held a remote, turning it on and off with no pattern just to see you whine and buck your hips like a bitch in heat. 

His hand knotted itself in your hair and pushed you further down on his cock with a grunt. 

“That’s it.” You whined as your head bobbed up and down, tongue hot against his veins while the coil in his stomach wound tighter and tighter every time you moved. “You take it so well, just like that.”

A nervous knock sounded against his door. Maxwell’s eyes snapped open before they narrowed into angry slits. 

Christ, he just couldn’t catch a break today.

Delilah let out a muffled squeak and pushed herself off of Maxwell’s cock before his hand pressed down on the back of her head and bucked his hips against her open mouth.

“You make a noise or move an inch off of my dick-” His voice was even and ultimately unbothered as he spoke to her. “-and you're fucking fired.”

Delilah made a whimpered garble against him, he assumed it meant ‘Yes sir.’

“Come in.”

The door creaked open and in walked the same intern from the elevator, just this time with a Styrofoam cup in his trembling hand. 

Son of a bitch, the kid actually did it. 

“Well color me surprised Mikey, you came through.” 

The boy set the coffee on his desk, completely unaware of the woman crouched under the desk, deepthroating the seemingly unbothered man sitting before him. 

Maxwell took the coffee into his hand, taking a tentative sip before his face scrunched up. Just as he did, Delilah gagged loudly against him, causing Michael’s eyes to go wide as he looked around for the source of the sound. 

God he hated black coffee. 

“A touch too bitter for my taste, but gold star for effort kid.”  Maxwell's hand snaked under the table to push Delilah's head down another inch or two. Her nose was now nestled against the hem of his dress shirt, and he could feel her struggling to maintain the position by the way her throat flexed around his cock.

Good. Maybe that would shut her up.

“Next time try a dash of nutmeg.”

“Nutmeg?”

“Yes, nutmeg. It’s a nice wake-up in the morning. But for now that will be all.” Maxwell motioned to the door, to which the boy nodded and bowed his head like some servant. 

“Of course, have a good day sir.”

“You too kid. Make sure to shut the door behind you.”

The intern all but sprinted out, Maxwell felt his pride swell knowing even after he complimented the intern, he was still scared shitless of him. The moment his door clicked shut, he gripped his slobbering secretary’s hair by the root and wrenched her off his dick, leaving her to sputter and cough with tears in her eyes. 

“I suggest you make yourself useful, Miss Harris.” Maxwell slid his jacket off his shoulders and onto the chair behind him. He pulled a condom out of his pocket with a frown that never seemed to leave when she was in his presence.

 “That poor intern already knows where my office is and how I like my coffee, you might be out of a job soon enough.”

Delilah wiped the spit from her mouth and grinned. She stood on shaky legs in those horrendous kitten heels before pulling up her skirt and bending over his desk. 

“You could never fire me sir.” She groaned, gripping the desk like a lifeline when Maxwell entered her and began to thrust without giving her time to adjust to his size. “You’d miss me too much.”

Maxwell, still buried inside her, scoffed. “And what exactly would I miss Delilah? The cold coffee? The missed memos? Or you coming in late and thinking I don’t notice?” With each question he thrust in and out, in and out, a harsh unforgiving tempo that his secretary should be used to by now.

She arched her back with a squeaking moan. “No, you’d miss this pussy. Nobody fucks you like I do Sir.” The final string keeping Maxwell together, the one that everybody seemed to tug and pluck all day finally snapped when Delilah her next words. 

“Not even your bitch of a wife.”

Maxwell’s hips halted their assault against Delilah’s freckled skin, his eyes narrowed as he stared down at the back of her head, the pregnant pause filled the air that made Delilah realize right as the words passed her lips she had fucked up. 

She gasped when his hand wrapped tight around her throat and pulled her up off the desk and against his chest. 

“Talk about my wife again, go ahead.” Maxwell growled out, Delilah opened her mouth but no sound came out as his fingers squeezed tighter and tighter around her throat until her face went from pale white to bright red, the cold metal of his wedding band cut into the soft skin of her neck, the pain hopefully proving to be an effective teacher . “I fucking dare you, you even mention Valerie one more fucking time and you’ll wish you never pulled your lazy ass through that door to apply for this goddamn job. You understand me?”

When he loosened his grip she nodded rapidly, taking in a shuddering breath. She looked over her shoulder at him, legs trembling and a pout on her swollen lips. 

“I’m sorry.” She croaked out, voice hoarse from his dick and only made worse by his temper. His hand slid up her back before pushing her down on the desk where her body slammed down on the hard wood.

“I don’t care.”

Maxwell slid out of her before ramming back into her dripping cunt with zero grace, continuing to do so as his hands gripped her hips hard enough that he would surely leave behind bruises come the next day. 

He thought about the way the same bruises would look on your hips.

 Your neck.

 Fuck, your chest. 

Hearing you moan his name like a plea, a chant to God but Maxwell was one being worshiped. All the bite you showed him at work would melt away when he slid inside you with a groan. His fingers digging into the plush give of your ass while pounding into your sweet pussy that gripped him like a fucking vice. 

“You love it.” He spoke through gritted teeth, hair unkempt and falling in front of his eyes. “You fucking love it don’t you?”

You nodded numbly, gripping onto the table and just barely managing a weak moan. Maxwell’s hand came down on your ass in a stinging slap that made you shout.  He didn’t care who outside his office heard you, Christ himself could be standing outside and that wouldn’t be enough to pull him from you.

“You speak when-” Maxwell groaned, doubling over your body and rutting into you like an animal. “You speak when you're fucking spoken to.”

Your back arched as his voice growled out against your neck. “I love it.” You fingers dragged against his mahogany desk that shook with each thrust. “I love it so fucking much.”

“I fucking know you do.” His hips stuttered against yours, hot waves of pleasure threatening to crash over him with every thrust, every bounce of your curls and every sweet coo of your voice. “You were made for just my cock, just for me. Weren’t you?”

“Just for you.” You panted. Your knees knocked together as he pushed you into the desk more with each selfish thrust of his cock. “All yours max, only yours.”

Maxwell’s hand slammed down on the table next to Delilah’s head as he came with a low groan. Delilah, feeling her own high slowly retreating, whined. 

“Max please.” She begged. “I’m so close please just-” she squeaked at the feeling of her boss pulling out of her in record time as he cleaned himself up. 

“How many times to I have to fucking tell you, address me as Mr.Lord or Sir-” his eyes cut down at her trembling form. “-or don’t bother speaking at all.”

Delilah pushed herself off his desk with a weak nod. 

“Yes Mr.Lord.”

“Send a reminder to that archaeologist for this Friday.” Maxwell had already fastened his belt and taken seat at his desk once more, plucking the now disarrayed papers off the cool surface and shuffling them into a neat pile in his hands. He read them while he walked over to the bookshelf raised on the wall 

“She seems like a ditz and I want to make sure this meeting doesn’t fall through.”

Delilah frowned, tilting her head to the side. A gesture some men may find charming if they were ten years younger and didn't run a fucking company that this idiot woman worked for. 

“Archaeologist?”

“The mousy one that works at the museum.” He reminded her. “If you don’t remember at this point, that’s your own fault for only paying attention to the things I say when you’re on my dick.” Without looking up from the papers in his hand, Maxwell waved a hand in the direction of his office door. 

“That will be all.”

Delilah bowed her head, whether to hide the bright blush on her face or angry tears, he didn’t know. And quite frankly? 

He didn’t care. 

He was already focused on the papers he skimmed, deals and mergers that could break other companies while making him a richer man. 

At least that’s what he told himself while your voice was playing in his head like a broken record. 

Angry, brown eyes left the paper to stare at an unopened bottle of whiskey on the shelf that stared back at him. 

A wedding gift. 

The irony of it all wasn’t lost on him as he forwent a glass and drank straight from the bottle in hopes of drowning all thoughts of you. 

The bottle was halfway empty when he gave up.

#maxwell lord #maxwell lord x reader #maxwell lord x valerie lord x reader #valerie lord #valerie lord x reader #ww 1984 #ww1984 #WW84 #wonder woman 1984 #ROOSASUT