#According to Lane anyway

[bijoumikhawal]

RE: how the tattoos would look when you get older and archeological evidence from an Egyptian perspective

Tattoos that were done at a young age in most of history would indeed distort and get blow out as you got older, to the point of being nearly unrecognizable if you got very old. Some photos of Egyptian women I've seen with traditional tattoos look like their faces are just smudged. However, those are VERY old women, often in their 80s or 90s. Traditional tattooing in Egypt is sometimes done as an adult, but written records indicate it was common for children as young as 5 to get tattoos. Copts traditionally tattooed our children at a young age too (some Copts I've talked to think this was to prevent them being kidnapped), but today I don't think doing them that young is as common for a lot of people, especially not for Copts in diaspora or in cities. These days a lot of us machines too, so the tattoo quality is better, but based on that and those old women likely being tattooed as children, I agree that the tattoo would distort over time. It also means that even by 30 or so, the tattoo design may still be recognizable, but there probably would be blow out making the tattoo appear blue-ish like you suggested

additionally in Egyptian archeology there's trouble establishing the commonality of tattoos for similar reasons you've described. One is we aren't sure of certain items were for tattooing, and the other is that tattoos on mummies are rarely visible with the naked eye. You have to scan them with a machine (I forget which one) to get the images, and only a few mummies have been scanned. One of then was on display for decades before being scanned and no one noticed the tattoos, or something like that, to give an idea of how it's slipped notice

Did the ancient Celts really paint themselves blue?

Part 2: Irish tattoos

Clockwise from top left: Deirdre and Naoise from the Ulster Cycle by amylouioc, detail from The Marriage of Strongbow and Aoife by Daniel Maclise, a modern Celtic revival tattoo, Michael Flatley in a promotional image for the Irish step dance show 'Lord of the Dance'

This is my second post exploring the historical evidence for our modern belief that the ancient and medieval Insular Celts painted or tattooed themselves with blue pigment. In the first post, I discussed the fact that body paint seems to have been used by residents of Great Britain between approximately 50 BCE to 100 CE. In this post, I will examine the evidence for tattooing.

Once again, I am looking at sources pertaining to any ethnic group who lived in the British Isles, this time from the Roman Era to the early Middle Ages. The relevant text sources range from approximately 200 CE to 900 CE. I am including all British Isles cultures, because a) determining exactly which Insular culture various writers mean by terms like ‘Briton’, ‘Scot’, and ‘Pict’ is sometimes impossible and b) I don’t want to risk excluding any relevant evidence.

Continental Written Sources:

The earliest written source to mention tattoos in the British Isles is Herodian of Antioch’s History of the Roman Empire written circa 208 CE. In it, Herodian says of the Britons, "They tattoo their bodies with colored designs and drawings of all kinds of animals; for this reason they do not wear clothes, which would conceal the decorations on their bodies" (translation from MacQuarrie 1997). Herodian is probably reporting second-hand information given to him by soldiers who fought under Septimius Severus in Britain (MacQuarrie 1997) and shouldn't be considered a true primary source.

Also in the early 3rd century, Gaius Julius Solinus says in Collectanea Rerum Memorabilium 22.12, "regionem [Brittaniae] partim tenent barbari, quibus per artifices plagarum figuras iam inde a pueris variae animalium effigies incorporantur, inscriptisque visceribus hominis incremento pigmenti notae crescunt: nec quicquam mage patientiae loco nationes ferae ducunt, quam ut per memores cicatrices plurimum fuci artus bibant."

Translation: "The area [of Britain] is partly occupied by barbarians on whose bodies, from their childhood upwards, various forms of living creatures are represented by means of cunningly wrought marks: and when the flesh of the person has been deeply branded, then the marks of the pigment get larger as the man grows, and the barbaric nations regard it as the highest pitch of endurance to allow their limbs to drink in as much of the dye as possible through the scars which record this" (from MacQuarrie 1997).

This passage, like Herodian's, is clearly a description of tattooing, not body staining or painting. That said, I have no idea of tattoos actually work like this. I would think this would result in the adult having a faded, indistinct tattoo, but if anyone knows otherwise, please tell me.

The poet Claudian, writing in the early 5th c., is the first to specifically mention the Picts having tattoos (MacQuarrie 1997). In De Bello Gothico he says, "Venit & extremis legio praetenta Britannis,/ Quæ Scoto dat frena truci, ferroque notatas/ Perlegit exanimes Picto moriente figuras."

Translation: "The legion comes to make a trial of the most remote parts of Britain where it subdues the wild Scot and gazes on the iron-wrought figures on the face of the dying Pict" (from MacQuarrie 1997).

Last, and possibly least, of our Mediterranean sources is Isidore of Seville. In the early 7th c. he writes, "the Pictish race, their name derived from their body, which the efficient needle, with minute punctures, rubs in the juices squeezed from native plants so that it may bring these scars to its own fashion [. . .] The Scotti have their name from their own language by reason of [their] painted body, because they are marked by iron needles with dark coloring in the form of a marking of varying shapes." (translation from MacQuarrie 1997)

Isidore is the earliest writer to explicitly link the name 'Pict' to their 'painted' (Latin: pictus) i.e. tattooed bodies. Isidore probably borrowed information for his description from earlier writers like Claudian (MacQuarrie 1997).

In the 8th century, we have a source that definitely isn't Romans recycling old hearsay. In 786, a pair of papal legates visited the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms of Mercia and Northumbria (Story 1995). In their report to Pope Hadrian, the legates condemn pagans who have "superimposed most hideous cicatrices" (i.e gotten tattoos), likening the pagan practice to coloring oneself "with dirty spots". The location of the visit indicates that these are Anglo-Saxon tattoos rather than Celtic, but some scholars have suggested that the Anglo-Saxons might have adopted the practice from the Brittonic Celts (MacQuarrie 1997).

A gloss in the margin of the late 9th c. German manuscript Fulda Aa 2 defines Stingmata [sic] as "put pictures on the bodies as the Irish (Scotti) do." (translation from MacQuarrie 1997).

Fulda Aa 2 folio 43r The gloss is on the left underlined in white.

Irish Written Sources:

Irish texts that mention tattoos date to approximately 700-900 CE, although some of them have glosses that may be slightly later, and some of them cannot be precisely dated.

The first text source is a poem known in English as "The Caldron of Poesy," written in the early 8th c. (Breatnach 1981). The poem is purportedly the work of Amairgen, ollamh of the legendary Milesian kings. In the first stanza of the poem, he introduces himself saying, "I being white-kneed, blue-shanked, grey-bearded Amairgen." (translation from Breatnach 1981)

The text of the poem with interline glosses from Trinity College Dublin MS 1337/1

The word garrglas (blue-shanked) has a Middle Irish (c. 900-1200) gloss added by a later scribe, defining garrglas as: "a tattooed shank, or who has the blue tattooed shank" (Breatnach 1981).

Although Amairgen was a mythical figure, the position ollamh was not. An ollamh was the highest rank of poet in medieval Ireland, considered worthy of the same honor-price as a king (Carey 1997, Breatnach 1981). The fact that a man of such esteemed status introduces himself with the descriptor 'blue-shanked' suggests that tattoos were a respectable thing to have in early medieval Ireland.

The leg tattoos are also mentioned c. 900 CE in Cormac’s Glossary. It defines feirenn as "a thong which is about the calf of a man whence ‘a tattooed thong is tattooed about [the] calf’" (translation from MacQuarrie 1997)

The Irish legal text Uraicecht Becc, dated to the 9th or early 10th c., includes the word creccoire on a list of low-status occupations (Szacillo 2012, MacNeill 1924). A gloss defines it as: crechad glass ar na roscaib, a phrase which Szacillo interprets as meaning "making grey-blue sore (tattooing) on the eyes" (2012). This sounds rather strange, but another early Irish text clarifies it.

The Vita sancti Colmani abbatis de Land Elo written around the 8th-9th centuries (Szacillo 2012) contains the following episode:

On another time, St Colmán, looking upon his brother, who was the son of Beugne, saw that the lids of his eyes had been secretly painted with the hyacinth colour, as it was in the custom; and it was a great offence at St Colmán’s. He said to his brother: ‘May your eyes not see the light in your life (any more). And from that hour he was blind, seeing nothing until (his) death. (translation from Szacillo 2012).

The original Latin phrase describing what so offended St Colmán "palpebre oculorum illius latenter iacinto colore" does not contain the verb paint (pingo). It just says his eyelids were hyacinth (blue) colored. This passage together with the gloss from the Uraicecht Becc implies that there was a custom of tattooing people's eyelids blue in early medieval Ireland. A creccoire* was therefore a professional eyelid tattooer or a tattoo artist.

A possible third reference to tattooing the area around the eye is found in a list of Old Irish kennings. The kenning for the letter 'B' translates as 'Beauty of the eyebrow.' This kenning is glossed with the word crecad/creccad (McManus 1988). Crecad could be translated as cauterizing, branding, or tattooing (eDIL). McManus suggests "adornment (by tattooing) of the eyebrow" as a plausible interpretation of how crecad relates to the beauty of the eyebrow (1988). The precise date of this text is not known (McManus 1988), but Old Irish was used c. 600-900 CE, meaning this text is of a similar date to the other Irish references to tattoos.

Kenning of the letter 'b' with gloss from TCD MS 1337/1

There is a sharp contrast between the association of tattoos with a venerated figure in 'The Caldron of Poesy', and their association with low-status work and divine punishment in the Uraicecht Becc and the Vita. This indicates that there was a shift in the cultural attitude towards tattoos in Ireland during the 7th-9th centuries. The fact that a Christian saint considered getting tattoos a big enough offense to punish his own brother with blindness suggests that tattooing might have been a pagan practice which gradually got pushed out by the Catholic Church. This timeline is consistent with the 786 CE report of the papal legates condemning the pagan practice of tattooing in Great Britain (MacQuarrie 1997).

There are some mentions of tattooing in Lebor Gabála Érenn, but the information largely appears to be borrowed from Isidore of Seville (MacQuarrie 1997). The fact that the writers of LGE just regurgitated Isidore's meager descriptions of Pictish and Scottish (ie Irish) tattooing without adding any details, such as the designs used or which parts of the body were tattooed, makes me think that Insular tattooing practices had passed out of living memory by the time the book was written in the 11th century.

*There is some etymological controversy over this term. Some have suggested that the Old Irish word for eyelid-tattooer should actually be crechaire. more info Even if this hypothesis is correct, and the scribe who wrote the gloss on creccoire mistook it for crechaire, this doesn't contradict my argument. The scribe clearly believed that eyelid-tattooer belonged on a list of low-status occupations.

Discussion:

Like Julius Cesar in the last post, Herodian of Antioch c. 208 CE makes some dubious claims of Celtic barbarism, stating that the Britons were: "Strangers to clothing, the Britons wear ornaments of iron at their waists and throats; considering iron a symbol of wealth, they value this metal as other barbarians value gold" (translation from MacQuarrie 1997). If the Britons wore nothing but iron jewelry, then why did they have brass torcs and 5,000 objects that look like they're meant to attach to fabric, Herodian?

Brass torc from Lochar Moss, Scotland c. 50-200 CE. Romano-British trumpet brooch from Cumbria c. 75-175 CE. image from the Portable Antiquities Scheme.

Trumpet brooches are a Roman Era artifact invented in Britain, that were probably pinned to people's clothing. more info

Although Herodian and Solinus both make dubious claims, there are enough differences between them to indicate that they had 2 separate sources of information, and one was not just parroting the other. This combined with the fact that we have more-reliable sources from later centuries confirming the existence of tattoos in the British Isles makes it probable that there was at least a grain of truth to their claims of tattooing.

There is a common belief that the name Pict originated from the Latin pictus (painted), because the Picts had 'painted' or tattooed bodies. The Romans first used the name Pict to refer to inhabitants of Britain in 297 CE (Ware 2021), but the first mention of Pictish tattoos came in 402 CE (Carr 2005), and the first explicit statement that the name Pict was derived from the Picts' tattooed bodies came from Isidore of Seville c. 600 CE (MacQuarrie 1997). Unless someone can find an earlier source for this alleged etymology than Isidore, I am extremely skeptical of it.

Summary of the written evidence:

Some time between c. 79 CE (Pliny the Elder) and c. 208 CE (Herodian of Antioch) the practice of body art in Great Britain changed from staining or painting the skin to tattooing. Third century Celtic Briton tattoo designs depicted animals. Pictish tattoos are first mentioned in the 5th century.

The earliest mention of Irish tattoos comes from Isidore of Seville in the early 6th c., but since it seems to have been a pre-Christian practice, it likely started earlier. Irish tattoos of the 8-9th centuries were placed on the area around the eye and on the legs. They were a bluish color. The 8th c. Anglo-Saxons also had tattoos.

Tattooing in Ireland probably ended by the early 10th c., possibly because of Christian condemnation. Exactly when tattooing ended in Great Britain is unclear, but in the 12th c., William of Malmesbury describes it as a thing of the past (MacQuarrie 1997). None of these sources give much detail as to what the tattoos looked like.

The Archaeology of Insular Ink:

In spite of the fact that tattooing was a longer-lasting, more wide-spread practice in the British Isles than body painting, there is less archaeological evidence for it. This may be because the common tools used for tattooing, needles or blades for puncturing the skin, pigments to make the ink, and dishes to hold the ink, all had other common uses in the Middle Ages that could make an archaeologist overlook their use in tattooing. The same needle that was used to sew a tunic could also have been used to tattoo a leg (Carr 2005). A group of small, toothed bronze plates from a Romano-British site at Chalton, Hampshire might have been tattoo chisels (Carr 2005) or they might have been used to make stitching holes in leather (Cunliffe 1977).

Although the pigment used to make tattoos may be difficult to identify at archaeological sites, other lines of evidence might give us an idea of what it was. Although the written sources tell us that Irish tattoos were blue, the popular modern belief that woad was the source of the tattoo pigment is, in my opinion, extremely unlikely for a couple of reasons:

1) Blue pigment from woad doesn't seem to work as tattoo ink. The modern tattoo artists who have tried to use it have found that it burns out of the person's skin, leaving a scar with no trace of blue in it (Lambert 2004).

2) None of the historical sources actually mention tattooing with woad. Julius Cesar and Pliny the Elder mention something that might have been woad, but they were talking about body paint, not tattoos. (see previous post) Isidore of Seville claimed that the Picts were tattooing themselves with "juices squeezed from native plants", but even assuming that Isidore is a reliable source, you can't get blue from woad by just squeezing the juice out of it. In order to get blue out of woad, you have to first steep the leaves, then discard the leaves and add a base like ammonia to the vat (Carr 2005). The resulting dye vat is not something any knowledgeable person would describe as plant juice, so either Isidore had no idea what he was talking about, or he is talking about something other than blue pigment from woad.

In my opinion, the most likely pigment for early Irish and British tattoos is charcoal. Early tattoos found on mummies from Europe and Siberia all contain charcoal and no other colored pigment. These tattoos range in date from c. 3300 BCE (Ötzi the Iceman) to c. 300 CE (Oglakhty grave 4) (Samadelli et al 2015, Pankova 2013).

Despite the fact that charcoal is black, it tends to look blueish when used in tattoos (Pankova 2013). Even modern black ink tattoos that use carbon black pigment (which is effectively a purer form of charcoal) tend to look increasingly blue as they age.

A 17-year-old tattoo in carbon black ink photographed with a swatch of black Sharpie on white printer paper.

The fact that charcoal-based tattoo inks continue to be used today, more than 5,000 years after the first charcoal tattoo was given, shows that charcoal is an effective, relatively safe tattoo pigment, unlike woad. Additionally, charcoal can be easily produced with wood fires, meaning it would have been a readily available material for tattoo artists in the early medieval British Isles. We would need more direct evidence, like a tattooed body from the British Isles, to confirm its use though.

As of June 2024, there have been at least 279 bog bodies* found in the British Isles (Ó Floinn 1995, Turner 1995, Cowie, Picken, Wallace 2011, Giles 2020, BBC 2024), a handful of which have made it into modern museum collections. Unfortunately, tattoos have not been found on any of them. (We don't have a full scientific analysis for the 2023 Bellaghy find yet though.)

*This number includes some finds from fens. It does not include the Cladh Hallan composite mummies.

Tattoos in period art?

It has been suggested that the man fight a beast on Book of Kells f. 130r may be naked and covered in tattoos (MacQuarrie 1997). However, Dress in Ireland author Mairead Dunlevy interprets this illustration as a man wearing a jacket and trews (Dunlevy 1989). Looking at some of the other figures in the Book of Kells, I agree with Dunlevy. F. 97v shows the same long, fitted sleeves and round neckline. F. 292r has long, fitted leg coverings, presumably trews, and also long sleeves. The interlace and dot motifs on f. 130r's legs may be embroidery. Embroidered garments were a status symbol in early medieval Ireland (Dunlevy 1989).

Left to right: Book of Kells folios 130r, 97v, 292r

A couple of sculptures in County Fermanagh might sport depictions of Irish tattoos. The first, known as the Bishop stone, is in the Killadeas cemetery. It features a carved head with 2 marks on the left side of the face, a double line beside the mouth and a single line below the eye. These lines may represent tattoos.

The second sculpture is the Janus figure on Boa Island. (So named because it has 2 faces; it's not Roman.) It has marks under the right eye and extending from the corner of the left eye that may be tattoos.

I cannot find a definitive date for the Bishop stone head, but it bears a strong resemblance to the nearby White Island church figures. The White Island figures are stylistically dated to the 9th-10th centuries and may come from a church that was destroyed by Vikings in 837 CE (Halpin and Newman 2006, Lowry-Corry 1959). The Janus figure is believed to be Iron Age or early medieval (Halpin and Newman 2006).

Conclusions:

Despite the fact that tattooing as a custom in the British Isles lasted for more than 500 years and was practiced by at least 3 different cultures, written sources remain our only solid evidence for it. With only a dozen sources, some of which probably copied each other, to cover this time span, there are huge gaps in our knowledge. The 4th century Picts may not have had the same tattoo designs, placements or reasons for getting tattooed as the 8th c. Irish or Anglo-Saxons. These sources only give us fragments of information on who got tattooed, where the tattoos were placed, what they looked like, how the tattoos were done, and why people got tattooed. Further complicating our limited information is the fact that most of the text sources come from foreigners and/or people who were prejudiced against tattooing, which calls their accuracy into question.

'The Cauldron of Posey' is one source that provides some detail while not showing prejudice against tattoos. The author of the poem was probably Christian, but the poem appears to have been written at a time when Pagan practices were still tolerated in Ireland. I have a complete translation of the poem along with a longer discussion of religious elements here.

Leave me a tip?

Bibliography:

BBC (2024). Bellaghy bog body: Human remains are 2,000 years old https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-northern-ireland-68092307

Breatnach, L. (1981). The Cauldron of Poesy. Ériu, 32(1981), 45-93. https://www.jstor.org/stable/30007454

Carey, J. (1997). The Three Things Required of a Poet. Ériu, 48(1997), 41-58. https://www.jstor.org/stable/30007956

Carr, Gillian. (2005). Woad, Tattooing and Identity in Later Iron Age and Early Roman Britain. Oxford Journal of Archaeology 24(3), 273–292. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1468-0092.2005.00236.x

Cowie, T., Pickin, J. and Wallace, T. (2011). Bog bodies from Scotland: old finds, new records. Journal of Wetland Archaeology 10(1): 1–45.

Cunliffe, B. (1977) The Romano-British Village at Chalton, Hants. Proceedings of the Hampshire Field Club and Archaeological Society, 33(1977), 45-67.

Dunlevy, Mairead (1989). Dress in Ireland. B. T. Batsford LTD, London. 

eDIL s.v. crechad https://dil.ie/12794

Giles, Melanie. (2020). Bog Bodies Face to face with the past. Manchester University Press, Manchester. https://library.oapen.org/viewer/web/viewer.html?file=/bitstream/handle/20.500.12657/46717/9781526150196_fullhl.pdf?sequence=1&isAllowed=y

Halpin, A., Newman, C. (2006). Ireland: An Oxford Archaeological Guide to Sites from Earliest Times to AD 1600. Oxford University Press, Oxford. https://archive.org/details/irelandoxfordarc0000halp/page/n3/mode/2up

Hoecherl, M. (2016). Controlling Colours: Function and Meaning of Colour in the British Iron Age. Archaeopress Publishing LTD, Oxford. https://www.google.com/books/edition/Controlling_Colours/WRteEAAAQBAJ?hl=en&gbpv=0

Lambert, S. K. (2004). The Problem of the Woad. Dunsgathan.net. https://dunsgathan.net/essays/woad.htm

Lowry-Corry, D. (1959). A Newly Discovered Statue at the Church on White Island, County Fermanagh. Ulster Journal of Archaeology, 22(1959), 59-66. https://www.jstor.org/stable/20567530

MacQuarrie, Charles. (1997). Insular Celtic tattooing: History, myth and metaphor. Etudes Celtiques, 33, 159-189. https://doi.org/10.3406/ecelt.1997.2117

McManus, D. (1988). Irish Letter-Names and Their Kennings. Ériu, 39(1988), 127-168. https://www.jstor.org/stable/30024135

Ó Floinn, R. (1995). Recent research into Irish bog bodies. In R. C. Turner and R. G. Scaife (eds) Bog Bodies: New Discoveries and New Perspectives (p. 137–45). British Museum Press, London. ISBN: 9780714123059

Pankova, S. (2013). One More Culture with Ancient Tattoo Tradition in Southern Siberia: Tattoos on a Mummy from the Oglakhty Burial Ground, 3rd-4th century AD. Zurich Studies in Archaeology, 9(2013), 75-86.

Samadelli, M., Melisc, M., Miccolic, M., Vigld, E.E., Zinka, A.R. (2015). Complete mapping of the tattoos of the 5300-year-old Tyrolean Iceman. Journal of Cultural Heritage, 16(2015), 753–758.

Story, Joanna (1995). Charlemagne and Northumbria : the influence of Francia on Northumbrian politics in the later eighth and early ninth centuries. [Doctoral Thesis]. Durham University. http://etheses.dur.ac.uk/1460/

Szacillo, J. (2012). Irish hagiography and its dating: a study of the O'Donohue group of Irish saints' lives. [Doctoral Thesis]. Queen's University Belfast.

Turner, R.C. (1995). Resent Research into British Bog Bodies. In R. C. Turner and R. G. Scaife (eds) Bog Bodies: New Discoveries and New Perspectives (p. 221–34). British Museum Press, London. ISBN: 9780714123059

Ware, C. (2021). A Literary Commentary on Panegyrici Latini VI(7) An Oration Delivered Before the Emperor Constantine in Trier, ca. AD 310. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. https://www.google.com/books/edition/A_Literary_Commentary_on_Panegyrici_Lati/oEwMEAAAQBAJ?hl=en&gbpv=0

[can-of-pringles]

Got curious and went to BehindTheName. Interesting...

[serethereal]

70 81 and 89 for the ask game <3 xoxo miss you!!!!!!

hiii lane <33 i miss YOU also we are long overdue for our REDACTED buddyread.

70. Is there a profession you picture your future spouse doing?

a chef. or a baker. idk have you watched that cinderella movie ab her step sister anastasia and how she finds simple love with a baker ya i always wanted that… also i can not cook or bake for shit so that would be nice

81. Tea or coffee?

tea !!! i hate coffee

89. Which are better black or green olives?

neither !! olives are gross #pickyeater

from this ask game

[red-ruth]

WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED AT COTA

30 minutes before race start, it rains. The track’s wet. The majority of the grid is on wet weather tyres. The track then dries. Marc realises they’ve got the wrong tyre choice. You can see, him, sitting on the bike, face up, hat off, waiting for raindrops and There Aren’t Any.  

He tells his mechanics he might leave the grid, he knows he's got a second, dry bike waiting.   At the 4 minute marker, he gets off the bike. Pecco notices. At exactly three minutes before race start, right as the title sequence starts, Marc dips and books it to pitlane. Pecco clocks what he’s doing in half a second. Alex thinks he’s forgotten his earbuds??? (LOCK IN ALEX) And soon the majority of the front three rows + some soon follow. They cut from the intro (which never got finished btw 🙁) to Chaos. Mechanics are everywhere. The riders engage in a 200 meter sprint to grab their second bikes and make it down the pitlane (keep in mind, the warm up lap is still going to start in like 2 minutes)  Maverick Vinalez appears to have unrelated mechanical problems and is running around bikeless. Marc nearly runs over some grid girls. A honda is on pole position. And so they red flag. Restart. And funnily enough the race ended there don’t really remember what happened after that.

  BUT, if you don’t know what happened with the rules, what Marc was plotting and why he’s now master of the dark arts, here’s a comprehensive explanation as to why this all went down...

  The rules state that if you leave the grid before the start of the race, you have to start from pit lane. If more than 10 riders leave the grid before the start of the race, the quick start* procedure is enacted.  

Quick Start: The riders that are in pitlane start the sighting lap from pitlane. When they reach the grid a single mechanic from their team will be standing in their qualifying grid position (unless the grid positions had been changed by race direction WAS NOT THE CASE) The mechanics will then leave. Riders start the warm up lap, and the race start proceeds as normal.  

If 10 or less riders had been in the pitlane, ergo, quick start procedure is NOT enacted. They would have started the sighting lap from pitlane, lined up on the grid in their positions, done the warm up lap, race start as normal etc EXCEPT they have to then take a ride through penalty once the race starts, likely within the first three laps. A ride through penalty is when a rider has to come through the pitlane during the race, taking 20/30 seconds out of their lap time.  

According to Marc, at 7 minutes he asked if the dry bike is set up, and he says he might leave the grid. Also according to him, he knew this rule with the quick start procedure, and he knew if enough riders leave, he would not take a penalty and still be on the right tyres. So why did he bolt at the three minute mark, and not as soon as he realised he needed to change? He was off his bike for a whole minute, waiting. My guess is that the closer to race start he got, the more chaos he’d create and put pressure on riders and race direction.

Remember, nearly a minute before the riders were supposed to start the warm up lap, there were still personnel on the grid, grabbing bikes, there was whatever the fuck was going on with Vinalez, mechanics in the pitlane getting new bikes ready, race direction caught with their damn pants down, they could notttt have safely started with all that going on.  

So Marc needed the grid to follow him, + the chaos essentially, or else the quick start procedure is not enacted and he still gets that penalty. And so what if Marc/no other riders left the grid? Well the race goes ahead as normal, but they'd almost certainly do a pit stop during the race to change to the dry bike anyway. A pit stop takes more time than a ride through because you have to pull in and swap bikes. Its more of a penalty to do a pit stop than the actual penalty for leaving the grid.

I know Marc is acting all confident that so many riders would follow him and the quick start procedure would be enacted, however, he is a lying liar. He probably knew that either option is still better than staying on the grid. That’s probably what made him leave. It actually points out a big flaw in the regulations that it’s beneficial to create more chaos than it is to just do a pit stop in these sort of circumstances where a pit stop to change bikes is inevitable.   Here’s the thing, according to Simon Patterson, MORE THAN 10 riders did not leave the grid. Exactly 10 did Marc Marquez, Fabio Di Giannantonio, Alex Marquez, Pedro Acosta, Franco Morbidelli, Pecco Bagnaia, Joan Mir, Jack Miller, Maverick Vinalez and Fermin Aldeguer Either this is a misunderstanding from race direction who thought the rules state “AT 10 riders in pitlane” rather than “more than 10 riders in pitlane”, ORRRR they DID know that there were not enough riders but because of the amount of personnel in pitlane, on the grid and the general chaos generated by a certain someone leaving it LITERALLY last minute, they decided to enact the rule regardless, which lines up the official statement from Race Director Mike Webb

“We called for a delay and then a quick start procedure for safety reasons. Given the amount of riders, bikes and pit staff on the grid and in the pitlane area, it was impossible to start the warm up lap.” 

HOWEVER, there is a chance that Johan Zarco is the 11th bike which made the red flag come out. If you watch the replay, you can see Johan Zarco come off the bike in the background of a shot.

Johann Zarco very clearly off his bike

The next shot is of the red flag. So either, the stewards saw Zarco appear to intend to leave the grid and immediately red flagged knowing he would be the necessary 11th rider. In which case the statement from race direction is an explanation of the regulation itself, not providing reasoning as to why they disregarded it.     But given that the shot of the red flag is so soon after Zarco gets off it could be his action is simply him reacting to the red flag and Simon Patterson is still correct, the red flag was put out before the necessary amount of riders actually left the grid.     Either way, the regulations are now going to be revisited. Marc is on a level of mind games undiscovered by man. I love this sport.

[natalievoncatte]

Lena squared herself up after she stepped from the elevator.

This has taken considerable work. She’d had to arrange for her absence from boarding school to go unnoticed, or at least, unremarked upon. If Lillian got wind of her running away, she’d have been skinned alive. Perhaps literally. Since her adoptive father’s death, she’d actually looked forward to school, and to being away from Lillian’s abuse. Lex was now the only thing keeping her from Lena, and Lex was preoccupied with his project.

Her brother had been away for school for some time, but they had summers off together at least. When Lex took over the company when he turned 21, he grew distant and aloof, spending more time with his friend Clark or at work than with family.

With his absence came Lillian.

Still, she had managed to build a support network. Frank, her bodyguard-slash-driver was Lex’s man, but he was useful. Lena had spent months buttering him up to participate in her plan: she needed wheels.

In the meantime she’d acquired blackmail material. The head master at the school gave her a broad latitude after she implied that she might expose certain proclivities of his. That gave her the time away she needed. She’d carefully negotiated a higher allowance from Lex in exchange for accelerating her studies in anticipation of beginning her undergraduate studies at sixteen, which was a triviality for her anyway.

Lena walked down the hall, heart pounding against the backpack clutched to her chest. Each step felt heavy, alive with portent.

She could turn back now. She could turn her back now.

What if she was wrong? Paranoid, addled, as crazy as her mother, just like Lillian said? What if she was about to not only blow up her whole life, but slander her brother. If this went sideways, she didn’t know what exactly would happened to her, but Lillian had once, while tipsy on whisky from Lionel’s stash, told Lena that if not for Lex, she’d have Lena garroted with piano wire and buried on the estate, and like any bag of trash, no one would notice she’d been disposed of.

When she told Lex, her hands shook like leaves. He looked at her for a long cold moment and she worried that he’d slap her or scream or throw her out of the house, but he simply said, “I’ll talk to her about it.”

He did. She never made another threat.

He also brought her a wooden box, ornate and polished. Lex sat next to Lena and opened the box, showing her the contents, lying on red velvet. A five shot snub nose revolver and two speedloaders.

“I’ll teach you how to use this,” Lex said, grimly. “I know you’re smart enough to know if you need to. If anyone tries to harm you, kill them. I’ll clean it up.”

Lena had been terrified of it for months, even as she enjoyed the shooting lessons from Lex, given in a remote part of the estate near a burbling creek, the shots cracking the morning peace and shaking dew from leaves.

She had the gun in her backpack, and her hands were shaking.

The other contents of her bag were a weapon far more devastating. She was about to fire it and she’d have to accept the consequences.

Finally, she stood outside the door. Apartment 18B. The name on the lease was Lois Lane, but according to Lena’s reconnaissance, Clark Kent had been living with her virtually full time for the last six months, not long after something changed in his relationship with Lena’s brother.

Lena’s hand hung before the door for a good minute before she knocked, weekly. She hadn’t considered what might happen if they were simply not home. Her legs felt watery and her eyes burned. She knocked again. She was committed now.

The door swung open and Lois Lane stood before her. She was beautiful in an understated way, obscured by limp hair in a chaotic bun, rumpled clothes, and the stink of coffee on her breath.

“Who- what? Kid, what do you want?”

“I need to see Clark Kent. Is he here?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Lena Luthor.”

There was a gust of wind behind her, and Kent stepped into view.

“Lena?” said Clark. “Lex’s little sister? What are you doing here?”

Lena’s throat went tight. She swallowed hard, and as she anticipated, his demeanor changed. He softened. He craned forward slightly, studying her intently, and his brows shot up when looked at her bag.

He was checking her vital signs and he’d spotted the gun. In the bag.

“He knows you’re Superman,” Lena choked out, “and he’s going to kill you.”

Lois glanced at Clark with a stunned, stunned wide expression. Then, she grabbed Lena and yanked her inside, slamming the door. Lena squeaked.

“How do you know that? Lex knows? Did he tell you? What do you mean he wants to kill Clark?”

“Hey,” Clark said, crouching beside Lena to bring himself to her level, resting a comforting hand on her slight shoulder. “Take a breath, Lena. You’re safe here.”

In Lena’s plan, she was going to begin explaining, starting with how she deduced his identity and lay out what she discovered in his files. That was her plan, but no plan survived first contact with the enemy.

Lena began to sob.

Superman knelt beside her and removed his glasses, and enveloped Lena Luthor in a warm, protective hug. She sobbed harder, burying her face in his shoulder.

“Jesus Christ,” Lois whispered.

She drew the gun out of the bag and checked it with professional, practiced familiarity, dumping the shells into her hand.

“I think she’s telling the truth.”

Clark nodded.

Over the next hour, Lena was swept to Lois’s big couch and sat in the middle while the pair sat on either side of her. When she was hungry, Clark went out to get her favorite guilty pleasure meal, a big greasy burger and fries, and a milkshake too. Between bites, she explained everything, telling them about her brother’s insane plan to turn the sun red.

They believed it all. Lena had receipts.

Eventually, Lena was exhausted, everything had been said, and she sat with dull shock on the couch and stared at the black mirror of a blank television set, marveling at how small and helpless she looked, like a drowned rat.

“Why don’t you lay down for a while?” Lois said, gently. “Here, I’ll put something on the TV for you.”

Lena didn’t make it ten minutes in before she was asleep, curled tightly on one end of the couch with a pillow under her head.

She woke sometime later. It was dark now and she heard voices on the far side of the apartment.

“I called Bruce. He said he’s in, and he’s bringing reinforcements. I’m going to try to get a Green Lantern on board. We have to move fast. Nevermind me, if Lex does this, millions of innocent people will die. We’ll have to move fast.”

“What about the girl?” said Lois. “She can’t go home now. We have to get her somewhere safe.”

“I have to get you both somewhere safe. I should probably come up with a reason to get the building evacuated. One Lex realizes he’s been caught out, he’ll come after both of you.”

“You’re right.”

“I want you to go out,” said Clark. “Make it look like you’re heading out to a convenience store. Bruce is sending Alfred to pick you up, he should be here in an hour. I have somewhere else in mind for Lena.”

“Where?”

“It’s better if I don’t tell you, just in case.”

When he emerged from the back bedroom, Clark Kent was resplendent, clothed in the persona of Superman.

“Lena?” he said, gently. “We have to go. I’ll take you somewhere safe, where your brother won’t find you.”

Lois joined him. “You’re going to put on some of my clothes, and I’m going to check your hair. You can’t take anything with you. Lex Luthor might have been tracking you the entire time.”

Lena’s stomach dropped. What if she was right? That might be a move Lex would play, tracking Lena so that he could use her against his enemy. Lex had become cold, single minded. Lena was wondering how long it would be until she was disposable.

“Okay,” said Lena.

“I’m going to have to fly you.”

Lena did as she was told. She put on an outfit that belonged to Lois, a hilariously oversized Gotham U sweatshirt and leggings. When it was time, Superman bundled her up in his cape.

“I’m scared of heights.”

“I would never drop you,” he said.

Lena screamed when he took off. She was glad for the cape, glad she couldn’t see the ground. She curled up around him and pressed her eyes tightly closed, wondering exactly how fast they were going.

The landing came surprisingly fast. He’d alighted on the grassy lawn of a lovely beach house. Lena smelled something baking and heard voices inside. Clark knocked on the door.

A girl, a little older than Lena, opened the door. Golden curls spilled over her muscular shoulders, and she wore an oversized pair of glasses that did nothing to dull the endless depths of her blue eyes. There was something profoundly sad behind the curiosity in those eyes. She looked at Lena with mild confusion.

Lena stared back. There was a wild stirring in her stomach, and she shifted uneasily on her feet.

Then, the girl addressed Clark in a rapid, clipped, and utterly strange sounding language.

It hit Lena like a shockwave.

They were speaking Kryptonian.

“Lena,” said Superman, turning to her. “This is Kara Zor-El, my cousin. The last daughter of Krypton.”

[t-horn-n]

Hi! I loved your silco x hoh!reader! Would you be willing to write something for silco with a reader that has chronic joint pain?

— reductions and oxidations

pairing: silco x reader (female)

genre: fluff ?

summary: request from anon: “Hi! I loved your silco x hoh!reader! Would you be willing to write something for silco with a reader that has chronic joint pain?”

word count: 925

note: please let me know how I did!

“Don’t move,” you say, lowly, into the thug’s face whom you have on his knees facing the walls of some now abandoned storehouse.  

He squirms beneath your hands, but you’re exerting enough pressure onto the juncture between his thigh and calf that he doesn’t go far.  All the idiot and his brawn are responsible for is receiving and shipping out shimmer according to Silco’s commands—you can never keep the stuff at any single location for too long without asking for trouble.  The guy kneeling before you oversees a comparatively small warehouse on the outskirts of the Lanes with a very little chance of getting caught by Enforcers.  Nonetheless, he got cold feet and tried to bail.  

And, well, Silco doesn’t exactly tolerate kinks in his plans.

It was a slow week for them, and they didn’t even have any shimmer to guard, so they were sitting around playing cards when you took their boss and sent him sprawling to the floor.  Everyone else had made the prudent decision to vacate the building.  That was fine.  You only need a leader to send a message.

“You’re more of a fool than I took you for, dear.” 

He writhes again so you squeeze the soft part of the back of his neck harder which makes your own hand ache, but unlike him, you don’t make mistakes. 

“Silco requires very little of you, but you can’t even handle keeping track of a few things without running away with your tail between your legs?” 

You feel him shiver beneath your fingers as you show him your gun.  

“Wait!  Wait!” he cries.  “Give me another chance.  I’ll prove myself.  I won’t disappoint him.  Or you.” 

He flinches as you pull the trigger anyway, but you’ve shot the ground by his knee rather than the back of his head.  His teeth chatter and you release him.

“I know,” you say, patting him on the shoulder roughly.

It’s warm and milky in the alleys on your way back to the Last Drop.  Despite the late hour, people are awake and out.  There are courtesans who wink at you in recognition as you pass by their street and pop-up food vendors who are perfectly willing to sell you a late-night bite.  Tonight, however, your intentions are single-minded and lie in terms of returning home where you can use sleep to escape all the sensations that plague you during the day.  You try not to flex your fists as you light a cheap cigarette—really the only kind you can get down there.  You ache all over, like you always do, but it’s more than sore muscles.  It feels as though within you are rusting metal gears that are constantly at odds with each other, teeth grating against teeth, and after brute jobs like these, it’s especially bad in your hands.  There’s no one in the Undercity that enjoys a painless day, though, so you suck it up as best you can and move on with your life.

You swipe an abandoned drink as you make your way upstairs to Silco’s office.  You finish it off and leave the glass on a table that sits in the hallway just outside Silco’s door and is already covered by a dozen other glasses you’ve left there.

You collapse into the chair sitting opposite his desk to, if for no other reason, relieve the pressure on your knees.  Silco’s there, as he always is, poring over maps and spreadsheets and whatever other papers he has to worry about, even though it’s past any reasonable bedtime.

“I’m home,” you declare with no small amount of sarcasm.  You left the muscle you had taken with you to the warehouse downstairs.

He diverts his attention away from his work to you, his orange eye slower to follow his brown one.  Then he sighs, and you don’t know why until he reaches across his desk to pluck the cigarette from your lips and put it out in his ashtray.

“I thought we decided that you would stop smoking.” 

“I’ll be lucky if it’s smoking that kills me.” 

He offers you a pointed stare.  He’s only worked up because Singed had mentioned that smoking worsens already bad joints, but you maintain that the world would be a much worse place if you started believing everything said by someone that crazy.

“I heard you let him live,” Silco continues, and you  know he’s talking about the nice gentleman in the warehouse.

“Eh.  My hands hurt.  Wouldn’t want to overexert them.”  

You sound mocking, but he lets it slide.

“You have a gun.”

You shrug.

“You don’t receive rewards for being kind in Zaun.” 

“You don’t keep me around because I make bad decisions.”

He sighs again, but suddenly you fall forward onto his beloved papers, laying your head on crossed arms.

“You should go to sleep, too.  You’re at risk of overworking yourself,” you say. 

You feel his fingertips lightly brush the length of your forearm. 

“The ink is probably wet on some of those,” he tells you.

“Oh well.” 

He makes patterns on your skin lightly with his nail. 

“Get up.  Your neck will hurt in the morning.” 

“It already does,” you murmur.

Silco rises.  

“I’m not your father and you’re not a child.  You’re welcome to stay here for the night.” 

You groan, but follow him out of the door and down the stairs and through the streets of the Lanes.  If you’re lucky, he’ll let you drag him off to buy a bowl of hot noodles and a hazardous looking drink.

— m. list

[reverie-starlight]

{need you now- hawks}

y’all remember need you now by lady antebellum?

gn!reader, no physical descriptions. angst-ish? kinda fluffy. I’ll be doing a part two of this from keigo’s perspective eventually.

you can’t sleep.

this has been happening more and more lately, and you wonder how much more you can take without starting to hallucinate.

he’s back home from a mission now, which you only found out because of one of his fan accounts. well- “home”. he’s been staying in the luxurious house the commission kept aside for him. nothing homely about it according to keigo, but it’s not like he has much of a choice.

not after you got caught up in the argument and told him you wanted nothing to do with him.

you had shrugged it off when you saw the post, not knowing if it’s been too long to try and reconcile, but now you’re going down memory lane, holding back tears as you flip through the photo album he made you.

you fight yourself to stay off your phone, but you get to a photo of him kissing your cheek and you can’t stop yourself any longer. the loneliness you’ve been feeling all this time finally wins out.

the clock reads 1:15 AM.

is he even awake right now?

it’s been a month… and he’s always so busy, do you even cross his mind anymore? he always seems to be on yours.

you call anyway, against your better judgement and your heart lurches into your throat when he actually answers.

after two rings, at that.

“hello?” his voice both soothes you and chills you to your bones at the same time.

“hi keigo,” you whisper.

“hi, ba-“ you think he’s about to call you baby out of habit and you wish he hadn’t stopped himself. “did you need something?”

he sounds… somber. solemn. sad.

not at all like the keigo you love.

guilt pools in your stomach at the mere idea of you hurting him this badly.

“I…” you bite your lip. “I miss you.”

you hear his breath hitch. “really?”

you wish you could see his expression and figure out what he’s feeling. he’s always been so good at keeping his voice free of emotion.

granted, he always tried to turn that skill off around you, so you gather that he must be feeling guarded.

you keep going. “I’m so sorry for that night, keigo. I said things that I didn’t mean and I regret it so much… I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

he’s quiet on the line for a few beats and then and exhaled “I’m sorry too, baby. we both said some pretty awful things, didn’t we?”

you laugh, but it sounds a bit more like a sob to you. “yeah,” your voice breaks. “keigo, I… I need you here with me. can you please come over so we can talk about this?”

he clears his throat, likely working overtime to continue to keep the growing emotion out of his voice, but it sounds thick when it breaks anyway. “y-eah. yeah, I can come over. I need you too. I’ll be there soon, okay? unlock the window for me, sweetheart.”

he hangs up and you quickly move to do as he asked.

five minutes later, he’s on your balcony, sliding the glass and slipping into your room.

he immediately wraps you in his arms and your body, once cold and empty, fills with a warmth only he could provide.

he’s whispering words into your scalp. “I love you, y’know that? I love you too much to ever want to break up.”

you nod against his chest, letting the tears flow freely. “I love you too. I’m sorry,” these words are repeated between the two of you- they shoot out of your mouth and hit his chest, sinking into his skin and bubbling up his throat only for them to hit your scalp and absorb into your brain, then fall out of your mouth again like a well oiled machine working overtime.

but there’s nothing habitual about these phrases- as is the case for any time you say them, they’re promises.

promises that will never be broken again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’ve had this idea for a while and I finally wrote it :3

AND I’m gonna work on this from his POV, which I’m almost more excited abt than this one 👀

@emmyrosee sum angst (ish)

[arcane-ish]

Preliminary Zaundads timeline

(note: this is not a great, story, it's just what I think fits the facts presented the most)

Vander either falls in love with his miner buddy Silco or they knew each other first and became miners together.

They strike up friendships with their miner budies, Felicia, Connel and Sevika. Maybe they all meet in this shack to spend their breaks or plot their revolution.

At some point they organize. They create or take over the drop. According to Vi's mom they "turned a crack in the earth into a thriving commuity" on the very day where Vi's mom tells them that she's having a kid and Vander names the kid. She credits both Vander and Silco with having had that idea of creating the thriving community.

At this point Vander is satisfied with what they've achieved (We're done).

[admittedly, that could be sarcasm because he knows that they still have work ahead of them] However, Silco is thinking of more, of Zaun. Felicia describes their situation "living week to week" and says that that's "a lot of shit down here" that she would have to protect Vi from.

Vander seems to be into the idea of raising children and already talks about raising more than just a single one.

She talks about carving Zaun out of the bedrock through menial work ("blisters") and that Silco and Vander will figure it out together. Silco toasts to Zaun. Vander only toasts to blisters and bedrock (note that he calls back to that in the letter to writes to Silco after nearly killing him).

Vi gets born, Powder gets born. It seems Mylo and Claggor are sort of around?

Note that even though Powder and Vi are older, their mom and dad still work as miners.

My theory:

1.) Whatever Vander and Silco and the others were doing, they probably funded themselves through the mines? That's why Felicia and Connel kept mining. Or maybe they do deeper tunnels for additional housing? My theory is still that their big thing was to take over the mine they were working in and running it themselves (seize the means of production!) and they were able to fund a their thriving community.

2.) At this point Vander and Silco's relationship becomes more and more unhappy. And Vander distracts himself by throwing himself more and more into his role as an uncle and living vicariously through Felicia and Connel's relationship.

Vi and Powder apparently have a very happy childhool.

However something happens, leading to the Day of Ash uprising. (maybe something threatens their "thriving community") Where Felicia dies and Vander snaps and attacks Silco. However, he afterwards feels bad and writes him a letter, but Silco keeps his distance, not returning for years later.

Now, granted, most of this is still pretty unsatifying. For example, everything about Vi and Powder's childhood looks way too pristine and clean. Mining looks too happy and clean for how shit it should be.

Even Vander's Lanes after he drove out Silco were never that clean. (this is probably my hate for beardless Vander talking, maybe beardless Vander = Vander's self image of his more innocent self)

And that is aside that head canoning Vander and Silco running a criminal enterprise together is just way more fun than them completely sanely funding it through respectable mining.

How exactly did Vander get his Hound of Underground name anyway? I like to headcanon that he was a pit fighter like Vi, but was that before he became a miner or during or afterwards?

And how exactly did he get a reputation as a revolutionary at all when it feels that he barely did anything?

I'm just gonna pretend:

1.) Warwick is not dead. His healing factor will kick in. 2.) These are just the happy, sanitized, idealized memories of Vander's. We will get another flashback that will reveal that the truth was way darker and more fucked up and that Vander's happy memories were as fake as Viktor's happy cult community.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN THIS WILL PROBABLY NOT HAPPEN BECAUSE THERE'S ONLY THREE MORE EPISODES AND THOSE WILL BE DEDICATED TO OTHER STORYLINES THAT STILL NEED TO WRAP UP. I CAN'T HEAR YOU.

[forsaken-headcanons]

hi i started trying to mathematically figure out how tall people are and i am AFRAID While we have some heights in feet (Builderman being 4'9" and Chance ranging from 4' to 6') multiple are also in STUDS. (Two Time, Guest 666)

Immediately, the thoughts would be to go off of Roblox's official guide for translating studs into cm or feet or smth, but that would put Two Time, who is 10.5 studs tall, around 3m or 9 FEET 10 INCHES. So. Thats off the limits. This information may be inaccurate since it comes from the wiki but yk. But clearly we cant just get this off Two Time, so let's switch lanes. If we look at a comparison of Guest 666 to a test dummy we can see they're about 1.5 times the height of it without the horns, and almost twice the height with them. So, let's take the male average height (around 5'8, but I take 5'7 because they're already gonna be massive so lets shave off an inch) and mutiply that by 1.5. From there we get around 8'2" (8'1.5" to be exact) From here we can also calculate Two Times height, but they're like, freakishly tall still, [ (10.5 x 100) / 12.8 makes 82%, 82% of 100.5 (8'1.5") is 6'10.4" ] so I would still make that a little bit lower and call it "accounting for Guest 666's slouch" (even though that would go the other way and make Guest taller not Two Time shorter)

from here i could also go on to calculate the HORRORS of Kings mech but..... I'd genuinely rather not terrify myself. But yeah if the information in the wiki is correct, i have just mathematically proven this they is just a cryptid and the Spawn cult is giant breeding grounds /j (a lot of people draw Azure taller than Two Time and i am AFRAID to check if it's canon.) Also Jason is canonically over 7' according to comics that i've seen be reffered to as canon. I have not watched a single movie or read any of the mentioned comics and got this information from Reddit so take it with a grain of salt. it is 2:15am and this is Bluududs teeth anon OUT

wait what the fuck do you mean chance ranges from 4' to 6'. what. is. is that. is that actually. canon

anways. live reaction below because why not hsdjkad

. ANYWAYS!! /SILYL LMFAO. w. NINE FUCKASS FEET????? AND TEN INCHES???? TWO TIME WHAT THE FUCK. 8.2 666 makes sense ngl... but TWO TIME?? GOODNESS. what has the cult been FEEDING THEM. "by the spawn"? nah you tall enough to Touch the spawn fk is u on about 😭

7' jason our beloved... on our knees... ahem sorry what who said that what. woah. haha must've been the wind right hahahaha. runs away /silly

[beggamoth]

To Wed A Dragon. pt 2

summary | Viserys I Targaryen, being geopolitical genius he is, arranges a marriage between his dangerously serpentine second son Aemond and a wildling of pure First Men blood: the elusive Omega daughter Daemon left rotting in Runestone. It’s all bread and circuses and targcest.

pairing | alpha!!aemond targaryen x fem!!omega!!reader with implied social anxiety

parts | 1 2 3

tags | TW!!! OMEGAVERSE!!! VERY OOC AEMOND!!! not proofread. i wal half dead when i was writing it so. slowburn (sort of). very very chopped english. consists of aemond’s journals. also vague helaegons in this part.

wordcount | 3,3k

any kind of feedback is highly appreciated!

______________________________________________________________

1st Moon, 128 AC. Three days post-scenting. The wind was rattling the windows. I was in a mood for conquest

It is time to court her.

As per tradition, both Andal and Valyrian, and as demanded by decorum, I have begun the official pursuit of Lady [name] Royce, my betrothed, my mirror opposite, my current academic project disguised as a person. Courtship, according to both the maesters and my mother, must be gentle. Considerate. Intentional. Signs of attention should not be suffocating so that the future mate does not leap headfirst but leave enough room for them to have a misconception of having a choice in the matter.

They have clearly never courted a creature who looks like she might bolt at the sound of her own name.

ADVICE RECEIVED (Most of it Unasked For, and All of it Questionable):

Alicent, exasperated, very opinionated on the matter of courtship but barely experienced one of her own:

“Ask about her interests. Write her a short poem. Compliment her mind. She may appear shy, but she’ll highly appreciate your attention.”

Yes, Mother. I shall compose an ode to her inability to make small talk.

Criston Cole (eternally bitter and inexplicably proud of it):

“Be gallant. Provide gifts of use. Things that show you think of her needs.”

I considered giving her a ten foot pole or a thick veil so she’ll have more ways to avoid eye contact.

Aegon (for some reason shirtless, half-lying on a chaise, playing with Helaena’s hair):

“Just pin her to a wall and tell her she’s pretty. Worked for me.”

Yes, brother. And now you have enough bastard children for us to never worry about the end of the Targaryen line. Helaena (lying with her stomach on Aegon’s lap, reading a book upside down)

“Make a trail of honey cakes from her solar to yours. Can’t promise that she’ll be smitten, but you’ll have her attention.”

…All right. This one may be the most efficient I’ve received so far.

COURTSHIP STRATEGY, WEEK ONE:

Gift #1: A first edition on Old Vale legends. With vivid illustrations that saved their first colours.

She received it with the enthusiasm of a tree being shown fire. Mumbled “thank you” like it was putting a strain on her vocal cords.

Gift #2: A small potted herb known to soothe nerves.

She asked if it was “meant to imply something.” I said yes. She did not laugh. Neither did I.

Gift #3: A dragon figurine carved from obsidian.

She flinched when I handed it to her. Not because it frightened her—because she feared she might drop it. I told her it was just stone. She looked like I’d insulted its honor.

SOCIAL EXPERIMENTS (Results Inconclusive):

It'd been a surprisingly hot winter. The sky was painted in pale, anemic colours. The paths in godswood in the Red Keep were eroded by the rain and became wet as clay. The Weirwood tree was rustling above us. I sat beside her on sprawling white roots. Close. Not indecent, but enough that our sleeves brushed and I found myself in a vacuum of her scent - maple and that sweet thing whose name is unlikely to be found in any language. Anyway, it made the hairs on my scruff stand up.

Meanwhile, she began reciting trade routes aloud under her breath, as if invoking shipping lanes would exorcise my proximity.

I asked her about her favorite book.

She blinked once. Said:

“The one where everyone dies before the ending. No one talks in it.”

(She is either a genius or indeed mentally challenged. Possibly both.)

I offered to spar in the yard, half-joking. She responded:

“I’d rather be hit by a carriage.”

I liked that one, actually.

If some brave fool finds this journal and decides to laugh at my failed transgressions-- I dare him. Because criticism is something we can avoid easily by saying nothing, doing nothing, and being nothing.

Moreover, I do not consider it a failure.

At no point has she refused me. That is the linchpin in this operation. She has not said no. Has not run. Has not, to my knowledge, attempted escape via hidden passage or came to my mother begging to annul the engagement.

This is tacit permission.

I think she simply doesn’t know what to do with me. Most don’t. She is disoriented by my attention – like a little shivering rabbit pulled out of its hiding place by a fox who is in no hurry to eat it, for some reason.

(There’s something beautiful in that. In being someone else’s overwhelming.)

I believe it is working.

Not quickly. Not visibly. It would be the peak of naivety to expect her to throw herself at my neck and shower my face with kisses if I handed her a dandelion or a recite stanza of High Valyrian poetry in Common Tongue adaptation. Not at all.

But I see the signs:

She no longer looks mortified when I sit beside her.

She only stammers when spoken to directly, not peripherally.

And from what her maid said, she keeps the dragon statue I gave her on the mantelpiece. The most prominent place in the room.

A lesser man might interpret her discomfort as rejection.

But I am not lesser.

Her uncertainty is not refusal, but it is formation. A thing taking shape under pressure.

She will come to want me. Perhaps already does.

And if she doesn’t… well.

I am very good at making people think they do.

[margin sketch] Aemond’s drawing of the courtyard: himself in elegant posture, offering a gift. [name]: hiding behind a bush, labeled “Bush of Emotional Avoidance.” Caption: “Courtship: Going Very Well.” ____________________________________________________

1st Moon of 128 AC, midday.

She did it.

She reciprocated. Or tried to.

And gods help me—I responded with all the consideration of a marble statue nodding at a crying child.

She wants to match me. I can see it. The hesitance isn’t fear now—it’s shame. Performance anxiety. Which, I must say, is fascinating to watch in real time.

Today, it happened.

THE CONTEXT:

It was the beginning of the year. It was warm, hot even. It was as if evil forces had tempted the spring to show an omen, and it had rushed into the Red Keep a few moons early to create a commotion.

I was in the library. Alone, ostensibly. I had no desire to go outside to look at the buds bursting prematurely. And then there she was, hovering near the fireplace like the ghost of Hamlet's father. No retinue. No buffer.

She was holding—gods help us all—a sachet.

Cloth. Stitched. Ridiculous.

One of those scent pouches maiden Omegas sometimes make when they’re still fresh from their moonblood and haven’t yet learned shame. But this one had effort. Clearly stuffed with herbs and—something richer beneath. Her. Not in full heat, but close enough that the scent had ripened into maple.

She held it out.

“I…” she began. “I thought… you might want this. It’s not strong. Just—something for when you’re away.”

The earnestness. The sheer catastrophe of it.

She was blushing so hard she looked sunburned. Her fingers, fresh from the needlework, were trembling slightly—likely from nerves, or effort, or from the sheer strain of doing something. Her scent was pulled taut like a bowstring.

And what did I do?

MY RESPONSE (EXACT QUOTE, HANDWRITING SHAKY FROM LINGERING SHAME):

“How quaint.”

HOW QUAINT.

I said it. I said it. With the tone of a lord admiring a child’s clay dragon with four legs and one wing.

I never meant to mock it. I was—impressed? Amused? Touched, in the way one is touched when a bird lands on your shoulder and doesn’t shit on you?

But the words came out wrong. Or perhaps perfectly in keeping with who I am: someone so used to asserting authority that sincerity baffles me.

HER REACTION:

She blinked. Her eyes veiled with tears

Her mouth opened, then closed, and she gave a nod that was meant to be a shrug but failed at both. Then she set the sachet gently on the table beside me—like an offering at a tombstone—and said:

“Sorry. That was stupid.”

She turned, fast. The movement snapped. Like she’d been hit.

I didn’t stop her. I should have. I did try, belatedly, to say something—anything—but she was already halfway down the corridor, walking too fast, head ducked low.

Her scent lingered.

But it had changed.

No longer maple and warmth.

Just something sharp.

Like embarrassment.

Like trying not to cry.

[three paragraphs heavily blotted. Next page, written hours later]

I am not sorry.

Let me be clear.

I am not sorry for what I said, only for the response it provoked. There is a difference.

Her attempt—sweet, strange—was admirable in the way fledgling efforts often are. But it was not what I’m accustomed to. I did not scorn her. I simply reacted as I would to a performance unfit for the stage it presumed.

Apparently, this was the wrong approach.

Apparently, she is the kind of girl who mistakes discomfort for failure.

Fine.

Let her learn through spectacle.

OPERATION: APOLOGY,

Mission Objective: Show Lady [name] that I valued her gesture.

Subtextual Objective: Reassert dominance. Assert control over the narrative. Burnish my image as both gallant and superior.

What would most men do?

A letter? Weak.

A verbal apology? Unmemorable.

A second gift? Uninspired.

What did I do?

THE GESTURE:

I commissioned a tapestry.

Not a small one. A full-wall Vale-work tapestry, stitched by three master weavers overnight, featuring:

Her sigil entwined with mine. A map of Runestone rendered in gold thread. A seven-pointed star replaced with a stylized dragon eye. Vhagar’s, for the ones who know.

A line of text beneath, in High Valyrian:

“She Who Is Seen Shall Be Feared Not.”

(Because subtlety is for cowards.)

It was unveiled—publicly—during midday meal, hung behind her designated seat in the dining hall, with an appropriate flourish of music and actual scented petals scattered by handmaidens trained in choreographed petal-distribution.

I may have stood as it was revealed. And may have said aloud:

“For Lady [name], my betrothed. That she never doubt her place beside me.”

HER REACTION:

To call it “poor” would be like calling dragonfire “warm.”

She froze.

No. Worse. She locked. Every joint seized up. Her expression did not contort—it vacated. Her eyes widened, but there was no expression or rational thought behind them, only raw animalistic panic trying to claw its way out.

She stood. Abruptly. No curtsy, no word. Her chair scraped violently against the stone floor, a sound that seemed to rupture the air.

And then—

She bolted.

Half-walked, half-fled. Past lords and ladies. Past Alicent’s gasp and Aegon’s snort and Criston’s narrowed eyes.

I watched her go.

MARGIN SKETCH:

A very large tapestry with dramatic flames and glowing embroidery. In front of it, a stick-figure of [name] drawn mid-sprint, labeled “fleeing the scene of emotional crime.”

POST-MORTEM:

Mother came to my chambers that evening. She was... not pleased.

“You terrified her, Aemond,” she said, hand clutching the seven pointed star on her chest like she was considering whacking me with it.

“It was a grand gesture, a part of the courtship,” I said.

“It was a spectacle,” she snapped. “That girl can barely speak above a whisper, and you turned her into a performance!”

We ended up in an argument that led us nowhere, except my mother snatched all the hair oils back in retaliation. Woman’s pettiness knows no bounds, indeed.

BUT.

I do not regret the gesture.

It was labourious. Artistic. It was precise. It elevated her. It told her: you matter enough to move me to grandeur.

If that frightens her, then let her learn to stand taller.

Let her understand that being desired by a dragon is not a gentle thing. ______________________________________________________________

1st Moon of 128 AC

She is avoiding me.

Not subtly. Not in an attempt to play coy.

Systematically.

I have not seen her in three days, despite orchestrating half a dozen “accidental” routes through the Keep, the library, the godswood, the corridor that leads past the kitchens where she sometimes steals honeycakes, as Helaena had told me. She walked like a shadow among shadows and I would admire her art of folding herself like parchment if it didn't annoy the fuck out of me.

At first, I thought it was shyness. Shame. That I had overwhelmed her with my affections (true), and she needed time to recover (also true). So I gave her space.

Three days.

That was a mistake.

Because today, I heard something I was not meant to hear.

LOCATION: Alicent’s solar.

METHOD: Standing outside the partially open door under the pretense of inspecting the embroidery on a nearby tapestry.

WHAT I HEARD:

[name]. Speaking. In whole sentences.

“Please, Your Grace,” she said.

“I understand the arrangement was forged with intentions that—politically—seemed sound. But I do not feel safe. Not because he’s cruel. But because he’s so much. I’m not—I’m not strong enough to share a life with someone who ticks when my stitches are uneven and makes me look like a laughingstock to prove a point.”

I froze.

She wasn’t stammering.

She wasn’t whispering.

“I’m asking you—not out of disrespect, but fear—can you annul the engagement? Quietly? Please.”

My heart went very still.

ALICENT’S RESPONSE:

“[name]. Listen to me. This match came from the King’s own lips. He wanted Aemond to have something—someone—to anchor him. He believed your blood, your temperament, might calm him. Might balance him.”

“He said it would unite the family again. That you were a bridge.”

There was a pause.

“I don’t even know if he remembered which son he was talking about,” Alicent added, softly. “He may have meant Aegon. Or… gods, perhaps he thought Daeron was Aemond. But the decree was made. And it will not be unmade. You must—you must try. You won’t be the first woman and Omega in history to step over yourself for a man. If it will make you feel any better.”

Then silence.

Then—something even worse.

The sound of her crying quietly. The kind of crying where nothing moves except the breath.

And I stood there, behind the tapestry, like a complete fool, oblivious to the life of the Keep bustling around me. Enraged or embarrased – it is still hard to tell what I was supposed to feel.

______________________________________________________________

I met her in the inner yard the same day. She tried to walk past me with her head bowed, but I grabbed her forearm – firmer that I’ve expected from myself.

THE CONVERSATION (If One May Call It That):

Me: “So this is it? One little halt, and you’re sobbing on the knees of a Queen like a little girl? Do you really think that hiding like a rat will somehow make all the pressing matters less pressing?”

Her: “You’ve heard it.”

Her voice had heat in it. For once.

Her: “You don’t think you did anything wrong, do you?”

Me: “Lady [Name]. I think I did everything exactly as expected. If it wasn’t what you wanted—why didn’t you say so earlier?”

Her: “Because I didn’t know how to say, ‘you scare me,’ without you taking it as a compliment.”

I opened my mouth. She interrupted me before a word fell from my lips.

Her: “You look at me like I’m a part of some grand scheme that exists only in your head. You don’t actually see me. You see—some version of a wife who makes you feel like a king. And that’s not me.”

Her: “You don’t talk to me. You talk at me. Like I’m a locked door you’re very proud to be kicking in.”

Her: “I tried, Prince Aemond. I made that stupid sachet, and you laughed at it. You probably didn’t mean to, but it doesn’t matter. You think you’re being kind when really you’re just—overpowering. All the time. And you always look at me like I’m supposed to be grateful.”

She laughed. Laughed, short and disbelieving, the kind of laugh people give when something breaks clean in the chest.

Her: “But I’m not. I’m not grateful, damnit! I didn’t want this. I didn’t want you. I didn’t want to be married to the one person in the Seven Kingdoms who makes me feel like I’ve been handed a blade and told to hold it by the edge.”

“And gods help me,” she added, voice rising, cracking open, “I think I like you, and that makes it worse. Because you’re the worst man I could possibly be besotted with. And I hate it. I hate that you’re so convinced you’re always right.”

“And I hate that you’re not always wrong.”

THE MOMENT (Capital T, Capital M):

She turned around, her hair whipped in the air. With quick, jerky steps, she started walking away. I grabbed her shoulder.

Everything that followed it felt like some weird haze.

She pushed me. I clutched at her palm. She scratched me. I grabbed her chin.

It devolved into a childish brawl with the servants and courtiers looking on helplessly, because even in my weird state I would never have seriously hurt her, but I couldn't let her hurt me - just as I couldn't let her go. The mere thought of it made my teeth ache.

At one point, she sank her teeth into my palm. I hissed. And on inertia, I bit her shoulder, tearing through the fabric of her dress with my teeth.

We were breathing like animals. Both bleeding slightly. My fingers dug into her shoulders, bunching up thick woolen fabric I somehow managed to bite through. My mouth tasted like wool. Her mouth left a shallow mark on my palm.

Then it happened.

The scent broke.

All of it. Instinct.

I smelled her—maple and warmth, the damned sweet-throb of it—and it responded in me like a flare catching oil. My pulse kicked. My eye sharpened. My hands trembled like a boy’s.

It was a pulsing wave that starts low and rolls over the bones. A tightness in my spine. A need to punch a wall and then kneel in the Sept near the statue of Maiden until it wears off.

My body locked. My breath caught.

I released.

Not rut, not fully—but the prelude to it, sharp and possessive.

My scent wrapped around hers. She inhaled. Hers answered.

Permanent markers.

Teeth. Blood. All this and that..

Not enough to seal a mating bond—but enough to make it clear to any Alpha, Beta, or high-ranking bastard with a working nose:

She is no longer unclaimed.

We are scented.

Publicly. Permanently. Irreversibly.

Just scent and heat and the knowledge that if anyone touched her now I’d cut their fingers off.

Her face expressed absolute, abject horror.

She pulled away, slow, like she thought moving too fast would trigger an explosion. Her eyes were wet, wild.

“You—you ruined it.”

“You made it real.”

And then she ran. Again. But her scent clung to me like smoke on a burned house.

We were meant to suffer in symmetrical silence, not accidentally become half-mated in the middle of a shrubbery.

I cannot undo it.

And more than that—

I do not want to.

Now she’s mine. mine. mine.

[written with a lot of pressure on the quill, all letters of different sizes]

She can weep. She can beg. She can try to scrub me from her skin.

It’s too late.

We’ve begun.

And I intend to finish it.

MARGIN SKETCH: Aemond sitting in the dust, raising one hand in the air, face solemn. Labeled: "Silence, brain. Cock is thinking.”

[mochinek0]

Daminette December: 24-Scandal

PREVIOUS: Headline

Marinette spotted Damian on campus and glared at him every chance she got. On the way to her last class, she felt herself being pulled behind a stair well.

"Who do you think you are?" She demanded.

"Your boyfriend, according to the headlines." The Wayne heir smirked.

"You were the one who opened your mouth and said you were!" Mari shouted, "I thought you were just….gonna make her go away-"

"I believe I accomplished that." He replied.

Marinette growled out of frustration, "I know I went to you for help, but I didn't expect….this! I was sure you would just keep me away from her with your glare alone."

Damian smirked.

'She had faith in my abilities to keep her safe when she could have done so herself. Though, I suspect, her standing up for herself would have caused an ever greater scene.'

"You chose me, did you not?" he pressed.

Marinette tenses up and looked away, but Damian caught the blush that spread to the tip of her ears.

"Why did you help anyways?" she questioned, "Honestly, I half expected you to push me away and tell me our business was over."

"You prefer honesty, do you not?" Damian asked.

"Yes!" Marinette replied, turning around.

"You do not lower your standards. You are fixated with your own goals in mind." He continued, "You are also very intelligent. It was wise of you to use my connections for help."

'I didn't know he was paying that much attention to me.'

"Say the word and Gabriel will lose all standing in the fashion community." Damian ranted on, "We can have the Daily Planet print out articles about his abomination of a model. I am positive Lois Lane and her husband can find anything negative about her."

Getting overwhelmed by his continued praises, Marinette grabbed Damian by the collar, and pulled him into a kiss. Mari flinched at the sudden contact of his hands on her waist, but when she realized she wasn't being pushed away, she relaxed into the kiss.

"I wasn't expecting a confession." Mari whispered.

"Tch." Damian blushed, not removing his hands.

She giggled, "I'm glad you see me for my personality and not my looks. I wouldn't mind giving dating a try, if it's with someone like you."

"I guess I'm not a liar then." Damian replied.

"No. You're not." Mari answered, as Damian initiated the next kiss.

Marinette looked at a news article. Paparazzi had managed to take a picture of her and Damian, together, on campus. The headlines read: Damian Wayne protective of his future Wife.

Her face flushed as she looked at the picture. Damian had pulled her behind him and tried to keep them from getting more pictures of her.

"What's the occasion?" Damian questioned, handing her a hot cup of coffee.

Marinette showed him the article. Damian grabbed her hand and kissed the ring on her left hand.

"Yes. I am." He agreed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her still eyeing the old article, and trying to hide her blush behind her mug.

"What, Habibiti?" Damian pressed.

"You know," she admitted, "when this article came out, I was sure you would leave me. I was sure I was causing problems in your life."

"Angel." He sighed.

"I never expected you to make that headline true." She smiled.

Damian smirked, before leaning over and kissing her.

"I am not a liar." He spoke.

Marinette thought back to the headlines from the last gala. They were just staring at each other, dancing, lost in their own world. The headlines was titled: New Wayne Soon?

She thought of the pregnancy test upstairs, in a black box with a red bow she was going to show him at dinner that night.

Mari smiled back, "No, you're not."

@maribat-calendar-events

TAG LIST- DAMINETTE: @meme991001 @umbreon-worshipper @stainedglassm @jasmine-the-fox @psychicdelusionwerewolf @vixen-uchiha @mysteriouschar @missmadwoman @kanamexzeroyaoifangirl @dissarraymania @tundra1029 @abrx2002 @mrsjacuinde @ledalasombra @animegirlweeb

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[padfootagain]

Love in Verses (III)

Chapter 3 : ‘I miss him in the wheeping of the rain; I want him at the shrinking of the tide’

Hi, everyone!!! Here is another chapter! Break up is rough, angst is everywhere!

I hope you like this series! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 3954

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied   Who told me time would ease me of my pain!   I miss him in the weeping of the rain;   I want him at the shrinking of the tide; The old snows melt from every mountain-side,   And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;   But last year’s bitter loving must remain Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.   There are a hundred places where I fear   To go,—so with his memory they brim.   And entering with relief some quiet place   Where never fell his foot or shone his face   I say, “There is no memory of him here!”   And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

Edna St. Vincent Millay, Collected poems, 1938

You woke up in an empty bed.

Your alarm rang, it was time to get up and go to work. There was no one else on the other side of the mattress, nobody else’s warmth beneath the sheets. There was still Frank’s scent everywhere though, but no item left on his bedside table. You got up, took a shower where his shampoo and bodywash had disappeared, his toothbrush and razor missing by the sink. None of his clothes were left, and the thought suddenly struck you that he couldn’t have packed all of his things in the hour he stayed the previous night. Where had he left anyway? He must have planned everything…

You were so overwhelmed with emotion that you weren’t even sure what you were feeling, in the end. Hurt, anger, loss, shock, denial… God, you couldn’t believe that this was truly happening…

You looked down at your left hand, and your engagement ring was still there, on your finger, where it belonged. None of this was real, it was a mistake, a dream, a prank even… but it couldn’t be real.

How could Frank be gone? And if he was… what on earth was this story of his about a woman he had just met, a woman he barely knew? He was ready to throw away the past six years for a stranger? Was that truly all you meant to him?

This was a mistake, clearly. Frank was making a mistake. Perhaps he was stressed with his job, maybe he was freaking out because of the wedding. Whatever it was, he would realise soon that he was acting on an impulse, out of all logic, and he would come back to his senses. He ought to…

… he ought to, because how could you live without him? You had forgotten how to do it.

Andrew sent a text to Samantha, as he did every morning. He was late, as per usual. He almost tripped on Elwood, while the dog was stretching in the middle of the hallway, rushing as he did to get his coat. He checked in his pockets.

Phone, yes.

Keys, yes.

Wallet, yes.

Glasses were upon his nose, he had his bag thrown over his shoulder with his laptop, a water bottle, a thermos and…

He rolled his eyes, cursed under his breath.

An empty thermos. That’s what he had forgotten to do this morning, prepare himself some coffee or tea. Never mind, Andrew would prepare something at work, he didn’t have the time.

Anyway, the list…

An empty thermos, the article he had brought from work last night, the book of poetry he was currently studying…

He pressed ‘send’ on the screen of his smartphone, spotting a spelling mistake before he could close the app, but he didn’t have time to correct it.

Good morning, love. Hopng for a good day for you. Are you planning on dropping by tonight?

… A notebook, a couple of pencils, a hair tie. Wait, did he have a hair tie? Yes, around his wrist, of course, bloody idiot…

He petted Elwood’s head, told him to be a good boy, and hurried outside.

During his drive, he thought about Samantha, wondered if her meetings had gone well the previous day. She hadn’t sent him a text to tell him she was safely home, but upon receiving no news and no answer to his calls, he had called her friend Jess, who had told him she was indeed home, safe and sound. She was probably just drunk and had gone to bed, forgetting to text him. As long as she was safe, Andrew didn’t really mind, but he had been worried about her. He made a mental note to remind her to text him the next time she went out.

He heaved a sigh, turning up the volume of the music, letting Duke Ellington and John Coltrane fill up the space around him. A sentimental mood started playing, he felt all his muscles relax as the saxophone sang.

His mind wandered with the airy notes, jumping from Sam, to work, to you. He was happy to see you today, to ask about your work at lunchtime. You would probably have thought about your classes during the evening, would have a lot of things to discuss over a salad or a sandwich at noon. He smiled at the thought as he parked his car at Trinity.

He checked the time on his watch before leaving his car. He was late, although he had no meeting nor class to give. But he had hoped to be in his office by nine o’clock, and it was almost nine thirty. Where did these thirty minutes go? God, he really was a terrible time-keeper…

He hurried through the university grounds, left empty by the summer, students enjoying a well-deserved rest. There was still a little bit of dew wetting the grass, making it shine with pearly specs of light. The sky was a mix of blue and cotton-white, as if it pondered for now on whether to give Dublin a sunny day or a rainy one. Andrew paid little attention to those details, hurrying towards his work, his head already busy with all he had to do. He stopped by the cafeteria before heading to his office to prepare himself some coffee, filling up his thermos. He took a sip of the too-warm beverage as he exited the room, walked down a corridor, burning his tongue a little in the process. He cursed under his breath at the feeling.

He heaved a sigh, hurried towards the staircase and climbed all the way up to your shared office, a smile back on his lips as he thought of seeing you. Maybe this day had not started in the best way, but you would greet him in just a moment with your usual enthusiasm, and it would make him feel happy again. He hurried down the corridor leading to the wooden door that sported both of your names, engraved in copper.

When he opened the door, you were there, indeed. You were focused on your computer screen, didn’t seem to notice that Andrew had come in. He smiled at you anyway.

“Morning, Y/N,” he greeted you with warmth, making you finally look up at him.

“Oh… morning, Andrew,” you gave him a polite smile, right before focusing on your screen again.

The gesture was tight-lipped, professional. He frowned at the sight, blinked a couple of times before finally putting his thermos down on his desk and his bag on the ground by the side of his desk.

“You’re alright this morning?” he asked, trying to hide that his question was genuine behind a neutral tone.

“Sure. You?”

“Yeah, yeah… all grand.”

You didn’t look up, merely stared at your screen. He noticed that your eyes were red, that you seemed tired. He wondered if anything wrong had happened for you to act so cold. But then again, you were colleagues, had been for less than a week. Perhaps you were always like that. Now that the excitement of the first days was over, maybe you were just falling back into your normal character, turning professional rather than friendly. And it was alright, of course. You were colleagues. As long as you would both get along fine together, you didn’t need to be anything more.

Still, Andrew couldn’t refrain the feeling of disappointment that washed over him.

You remained quiet for the rest of the morning, and so did he. He was focused on his work, you were struggling to keep your eyes away from your phone, glancing regularly at the device propped on your desk, right by your side.

When it was finally time for lunch, Colm came knocking on the door of your office, without waiting for an invitation to come in.

“Well, hello, busy bees! Time to eat! I’m starved!” he proclaimed, making Andrew chuckle as he got up.

You didn’t move from your seat, merely granted Colm another one of your polite smiles.

“Erm… you’re eating with us, Y/N?” Andrew offered, putting on his jacket.

“Thanks for offering! But I’m really not hungry today.”

“You’re sick?” Colm asked, crossing his arms before his chest. “I know it’s your first week, but if you’re sick you can just go home. No need to act all brave and tough just to gain points towards… nobody, really.”

“No, no… it’s not that at all. I’m not sick, just… not hungry.”

“As you wish…” Colm shrugged, turning towards Andrew, who didn’t seem convinced by your explanation at all.

“Come on, Treebeard! I’m starving!”

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Andrew asked you, ignoring Colm for a moment.

But you nodded, the same neutral smile on your lips. You seemed sad, upset even.

“Sure, I’m alright.”

Andrew nodded, giving up. He was a mere colleague to you, after all. He wasn’t your friend, surely something was wrong but it was perfectly normal for you not to want to discuss it with him. Still, he forced himself to walk out of the room, guilt tugging at his heart.

Andrew ended up eating with several colleagues, and he had a nice time. He checked his phone, but Sam had not replied to his text yet. He started making assumptions, worrying about her all over again. He admonished himself for being such a worrier, for not being able to let go. She had had too much to drink, she was probably dealing with a hangover, nothing more, nothing to worry about… Besides, how hypocritical of him it would be to get angry because she wasn’t answering right away, when he was terrible at managing texts and emails himself. He too often forgot about a text he had left on read, being busy when he received it, only to remember to reply days later. He didn’t do that for Sam, though…

He walked back up the stairs with Colm and Ronan, who worked at the IT department and turned left instead of right to go back to his own office. A nice guy, commented Colm, they ought to hang out with him more often. Besides, it was always a good idea to have someone good with computers close by. The remark made Andrew chuckle, while he let Colm reach his own office. Andrew was alone again as he opened the wooden door of your shared working space.

He was quiet as the door slid open, and you weren’t. Over the noise of your own conversation you were having over the phone, you didn’t notice as Andrew was walking in, closing the door behind him. You were facing the window behind your desk.

“Frank… you can’t be serious about this.”

Frank. Andrew recognised the name. He was your partner. Perhaps the two of you had a row…

He was taking off his jacket already, but stopped before he would finish his movement. Perhaps he should just tiptoe out of the office. You didn’t seem to have noticed him, and this was clearly a personal conversation that he had no business hearing.

“What do you mean you’ve taken your decision?! Have you taken a minute to actually think?! We’ve spent six years together! Yes! No! Yes, you’re right, I’m not accepting your ‘decision’, because it makes no fucking sense! Look… just… let’s meet up tomorrow, and discuss things, okay? Are you chickening out because of the wedding?”

Andrew silently slid his jacket back on his shoulders, pulled his hair from under the collar, and slowly walked back towards the door.

“Frank, this is ridiculous… it makes no sense…”

Your voice broke, Andrew ached at the pain it was revealing.

“No, I don’t want to!”

Andrew had almost reached the door when the tiles under his feet cracked, and you spun around in a jolt. He gave you an apologetic smile, but remained frozen under your stare.

“Frank, I’ve got to go, babe. Just… please, think about what you’re doing, okay? And we need to discuss this properly, face to face.”

Your face fell, he saw that you were about to cry, before you pulled your phone away from your ear, stared at the screen with a blank stare.

“Y/N? You’re alright?” Andrew asked, staring at you, at how distressed you looked.

You blinked up at him, put your phone down on your desk. And then you shook your head, covered your mouth with your hand, and started crying. Or sobbing, rather. Andrew stared for a second with round eyes, not knowing what to do.

His first reaction was to hold you, and so he took a couple of steps towards you, but then he remembered that you were colleagues, that you barely knew each other, that it would be inappropriate for him to touch you in any way. So, he stopped abruptly, stared at you some more.

“Y/N?”

You stared at each other for a moment, while your sobbing got worse, and Andrew was thinking of what he should do. But then, you were the one to circle your desk, and basically let yourself fall into his arms. He caught you easily, held you in a tight hug.

“Hey… what’s going on? You’re alright? What’s wrong?” he asked, making his voice even softer than it usually was, rubbing soothingly your back.

You were shaking in his arms, holding on his jacket like your life depended on it.

“Frank is breaking…up… up with me,” you explained, your cries making you stutter, choking on your breathing.

Andrew clenched his jaw, held you a little tighter.

“God… I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“It’s just… out of nowhere… we’re engaged! He says… he says he’s met someone else… but he… he doesn’t know her! They met… like… just a few weeks ago… who does that?!”

“I don’t know, Y/N. I don’t know…”

“What am I going to do now?”

He let you cry for a few more minutes, supporting your weight as your legs seemed too weak to fully carry you, rubbing soothing circles into your back, your head buried in his chest.

“Why don’t you go home, Y/N? Huh? You should go home, get some rest.”

But you shook your head, suddenly breaking free from his embrace.

“No, no… I need to work…”

“You’re not going to get anything done, anyway. It’s alright. Just… go home. Go home, and rest. You’ll come back on Monday morning, once you’ve sorted this out.”

You blinked up at him, dried your cheeks on your sleeves.

“I’m sorry…”

“There’s no need to apologise. Just go home, get some rest. You’re upset, being here will do nothing to make you feel better. We don’t have classes yet, you can work at home if you want to.”

You nodded, but sat back at your computer all the same.

“I’ll leave early.”

“Alright.”

“It’s… It’s better if I don’t think about this, anyway.”

“I understand…”

“I… I’m sorry I hugged you like that…”

“No need to apologise. It’s fine. You’re upset, it’s okay.”

“I… I’m sorry if I’m a little off today…”

“Y/N… I reckon that it’s normal for you to ‘be off’ today. I’m the one who’s sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, in fact… I was about to walk out again, like… erm… but you heard me before I could…”

“You could have knocked.”

“It’s my office.”

Slowly, you nodded.

“Yeah, right… it’s okay…”

“Do you… want to talk about it?”

But you shook your head.

“It’s better if I focus on something else. Besides, I’m sure you don’t want to be bothered with my personal life.”

He nodded, not saying anything else while he took off his jacket, threw it on the back of his chair and sat down behind his desk.

When he looked up at you, you were still crying, although you were doing so in silence, drying your eyes and cheeks quickly, in an attempt to hide it.

Andrew wanted to hold you again, until you would stop crying for real.

Elwood wasn’t supposed to climb on the couch, but Andrew had such a soft spot for his dog that this rule had been neglected for a long time. Instead, he let his dog lie by his side on the sofa while he watched tv, a beer in his hand, Elwood’s head lying on his laps in search for infinite scratches. And Andrew was happy to comply and offer all the petting his dog desired.

Stallone was suffering of post-traumatic stress on screen, hiding near a village after coming back from war with nothing, but Andrew wasn’t really paying attention to Rambo’s pain. Instead, he let his mind wander off to other places, to worries and lists of things to do. He thought of you, hoped that you would be fine, that you would sort things out with the man you loved. He thought about the article he needed to read the next day, the poems he wanted to select and discuss in his class about Yeats. He thought about the notebook that sat in his office at home, that had remained closed for the past few months, how he couldn’t find any reason to write these days, how he missed being able to produce poetry. It used to quieten his busy head for a while, he grieved for the easy cure, the temporary emotional relief creating provided for him. But then again, things were a little off with Sam these days. He could feel her drifting away sometimes, didn’t feel that they were as close as they used to. They would overcome it, of course, they always did. But what worried him most was that he didn’t know the reason behind it. Especially the past few weeks. She didn’t seem to make much efforts to be with him, to show interest in him. He wasn’t sure if it came from outside, may it be work or family, or if it came from inside their relationship. Perhaps he wasn’t paying enough attention, perhaps he had said something without realising it could be hurtful to her…

Anyway, they were drifting apart, and Andrew couldn’t write. He hadn’t written a single poem in two months, the longest time he had spent not writing at all since his teenage years. He felt kind of lost without that routine, the anchor it provided.

Sam had not answered to his texts today, he was worried. He knew she was alright, he had asked her friend again this afternoon, and Sam had been to work as per usual. It wasn’t like her to simply ghost him, though, that was new.

He would have been lying had he pretended that it didn’t make him angry. He didn’t reckon that he was being too much, crossing boundaries or anything of the kind by asking her to reply, when he just wanted to make sure she was alright. He clenched his jaw at the thought, tried not to let anger win, but he couldn’t help it. She was always complaining about his lack of communication skills, but she was pulling stunts like this? Andrew was far from perfect in that area, he knew it, he tried to make efforts about it, but he had never ghosted her for an entire day.

There was something wrong, and Andrew dreaded to find out what it could be.

Andrew jumped when he heard a knock on the door. Elwood felt his sudden rush of fear, barked in response.

“Shh, it’s alright, boy,” Andrew petted Elwood’s head before standing and walking to the door.

His eyes grew round in surprise as he found Sam on his doorstep.

“Babe? What are you doing here? It’s almost midnight…”

“I… I wanted to see you.”

His heart grew warm at her words, but he was still angry because of her silence. He let her in anyway.

“You’re alright? You didn’t answer me at all since yesterday morning,” Andrew said, trying to maintain a neutral tone.

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry… I was just… busy…”

“What’s wrong? You seem upset?”

“Long day…”

She walked to the kitchen, paid no mind to Elwood as he watched her pass by, sniffed at her jeans, before heading back towards Andrew. The dog followed him around as he walked to the kitchen as well.

Andrew internally debated whether he should start a fight or not, about her silence, about the unanswered texts, about the fact that he was worried sick…

“How was your day, Andy?”

A simple question, Andrew was surprised to be stunned by it. It was a perfectly normal question, one he asked her every day, one she used to ask him. But then, he realised he was surprised because she had stopped asking about his day years ago…

“Erm… fine,” he answered, blinking at her, pushing his resentment to the side for a moment.

He looked at her fidgeting with his kettle, with a mug she had taken from the cabinet above her head. She seemed nervous, distressed even. Perhaps she was summoning up the courage to talk about whatever was bothering her. So, Andrew answered, instead of arguing.

“I… My day was fine. Got a lot of work done, ate with Colm and Ronan, which was nice. I’ve started narrowing down my list of poems I want to talk about for this new class about Yeats I’ll be teaching this year, made some historical research for it too. I’m worried about Y/N, though.”

“Really?”

“Yeah… her fiancé broke up with her last night. She’s devastated.”

He saw how Sam tensed at his words, turned her head slightly in his direction.

“Really?”

“Hmm… they had been together for several years, were engaged and everything. She was upset, like… really upset. I hope they can fix things, she seems to love him a lot. And apparently, it was very sudden too. Which only made things worse. She truly didn’t see it coming. God, can you imagine? Your long-time partner just… dropping a bomb on you like that? Without any warning? She didn’t want to talk about it, I don’t know exactly what happened, but… something so unexpected like that….”

He saw Sam struggling to swallow, saw the fear and the hesitation in her eyes, even though she wasn’t looking at him. He walked over to her, folded his long arms around waist, pressing her back to his chest, kissed her head.

“Anyway, how are you? Are you okay, baby? Why didn’t you tell me you were home last night, I was worried sick…”

“I’m sorry, I just… I’m a little off today.”

“Yeah, I can see that. What happened?”

She hesitated, but then she shook her head, and he could tell that she was changing her answer, that she was hiding something from him.

“Just…” she stopped, stared at the empty mug in front of her. “Do you think that could happen to us?”

“What?”

“What happened to your colleague… do you think that could happen to us?”

Andrew’s heart started pounding, but he didn’t show it. He didn’t show the panic rising in his chest at the thought, he merely tightened protectively his hold on her instead.

“Of course, not. We’ve always been through every issue we’ve had, every row, every hard time. We’ll be fine, babe. We’re always fine.”

She didn’t relax per say, but Sam heaved a sigh, shook her head, turned in his arms to hug Andrew tight.

“You’re right. That’s silly…”

“Babe, what’s going on? What’s wrong?”

But she shook her head, closing her eyes as she buried her face in his t-shirt.

“Nothing. Nothing important. I’m sorry I was so off today.”

“I love you, Sam.”

She opened her mouth to answer, but seemed to change her mind right before speaking. “I know, Andy. I know.”

[giurochedadomani]

so. okay. the lanes are the result of silco & vander's smuggling operation according to one of the writers. the one who let them make money other than miners. we also know that they were friends in the mines.

my question is: were they friends before the smuggling opperation or they became friends through it? Bc I've just pictured Silco approaching Vander a bit à la Luke Skywalker approaching for the first time the very charming pilot willing to deliver cargo and I really like that insane level of gayness.

like. was vander in sevika's possition back in the day? in the sense that silco seems to always have been the mastermind in the shadows, with sevika as the more public face of his whole enterprise. did he have the same thing going on with vander back in the day? Because I also really, really like that level of gayness.

anyway. I need to know more about them.

[fuck-customers]

Yet another "you have to show your membership card to use your membership benefits" being too fucking hard for people at the movie theater story.

Today, Thanksgiving in the USA, this group came and was mad about having to show their membership card to use their membership benefits, which is something you agree to when you sign up. They wanted to report me to the manager because "you ALWAYS do this to us". And also "we've been here a few times and you should know us by now".

1, go ahead. I have been reported to the manager, or even corporate, at least 100 times by now (probably a lot more than that) about the fact that I check membership cards. And I've never gotten in trouble. Because they want me to check them. I just get told that I'm doing a good job and to keep at it. I'm one of the best door-people/ticket-takers in the company.

2, I don't personally give a fuck if you have a membership card or if you're using someone else's, even though it's against the rules. I'm a big believer in Staying In My Own Lane. But it's my job to check and I have rent to pay, so it /is/ My Lane.

3, according to my manager, we had either 33,000 or 35,000 customers yesterday (she couldn't remember which) and I was at door, and therfore interacting with every single person who came in, for eight of the 14 hours that we were open. So I helped at least 15,000 customers yesterday, and probably closer to 20,000. Believe it or not, I can't fucking remember every single person to come here a couple times. If I've seen you here weekly for several years, then maybe you can be a bit annoyed if I don't remember you, but I also have diagnosed faceblindness in association with my other disabilities and can only recognize my own parents' faces about half the time. (If I do remember you, I remember your hairstyle, or your tattoos, or how you dress, or something like that.)

On a funnier note, I had this conversation with someone at work yesterday.

Me: "um. What's in your pocket?" (It looks like a weapon)

Guy: "I'm barbecuing."

Guy: "it's a barbecue knife."

Me: "uh. A what?"

Guy: [with a tone that suggests that I should already know what he's talking about] "a barbecue knife."

And I just stared at him because what the fuck is a barbecue knife??? I know about barbecue tongs and barbecue forks, but not barbecue knives (and he can't be talking about the carving knife that sometimes comes with barbecue tongs, because it fit in his pocket, and those knives are very long)

Also, you can neither barbecue nor have knives in here anyway. Also, I don't think I'd want to eat anything that was cut by a knife that was just hanging out in some guy's pocket for who knows how long.

Posted by admin Rodney

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt from the one where Krypton lives and Kara did not sign up for this.

Only Kal would manage to get his DNA stolen on a planet called “Earth”, of all the godsdamned stupid places.

Might as well just be named “The Planet” or something, she swears. 

“All three it is,” Kara says, waving open her wall storage and grabbing her rice pot out of it. She only has the one because she's never had to cook for anyone else in her life, much less anyone who was staying with her, but she'll make it work. 

Somehow. 

Can't be any worse than pulling off mission-critical military maneuvers in shit conditions with untried and under-trained new recruits, she figures. 

. . . though she is admittedly more prepared for that situation than this one, if it comes to it. 

Look, that’s just experience, alright? She’s been on a thousand maneuvers and missions she didn’t have the resources for, but Kal doesn’t get cloned every day. 

Well, at least not when he’s not on incredibly uncreatively named alien planets, anyway. 

Kara dumps three times the usual amount of rice into her rice pot while Thirteen hovers just outside the kitchen and Match stands very, very still beside him. Neither of them says anything else, though Thirteen looks like he might want to. He seems to be the talker, from what Kara can tell. 

Or at least, he’s the one they’ve designated to be the talker. He asks more questions, and sometimes Match looks at him like he’s expecting him to ask a question. Even if they don’t necessarily get along, they seem to be cooperating at least that much. 

Well, it makes sense. They’re the only other successful Kryptonian-human clones that anyone’s aware of existing, and they know cloning is illegal on Krypton, and Kal isn’t here right now. Who else are they going to rely on when meeting a total stranger? 

Even a total stranger who is, technically, family. 

Or at least arguably, anyway. 

Her house communicator plays a familiar identifying little melody as she’s juggling her spheres of katso sauce and dried spygin in one arm while trying to dig out the last couple of bly fruit she <i>knows</i> she had shoved in the back of her cold storage, which admittedly is a bit cluttered with premade meals right now. Or . . . always, pretty much. 

In her defense, she really doesn’t cook very much. Or very well. Or . . . at all, really, when she can avoid it. 

She’s a grown woman and a decorated general, alright? She doesn’t need to cook if she doesn’t want to. 

“Accept call,” she instructs briskly, and the communicator’s holoscreen materializes to her side. Thirteen startles slightly; Match doesn’t so much as twitch. Doesn’t so much as breathe either, though, so she’s pretty sure he was startled too. At least, that’s the impression she’s been getting from the way he’s reacted to things so far. 

Avoided reacting to things, more like. 

“Oh, look who’s finally calling,” she says, eyeing Kal’s image on her projected screen. He looks just barely harried and the slightest bit sheepish, and she can see a dark-haired woman who’s presumably his new wife sitting behind him in his home office wearing peculiar clothing that is definitely not Kryptonian, but also doesn’t look nearly as indecent as what Thirteen and Match both showed up wearing. She seems occupied with a reader, and keeps activating and deactivating it like she’s never seen anything like it before. 

So probably the wife, yes. Lois Kal-El, née Sam-Lane, according to Kal’s previous calls. Though he also says that humans have slightly different naming schemes than Krypton does. And apparently more varied ones than Krypton does, too. 

Why Kal apparently made sure his grown wife was more appropriately dressed than the children were is beyond her, though.

[bunnyley00]

Bittersweet Punishment

pairing: gang member fem!reader x mafia boss!nanami

genre: slight angst, smut, fluff

rating: 18+ 

word count: 7.8K (something's wrong with me ik)

warnings: slightly angsty, mention of drug usage, nanami is emotionally constipated but eventually figures it out, light bondage with a certain item ahem, impact play (spanking), dirty talk, light degradation, overstim, sex on multiple surfaces, punishment kink, orgasm denial, hair pulling, fingering, oral sex, dom nanami, fluffy aftercare

When you don’t listen to your boss who happens to be running the biggest crime syndicate in the world, there’s ultimately going to be consequences.  

Joining the crime ring scene was probably one of the best decisions you could’ve made with your life. Abandoned by your father, and taking care of your mother as she widdled her existence away doing drugs, you had nowhere else to go. Your other relatives were too far away, and they didn’t even know you. So, you sucked it up and finished school, and managed to get a good job at some random company as a data analyst. You always hated it, felt like you were wasting your life away every day at a desk. The only thing that made it worthwhile was your boss: Nanami Kento. He was tall, handsome, and precise with everything he did. Seeing him about once every week to give him your written reports was always a highlight. You strove to go above and beyond, looking for a sense of purpose through your occupation. Needless to say, it paid off. 

You see, Nanami wasn’t the man you thought him to be. Yes, he looked strong, probably capable of throwing someone across a room, but you had never seen him act out or be violent. So when one random weekend, you received an anonymous invitation to some undisclosed location miles out, only to discover that the Nanami Kento you know happened to be the leader of the Kaisen Syndicate, you didn’t know how to react. But from then forward, you knew you had found something truly special. If you remember the way he put it: “I respect your tenacity and work ethic more than anything else. I would like to see if you’re willing to display those qualities elsewhere.” 

At first, you wanted to deny him, to tell him he’s insane and how could he be in charge of such a terrifying and dangerous group of people. But then, you take a moment. This Syndicate has done terrible things, yes, but only to terrible people: drug dealers, traffickers, money laundering schemists; The list goes on. Even if their methods were less than… moral, the result was a cleaner world, and you could get behind that. So you trained as hard as you possibly could, breaking your limits one by one, body and soul. You probably worked the hardest to get where you were, and it felt good to reap the benefits. You never grew hungry, or without. The Syndicate was like family to you, one you never had. But Nanami, he was always who you had your eyes on, seeking his approval and praise, bettering yourself not only for you but for him. So he could finally just see you without the eyes of a man who’s just in charge.  

You suddenly come to your senses, remembering that you were in a Syndicate meeting and it was hardly the time for a trip down memory lane. This is a huge job. That’s what you think half haphazardly in your mind anyway as Nanami continues with his meeting about the next mission that needs to be carried out for the inevitable expansion of the group. A deal had gone wrong with an enemy gang for some material a month back, and now we were to seize the materials forcefully… use them as an example of sorts. That was the gist anyway. The intel was crucial for everyone who could be chosen for situations like this, in case something doesn’t go according to plan. That’s who Nanami was, even at the company; He was someone who had backup plans for his backup plans. But, who could blame him? Working as a salaryman as a front for his mafioso dealings, he needed the insurance. It wasn’t an option. 

You’d felt as though you’d certainly be chosen for this mission. You were undoubtedly one of the best in the middle ranks, and your colleagues knew how hard you worked. Someone with barely any prior knowledge of combat, manipulation, and intel gathering forced you to become a novice overnight, something everyone respected you for. 

Nanami paced back and forth slowly and methodically in front of a projector displaying the area that would be infiltrated while explaining the details. “As previously stated, this will be a two-man operation at most. There is no need to send the whole Syndicate to a rival organization that cannot respect us or have the common decency to behave. Therefore we shall not be overextending ourselves and show them that we will not be toyed with, with as minimal effort as possible.” His voice was monotone yet smooth, words coming out with purpose.

“You will get in, dispose of any that get in your way, gather the product and return to me. In addition, there is an envelope that you will deliver to their leader. Under no circumstances will you kill him. While it could dissolve them, it could also lead to another person being inclined to take his place and start a full-on war. I’m not a fan of working overtime, as you all know, so a war is not a goal of mine.” 

The room full of members all hummed and nodded in agreement, and you continued to watch Nanami, his words beginning to drown out as you watched him walk. He was clad in his usual attire, always in some sort of suit and tie. The jacket fit him just right but the dress shirt underneath was always a little too small for him in the best way. You swore you could see the outline of his pecks, that the buttons were probably screaming to be let free from the prison that was his fit abdominal structure. 

“I will summon the two members suited for the job later today. You’re all dismissed.” 

Those words made you snap out of your trance, and you stood up, letting everyone file out. You were one of the last ones to leave the meeting room, but Nanami stopped you. 

“Wait. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you,” he piped up as he gathered up files and mission info neatly. He’d been doing that quite frequently lately, asking you about your training, about your work at the company, about just…you in general. It never bothered you one bit. 

“Yes?,” you ask politely as you turn around, making your way toward him. Your eyes meet his through his glasses, the green tint making it hard to see his actual dark brown eyes. “How has your physical condition been lately? I was informed that you pushed too hard during your spar last week. You were limping for days.” You let out a soft, “Pshh,” waving a bit with your hand, “I’m okay. It was just a few scratches.” 

Nanami hated when you lied, especially because you were shit at it. “Besides,” you continue, “Should it matter? I’m just another cog in the machine, right?” “No,” he stated in rebuttal, “I respect and trust every one of my colleagues. Had you been someone else I would’ve asked the same questions.” 

‘Wow, way to make me feel special, boss,’ you thought before mentally berating yourself for expecting any other response but that one. 

You hum, watching his large hands continue to fiddle with papers. “How have you been, then?” you ask with a raise of your eyebrows. “I hardly see how that information is relevant.” “Because I respect and trust you, I want to know how you’re doing. Same concept.” He knew you were playfully mocking him, then again, you always did that.  “It’s not the same. You don’t bear my burdens so my feelings aren’t what matters here.” 

God, he was so confusing when he did this. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at him. “Sure, boss.” “That attitude is why you’re always getting into heated scraps. And you know I dislike the title ‘boss’,” he mused, “Even at the company I can’t stand it.” He finally finished gathering his things. “Just continue to execute like you always have. You’re one of my best, don’t squander it by getting so hurt that you can’t.” 

“Yes Sir,” you answered back respectfully, internally blushing at the words ‘one of my best’. He very rarely complimented you so directly in this line of work. 

A day later, you prepared yourself to be called into Nanami’s office at Syndicate Headquarters, the pre-mission butterflies floating around in your stomach in a way that made you increasingly giddy. Walking about the halls, you waited and waited, looking for an announcement, listening for gossip on who he’d chosen. You hoped to hear your name amongst the hushed whispers. However, what you found out frankly just pissed you off. 

“Didn’t you know?”, Itadori asked, chewing on a piece of his milk bread fruit sandwich. “Know what?”, you cocked an eyebrow up. “Nanamin chose me and Takuma-san.” “He what?!” “Yeah, the meeting was earlier this morning. I asked him if he was sure and he just said what he always does. The whole, ‘This is the most efficient way’ spiel.” Your eye twitched and Itadori knew exactly what you were about to do, “Good luck.” 

The other members could see it all over your face, and didn’t try to stop you as you practically stormed up to his office. They knew only you would get away with stunts like this, outwardly and inappropriately showing your anger and or frustration over a decision that’s already been made. You didn’t even bother knocking, just opening the door to a quiet Nanami penning away in his notebook at his desk. “So was it a lie?,” you said curtly, letting the heavy door shut behind you.

“I was expecting you. What are you talking about?”, he spoke up, glancing up at you before returning his eyes to his work. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” “Is this about the mission?”, he asked, finally giving you his full attention. “Is this about the mission? Of course it is! ‘You’re one of my best’? Was it a lie?” “Why would I lie about something like that?”, he asked calmly. “Well, obviously I’m not because you’re sending Itadori and Takuma! I’m just as good if not better for the job!” Nanami sat back in his large leather chair, fixing his glasses. “Just because I’m not sending you doesn’t mean you’re not equipped for the job.” “So why?!” “Don’t yell.” You didn’t even have time to register who exactly you were talking to and kept going, genuinely hurt by his seeming oversight of your abilities after all this time. “No! I want to know why I won’t be there!”

Nanami grew quiet, just watching you. Why did he not send you? You were an easy choice. Reliable, capable, strong. He trusted you more than some of the other people under his wing. It should’ve been a ‘home run’ so to speak. But, something in his chest stirred when he thought about you facing off an entire organization basically on your own. You weren’t quite ready yet. It felt…wrong to send you. “Because both Itadori and Takuma are a bit more experienced.” “Bullshit.” “Excuse me?” “Did I stutter?! Bull! I don’t care if they are! I’ve worked my ass off! I deserve this! Stop lying to me. Do you think I’m too weak? Is that it? Is it because I’m a woman?! You think I just belong back at the office?!” You knew that didn’t make any sense. Gender never mattered to Nanami, but you were just so angry you wanted to, as bad as it sounded, blame him for something.

Those words made Nanami’s brow furrow. He was getting quite irritated. “You deserve it? Please tell me how exactly you do when you’re in here throwing a fit like a child. And don’t you dare imply such a disgustingly sexist and absurd thing. Not only are you disrespecting me but yourself as well. You aren’t going. That’s my final say on the matter.” You felt more and more of your emotions swirling inside of you, manifesting itself as heat in your face and fingertips. “What’s the matter with you?! You compliment me and give me extra attention and training and tell me I’m one of the best but you don’t send me on one of the most important jobs since I’ve been here?!” You raise your arms in defeat, fighting not to get teary-eyed. 

“Yes! That’s exactly what’s happening!”, he raised his voice back, fed up with your attitude and how you spewed baseless accusations at him. The tone was deep and almost guttural, and it made your eyes widen in surprise and your body jump, startled at the outburst. He never got like this. Nanami couldn’t comprehend why you were so upset. He was just trying to make sure that you didn’t overextend yourself. That was the only reason. Right?…Right? 

You grew quiet, eyes and body relaxing before biting your lip, your eyes growing cloudy despite your efforts. “You know what? Fine. You don’t want me to go? I won’t,” Nanami wanted to apologize for raising his voice, but he knew it would fall on deaf ears. You began to turn around to walk out before turning your head to look at him. “Anything else I should be informed of before I leave, Kento?” Nanami clenched his jaw slightly. You were one of the few people who knew his name. The other members would just call him “Leader” or “Boss”, much to his dismay. Nevertheless, you never used it until now. “You’re dismissed.” He watched you stomp off, putting his head in his hands as soon as the door to his office closed behind you. 

The day of the mission was nigh, and per the meeting, you knew when your coworkers would head out and where to meet. “Screw Nanami. I’ll fucking show him,” you mumble to yourself, getting dressed in all-black attire to carry out the mission without his permission. You prepped as much as you could, and when you arrived at the rendezvous point in the dead of night, both Itadori and Takuma recognized you immediately. 

“Uhh, what are you doing here?!,” Takuma whisper-yelled frantically. “I told you she’d show up,” Itadori mused, a quiet laugh slipping past his lips, “I don’t know why she wasn’t put on the mission in the first place.” “How’d you even know it was me?”, you asked, looking around to make sure the coast was clear. “Because you’re the only one stupid enough to defy Nanami like this,” Takuma stated matter of factly, “And who cares if she’s just as capable, she wasn’t chosen,” he said to Itadori. The pink-haired boy just shrugged, “I’m sure we could use the extra help. I mean, sure Nanamin wouldn’t be necessarily happy about it but we’d get the job done.” Takuma just groaned in disapproval, “Whatever. I don’t approve of this but I can’t stop you.” You gave both of them a cheeky smile, “You’re right. You can’t.” 

Some part of you wished he had stopped you. The mission was successful but at the cost of heavy bodily injuries. Takuma got the worst of it, and you were right behind him. Somehow, though, Itadori came out mostly unscathed, with only a few bruises littering his body. He was always kinda freaky like that, like a walking superhuman. You, on the other hand, had various wounds ranging from stabs, to dark purple and yellow bruises, and your back was littered with scratches from a glass window pane you were kicked through. You wore the injuries proudly though, musing that they were your badge for succeeding. The other members couldn’t help breaking into whispers the moment you 3 returned to Headquarters, no doubt talking about you. You didn’t have the fucks to give though, and you proceeded up to Nanami’s office with head held high. 

The moment Nanami saw you with Itadori and Takuma, he was fuming. It was exactly why he didn’t want you to go in the first place. You were hurt badly and it made him rethink his… feelings toward you because the way his chest felt seeing you that way didn’t feel normal. “Itadori, Takuma,” his eyes landed on you next, taking in your state. “All three of you-,” he was interrupted by Takuma, “Sir, I told them I didn’t approve but-,” It was Nanami’s turn to interrupt him. “I care not about the details of who went. How did the mission fair?” “Went off without a hitch!”, Itadori smiled, “More people resisted than we initially thought though. Took a lot for them to actually get scared.” Nanami hummed, “And the envelope?”

“I delivered it,” you piped up, “It’s with their boss safe and sound. The materials are also back in our possession as well.” “Is that so? Good. Well, as per usual, based on your condition you shall all take a short break from the field. Itadori, you should only need a week or so, right?” Itadori nodded, “Yeah Nanamin! I’ll be all good.” “I thought I said stop calling me that.” “Aw, but it’s a really good nickna-.” “Whatever,” Nanami gives up. They have that conversation every other day and it always goes nowhere anyway. “Takuma, 2 weeks for you. There’s nothing broken, right?” Takuma shook his head. “Just lots and lots of bruising, heh,” he lifted his hand to scratch the back of his head but winced as he did so. 

Nanami returned his hard gaze to you. “I want you on a month's hiatus.” “But-” “No arguing. You have deep stab wounds that need stitching and proper healing. I just know you’ll do nothing but go back to training if you return here. A month at the least.” You couldn’t even fight back, he was right. The wounds were fighting to close, hot and throbbing. “The nurse downstairs will tend to all of you. Go home after, get some rest,” he stood, looking at all of you, “Good job for a successful mission despite some changes in the moment. I’m glad you’re all alright. You’re dismissed.”

After Itadori and Takuma left, you expected to be called back, but Nanami just sat back down at his mahogany desk, continuing to work. “No reprimand?,” you asked in the quiet of the room. He glanced up at you, “Not at this time. Your recovery is more important. You’ll receive some corrective action when you return. I’ll see you at the company in the meantime.” That was unlike him, but you supposed he already felt bad for the argument the both of you had earlier. “Not kicking me out are you?” “Not in the slightest. You just need some… readjustment for your behavior.” “Sure thing, Sir. Goodnight.” “Goodnight. And I’m not lying when I say that I am glad you’re alright.” The statement made you smile a bit. “Yeah.” 

The next month went by fairly quickly, although you weren’t going to Syndicate Headquarters every night. You almost enjoyed the break from the constant fighting, and ended up taking a bit more extra time. You still saw Nanami every day at your day job. The clothes you wore covered most bandages, and you explained the visible ones away as just plain, clumsy behavior. Your wounds healed nicely and at a rate you didn’t expect. Only one stab wound needed stitches. You’d surely have scars but that didn’t bother you. They were merely proof that you were alive. So, when you were back at the Syndicate after almost 2 months, you were welcomed with open arms, literally. They all dog-piled onto you like you’d been gone for years, saying that they’d missed you and your presence around the place. You smiled and laughed with them, once again incredibly grateful for such a large group of people who loved you unconditionally. “Oh! Nanamin said he wanted to welcome you back. He’s in his office,” Itadori informed you. “Okay,” you nodded, promising you’d be back as you made your way toward your leader’s door. 

“You asked for me?”, you piped up as you opened it, letting it close behind you. Nanami was standing, both hands leaning back on his desk. “Lock it.” “Huh?” “Lock the door.” Your heart started beating a little faster just then. “Why?” “I just don’t want to be interrupted.” “O-kay?”, you spoke slowly, following his directions. “Welcome back.” He took off his glasses, running his hand through his blonde hair before setting them aside. Sometimes you forgot that he didn't actually need them to see. He then asked, “How are your wounds?” “Glad to be back,” you smiled, “They’re way better. That extra time I took sped up the healing process..” What was he up to? He looked… different somehow. Oh, how you had no idea. “That’s good. There are 3 things I’d like to inform you of…,” he trailed off, his eyes intense. “First, I am sorry for yelling at you.” You looked down at the floor, “I’m sorry for yelling as well… and accusing you.” “I now know why I was so adamant on keeping you from the mission,” he continued, letting his hands softly move him off of the desk and toward you, “And that brings me to number two.” He used one hand to slowly lift your chin, and the action surprised you. Your eyes widened slightly, and you swore you could hear your heartbeat in your ears. “It was more than your skill set, or even keeping you from overextending yourself.” His voice was silky smooth, deep in all the right ways as he spoke to you. “It was because I wanted to keep you from harm's way. I didn’t want to see you in pain or with so many injuries. Because in reality…,” he’d been slowly walking you back, yet you didn’t notice and were surprised when your back hit a solid wall. 

His face moved past yours and dipped down for his mouth to reach your ear, the tips of them hot much like the rest of your body. “I’ve always wanted you,” he whispered. “Every part of you. At first, I thought it may be just the way I admire your tenacity. It wasn’t an unreasonable thought. You work hard, all for me, don’t you?” You didn’t even register that a question was asked, mouth dry and mind foggy from the kindling of fire in your lower regions. Your breath rose and fell steadily but deeply, your breasts almost rubbing against him with each inhale. “I,” you started, “I, yeah. I do.” “Exactly. And then I thought: ‘How did I not notice?’ Whether you’re at the company, making sure you wear a low-cut shirt so the tops of your breasts are flashing me while you read off your report to me, or when you wear tight pants to incite me to look at your curves at the Headquarters, you’re always seeking my attention. And more importantly, you’re seeking my praise. Am I wrong?”

He was reading you like a book now, and even though it took him an eternity, you still didn’t expect to feel so exposed in the moment. He pulled his head back a bit to re-establish the heady eye contact. You tried to be coy. “I mean, not necessarily,” you managed to breathe out. “You really are bad at lying, you know? The extra training, the almost excessive reporting, taking on extra work, asking me repeatedly, ‘How’d I do?’ The look on your face when I compliment you is filled with warmth and something else. But I can probably infer what that is.” 

Being pinned against the wall was the least of your worries, as your clit throbbed against your panties, hands at your sides and Nanami kept you caged in like a predator closing in on his prey. “And the third thing?”, your voice trembled. “Ah, the third thing. Do you recall what I said before you left my office 2 months ago?” “Something about readjusting my behavior?”, you breathed, beginning to put the pieces together. “That’s right. Good girl.” The shiver that ran down your spine shouldn’t have been that intense, and it made you squirm against him. “Now, is this what you want?” His question was serious, not laced with arousal but genuine. “Maybe,” you said slightly playfully. “A terrible liar as always,” he said quietly, leaning down to kiss you. Your lips slotted together slowly yet intensely, and it was everything you’d been waiting for. His large hands made their way to your waist, squeezing you softly as you moaned into his mouth. He let you indulge because this would be the last time you would for a while. Your arms made their way up to his broad shoulders, wrapping around them while he nipped at your bottom lip. 

Your body screamed, begged for more, the heat in between your legs growing in intensity. After what felt like an eternity of teasing bites, small prods of tongues, and little sounds being consumed by Nanami’s lips, he pulled back. You just about whined and Nanami couldn’t help a small smirk. “I’m sure you’ll live. You waited this long, right? Don’t forget,” he squeezed your hips a bit more, “This is a punishment. You directly disobeyed my orders. So now I have to take my time and break you down piece by piece, and put you back together again.” “Heh,” you let out a breathy laugh, “Is that what you intend to do?” “Oh, darling, it’s what I’m going to do.” 

You had to be dreaming, but the way your breath hitched and your pussy ached had to be real. His hands moved upward, trailing the sides of your abdomen and then shifting to take the hem of your shirt and lift it up. You let the shirt slide over your head, watching as he tossed it aside. You took no time in taking off your shoes, Nanami leaning down to kiss you again as he kneaded your tits through your bra as you worked on your pants. Now that he’s gotten a taste of you, he is going to indulge in every facet of your body. As soon as your pants were discarded you were left in your matching bra and panty set. He pulled back. “I want you bent over my desk, with your hands resting on your back.” You nodded a bit, “O-Okay,” you said breathily as your body began moving towards the desk. His words stopped you in your tracks. “Okay, what?” “Okay, Sir,” you corrected yourself, and you swore your pussy got wetter. “That’s better. Good girl.” 

He watched you get into position, and when you were, he took a moment to admire your body, how small it was compared to him. It made his dick throb a bit in his pants. In just a few minutes you’d be putty in his hands, moaning and writhing all for him. It really did take him too long to get here. You heard the sound of clothes rustling and then what you immediately recognized to be his tie tying your wrists together. The desk was cold against your skin, sending goosebumps along every inch of it. “Isn’t that your favorite tie?”, you asked playfully. He only reserved his tan suit and speckled tie for special occasions. “It is. Why wouldn’t I wear it on a day when I train a brat on how to behave?”, he asked, finishing the knot and following up his question with a smack against your ass. 

“Ah!,” you yelped in surprise, squirming against the desk. “Not too loud now,” Nanami mused, “You wouldn’t want the rest of the Syndicate to know how much of a disobedient brat you are, would you?” Slap. “A-Ah! No!” “No, what?” Slap. “N-No, Sir!” “Good, good.” He rubbed his hand against your now slightly red cheeks, the touch soft despite his calloused hands. “This is long overdue, you know? How many times have you disobeyed me? Ignored my instructions because you felt like you could do it better your way? Even at the company, trying to undermine my authority.” Slap. “F-Fuck,” you moaned, fighting back the instinct to get loud. “It really is a pity, darling, that I had to resort to such,” slap, “physical means of getting through to you.” Your ass was on fire and you jumped a little every time Nanami’s hand came down on your cheeks. You wanted to squirm away but it felt so good. At this point, your panties were soaked with your wetness, a visible spot on them. 

Nanami watched while you squirmed and shifted on the desk, your ass jiggling with every sharp movement. You were nearly on your tippy toes, and he could tell you were enjoying yourself. “Now, how many times do you think I should bring my hand down on this ass of yours?”, he asked. You heard him shift and then felt fingers tugging at the hem of your panties. They were pulled down slowly, your bare ass now on display. A wet string of slick connected you to your panties until it broke, the clothing item now at your feet. “I-I don’t know,” you whined, the cold of the room hitting your core. “You don’t? Want to take a guess, darling?” Nanami reached a hand to your pussy, lightly running two large fingers against your folds. You gasped and moaned, hips moving back against the touch. “You won’t get what you want until you give me a number.” Your forehead was up against the mahogany wood, breath escaping as mild panting, heating up your face more in the process while he persistently teased your pussy. “T-Ten,” you finally spoke up. 

“Only ten? Do you really think a brat like you only deserves ten?” Nanami did a few quick circles on your clit. “Fuck, N-Nanami, I don’t know, please.” “Hm? Please what? You still haven’t honored my request yet.” He pulled his fingers back. “Okay! O-kay. Twenty?” “Twenty sounds fair enough for all the trouble you’ve put me through. Good girl.” Slap. “That’s one.” “Shit!” Nanami used his other hand to continue to rub your clit at a painstakingly slow pace, occasionally dipping the tip of his digits into your entrance. Slap. “Mmfm!,” you moaned, biting your lip to hold in your sounds. With every slap came the delicious feeling of focusing on his fingers, but the combination of pleasure and pain left you dizzy. “You’re enjoying yourself aren’t you, darling?” Slap. “Does this feel good? Me punishing you for being a bad little brat?” Slap. “Your greedy pussy is dripping for me.” Slap. “G-God, yes it feels good!”, you answered obediently and he rewarded you, sheathing the full length of both fingers inside of you. “You look so gorgeous tied up like this.” Slap. “I should punish you more often, shouldn’t I?” Slap. You were drowning in pleasure rutting back against his fingers and eating the satisfying sting of his palm against your ass. Although the pace was slow, the knot in your lower abdomen began to build, your orgasm creeping toward you like a thief in the night. By the last slap you were whining and whimpering, Nanami’s fingers still working inside of you. 

“Would you like to cum, darling?”, he drawled, the sound of his fingers entering and exiting your hot, wet slit filling the room. “Y-yes! Please!”, you beg without much fight, cloud nine so close but so far. Nanami kept going, speeding up his fingers until he felt your legs tremble and your breath become uneven. You were just about to tip over the edge and then…nothing. The loud whine that you let escape your mouth didn’t even sound like you to your ears, and Nanami took both hands and squeezed your thoroughly reddened ass cheeks, your arousal still on his fingers. “It seems that you’ve forgotten that this was a punishment, darling. You don't quite get what you want yet.” “Nanami,” you whined again, hips moving back in search of something, anything to cure the ache in between your legs. “You really are an impatient little thing aren’t you?” 

Nanami helped you get to your feet and guided you to the other side of his desk. He sat in his chair. “Kneel for me,” he spoke up, and you followed directions swiftly. He made sure that you didn’t lose your balance. You watched as he unfastened his belt, and you felt a sliver of shame as your mouth began to water. He unbuttoned his pants and then looked at you. “Use your teeth.” “Yes, Sir,” you almost moaned, leaning your upper body forward to get into position. You let your teeth grab ahold of his zipper, following a command of, “Look at me,” as you pulled it down slowly. Nanami let out a small sigh and assisted you in pulling his throbbing dick out of his pants. It bounced out of his briefs, his tip sticky with his pre. “Show me you’re a good girl,” he spoke up, using a hand to softly caress your jaw and trailing it up into your hair. 

You leaned into the touch, letting out a soft, “Yes, Sir,” as you let your head descend and your mouth wraps around the tip of his cock. It was thick, and you moaned at the taste of his pre cum. Looking up at him, you began to slowly bob your head, coating his length in your saliva. He groaned, letting his head rest against his chair as he watched you intently. “That’s a good girl. There we go, just like that,” he praised, making your already swollen clit almost hurt from the arousal. You lifted your head off of his dick, licking from his balls to the tip repeatedly to trace the pulsating veins that ran up it. Your head went back down onto him again, taking him in more and more with each movement. His hand guided you through it all, your sticky spit running down his dick and onto his balls. You began to wonder if you could really handle not cumming for this long, your pussy hot and needy. You tried to sneak your other hand down to your clit and the grip he had on your hair tightened. “Where’s that hand going, darling? Did I say you could touch yourself?”, he asked, pulling your head up and off of him. 

Your spit ran down your chin. “N-No.” “Right, I didn’t say that, did I? So why is your hand trying to play with your bratty little pussy?” You moved your hand. “I-I’m sor-” The moment you did he pushed your head back down onto his cock, moving it up and down forcefully. “And here I thought you learned your lesson,” he grunted, moaning at your hot mouth, “But I guess brats never really learn do they? Have you got anything to say? Hm?” You struggled to produce the words ‘I’m sorry’ as his dick moved in and out of your mouth and throat, the sounds coming out garbled and riddled with wet, sloppy sounds. “Yeah? Are you sure?”, Nanami asked, his brow furrowing from the pleasure. You attempted to say yes, but gave up entirely, letting him use your mouth. He pulled your head off when he was close, dick pulsating as he denied himself sweet release. You coughed and sputtered a bit, eyes watery from the forcefulness of it all. Nanami leaned down and pulled your head up, kissing you hard enough to take the little wind left you had out of your lungs. 

You gasped as he suddenly stood, picked you up, and put you on the desk, but ass up face down. He sat back down in his chair, your wet pussy right in front of his mouth. “Is this what you want?”, he spoke right against it and you moved your ass back so much you almost fell. He held your ass and hips. “Please, Kento, please,” you begged, a whining mess with your cheek up against the wood. “I want it, I want it.” Nanami didn’t leave you hanging, instantly starting to suck on your clit. “Oh god f-fuck!” His mouth sucked and licked at your slit, taking in the taste of your arousal with a low groan. He hummed, letting the vibrations give you a bit of extra sensation. Your hips rocked and shook, and he held you tight, not allowing you an inch of movement as he ate you out like it was the last thing he’d ever do. “Kento! Oh god, Kento fuck!-” “So vocal for me. Although I don’t expect anything else from a brat like you who can’t keep her mouth shut otherwise.” He let his long tongue dip inside of you, pushing your hips back and forth to tongue fuck you. His thumbs spread your ass cheeks apart, opening up your pussy for him. 

You were so sensitive you were shaking. Your tits were rubbing against the desk, nipples hard from the teasing stimulation. Your pussy clenched around his tongue and once again you felt your orgasm creep up on you while Nanami licked you. He sucked on your clit repeatedly, letting it go with a small pop sound over and over again, switching between that and using his tongue to soak your slit in his spit. “Shit- shit, fuck,” you panted, brows knitted tightly on your face as your eyes shut. Nanami knew you were close, could see it in the way your legs trembled and your moans broke up into gibberish. “Going to cum, darling? Hm?” “Yes! Pl-please! Kento! Let me cum!” Nanami kept licking and sucking and like clockwork, as soon as the precipice was before you, you were yanked back. It almost made you want to cry. “Kento cut it out, please! I’ll be good, I p-promise! I-”

Your sentence was interrupted by Nanami adjusting you and pulling your legs back down so your toes touched the floor again. He stood up and started to press himself into you, his cock stretching you out in a way you didn’t think was possible. You were so close to finishing the feeling of him sheathing himself inside of you made you cum. “F-fuck! Oh fuck!” You moaned and writhed and Nanami growled behind you, starting to slowly piston his dick inside of your pussy. His hands traveled up to his dress shirt, unbuttoning it and tossing it aside while he fucked you. “You said you wanted to cum, right? Isn’t that what you wanted, darling?,” he breathed. Being edged made you 10 times more sensitive, and all you could do was moan and hiccup from the way your pussy convulsed around his length. “I’m giving you what this pussy wants.” Nanami couldn’t help himself, watching as your ass moved with every thrust into your pussy. All you could do was take it, Nanami’s hands preventing you from running. 

The room was filled with the sounds of sin: the slapping of skin, your desperate moans, and Nanami’s growls and grunts. He began to move faster, and you could feel his tip hit your cervix in the best way with every single thrust. “K-Kento! F-f-fuck!” “Is this all you wanted, darling? You being punished and fucked like the brat you are?” You nodded weakly, too enraptured by the feeling of his cock sliding in and out of you. You began to shake again and Nanami slapped your ass. “Go ahead, I know you want to. You’ve been begging for it all night. Cum.” Your body responded immediately and your orgasm slapped you in the face. Your hips couldn’t buck from his strong grip but the rest of you did, squirming on the desk while you coated his dick in white.  

Nanami didn’t give you a chance to rest, pulling out and quickly picking you up. He slid back in as he carried you over to a small sofa on the other side of his office. He bounced you up and down like you were a rag doll as he walked, kissing you feverishly and swallowing your moans until he laid your back down onto the cushions. Grabbing your legs, he put them over his shoulders, starting to thrust into your pussy again. The change in position left your head spinning, and deeper angle made your moans increase in pitch and volume. “Keep these pretty legs up here while I fuck you into submission,” Nanami growled, holding them as he pounded you. “G-od shit! Fuck! Y-yes, yes, y-yes Sir!” “Now look at that, she’s learning,” he smirked a little, letting your legs rest against his shoulders and leaning down to kiss you more. Your knees were damn near touching his ears and you couldn’t get enough. His hands tried to reach under your back to unclasp your bra, but he got impatient, instead ripping it through the middle and taking a tit into his hand to knead while he fucked and kissed you. 

Moans poured into Nanami’s mouth and he drank them like the sweetest wine he’d ever tasted. His dick started to hit your g-spot, and you couldn’t control the way you grew even louder. He was relentless against the sensitive area, and you started to whine. “I-I’m gonna! G-gonna c-cum!” That was the only warning you gave him as your pussy clenched and tightened around his cock rhythmically. “Oh? Is my good girl that sensitive?” Nanami reached his hand down from your breast to your clit and you started to squirm harder. He had you pinned with nowhere to go as you tried to handle the overstimulation. “T-too much! Please Kento!” “Too much? But I thought you wanted to cum?” He asked, voice breathy but still deep against your lips. He rubbed and fingers faster and harder and sped up his thrusting, and you felt like you could explode. His cock was covered in your cum. But he wanted more. He wanted to show you he could deny you, but he could also make you overindulge. “Give me another one. Now. Now brat, cum again.” 

Your body seemed to be running on autopilot, listening to his command the moment it left his lips. The intense pleasure made your eyes well up with tears and Nanami praised you over and over again. “Good, good girl, there we go, that’s what I wanted,” he moaned as he continued to thrust. He moved his hand and picked you up again all without pulling out once more. When he got to a wall, however, he did put you down, his dick slipping out of you as your weak legs held you up in front of him. “Against the wall.” “K-Kento I don’t think I can sta-” “I won’t let you fall. Hands against the wall, darling.” You turned around, putting your palms against the wall and jutting your ass out. Nanami took one hand and held your hip, easing himself back into you with a moan. He took the other and ran it up your neck, grabbing your hair almost from the scalp and pulling your head back as he began his fervent pace once more. You couldn’t hold back your moans, and your legs wanted to give out. He wrapped his arm around you to keep you steady. 

“That’s right. I’ve got you. All you have to do is fucking take it,” he groaned into your ear. “Y-ah! Yes Sir! K-Kento oh fuck! Oh fuck, oh fuck!” You were trying your hardest, but your words descended into gibberish and half-spoken curses. Nanami was beginning to lose his patience, his dick throbbing angrily inside of you from holding back his orgasm. But he needed one more out of you. He wanted to leave you shaking with ecstasy. “Take it, take it, take it,” he growled with each thrust, your mouth open as you began to slightly drool, hot, salty tears running down your face. The both of you were covered in sweat, and it just made the slapping sounds of his balls hitting your slit even louder. “This is your punishment,” he moaned, “Are you going to disobey me again?” “N-No!” He moved forward slightly so his mouth was right up against your ear. “Are you going to be a fucking brat or are you going to be my good girl?” 

Your vision was getting hazy. His dick was fucking you into oblivion and you gladly wanted to let it. “Answer me,” he growled, yanking your hair a bit harder. “Ah! G-good! I’ll b-be good Kento!” “Say it,” he panted, starting to feel himself get closer to release. “I-I’m a good g-girl!” “Again.” “G-god- fuck Kento pl-please!” “I said again!” “I’m a good g-girl! I’m y-your good girl K-Kento! Fuck I’m gonna c-cum please l-let me cum!” “Do it, darling. Cum for me.” The both of you came at the same time, and he held you as much as he could as he let his cum pour into you. “F-Fuck!”, he moaned loudly while his hand holding your hair moved to cover your mouth, knowing your screams would be extra loud. They were mixed with cries, the overstimulation leaving you weak. Your hips convulsed and he growled into your ear as it filled you up, his thrusts slowing down as the both of you rode it out. 

He gently pulled out of your spent pussy, keeping you upright as he finally untied your wrists. Tossing the garment away, he picked you up and held you close to his chest as he sat down on the sofa. You laid your head in the crook of his neck, your legs wrapped around his waist. “You did so well,” he whispered, stroking your back. The air grew silent then and you both basked in the afterglow of everything. The both of you cuddled for what felt like hours, eyes closed and heartbeats steady. “I really…am sorry,” you piped up, voice a low whisper. “Hm? Are you talking about the mission?” “Yes. I should’ve listened to you. I wasn’t quite ready yet.” “It’s alright. What matters is that you came back safe and sound,” he murmured, absently feeling a scar that ran up your back from the incident. The both of you grew silent once more, letting each other feel and touch each other's skin intimately in the process. “I can’t believe it really took you this long to figure it out.” “…I’m not sure how that information is relevant to the situation.” “Now look at who’s being a bad liar.” 

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pumped this one out in two days, it was super fun to write. hope you enjoyed it! <3 -leyley