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baepsays · 1 month ago

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A FINE LINE BETWEEN LUST AND LOATHE ★ ⸻ Gojo Satoru.

cw⸻★ NSFW, MDNI, dark content, HATE SEX!!! they actually hate e/o, but it's also just that it's the tension, they cannot come to terms with the fact they want to fuck someone so wildly not their type, fem reader, no pronouns, fem anatomy, drunk sex, so ig dub-con/non-con, name calling, oral sex (f! and m! receiving), head pusher Gojo, hair pulling, more spit stuff cause I said so, raw dogging, no missionary cause that'd make it too real and they'd explode, bro cums inside her without warning, he is lowkey an asshole, but reader is also provoking him any chance they get, hashtag on my period so like every month you get your freaky stuff.

a/n: enjoyyyyy ( or don't I will eat this up myself). based on this mind dump.

If only staring at Gojo Satoru hard enough made him disappear from your sight. And if only side eyeing you from across the room made you disappear from his sight. Either of you wanted nothing more than each other's existence coming to an end.

But unfortunately the universe was against your respective enjoyment of sanity and pleasure.

It has been almost sixteen years since you've known each other. Yet not a day goes by where you don't think of resigning just to not see him everyday. And Satoru makes sure to go out of his way to stay flooded in work just to avoid being in the same space as you.

But every time he happens to open his mouth, or flash those shiny teeth; or when you intentionally stop talking when he slips into the room, or when you roll your eyes at him, it ticks you guys off.

And what's worse is sitting here right now, basically pushed together, by Shoko to your left and Suguru to his right. Why were you guys sitting beside each other anyway? Couldn't he have been early for once in his life and just taken a seat anywhere! Anywhere, but here.

So how to deal with his overwhelmingly stuffy cologne infiltrating your nostrils, like the thought of him infiltrating your mind and making your blood boil?—The answer is given in all the alcohol on the table in front of you. If you have to tolerate a work dinner with Gojo, you might as well just get drunk. And it seems like maybe he had the same plans. Or maybe it was just you trying to annoy the wannabe cool guy out of him.

"Hah. That's all you can drink? And you call yourself the strongest?" The third glass was getting to your head. Clearly.

“You're clearly drunk out of your mind.” His eyes narrowed at you upon being suddenly addressed by you. It's never often that you directly speak to him, from your own accordance with that.

“And you're clearly a pussy.” You grinned at him in victory. A sly provoking grin that made his eyes twitch under that blindfold.

“Just say you want me to give you something to fawn over.” congratulations you've yet again successfully pissed off Gojo Satoru.

Everyone knew that despite being a big brooding man, Gojo Satoru was a lightweight. No shame in that! But there's no meaning in saying that to Gojo, when he has never felt shame in his life. Then why were your words getting to him? One moment he is sipping on half a glass of beer for hours, and the next he is chugging down some concoction of sake and beer mixed together.

You blame him. But you also blame your colleagues/friends, and you also blame the alcohol. Because everyone knew not to go close to Gojo Satoru after he had over half a glass of alcohol. So as usual everyone very tactfully handed his responsibility to you—a lesser drunk individual. Who would probably leave him on the side of the street with a note that says, ‘rob him, he's rich.’ But since you have to constantly prove something to Gojo, for some reason, you couldn't help but take up the responsibility of getting him home in one piece. And it's not like this is the first time you're doing this, just the first time you're both pretty drunk.

Some people might wonder why would you do that for someone you hate? Because if you do not, the next day he'll just float around you scoffing and annoying you with petty words. So this is just a preemptive measure, yeah! Anything to keep your sanity from further depleting just because Gojo Satoru decided to exist.

The task was simple. Get a taxi, drag Gojo up to his home, enter his very weak passcode, get tempted to dump him in the bathtub, instead just leave him on the cold marble floor. You've done this before. Six times excluding this to be exact. This is nothing new or crazy.

But what's crazy is that how did you end up like this?

Instead of being on your own merry way back home, why are you under Gojo Satoru on his entrance hall floor, kissing him? He is actually kissing you. And you're kissing him back. His lips are quite feverish compared to the rest of him, or maybe it's your own body and face gradually becoming hotter and hotter.

This is suffocating, he is suffocating. The kiss is suffocating. This might just be a dream. No, a nightmare. You have dreamed about this before, you've wished for this for a certain period of time in your life when you were just freshly sixteen maybe, and you had just met Gojo Satoru, after hearing so much about him. It felt like you already knew a part of him, you wanted to know more about him, you wanted to be friends. And maybe something more if fate allowed it. Alas, you didn't know then how disappointing expectations are.

Just thinking about how you used to feel things other than deep, unsettling, and aggravating disdain for Gojo Satoru; it makes your skin crawl. It makes you want to walk into quicksand willingly rather than addressing those thoughts and feelings. Because why would you? They don't exist anymore. Those were fleeting teenage hormones.

Because if we are being objective here, Gojo is attractive, he has always been so. Everyone agrees upon that. He knows it, the world knows it, unfortunately even you know it. So without knowing anything about him other than his gallant stories and pretty face, it was inevitable to develop a petty crush in him.

Which he crushed with his own bare hands in mere seconds of being introduced to you. You remember that day very clearly, he called you weak, and some other things along that string. You did tune it all out after that first scoff that came out of his mouth that day, when all you did was extend an enthusiastic hand of friendship and compliments. “pfft. You think a weakling like you knows anything about me?” is what he exactly said that day.

Ever since that day, he has remained the bane of your existence and the perpetual source of agony in your life.

And yet here you are, making out with drunk Gojo Satoru, while being under the influence of alcohol yourself, on his cold marble floors. Dragging your hands through his hair, pulling on it, for support or just maybe to inflict some pain onto him—both very unsure but reasonable possibilities.

A flicker of conscience flashed through you the moment his other hand—which was not preoccupied with holding his weight off the floor—pressed itself down your waist, when one of your hands, still stuck in the strands of his white hair; dug itself under his blindfold. When your nails scratched his undercut, under his blindfold, his own fingers dug themselves into your flesh.

And it just hit you, what was happening. So you broke off the kiss, pushed him back, and he backed off, as he was caught off guard. He was confused, because if he was not, he would not have given you the chance to break free from his lips or would have let you crawl away from under his body, like you were.

“Tryin’ to run from what you started sweets?” He dragged you backwards by getting a hold on one of your ankles. It was petrifying. How you were pulled towards him with no resistance, your hands flapped around and just made screeching noises as you tried to latch onto the sleek marble floor. But you were not in control of the situation anymore. There was nothing you could do to stop yourself from being dragged into the lion's den. Because the lion has already dug his teeth in your flesh, and the sweet taste of your flesh and blood is too tempting to set you free now.

“I thought you were the responsible one between us. Hmm?” He was above you. No, he was caging you. The cold marble floor on the side of your face was not cool enough to calm you down. You felt a shiver running down every hair on your body, when he spoke into the shell of your ear. “Y-you're d-drunk.”

“Stutterin’ for me now?” His nose nuzzled itself into the back of your neck, and you tried to further dig your face into the floor. Which was futile to say the least.

“I would fuck ya’ right here. Right now.”

You could only gasp at him. You don't know how to respond to anything he says. It's hard enough to converse with a sober Gojo, for sake of work, so drunk Satoru is very much out of your area of expertise.

“Tell me no.” His breathing started to get heavier, along with his pants. One of his hands pressed you still under him, while the other one pulled the blindfold off his face. The outline of his now hard cock poked your ass, and dare I say it was tempting to not grind back into him.

“Tell me to fuck off. And I will.”

You could do that. When the strongest spares you, you take that offer gladly and run for your life. But maybe you lack that will to live, or just simply wanted to be crushed by him. Which one is more fucked up, is a decision for later. Because right now you are nodding yes to this guy, whom you apparently hate with all the fibers in your body. Essentially giving him approval to fuck you.

As drunk as Gojo may be, he at least had the sensibility to pick you up and take you to his bed. Which was massive, I mean he lives quite the comfortable life, he always has. Part of the reason why you made yourself believe where the influx of arrogance came from. But there is no time to ponder about those things, when Gojo Satoru is haphazardly stripping you bare, to then strip down to nothing himself.

“God. Look at ya.” This is not making love with the love of your life. But setting aside your pride to fuck this anomaly you do not understand. So the kissies he peppered along with occasional bites, from your neck down to your cunt—was unwarranted. But then also neither of you are in your right mind.

Gojo Satoru is truly good at everything. Which has always been annoying. It's so annoying how he has you biting down on your lips to contain your moans from slipping out of your throat, as he eats you out like a starved man. He is two knuckles deep in your hole, sucking, biting, and even slapping your clit. Moving his mouth off your cunt to hover over your hole with his tongue out, to let his spit drool out of his mouth, and straight onto your hole being penetrated by his fingers. And all you could do was helplessly pull on his hair to maybe pry him off you, to catch a breather. But it seems like it's easier to get leeches off your body than taking Gojo Satoru off your pussy.

“J-just, get, get on with it.” A slurry of words came out of your mouth along with grunts to conceal the moans, because if you dare moan for this man, there is no way you'll live that down. Does not matter if he doesn't remember it, you'll remember. And that'd be just enough to eat you alive. But it is advisable that you worry more about the man eating you out currently.

“Ok. Cum for me then.” He says with a flat voice before diving back in, this time shoving his tongue along with his fingers. “I CAN’T JUST DO THAT ON COMMAND!?”

“Maybe we should train you.” He mumbles while working your pussy, trying to find your spongy spot, to get you exactly where he needed you to be. And when he did get a hold of it, it was over.

You squirted all over his face. And at the sign of your unearned release, he opened his mouth wide to welcome the taste of your juices on his tongue. And he got more than that, his entire face got drenched. You really never thought you were capable of squirting, neither were you suspecting the man to make you do such obscene things would be Gojo.

“How sweet.” He lapped his tongue around his lips, as if to gather any leftovers around his mouth. “She speaks to me so nicely. Unlike you.” With one last parting slap on your cunt, he got off you.

But rest was not what he was trying to give you. He pulled you off the bed, to sit on the edge of the bed himself, and sitting you on his lap. The feeling of his cock under your wet folds and quivering thighs, was not helpful by any means. If you felt the outline of his cock in his pants earlier and got scared, then the real thing under you, skin to skin, throbbing against your heat—was enough to give you a cardiac arrest.

“You'll return the favour right? Don't like owing me, do ya’?” You wish you could slap that smirk off his face. But then again, it was just wishful thinking that got you involved in this situation. But he was not wrong. You did not like to owe anyone anything, especially not Gojo Satoru. You've gone out of your way to get a pack of sticky notes at two am just to not owe him for the single sticky note he gave you during a meeting.

“And how do I do that?” If you found that smirk annoying, then you'd find the obnoxious grin on him aggravating.

An eye for an eye. And mouth for mouth, I guess?

Trying to give Gojo a blowjob was wildly more difficult than fighting a special grade curse. How do you even wrap your lips around such a massive thing? Sure it's pretty pink, with a blushy tip, and veins running down his girth; but it was mouthful. And Gojo was really no help, it was as if he was getting more drunk by the minute. His eyes were getting glossier, his pupils were more glowy than usual, if his face was flushed then, now it was properly and fully red. And it was as if his hands had a mind of their own, with how they were cradling your head, tangling those fingers in your strands and pushing you down on his length beyond your capacity—he is an asshole.

“Ya’ can take more right? Hmm? Come onnn, you have taken more hits on the field. Can't just lose against m' cock.” His voice dripped with malice and lack of self control. The guttural grunts coming from him were becoming worse and worse with the vibration of your own groans around him.

But the heavy leaking cock felt so good on your tongue. Sure the choking was inevitable, he is disgustingly huge. Blessed in every area but humility. Because why would he? A huge cock must sustain a huge ego, in his opinion. And that pretty mouth of yours looks so much better stuffed shut with his cock. Why would he trade that for being humble?

“Maybe from now on, I'll just have to stuff your mouth full when you get mouthy at me.” The chuckle after that was meaner than those words itself, if you think about it, but your mind was too fucked to think. Because otherwise maybe Gojo would have to work around a bleeding cock.

But for now he's much content in the tight fit of your throat. Face fucking your teary eyes and heavy tongue, with his hips fully off the bed, and his cock nestled cozy in your throat—this is better than pissing you off to make himself feel things, better than having you shout profanities at him.

He might be an addict, or maybe you should be deemed illegal. Because how dare you simply exist and mess up his brain? Ever since the day you extended your hand at him, he has not known sanity. This is his full circle moment. Fucking your mouth so well he forgets how much your tongue makes his blood boil.

It was easy to cum down your throat. To feed you his seed, seep a little disgusting part of him in your veins, even if it is biologically not possible, but Gojo would like to think it is. That you are just as much him, as he is now you, and he hopes the thought of it makes you lose sleep. But maybe he'd be the one losing sleep, because the sight of you was lethal. His cum dripping down the side of your mouth, and your throat moving in a rapid up and down motion to swallow him whole.

He's going to be dreaming about this for the rest of his life.

But there are bigger and better things to tackle, like finally stuffing your cunt with his cock. Because who needs downtime when you are Gojo Satoru about to fuck the cause of half of his migraines. And if it was in his power he would've done it right there at the entrance like he threatened, but he believes in a good build up.

“Wait.” He stopped in his tracks of putting the condom on. You pulled your back off the bed and sat up to look him directly in the eyes. They were still hazy with something unrecognizable.

“Not missionary.”

“Pfft. Right. That's the line you refuse to cross huh?” Despite the deceiving smile on his lips, he looked pissed. After everything that you two have done, that's the line you don't want to cross, what a joke. He knows the feeling inside your pussy, where your weak spots are, the texture of your tongue, the mole above your tailbone and on your waist; but god forbid he looks into your eyes as he thrusts his cock inside you.

Well, he'll be nice. He'll be nice to you, for once, and grant you this measly wish.

So with an achy throat and teary eyes, you buried your face in his pillows, as he flipled you over on the mattress without further protest. He did not waste time with easing himself into your hole. He slid himself inside in one go, and ploughed you from behind like it meant business. Every smack of skin slapping, the ripples in your ass after each thrust, and the squelches of your cunt swallowing his cock whole—it was all getting to his head. If he was still drunk then he would've probably passed out at this point. But then again if he was not drunk anymore how else was he going to explain this feeling?

The feeling of wanting to hold you for an eternity, wanting to see you bite down on his skin instead of his pillow, wanting to see more of his hand print all over your body other than just your waist. The urge to flip you over and just fuck you as slow as he could while staring into your eyes like they held secret to immortality, it was tempting.

What was the fear that was holding him back? That if he did just give in he'd never see you like this again, and if that happened he would probably take himself down with the entire city. So, he can just settle for taking off the condom as fast as he could, while you whine from the lack of stretch inside you.

“Aw, whining like a cock hungry slut now, are we?” He can settle with coming inside you for now. Yes, he can settle.

You did not think twice when he slid back in, you chalked it out as him being a tease as usual. And the new warmth that fit right inside you like a perfect piece of puzzle, was much welcomed. So much so, that you could not help but cum again without any warning, I mean you'd warn him if you were cognizant of these things yourself. At this point your body was betraying your mind, and your mind was too drunk to even feel how backstabbed it was, it was too busy feeling every single ridge and curve of Gojo’s cock. Trying to memorize the shape of him into all of your muscles.

“Coming without me? How mean, sweets.”

As he started throbbing inside you, and strings of cum started to leak, then it hit. He was coming inside you, like, inside you. “WAIT. SATORU. W-”

Your protests were too late; his body flopped over on your back, and his cock curved inside you so far it started hitting your cervix. At that point you were paralyzed, eyes were rolled far too back inside your sockets, the sting from his teeth digging into your neck, and the sound of his groans and grunts were deafening. You were shaking, he was shaking, his hips could not stop themselves from thrusting even while his cock shot ropes and ropes of cum inside your walls.

“Yes. Ye- scream Satoru. Scream my name. Let my neighbours know who's sluttin’ ya’ out.”

“Sa-satoru.”

“Louder.”

“S-ATORU.”

“LOUDER.”

“SATORU!”

With that last scream you came again, gushed and tightened your walls around him one more time. Before passing out with tears rolling down your cheeks and your lower body essentially numb, and all you could utter was mumbles of ‘Satoru’, over and over again until you fully fell asleep.

If you were awake just a little longer to feel or see Satoru lick your tears clean off of your face, and shoving his dripping cum back in your cunt with his shaky fingers, you might have passed out again.

Whether or not you make it out of Gojo Satoru’s bed, or his head—those are questions for his sober self tomorrow. For now, all he knows is that he wants you in his arms, under his blankets, on his bed, maybe on some cleaner sheets; just dreaming about nothing else but him.

After all, when all the lines are crossed and blurred, why pretend for the sake of civility?

TO FIND MORE OF MY WORKS CLICK HERE.

a/n: dividers by @/enchanthings-a

on my period so this is extra filthy. also sorry if the tension and bits of backstory was not good enough ＞︿＜and i did leave their relation after this ambiguous you are totally welcome in my inbox to discuss about this couple from hell.

tag list: @cheralith @madamechrissy @gojosperms @gojao @cuntphoric @nanamiskentos @cuntyji @cuntphoric @aishi-toru @fushitoru @rriwyu @exquisink @lover-lyn @buckysm @wwwritererm @indiewritesxoxo @soupicidesquad @shouiow @user25384959574 @dxmnsaera @kazupop @slayzzz @undercvrfan444 @miizuzu @getoistic @infinitatis-ink @theorphicangel @ricecake-mochi - (perm list) @chachawheeee11 @magnificientscarlett @samoankpoper21 @yenayaps @shhhhhhxoxo125 @saoirses-things @saylorslove @rain-soaked-sun

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bitebitekxll · 3 months ago

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Do they purr - genshin non-humans

៚ Zhongli ✧ Xiao ✧ Wanderer ✧ Albedo ✧ Venti

Notes: Holy hell how do I have 50 followers??? THANK YOU EVERYONE FOR SUPPORTING MY SILLY MUSINGS. This literally was just my way to learn how to write smut and post self-indulgent head canons but I’m glad people are enjoying this with me :DDDD

𝐙𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐈 ᥫ᭡

Yes, 100%. He will deny it every time but lay on this man’s chest, maybe press a kiss to his jaw, and his chest is going like a fucking engine. He will insist that it’s not a purr, it’s simply a content growl— or perhaps a rumble, at most. He isn’t some measly cat, after all, he is a mighty dragon, the Prime Adeptus—

It’s definitely a purr.

Get him a cat ear hairband. He will give you the most long-suffering, unamused look while he wears them, but he will wear them. Anything for his beloved ♡~

𝐗𝐈𝐀𝐎 ᥫ᭡

No, unfortunately. You have found no evidence that your stone-faced Yaksha is capable of emitting a purr, or purr-like sound (though certainly not for lacking of trying).

However… there is the matter of whether he is able to trill or coo like a bird, given that is his true nature.

He gets annoyed when you ask him, adamant that is not something he can do, and how dare you even entertain such a notion. Have you no respect for the adepti? Hmph.

…but you swear you’ve heard him chirp when you catch him off guard: kissing him without warning or praising him unabashedly.

It seems this will require further investigation.

𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐀 ᥫ᭡

Not purring, but whirring!! Got this idea from @seabirdtxt ‘s Glitch in Irminsul fic (it’s SAGAU focused on the diff vers of scara existing at the same time, go read it it’s great) and it just makes so much sense to me.

As a mechanical puppet, and an advanced one at that, Scara has tons of machinery going on inside of him. Though it usually can’t be heard, if you get especially close to his chest— a privilege only reserved for you and maybe Nahida during hugs —you can hear the whirring and clicking of his moving parts inside. It doesn’t sound the same as a purr, not exactly, but it’s pretty damn close.

Most of the time it’s pretty faint, but sometimes Scara might just make it louder— it’s got nothing to do with the way your face lights up or how you smile when you hear it, don’t be stupid.

Of course, the only way he can make the noise louder is by overworking his system, making the parts inside move faster than they’re supposed to. If he does it too much or for too long, well…

You’ll know it’s time to lecture him on taking better care of himself when he starts burning up. Overheating is the first sign he’s about to overload his system and shut down (or from everyone else’s perspective: pass out).

You’re the only one who can make him stupid enough to be willing to break his own mechanisms just to see that adorable ridiculous expression on your face. (He might come back to his senses in a petulant huff if you start calling him a cat, tho)

𝐀𝐋𝐁𝐄𝐃𝐎 ᥫ᭡

Sadly, purring is not a feature homunculi come with. But this is Albedo we’re talking about, he can definitely figure it out.

He won’t tell you just what idea you’ve sparked with your question— you always worry when he starts self-experimenting —but it’ll be fine! He takes all the necessary precautions, limits any risk, because there’s always some risk in life, and downs a concoction or two in his quest to see if he can change the makeup of his own body. As an artificial life form, he’s less delicate than an organic one, so he doesn’t need to worry about pesky issues like rearranging his (non-existent) organs in a fatal manner.

And it works! Well, sort of. You come back home to a boyfriend that is fully capable of purring!! And also!! Has, uh, cat ears…

Albedo would consider it a success— he accomplished his goal, even if there were a few side effects. And you get a pretty catboy equipped with the cute, twitching ears and a fuzzy blonde tail; everybody wins! ♡

Of course, there’s always the chance his experiment just turns him into a cat entirely… but it wears off after a day or so, so it’s not the worst thing Albedo’s done to himself.

Either way, congratulations, he can now purr for the next 24 hours. And regardless of his cat-to-boy ratio, he will be expecting pets. Get to it~

𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈 ᥫ᭡

He has bird vocalisations! Except he’s worse at hiding it then Xiao may or may not be. It’s not outright chirping, but it is a cooing trill in the back of his throat, too vibrational to be a regular hum.

It’s the sound he makes when he’s perfectly content, laying in a warm patch of sun on the soft grass, sat atop a roof with alcohol warming his veins, and curled up in your arms, round cheek smushed against your chest. He takes in a deep breath, filling his lungs with your scent, and then releasing it in a sigh, accompanied by the musical tones of his little trill.

He makes shorter ones when he’s pleasantly surprised; when you unexpectedly toss him an apple or pat his head. He’ll grin or lean into the touch and make that sound in his throat. Too quiet to be heard by the people around you over the din of the town, but you’ll hear it. It’s a sound just for you ♡

#salemwritesathing #genshin hcs #genshin x reader #zhongli x reader #wanderer x reader #scara x reader #scaramouche x reader #xiao x reader #albedo x reader #venti x reader #genshin fic

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alchemistc · 4 months ago

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Found this in my drafts and decided to finish it up, written before the Abby reveal so we're just pretending that never happened, have some outsider pov of the alt timeline where Tommy and Buck met before Buck was at the 118.

Tommy is being weird. That's the only way Hen can describe it. He's been quiet on calls, none of the usual banter and posturing she's used to; he's been quiet in the station, prone to staring at the space between his lap and the dinner table even as Chim spouts off some ironic quote that would have had him cheesing it up a few weeks previous; he's been quiet as he packs his shit and heads out for his truck. Each afternoon since he'd quietly announced his transfer to the 217, he's been quiet, and it's weird.

Hen's not entirely surprised. Tommy's nothing if not protective of his own feelings - years and years of Gerrard all hanging over their heads even though he'd admitted a few drinks deep one night that he was pretty positive his professionally scathing complaint about Gerrard was very likely what tipped the scales ("Could have been Sal's, though," he'd said with a shrug as his eyes drifted to the head on his beer.). From what she's gleaned off Chim, there's a good chance he'd been an ass in part to protect himself from feeling too bad about losing someone, too (again) - not that that's any type of excuse for the shit he'd had a hand in putting her through. An excuse for the things he's said, in the heat of the moment, in the quiet caverns of life under a shitty captain.

(Stumbled apologies, serious expressions on a face softened only by the shots he'd been buying all night, words said and unsaid between them and the gaping maw between a Chim happy to accept and move on while Hen downed her tequila and waited for the other shoe to drop.)

It's been years since then. Years and years winding between them all, a dozen captains and more than a few transfers of good firefighters away from the 118, and something good and warm and special brewing in their house with the arrival of the captain who'd made family dinners a daily occurrence.

She'd sort of expected Tommy might finally open up, when those family dinners kept going and Nash kept staying and things started to settle into something closer to friendly instead of the soldiers of war camaraderie they'd grown so used to. And maybe he has, to someone who isn't Hen - who'd taken his little efforts to change at face value and refused to put in more work than that for a colleague who'd made mostly bare minimum efforts post-Gerrard, always accepting the new status quo, refusing to make waves. She respects Tommy. Trusts him on the job, and sometimes off of it when they've had a shitty shift and need to decompress before they go home to the people in their lives who can never really understand losing someone to the heat of a fire, to blood loss and blunt force trauma. Doesn't care for him the way Chim seems to, doesn't really desire a closer relationship than the one they've maintained through the turnover of captains and the 48's they pull on occasion.

But Tommy's being weird, and Hen's pretty sure she's the only one who sees it.

She waits until she's sure Chim has a date to hit up Tommy for an after shift drink, and his eyes crinkle around the corners in suspicion because he knows just as well as she that she's putting them in an awkward position without the buffer zone of an extra coworker to fill in the blank spots of the things they don't say to each other. He'll be gone in a week. There's not a single fucking reason for her to try to get to know him better now.

"Sure thing, Wilson," he says, and when he offers to drive them both Hen makes up some excuse about needing her car in case of some Denny related emergency.

---

She expects it to take a while. Ply him with a few drinks, figure out what it is about Howie that always puts Tommy at ease so quickly when they're out like this and try to replicate it - he keeps things close to the vest but Hen has ways of weaseling things out of people once she's got them where she wants them.

Tommy sighs and picks at the label on his bottle. Thins his lips, and stares at her sideways. "I'm seeing someone," he says, in an undertone, and Hen hasn't even taken her first sip from the bottle he'd ordered for her, too, while she scrounged up one of the smaller booths. His eyes dart, like he's checking to make sure no one else is listening, that no one here recognizes him, and Hen - Hen knows that look. She just can't square that look with Mr. Toxic Heterosexuality himself.

Hen takes a sip. Forces herself not to vibrate out of her own skin because - because - because she's gotta wait this shit out. Could be he's found himself attracted to some weird goth chick, or a woman with meat on her bones, in which case he's in for a big ole smack to the head or one of the looks she reserves for when the boys get a little too caught up in their locker room talk.

He darts his gaze up. Meets hers, steady on, for the first time in...weeks, actually, now that she's thinking about it, and the guilt there in his eyes sure is something to behold.

"He's younger," Tommy says, and Hen rolls her tongue over her teeth so she doesn't do something stupid like hone in on that pronoun with either glee or full-on righteous anger.

Hen narrows her eyes instead, and is surprised that he keeps her gaze. She's expecting - unnecessary contrition, or maybe a ducked head or excuses. He chews on the inside of his lip and chuffs out a self deprecating laugh.

"I don't have a fucking clue what I'm doing and he still lives in a frat house."

Hen's mind goes somewhere inappropriate, and she has to stop herself from making a truly horrible hand gesture because he can't possibly mean -

He rolls his eyes. "I know where to stick it, Wilson, that's not the issue."

She has about half a million questions queueing - things she's not sure they're close enough to ask, things she doesn't actually want the answer to but stick there in the back of her mind anyway, things she'd never ask someone who'd been kind to her from the outset. "How'd you do it?" he asks, and Hen remembers the way he'd stood, arms crossed and face blank and something sad and vulnerable in his face while she lectured from her red and chrome pulpit. Jesus. He's known. He's known a while.

"I've never exactly been passing," she tells him, and winces at the aggression in her voice, in that statement, in the very existence of the idea. He shoots her a bitchy look that's far more familiar, in line with their normal dynamic. It has her rolling her shoulders back, has her sitting up a little more in her seat. "Is that - are you asking me how to come out?"

Tommy shrugs. Tips his head. "You're the one who wanted to get drinks."

"And if I hadn't asked?"

She knows the answer. The dumbass would have transferred out of the 118 with no one the wiser. Probably fallen off all the group chats, squared with himself for however long it took, decided one way or another who to tell from there. But he's here now, talking to Hen. Telling Hen, the person he's probably the least close to.

Hen sighs. Takes a longer drag off her beer this time while Tommy folds up a piece of the label he's ripped off. She's not gonna be his fucking gay guru. They're not anywhere approaching that close.

He could have lied, though, is the thing. Seems like he's maybe been lying for a while, if the uncharacteristic fidgeting is anything to go by. She knows him under stress, knows him when he's walking through literal fire. Figurative fire is an entirely different matter. She doesn't know that Tommy.

The words that fall out of her mouth aren't the ones she's aiming for. "You and Sal." she says, and then bites down the rest of that sentence like it'll burn them both. His eyes dart up. He shifts in his seat.

"The only reason I'm saying a word is because the answer is no," he says, and - yeah that's fair. Everyone has the right to come out of the closet in their own fucking time.

"So this kid," Hen says, moving on, and - oh. There's that look. It's a little dreamy-eyed, the way he's been getting sometimes when he's looking down at his phone and trying his hardest to keep a straight face. "What's the deal there?"

"He's new," Tommy says, and Hen can feel her brow tic up of it's own accord, because he says it with the authority of someone who isn't new. Hen has to wonder exactly how many times the perpetually single Tommy joke had been made while Tommy was less than single. God, that had to have stung, hadn't it? "He's - apparently he didn't realize he was flirting until I kissed him about it."

That's remarkably brave for a man who isn't out to a single person he and Hen are mutually acquainted with. At least as far as she knows - Chim can't keep a secret to save his damn life so at least she knows he doesn't know.

"You know you didn't have to tell me any of this."

His expression is wry. He bites his lip, curls his tongue over his teeth, shakes his head like he's clearing cobwebs. "The transfer isn't the only thing I had on the docket for major life changes."

Karen's gonna be pissed if Hen doesn't get the dirt, she tells herself as she leans forward, so she throws a teasing edge to her voice as she quirks a brow. "This life change have anything to do with your baby gay or is that just a natural progression of the coming out process?"

Tommy's posture eases, just a little. He gives her a look that she's more familiar with seeing when Chim's in the booth next to him, or they're elbow deep in shit-talk at the station.

"Happy accident, actually," he says, and Hen leans in to listen to him dish when his eyes go all soft and gooey.

___

She's known Evan Buckley a total of six hours the first time he mentions his boyfriend. There's a nervous edge to it, like he's still testing the word out, like the syllables are unfamiliar, and he glances down at the phone in his lap right after he says it, like he's double checking something. Hen wouldn't have pegged him for it, for all that she tends not to make assumptions. It's just. He's so.

Hen shoves back against the stereotypical bullshit and throws him a bone, because he looks like he's fucking desperate to share information on the fact that someone cares enough about him to let him call them his boyfriend. She lobs a layup, something relatable about 'my wife, Karen'.

"Yeah, Tommy said you were married."

Hen pauses. Wonders if she can turn her head like an owl so that she doesn't have to shift her weight to look behind her at where Buck is happily washing dishes, elbow-deep in sudsy water. There's no one else up here with them - most of the shift is working off dinner downstairs.

"We never have meals like this at home, I'm lucky if the guys I live with don't steal my last packet of ramen before I can get to it," he'd said, and she remembers Tommy grinning at the memory of this Evan he'd been seeing being inordinately impressed by the fact that Tommy could grill a steak. ("Jesus, Kinard, are you sure you're not robbing the fucking cradle?")

Hen shifts. Eyes him a little more carefully as he turns his head to meet her gaze, and - holy shit, she's actually feeling a little protective of Tommy Kinard right now. "He know you're out here sharing his business?" It's not the tone she's going for - admonishing instead of exploratory, but Buck just grins at her over his shoulder, like he's pleased Tommy has someone watching out for him. Shit. She'd been a little concerned that Tommy was in over his head, stuck up on the idea of being out out and clinging to the first boy that batted his lashes, but it feels like maybe there's more to it than that. She can't square that with what has to be at least a decade of years between them, but -

Love is love, and all that.

"We, uh. We've been talking about it."

Hen raises an eyebrow, because that's not actually a green light to air Tommy's business.

"He - well last night we talked about it again. So. I mean it's not like Facebook official or anything. But he said it was cool to talk to you. A-all of you. He's - everyone at Harbor knows me."

It hurts a bit to know that Tommy's been there less than six months and felt more comfortable being himself with a bunch of strangers, but...

It's good. That he has that. That he's not walking the world just shoving bits and pieces of himself away.

Hen watches him rinse his arms and square his shoulders and shift to face her. "How'd you two meet, anyway?" she asks, because Tommy had been so stuck on the trying to figure out how to have an honest relationship piece that she'd never gotten around to asking.

Buck's expression could be easily mistaken for a solar flare, for the way it lights up the whole loft.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #tevan fic #i have so many things i'm working on and so many randoms scraps of ideas but this one was super fun to jump back into so

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erodasfishtacos · 3 months ago

Text

Wedding Band Cuts

prompt: YN goes into a massage and things go haywire quickly

word count: 8k (oooops)

warnings: this is all filth, i couldn't get this concept out of my mind

author's note:

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There are currently 350 + pieces available to read

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=================

YN may or may not have a slight crush on the owner of the health club that she belongs to.

An boujee, exclusive type of place that there was a waitlist for membership and the prices to join were insane.

The only reason she could attend was because she got a massive discount because of her work.

He wasn’t what someone would imagine the typical gym owner to look like.

No, he wasn’t a meathead with bulging biceps, thick veins protruding from his forearms, and a protein shake in hand at all times.

Harry was lean.

Built in a way that was quietly powerful, his strength evident but not flaunted.

The kind of muscular that didn’t demand attention but commanded respect nonetheless.

He was intimidating in a different way—not because he towered over people or grunted loudly when lifting weights, but because he moved with an effortless grace that made everything he did look easy.

The men who spent their time flexing in the mirror and slamming weights to the ground were often left in the dust by him. He bypassed them without so much as a labored breath, but he was never condescending about it.

He didn’t rub it in their faces or attempt to show off.

That, somehow, made him even more attractive.

YN knows that she has never, in her whole life, found someone as attractive as Harry.

It was almost embarrassing how her stomach flipped whenever she caught sight of him in those tiny workout shorts, the ones that made it impossible not to stare.

She wanted to drool like a dog when he lifted weights shirtless, every muscle in his torso shifting in perfect harmony.

But she wasn’t the only one who felt this way—every woman at the gym seemed to have the same not-so-subtle admiration.

The issue was with her (and the other women) she was married.

Despite being the owner, Harry was always around.

Sometimes he was doing administrative tasks, other times he was covering for employees who had called in sick.

Hiring college kids meant dealing with last-minute schedule changes, so he often found himself playing the role of front desk attendant, janitor, or—on rare occasions—masseuse.

It was a health club, after all.

The gym offered more than just workout equipment; there was a spa with facials, manicures, and, of course, massages. While Harry wasn’t an esthetician and couldn’t fill in for those services, he was a certified masseuse.

However, he rarely stepped in for that role because his staff was dependable.

That didn’t stop the women from hoping.

It was common knowledge among the female members that if someone called out, there was a slight—very slight—chance that Harry might step in.

None of them had been lucky enough for it to happen, though.

And when news spread that Jerry, a seventy-one-year-old man, had received a massage from Harry when his assigned therapist had to leave due to a stomach bug, the collective jealousy among the women was almost comical.

Jerry, blissfully unaware of the silent resentment directed his way, had wobbled out of the building looking loose-limbed and content, oblivious to the scowls of women who had never before envied an elderly man quite so much.

Tiffany, one of the braver women, decided to test her luck.

With a sickly sweet smile, she had approached the front desk where Harry was working, tilting her head just so as she asked if he might be able to squeeze her in for a massage.

Harry, ever professional, had simply glanced up from the computer screen, offered her a polite but firm smile, and informed her that since the therapist had left early, they unfortunately wouldn’t be able to accommodate her request.

He didn’t offer to step in himself, and Tiffany had to swallow her disappointment as she rejoined her friends, shoulders slumping in defeat.

YN was excited for the massage because she kept such tension in her lower back, her thighs, her glutes.

And she definitely didn’t get them regularly enough because life was busy so the strain and stiffness built and built until her body ached enough to have her make an appointment.

It was last minute, they were able to squeeze her in at the last session available, eight in the evening.

The gym was closed at that point but the spa was open until nine.

When YN steps into the dimly lit lobby of the building, she immediately notices how quiet it is.

The usual low hum of voices or the distant clinking of weights from the gym is missing.

Instead, the only sound is the faint buzzing of the overhead light and the gentle click of the door settling back into place behind her. She makes her way toward the receptionist’s desk, her steps echoing slightly against the polished tile floor.

The desk is empty.

No receptionist in sight, no signs of life beyond the unlocked door.

If the entrance hadn’t been open, she would have assumed the place had already shut down for the night.

It’s unsettling, the stillness of it all.

There had been only one other car in the parking lot—a sleek black sedan parked near the entrance.

She could only hope it belonged to her massage therapist because if she didn’t get the relief she was craving, she might actually scream.

Her shoulders ached, tension coiled tightly along her spine, and she needed to feel like jelly by the time she walked out of here.

YN lingers at the front desk, her fingertips lightly tapping along the smooth oak surface as she chews on the inside of her lip.

She glances over her shoulder toward the hallway leading to the massage rooms, her nerves prickling when she hears footsteps approaching.

The rhythmic sound of sneakers hitting the linoleum floor grows louder with each step.

She fully expects to see Pedro—her regular massage therapist. Pedro, who always greeted her with a knowing smirk and a shake of his head, chastising her for letting herself get so tense.

But it’s not Pedro who steps around the corner.

No, it’s Harry.

Harry, the owner of the gym.

He’s always been effortlessly charming, the kind of man who draws attention without even trying.

Women often mistook his friendliness for flirting, but that was just his nature—engaging, attentive, and naturally likable. He had one of those faces that made it hard to pinpoint his exact age.

Deep-set dimples softened the sharpness of his jawline, giving him an almost boyish appeal, while the light scruff and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes betrayed his real age.

“Hello, I’m sorry about that,” he says as he moves behind the desk, leaning down to click around on the computer, hiis voice is smooth, deep, the kind that makes you want to lean in just a little closer, “You must be… YN, right? Here for your massage with Pedro?”

“It’s okay,” YN reassures him with an easy smile, a bit fluttery because he was cute, “Yes, that’s me,”

“Pedro had to leave earlier due to a family emergency,” Harry informs her as he clicks around a bit more before looking up at her, “I should have called to cancel but I got distracted with some paperwork. Are you comfortable with having one with me? Or I can reschedule and give you a free massage on the house for the inconvenience.”

YN hesitates. A free massage sounded tempting—nearly $200 worth of pampering for nothing.

But then there was the other option: a paid session with Harry, the hot gym owner with broad shoulders and an easy smile.

She hadn’t expected to find herself in this predicament, but now that she was here, her stomach gave a nervous little flip.

“I really need one. I’m really stiff,” YN’s eyes darted away nervously, something akin to the feeling when you’re about to drop down on a rollercoaster creeping into her stomach, “But I don’t want to inconvenience you at all.”

“It wouldn’t be an inconvenience to massage you,” Harry replies, his words slow and this morbid monotone that somehow works for him, his eyes narrow just the slightest, and even though nothing he said was inappropriate.

The way he says it sends a shiver down her spine.

It’s not the words themselves—it’s how they linger in the air between them, heavy with something unspoken.

YN presses her thighs together instinctively, pulse quickening as heat creeps up the back of her neck.

YN rolls her lip between her teeth, she doesn’t know when she got so brazen but she gives him a small, unsure smile, “Hopefully you’re as good as Pedro.”

Harry’s grin falters slightly, eyes narrowing at the challenge, “I’ve been told I’m good with my hands.”

“Pedro’s hands are amazing though, not just good, you know?” YN keeps her tone casually like she’s not trying to bait him but she’s pretty sure that she’s not misconstruing the sexual tension for him just being nice, he wasn’t like this all the time.

“I'm sure you’ll be satisfied with my services. Are you hard to please?” Harry asks with a tilt of his head, a slight smirk she's never seen before.

YN lets out a breathy laugh, tapping her fingers against the desk, “Most people would say no. My husband, on the other hand? He might say something different.”

Harry’s eyes flicker down to her left hand, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly when he finds her ring finger bare.

His jaw clenches just the slightest bit before his tone turns cool, more businesslike, “I’ll show you to the room we’ll be using.”

YN wonders if she shouldn't have mentioned she had a husband, maybe she had led him on with the fact that she didn't have her wedding band on.

She knew she would have to take it off anyways, and didn't want to get the lotion rubbed into nooks and crannies that are difficult to clean.

He steps out from behind the desk.

YN’s eyes drop to do a full body scan, she often subtly checked him out when she was here but now with a bit of arousal pooling in her tummy - she had a whole other perspective on him.

How his legs were such a sweet juxtaposition of lean but thick at the same time, she could easily imagine herself sinking her nails into them.

The shorts he wore showed them off entirely too well, he absolutely knew what he was doing when he stepped into those short shorts that morning.

And when he turns to start walking down the hallway, YN can appreciate how broad his shoulders are, and they're accentuated by the way they lead down into narrow hips.

The definition of manly.

As they walk down the hallway, YN peeks into the other offices—empty, confirming that they are, indeed, alone.

It shouldn’t matter.

This was a professional massage.

Nothing more.

“I didn't know you were certified in massages,” YN chimes in as they walk, just to break the silence that had fallen in between them.

YN deemed it awkward but she didn't know if he did.

He doesn't turn around but he does reply, “I got a certification when I got my doctorate in exercise science and kinesiology. It was an elective. I did them more when I started the business but now I have employees for that.”

“So you're rusty, is what you're telling me?” YN teases, she should stop baiting him because he seems easy to react and not always in a good way.

YN has seen Harry yell at grown men over poor form that could have seriously injured their backs or throwing them out for not respecting the gym rules.

He was intimidating to say the least.

“Did I say that?” Harry turns to look over his shoulder, “My wife requests them enough that I don't get to become rusty.”

“Oh,” YN replies lamely, eyes darting down to see that he did in fact have a gold wedding band on his ring finger, hard to miss, and proudly shining.

It’s hard to miss.

And yet, for a moment, she had.

“Oh?” Harry questions, still glancing back, “Is there an issue?”

YN swallows harshly, his eyes were laxer focused and challenging her to say something that she shouldn't.

She shouldn't because he's married.

She shouldn’t because she’s married.

“N-no,” YN stammers at the sudden question, tightened uncertainty winding in her belly - mixing with the hot, subtle arousal.

“Good,” Harry nods before he's stopping one of the last doors on the left, his hand curls around the knob, “Undress to your comfort. Some people prefer keeping their bra and underwear on, others go nude. Whatever you feel best doing.”

YN hesitates, her fingers twitching at her sides.

Normally, she’d strip off her bra but keep her underwear on—just enough coverage to maintain a sliver of modesty.

But something inside her stirs, something unfamiliar yet enticing, daring her to step beyond her usual boundaries.

She bites her bottom lip, the decision swirling in her head as she looks at Harry.

But his expression gives nothing away, his patience unwavering as he waits for her to step inside.

“I'll give you a few minutes to get settled. Please lay face-down under the sheet, pull it up to your lower back. Do you have any questions?” Harry asks as he flips on the light, the beautiful room already set up, and a twinkling zen music filters through the built-in speaker.

“No,” YN says again, quiet as she steps past him into the space, “Thank you.”

Harry dips his chin in a silent nod before stepping back, allowing her to move past him.

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

It takes longer than she expects for him to return.

At least ten minutes pass, maybe more.

She can tell by the way the medley of soft instrumentals has shifted two or three times, a seamless transition of calming melodies.

She breathes deeply, inhaling the mix of essential oils perfuming the air, but the stillness is beginning to make her twitch.

The way that she can feel her nipples against the sheet, the way that every part of her skin is touching it actually.

It’s warm in the room, enough that she can feel the perspiration start to prickle at her lower back, and she can’t decipher whether or not it’s from the temperature of the room or the flush of her body.

YN digs her fingernails into her palms momentarily, to ground herself, to get a hold of herself.

She’s not in some fucking fantasy novel.

Harry is a professional.

He’s probably oblivious to the thoughts swirling in her head.

He’s married.

She told him that she is married.

The last thing he probably wants is a client sexualizing him in the middle of his job.

Before she can scold herself enough to feel guilt of her rather debach thoughts - the door opens and her heart squeezes with anticipation.

He cracks the door before stepping in, “Ready?”

“Yes,” YN swallows as she squeezes her eyes shut, the door clicks closed behind him.

YN had pulled the sheet up over her shoulders, every masseuse had different protocol, and as soons as he steps over - she realizes that she already hadn’t been great at following his very simple instructions.

She hears his measured footsteps approach before feeling his hands on the sheet—his fingers brushing against the warmth of her bare back as he carefully folds the fabric down.

It settles just above the swell of her bum, exposing the curve of her lower back.

He stills for the briefest moment.

Then, a deep inhale.

It’s almost imperceptible. A barely-there intake of breath that might be nothing—or might be something.

YN convinces herself she’s imagining things.

He’s probably adjusting his stance.

Or stretching his fingers.

Or something entirely mundane that has nothing to do with the fact that he just discovered she’s completely bare beneath the sheet.

“I'm going to begin. Please, let me know if anything is sensitive or sore during. Is there anywhere you would like me to focus in particular?” Harry inquired, he sounds formal, professional as he should.

“My glutes and calves,” YN responds after a moment of thought.

The calves part was true - they were tight and sore from her legs days at the gym.

Her glutes, however, did not need any work but she couldn't get the imagine of his hands massaging her there out of her mind.

“Noted,” Harry replies with a gruff, clipped agreement like he was gritting his teeth at her answer.

The beginning of the massage is as normal as anything, his fingers press deep into the knots lining her shoulders, working out the tension that she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying.

The pressure is firm, methodical.

But the moment his palms cup around the nape of her neck, a shiver bolts through her spine.

She tries to squeeze her thighs together subtly, a feeble attempt at quelling the heat pulsing low in her belly.

But it’s impossible, her legs already splayed relaxed on the table.

Harry notices the movement.

“Are you uncomfortable? Do you need to reposition?” Harry asks when he notices her fidgeting, concern in his voice that makes her feel even more guilt at her thoughts.

“No, I'm good,” YN’s reply isn't more than a strained squeak.

Harry doesn’t comment on it, but he does press his thumbs deeper into the base of her neck, a silent cue for her to relax.

“Try to relax then. You're tight,” Harry continues to move his fingers and all she can hear is that last sentence on repeat.

He's talking about back muscles, she has to remind herself.

You’re tight.

YN does finally listen, relaxing into the soft, heated cushion of the table, and purposefully clearing her mind.

“There you go, good girl,” Harry murmurs when he notices her shoulders start to loosen, neck letting her head hang more into the face cushion, and her thighs melting into the table too.

Good girl.

YN’s clear mind is now filled once again.

Her muscles should be turning to liquid under his touch, her mind blank with relaxation.

But all she can focus on is the phantom sensation of his voice curling around those words.

By the time he finishes her back—nothing but completely professional work thus far, she’s half-certain that if she were to open her mouth, she’d be panting like an overheated dog.

“I’m going to start on your calves,” Harry informs her, shifting his stance beside her, “Then I’ll work my way up to your glutes. Since you requested them, I just want to confirm you’re comfortable with my hands there.”

YN knows he’s only being professional, ensuring her comfort.

If only he knew the absolute filth running through her head.

If only he knew just how much she wanted his hands there.

“Yes,” YN replies shallowly, she had been laying down for at least the last twenty minutes and she felt like she’d just ran a marathon, her throat parched and aching.

Harry’s tone sharpens, more assertive than she’s ever heard before.

There’s a domineering edge to it that sends a shiver down her spine, “Yes, what? Yes, you are comfortable with that, or yes, you do want to change your mind?”

YN feels embarrassment flushing her at the miscommunication, it blends into the heat she already has seeping from her skin so there’s no difference.

“Yes, I am comfortable with your hands there,” YN manages to get out, she wonders if Harry thinks she’s an absolute basketcase or if he even has any awareness of the situation.

If he notices, he doesn’t show it.

Instead, he resumes his work, his hands slick with the massage oil he had been using. The scent of sweet almond fills the space between them, subtle yet intoxicating.

It’s her favorite scent—always has been.

It reminds her of the raspberry almond cake she and her husband had shared on their wedding day, the same one they’d made a tradition of enjoying every anniversary since.

Her train of thought was interrupted by an involuntary groan that she lets out when he presses on a tight spot right in the center of her calve.

The pain is sharp and sudden, and instinctively, she tries to yank her leg from his grip, but Harry’s grip is firm, steady.

He doesn’t even struggle to keep her still.

His hold is effortless, almost dismissive of her attempt to squirm away.

“You should stretch for longer than five minutes before you work out,” he chides, his tone laced with knowing disapproval,“Especially when you’re doing legs. You need to be warming up your hamstrings, groin, calves.”

He punctuates his point by pressing into the same tender spot again, and she lets out a similar sound—somewhere between a whimper and a gasp as the ache flares up once more.

“How do you know I’m not?” YN challenges, trying to regain some semblance of control over the situation.

She hadn’t even realized Harry was paying attention to her.

She hadn’t thought he noticed her at all, let alone enough to critique her habits.

Harry chuckles, the sound low and rough, curling at the edges with amusement, “That reaction, right there.”

YN is about to deflate because it wasn’t because of him noticing her until -

“I’ve seen you stretch. You sit on your mat and scroll on your phone for five minutes while barely trying to touch your toes,” Harry calls her out.

His assessment is shockingly accurate, and she doesn’t have much of a defense.

Instead, she deflects.

“I’m plenty flexible without stretching,” YN quips, allowing a teasing edge to slip into her tone.

The innuendo is obvious, intentional.

Harry doesn’t rise to it in the way she expects.

He doesn’t laugh or smirk or falter.

Instead, his response is delivered in the same flat, unimpressed drawl.

“Are you?” His thumb digs into her calf again, pressing into another tight knot of tension, “You’re just as tight as you are flexible.”

Touché.

She doesn’t realize just how tightly she’s been clenching her thighs until Harry’s palms press flat against the backs of them.

Firm but not forceful.

“Spread your legs for me.”

Fuck.

His voice is steady, authoritative, yet devoid of hesitation.

There is no question in his command.

She obeys without thinking, parting her legs easily, pliantly.

But as soon as the sheet shifts—just slightly, the reality of her own arousal crashes over her in a suffocating wave.

Embarrassment sinks its claws into her as she wonders—can he see?

Can he tell? Is there enough of a telltale sheen on her inner thighs to give her away?

A visible wet spot on the table?

“Why are you clenching—” Harry starts, but then he stops.

Silence.

A sharp inhale.

It’s as if something clicks into place, something he wasn’t expecting, and it cuts off his line of questioning entirely.

“Wha—” YN begins to ask, shifting slightly to glance behind her, but before she can move too far, a hand comes down to the base of her neck.

His palm cups it, firm yet controlled, pressing her back down into the face cradle.

The pressure isn’t rough, but it’s purposeful.

It’s the first real slip—something that isn’t professional, not even close.

The way he grips her isn’t the neutral, detached touch of a masseuse simply guiding their client.

No.

This is something else entirely.

“Don’t move.”

His voice is rougher now, deeper.

There’s something strained in the way he speaks, his accent thickening as if he’s forcing himself to remain composed.

It takes her an extra beat to process his words, to pick them apart through the weight of his tone.

“Jesus. S’ridiculous. Just trying to do my fucking job.”

The words aren’t meant for her, not really.

He’s speaking to himself as much as he is to her.

And yet, they hit her like a slap.

Embarrassment rattles through her, her heart climbing up into her throat.

He sounds frustrated.

With her.

The realization makes her shrink, makes her feel small—like a child being scolded.

“I’m s-sorry,” YN stammers, her mouth suddenly dry, her tongue thick and useless in her mouth.

She doesn’t even know what she’s apologizing for—only that she feels like she should.

Because whatever he saw, whatever he realized, it was enough to shift the entire dynamic between them in a matter of seconds.

To Harry’s credit, he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t pull away.

His hands remain on her, though now they focus on her glutes, kneading into the muscle with a more methodical, calculated touch.

Subconsciously, she starts to clench her thighs again, as if trying to ground herself.

As if trying to remind herself that this is just a massage.

That she isn’t some… deviant, reacting to something as simple as his hands on her.

She isn’t.

But then…

His hand moves.

It grips the soft flesh of her ass, squeezing just hard enough that the tips of his fingers press deep into the skin, surely turning it white beneath his grasp.

The gasp that rips from her chest is instant, shocked, sharp.

Because this isn’t just crossing a line.

This isn’t just towing the boundary of professionalism.

This is tearing right through it, shattering it to pieces, leaving nothing behind.

“Stop apologizing and stay still,” Harry orders, his voice rough with unspoken tension.

His fingers remain where they are, digging in just enough to make a point, to drive something unspoken between them.

“Do you understand me?”

YN swallowed hard, her heart was trying to escape her chest at the moment.

Yes.

Yes, she understands.

The massage resumes, thumbs pressing into knots, trading the ache for a different kind.

Should she end the appointment?

Apologize and never show her face in the gym again?

YN does better, she does, she lasts at least another five minutes as she tries to stay as stock still as possible.

His touches are back to professional and she’s starting to question herself, start to question whether or not he had even squeezed her ass like that.

But then her thoughts start to spiral again, horny and desperate in a way they’ve never been.

It must have been a wiggle of her hips, maybe even a subtle attempt to see if she could find any friction against the table, but whatever it was—Harry had noticed.

He had noticed, and she knew it the moment the air in the room seemed to shift, thickening with the weight of his attention.

“What the fuck did I just say?” Harry scolded with no more softness in his voice, that upbeat bubbly man that everyone around the gym knew and loved - nowhere to be found and it was as intimidating, thrilling as it was frightening.

The smack comes fast, hard, landing squarely on her left ass cheek with a force that makes her gasp before she even realizes what’s happened.

The sharp sting spreads out in waves across her skin, the heat sinking into her already sore muscles.

She jerks, instinctively trying to sit up, but she doesn’t get far before his palm is at the base of her neck, pressing her face back into the cushioned cut-out of the massage table.

The stinging sensation lingers, blooming like fire just beneath the surface of her skin

It’s different, though—not just the typical burn of an open-handed slap.

It’s sharper, pinpointed.

And then she realizes—

His wedding band.

It had cut her.

Only slightly, just enough for her to feel the tiny scrape, but still, the knowledge of how it had happened made her stomach clench.

Her cunt shouldn’t pulse around nothing at that thought, but it does.

It totally does.

“You’re ruining my sheets,” Harry observes, full of judgement and disapproval, like she was inconvenience more than anything.

YN stays quiet because he had told her to stop apologizing and is she pouting about because she just got smacked?

Maybe.

Harry leans forward, his body heat radiating against her back.

The soft cotton of his t-shirt brushes against her skin, and she can feel the cool chain of his necklace ghosting over her shoulder.

When he speaks next, his voice is quieter, deliberate, “You have four options.”

Her breath catches.

“You can either stay still and get your normal massage. You can keep moving and have an ass that aches for the next week. You can end the massage right now and walk out the door. Or…”

YN waits for him but she realizes that he’s teasing it, edging it, her voice is barely above a whisper, “Or what?”

“Or you can tell me exactly what you want me to do to you and I’ll do it,” Harry hums as he stands back up, his hands gripping the back of her thighs, and pushing them apart from where they started to drift together once again.

She could tell him.

She could put it into words, could give voice to the heat curling low in her belly, but the thought alone makes her want to squirm in embarrassment.

She’s already acted desperate enough—she refuses to push herself further into that category.

The tension in her stomach, the feeling of his wedding band leaving a mark on her ass.

“I’ll stay still,” YN replies with as much of a steady voice that she can manage.

Harry laughs, deep and mean, amusement tinged with something almost cruel.

It makes the humiliation simmer hotter beneath the surface of her skin.

“Do you soak Pedro’s table?” he asks conversationally, like he’s discussing nothing more than the weather, “Because he’s never mentioned it. And I think I’d remember something that pathetic.”

She knows exactly what he’s doing.

He’s trying to break her, to make her react.

His hand twitches against her skin, like it’s itching to leave more marks. But she refuses to give him the satisfaction.

She clenches her jaw, grits her teeth, forces herself to keep still even as his hands press into her muscles with increasing pressure.

YN doesn’t bite, has to squeeze her eyes shut but she doesn’t, teeth gritting as the pressure of the massage increases.

Then, he revisits the small cut, pressing his thumb against it, rubbing over it in a way that makes her tense involuntarily.

“Does your husband not fuck you?” His voice is scalding, lips brushing her cheek as he speaks, “You’re squirming like you’ve never been touched before.”

The impulse to shoot an insult at him is hard to not take but she’s staying still out of spite.

Harry’s hands start to dip further in between her inner thighs, his fingers swipe against the damp skin of her thighs, and he then rubs it on her asscheek, “Can’t tell when the massage oil ends and your slick starts.”

Her thighs part slightly wider, a silent offering, even though she knows better than to expect mercy.

She should have anticipated it—the punishment that follows.

The next smack is harder, sharper.

It radiates through her lower half, a forceful enough hit that her nipples brush against the sheet below her.

She swallows back a moan, biting her bottom lip until she nearly draws blood.

“You should be thanking me, do you know how many women wish they were in your position right now?”

Even though it was true, he didn’t have to be a cocky prick about it.

YN stays silent, she didn’t know how he still managed to get up the massage at this point.

“I said thank me.”

Another slap.

Same spot.

This time, the band on his finger catches her skin just right—or just wrong.

She feels the sting of it cutting into her, nothing deep, just enough to make her gasp softly.

Her breath shudders as she exhales.

YN gnaws on her bottom lip to prevent herself from speaking.

Harry’s patience snaps.

His hand knots in her hair, jerking her head up so that her cheek is exposed to him.

His lips hover on her cheek, just near the corner of her mouth, but he doesn’t close the distance, “Speak the fuck up,” he growls, “or I’m stopping.”

She can’t believe she’s in this situation.

With a married man.

As a married woman.

But when she speaks, her voice is even, measured.,“I would like my massage to continue.”.

Harry exhales sharply, nostrils flaring.

He unwinds his fingers from her hair, pushing her head back down onto the table.

“Fair enough.”

He does exactly as she asked.

He massages her like nothing happened, his hands working over her shoulders, the backs of her arms, expertly kneading out tension.

It’s frustrating.

Infuriating.

Because he has more energy for edging, doing things out of spite than her.

And fifteen minutes later—she’s the one struggling not to move again.

Harry actually starts to hum, an annoying tune from an old game show, completely out of place in the dimly lit room.

It breaks into the soft rhythms playing from the speakers.

YN squirms.

Harry smacks her again, sharp and precise, the sound echoing through the space, echoing in the thick air between them.

It stings.

Of course it fucking does.

It leaves heat blooming across her skin, a reminder of his control.

But he does not speak.

Instead, he returns to the slow, methodical touches that are driving her mad—too firm to be teasing, but nowhere near what she needs.

She breaks.

She fucking breaks.

"Touch me, please," YN throws her pride out the fucking window, off a bridge, down into the deepest black hole where she doesn’t have to face it again.

Desperation drips from her words, heavy and undeniable.

Harry exhales a long-suffering sigh, unbothered by her distress, "I am touching you," he bleats, his voice laced with indifference.

His fingers trace aimless patterns along her skin, not nearly enough, "We have about ten minutes left of the hour. Where would you like me to focus the rest of the massage?"

“I need something, please,” YN asks with a pathetic plead starting to work her way into her tone.

Harry, ever unyielding, remains unaffected, "You came in with the complaint of calves and glutes. Are you still not—"

YN wants to cut the shit.

“Please, fuck me. Please,” YN feels like she’s on the line of sobbing for relief at this point, she doesn’t know if she’s even been this worked up, and the inability to see him somehow makes it worse, makes her feel more vulnerable, more desperater, “Please.”

“You could have had it fifteen minutes ago,” Harry chastises but his hands - they slide down her body, teasing the sensitive skin, but they don’t go directly to where she needs them the most.

“Harry, I -”

A smack.

Unraveling her like that wedding band on her sensitive skin.

Then his hands are gone entirely.

The loss is immediate, unbearable.

The air crackles with unspoken tension before she realizes—he’s just looking at her.

"Knees," he commands, his voice sharp enough to slice through the thick fog of her arousal.

“I-” YN begins to asks but he’s not patient any longer.

“I said get on your fucking knees,” Harry repeats, louder and thankfully, no one else is here.

Before she can fully process, he takes it upon himself to move her, gripping her hips and lifting them effortlessly.

Her knees slide inward, bringing them closer to her chest, forcing her body into a position that leaves her fully exposed, fully at his mercy.

He winds his fingers into her hair again, fisting the strands tight enough to pull her out of the cradle of the cushion.

Her cheek is smushed sideways against the table now, breaths coming in shallow, uneven pants.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Harry has no manners, taking what he wants by spreading her cheeks to get a better look at her.

There is no manners left in him.

No pretense of control.

YN realizes belatedly that there are fat tears rolling down her cheeks, that Harry must now be able to see, and in a break from the thick tension in the room.

He does something oddly sweet, it reminds her of her husband actually, he presses his lips to her cheek.

His voice is soft, more so like she hears around the gym or when he greets her in reception, “Okay?”

“Okay,” YN nods in agreement, her voice cracks, and she can see him smile before slipping back into a scowl.

She appreciated him checking in, warming her up in a different way.

“Never seen a needier thing in my life. God, your husband must not do shit for you. You're clenching around nothing—both holes,” Harry murmurs thoughtfully, his tone a perfect blend of mockery and amusement.

His words are crude, biting, but they set her nerve endings on fire.

YN barely has time to react before she feels it—his spit landing on her tighter hole, warm and slick, quickly chased by the rough pad of his thumb spreading it around.

Her skin prickles, her breath catches, and then he continues, his voice dripping with sinful amusement.

“Everyone around this gym thinks you're this sweet, kind person. I hear them talk,” He pauses, tilting his head as if considering something. “What would they think if I told them about this? A bored housewife coming into a massage and begging to be fucked decently.”

It's a monologue, she knows he isn't expecting an answer.

“Spread out on this table, showing me everything with no shame.”

Two fingers—his index and middle, drag lazily through her folds, teasing, pressing at her entrance but never quite pushing in.

YN is trembling, trying not to move but everything aches.

“I would have subbed in much soone for Pedro if I knew I'd get such a sweet cunt out of it. I should have known you'd have the prettiest one I've ever seen,” Harry accentuates it with tucking his fingers into her, the slight stretch of his two thick digits were welcome with how ready she already was, “Those little bike shorts you wear hide absolutely nothing.”

YN pushes back, pulling him in even deeper, and luckily, he doesn't scold her.

But he makes her work for it.

“Ride ‘em. My hands are tired from the massage,” Harry curls them forward against her spongy front wall, hitting her spot head on like he had it memorized on a map.

YN was sweating, hair matted to her skin, and visibly droplets of west gathering around her temples as she started to push back on him.

She couldn't believe what she was doing right now.

“You hear that?” Harry asks, thrusting his fingers a few times to make the sound even more obscene, slick and lewd in the quiet room, “Should record that and make it the spa soundtrack. S’that sound like a good idea, baby?”

Her head drops forward, a loud moan tearing from her throat when his thumb presses into her tighter hole, sending pleasure ricocheting through her body.

She’s never been this full before—never felt this close to unraveling without even having her clit touched.

Harry’s laugh cuts through the haze of her pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re filthy,” he groans, watching her. “You like your ass played with too? This is my lucky day, huh? Is that how you’ll tip me? Let me choose?”

“Yes, yes—you can choose,” YN babbles, her voice high and desperate, her stomach tightening, her body coiling tighter and tighter.

She’s grinding now, less controlled, more frantic, chasing something she’s not sure she could explain, “Please, I just need to come. I need it, please—”

But Harry pulls his fingers out.

The loss is devastating.

Tears sting at her eyes, spilling freely, mixing with sweat, with spit, with the sheer mess of her.

Her hair is frizzy from where he’s pulled it, her cheeks damp, her mouth parted as she gasps through the absence of him.

Harry grips her hip harshly, not giving her choice as he helps flip her over until she's on her back.

And it's the first time in all of this that she's been able to really see him.

It was nice to see that he was affected too with huffing breaths, nostrils flaring, and sweat on his temple from the heat of the room.

And then he’s peeling his shirt off, tugging it over his head in a way that looks effortless.

His body is all sharp lines and defined muscle, the kind she sees every day in the gym but never gets to touch.

Her legs automatically close, a futile attempt to shield herself, to protect her most vulnerable spot.

But Harry frowns at that, smacking her thigh sharply, silently telling her to open back up.

He tuts, shaking his head as he looks down at her, “Puppy, if you were this desperate for cock, you could have just asked me. You’re cute enough. I’d fuck you in front of everyone—bend you over a weight bench, let those little biker shorts trap your thigh and watch your squirms.”

YN can tell he’s about to put his mouth on her—but she can’t.

She can’t take any more teasing.

Her hands shake as she reaches up, fingers pressing to the side of his neck, thumb pressing beneath his jaw.

She’s sniffling, trying to speak through her sobs of frustration.

“I can’t—I need you to fuck me. Please, H, please.”

The hour of foreplay was more than enough.

Harry blinks, his gaze locking onto hers, searching.

And then….

He moves up the table, his hand cradling her jaw as he kisses her, slow and deep, melting away her desperation for just a moment.

“You want me to fuck you?” he murmurs, the rasp was thick in his tone, “You’re ready?”

She nods frantically, clinging to him. “Yes. I’m sorry, I can’t—”

Harry kisses her quiet before pulling back just enough to push his shorts and briefs off.

She doesn’t get a chance to look at him before he’s guiding himself to her core, pressing in, inch by thick inch, until their pubic bones meet.

He lets out this euphoric, beautiful low moan when he pushing in until their pubic bones meet, and he's big - really fucking big and she's so fucking full that it's insane.

Don’t need to wait,” she breathes, voice trembling with urgency, her fingers digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders.

Her legs wind around his narrow hips instinctively, locking him in, heels pressing into the firm curve of his bum as if to keep him right where he belongs,“Please move.”

And Harry fucks like he weightlifts.

Hard. Determined. Precise.

Every powerful thrust sends electric pleasure sparking through her veins, his strokes deliberate and deep, like he’s got something to prove—like he won’t stop until he’s got her unraveling completely beneath him.

His pace is relentless, the force of his movements pushing her up the table in tiny, helpless jolts before he’s tugging her back down onto his cock without missing a beat.

The friction is dizzying, intoxicating, and YN feels herself slipping closer and closer to the edge with every merciless snap of his hips.

“I’m gonna—if you rub my-” she pants, but she doesn’t even need to finish.

Harry already knows.

With a low grunt, he shifts, his weight shifting back slightly as his hand snakes between them.

His fingers find her clit with ease, with skill, and he presses down, rubbing tight, fast circles with a very specific intent in mind.

His voice is rough and coaxing as he groans, “Yeah, fuck, yeah. C’mon, baby. I deserve it, don’t I? Soak me.”

And that’s all it takes.

A sharp, wrecked cry tears from her throat as her body gives in completely, pleasure overtaking her in a crashing, uncontrollable wave.

YN’s limbs go boneless, loose like a marionette with its strings cut, as her orgasm seizes her, dragging her under with white-hot intensity.

The overwhelming sensation floods her lower half, a gush of wetness spilling out between them, coating both of them in the aftermath.

The slick, obscene sounds of him fucking her through it echo in the room, each thrust impossibly louder, wetter, filthier.

“Holy shit,” Harry growls, his voice thick with awe and arousal, “That’s the hottest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

His breath hitches, his control slipping,“You just squirted on me—look at you, all swollen and puffy for me.”

His gaze is locked on where they’re connected, utterly mesmerized, before something shifts in his expression—something primal.

He grips her hips tighter, holding her open as he starts pounding into her even harder, chasing his own release with ruthless determination.

The force of it knocks the breath from her lungs, and before she can even process the sheer intensity of it all, he’s surging forward, crushing his mouth against hers in a desperate, bruising kiss.

It’s messy—more teeth and tongue than finesse—but it’s everything.

A claiming, a surrender, a moment of pure, unfiltered need.

He pulses inside her with a deep, guttural groan, spilling into her with a final, shuddering thrust, his body going rigid before finally melting against her.

He stays there, buried deep, chest rising and falling against hers as he slowly comes back down from his high.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is their mingled, heavy breathing.

Then, Harry huffs out a breathless chuckle, forehead pressed to hers, body warm and weighty on top of her.

“Told you,” he murmurs smugly, voice thick with satisfaction, “Told you you wouldn’t be patient enough for foreplay.”

YN scoffs, though there’s no real heat behind it.

Her fingers find their way into his damp curls, scratching lightly at his scalp as her lips twitch into a lazy smile.

“The whole massage was foreplay,” she argues, pressing a kiss to his temple, “I think I did okay.”

A playful smirk tugs at her mouth as she adds, “I don’t have the patience you do.”

“You never have,” Harry murmurs, his thumb brushing her slick hair off her forehead with a tenderness that makes her stomach flip.

He presses a slow, lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth, voice laced with affection as he murmurs against her lips, “You’re an impatient little thing for orgasms.”

His tone is teasing, but the warmth in his gaze, the soft adoration in his touch - it’s so much love and fondness interwoven between them.

“Don’t like this one bit,” Harry grumped after a moment, pulling her hand up and giving a pointed gaze towards her bare ring finger, “Made me almost break character.”

YN giggles as she allows Harry to pull her up to sit, he slips off the table, “I didn’t want to get massage oil on it. It makes the diamond all foggy and I have to take it to the jeweler to get it cleaned then.”

“Hey,” Harry grips her chin, buttoning their lips together for a long moment, “Happy anniversary. I love you and I hope this met your expectations of the scene you were fantasizing about. I’m just glad your fantasies are with me.”

“I’m in love with you, have been for ages and never plan not to be. It was absolutely perfect but now I’m worried I’ll get greedy for more,” YN laughs as she spreads her loegs once again, letting Harry start to wipe her off with a warm towel he takes from the towel warmer that’s conveniently in the room.

“You’re always greedy,” Harry argues gently, blinking up at her, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to walk into this room again without getting a hard-on.”

YN shakes her head with another bout of laughter, “You’re going to be fucked. I have a lot of fantasys about fucking a gym owner.” “Mm,” Harry rumbles as he tosses the towel, his touches getting more full of intent once again, “Lucky you’re married to one, hm?”

whew. i hope you enjoyed!

now if you are confused about anything the synoposis - harry and yn are a married couple, they own a gym, and yn wants to roleplay masseuse/client for their anniversary. there is no cheating!

now i recommend going back and reading it and finding all the little hints that they were married couple the whole time.

i would super love to know your feedback on it

#harry styles writing #harry styles #harry styles masterlist #harry styles fic rec #harry styles x reader #harry styles fluff #harry styles x you #harry styles imagine #harry styles x y/n #harry styles angst #harry styles smut #smut rec

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sheliesshattered · 2 months ago

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I'm reblogging this because I need to once again vague-post about this old friend/business partner of my dad's, whom I have codenamed "Lazlo"

(I gave him a codename specifically because he's so ridiculously Googleable and once you have his name it's a very short process of elimination to figure out my dad's name and thus me and Jack and our whole family. and I like to have some amount of online privacy, unlike some people, Lazlo.)

I met Lazlo like. twice. maybe three times. nearly 30 years ago. I do not remember what he looked like at the time, and he would only know who I am if I namedropped my dad. and then he would know instantly because yeah it was three decades ago but only like two or three companies ago, and you don't forget shit like 'the guy who you started and sold two start-ups with'

but anyway.

despite not having spoken to codename Lazlo since a year beginning with a 1, every few years he just. crosses my path. inexplicably.

and I mean, we work in semi-related fields, so it's not that surprising that we would know people in common or whatever. but no. it's never anything that normal when Lazlo suddenly bursts through the metaphorical wall of my life like the fucking Kool-Aid Man

it's always something much weirder than that. and it always seems to come in clusters that makes it feel like goddamned kaiju attacks. the last major cluster was in the summer of 2016, back when I could actually call my dad and say 'wtf why is Lazlo haunting my online existence??'

it's happened a few times since then, just scattered Lazlo sightings out in the wild, and every time I think about what I wrote in this first vague-post about him, how I'm just noticing the same guy going by in the spin-cycle of life and going wait what every fucking time. you'd think I'd get used to it. but no.

which brings me to the cluster happening now.

so a couple of weeks ago I was working my through my very slow rewatch of The West Wing, and a line from Leo McGarry caught my attention, because he mentioned a bit of 90s-invented technology that exists in our real world, but that I never stopped to think about existing in the alternate timeline of TWW. tech that, in the real world, was invented/shepherded by that phantom in my life: Lazlo

I had to pause the episode and go on a wikispiral to doublecheck, but yep, in the real world, the tech that Leo just namedropped was created by the start-up company that Lazlo founded after he sold the second of his two start-ups with my dad. the one that kind of literally caught on fire and led to a panicked phone call to my dad in ~2003, the details of which are in the tags of the post I'm reblogging.

does that mean that Lazlo exists in the universe of The West Wing?? it kind of has to, right? does that mean my dad exists in TWW, since it was the sale of their two start-ups together that allowed Lazlo to strike out on his own for the next start-up??? do I exist in TWW????

I had a moment of just staring blankly at the wikipedia article, and then went back to the episode and tried to remember wtf Leo had been saying before a single word set me off into a tailspin

so then today I find out that Lazlo is once again in the news because his company is being bought. sure, fine, in 2016 his company was the main reason that I couldn't avoid random Lazlo sightings online, couldn't even avoid him here on fucking Tumblr, so sure, his company is in the news again. fine. whatever.

but I learned about this news because the CEO of the start-up that my little company is contracting for posted it in his company's discord. with the comment that the sale is only happening because Lazlo wants to move on "and do his weird shit"

the CEO of the company that my company is contracting for does not know that I know Lazlo

and I am decidedly scared to ask what "weird shit" Lazlo might be up to this time.

My dad had a business partner in the mid and late 90s whom I met like a handful of times, he probably wouldn’t even remember my name. I mostly remember him because his last name made up part of a password my dad’s business used for a long time, you kinda had to spell it to yourself to type it correctly. In the ~20 years since, he’s repeatedly popped back up in my life in some completely different context, each one more bizarre than the last. And every single time I go what?? wHAT??? like it can’t possibly be the same guy, can it? over here too??? how does this keep happening???? No one knows. There is no sense in the universe. It’s just me, noticing the same guy going past in the spin-cycle that is life and going wait what.

#I guess I'm just going to have to wait for the next wild Lazlo sighting to find out #Lazlo #long post #this is my real life #2025 mood #2016 mood #2003 mood #why is my life this weird #Lazlo blindsiding me again like whoa #somewhere my dad is laughing his ghost-butt off about this #when I called him about it in 2016 he straightened out a teenaged misconception of mine #and clarified that the guy I'm referring to here as 'Lazlo' worked with (at one of my dad's start-ups) but was not actually the same guy #as the one who caused internet contests and 'no entry needed' giveaways online to fundamentally change in the mid 90s #they all worked in the same basement office and I think I only met that guy the one time #so after ~20 years I had conflated them in my head. but no. the other guy was the Spiders Georg of internet giveaways #whereas Lazlo was the guy who randomly went radio silent right around the time that current events made his company's servers catch on fire #but I didn't know that when I gave him the codename Lazlo #the reasoning for which is directly related to incredibly smart guys in basements being the Spiders Georg of giveaways #but 'Lazlo' is the only thing I can refer to this guy as when I need to vague-post about him. because he's so Googleable.#I do so little socializing offline that the chances of me ever running into Lazlo in real life are slim to none #but holy shit that would be the cherry on top of this weird 30 year spin cycle lol #and actually the crack at the beginning of this post about not respecting online privacy is totally unfair to Lazlo #he did a thing once just to be kind to my dad and it was totally internet privacy that went above and beyond #it might even still be in effect. I'd have to look up the address of the house to see.#and yet. I cannot escape the Lazlo sightings.#The West Wing #I cannot believe I fucking tagged those two topics together #but here we are

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fafodill · 16 days ago

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The exact wording of the ask I got was: 'what if someone was asking deprived!Snape (read my whole essay about him) to "break them off a piece of that KitKat bar?" How would they go about it?'

So today we're going to discuss this. Buckle up people.✨

SO his reaction will largely depend on the context and their current relationship but one thing that will happen FOR SURE every time before anything else is that he's going to think they're messing with him.

What else could it be? This man had been so heavily bullied as a teen his self-esteem is buried and has its own tombstone.

"Here lies Snape's self-image. Spit to pay your respect."

We don't have any canon proof of it happening but many people headcanon that some of the bullying might have been people being dared to come up to him and fake attraction or compliment him (so funny omg) only for him to realize they were just messing with him. It's totally the kind of immature stupid shit kids will come up with (speaking from personal experience here). Not funny but deeply scarring for one's self-image. So being told he's attractive would trigger him in his adult life. Any potential suitor asking him out would be welcomed with him immediately closing up and getting angry at them. They'd need to find a way for him to believe them first.

If you're thinking "this already sounds like a pain", yes it is. Welcome to deprived!Snape. Welcome to Snape, basically. If they want a piece of him, they have to brace themselves for the long run.

He will get angry and leave a lot. Fleeing the situation - since it's a very vulnerable subject for him - will be his go-to move. The whole ordeal will require patience. So what should this person do?

Friend or Stranger?

If it comes from a DE he'll think it's an angle. If it's from a member of the Order, he'll think it's a joke. If it's from a colleague at Hogwarts, he maaaay be a tad less suspicious? In any case, it will depend on how close they are. The more time they have spent together, the closer he'll be to not flip out... too much.

I'm a bit torn about his reaction if it was coming from a stranger. Either it's easier because he can lean into the idea that maybe they're lying about their attraction and he doesn't care (and if he's horny then why the fuck not, it won't affect him as much since they both now they're here for physical release) OR he might not be into it at all because he actually needs a real connection (and I think this is more realistic). Severus is a feral cat, he needs time to trust people.

What else? He could also maybe open up faster with someone not from his usual inner circles (a foreigner or a muggle) as the interactions wouldn't be charged with the same deep-rooted habits and expectations.

I also believe he'd unconsciously feel way more at ease with someone coming from a modest background. A pureblood aristocrat hitting on him would have little chance of getting past his natural distrust of them (unless he knows them very well).

So what should they do?

Build trust

The quality of their interactions and conversations will have a huge impact. Do they have an interesting personality? He needs someone capable of taking him on and keeping up intellectually. Can they keep up with him and challenge him?

Severus has a temper. Can they deal with his bullshit and not give up on him at the first scowl? Argue with him? It doesn't mean they can't be nice, but I don't see him get worked up over someone cowering under his gaze.

They need to be stubborn. He's a Capricorn and he's got the horns. He's hard-headed. They need to not back down when he bites or dismisses their attempts at flirting. One of Severus's classic tactic is to hurt people so they leave him alone, so they need to be able to dodge the attack, make fun of him or retaliate.

If they manage to deal with his temper, they will start to see what's on the other side of the snarky exterior. Then, they'll be able to start kneading the dough (Severus is the dough).

Convince him the attraction is real

That person could go the gentle/honest way, assuring him they're not kidding and explaining what they find attractive about him (he'd be super wary and need days to digest it - if he can). Genuine compliments could work quite well as he's good at reading people but it would be a process and it shouldn't be too much at once. He's NOT USED to compliments so if the person goes too hard, he's going to get overwhelmed, distance himself and reject it. A good trick would be to compliment his intelligence and magical skills alongside physical traits. A 2/3-1/3 ratio would be a good start. He would trust compliments about his big brain way more than anything regarding his cute butt.

Complimenting his presence, aura, voice might be good too as it's not directly related to physical traits. Else, physical starters could include hands and eyes. But I also love the idea of taking him by surprise and complimenting his nose. Might weird him out in a good way.

Or they could go the blunt way (or what I now refer to in my mind as the @maxdibert way) and be like "dude, I really think you're hot, deal with it" and leave him to sort his feelings out like a big boy.

The two strategies can be mixed of course. But at the end of the day, the real problem is that Severus as approximately a thousand confirmation bias in his mind telling him this is not happening. So what could they do to help ease this process?

Make him horny

Less overthinking = more chances to get this piece of ass.

Severus Snape needs to be warmed up. And as stated in my previous essay, he's plagued with the core beliefs that he's ugly, ridicule and undeserving. These beliefs need to be kneaded and challenged enough (not healed, this would take decades and it's not their job), so that he can relax and open up to the idea of intimacy.

Here are a few strategies to do so.

First, de-dramatize the subject. Making the topic less taboo by talking about it in a lighthearted way (no flaunting! certainly not!). A good move would be to joke about it. Deprived!Snape isn't comfortable with the subject but it's because it's evaded him and then he convinced himself he wasn't concerned or interested.

-> Here are some of the things he could benefit from hearing: that sex is not a big deal at all and we can laugh about it. It should be fun, a shared moment, trials and errors are part of it and there should no be judgment about experiences and preferences. People with a high 'body count' aren't necessarily good lovers, it's all about presence and intent etc.

His potential partner could share funny mishaps that happened to them and - when there's an opening - ask him what he would expect from a pleasant intimate moment (that's a very advanced move, don't forget he's bad with words)(it would only work in my opinion if they're both drunk and have been going at it for a while).

Also sharing experiences is a great way to build trust and intimacy (and arousal). He thrives on knowledge so learning more about his potential partner might ease his mind in some way (and give him some free intrusive thoughts). See it as added ingredients to make him simmer.

Though they shouldn't talk too much about the number of partners they had and said partner's skills. This might make him retreat. Again: low self-esteem and always on the lookout for an excuse to sabotage it.

Wait what about drunk!Snape you say? That's a trope we enjoy around here. Although I headcanon him as not being a heavy drinker (if a drinker at all because of his father) it would be a great way to lower a bit his inhibition. A DE would have a hard time sharing a drink with him, same for an Order member (he never stays after meetings but could be coerced), but a colleague could maybe drag him to the Three Broomsticks with other members of the staff and then leave early with him. wink wink Come on, rub his foot under the table and look at him choke on his ale. He'll skin you alive with his eyes and you can just raise a suggestive eyebrow back.

Persistence, persistence.

Of course a bit of physical baiting could help with his dusty libido. After all, they'd kinda be dealing with an teenager, experience-wise. Nothing too bold (though I headcanon that his sooty Cokeworth self would get way more worked up over unabashed desire than delicate courting but he's buried a bit too deep at the moment) but a nice cleavage, some leg showing, a fitting pair of pants or robes might not be a bad move. Since he might be uncomfortable with words, they could flaunt the goods in his face! The man has eyes, let him look and scold himself for looking. Also a few heavy looks, biting a lip and lingering fingers could go a long way for such a deprived man, especially if it's directed at him.

At the end of the day, the trick is to make him able to put his worry aside (or snap, if you find the word sexier).

They could go the provocative way, being insufferable and making him want to shut them up.

They could try some endless teasing until he's a lost hot mess, unable to express what he wants except by going 'fuck it' and going for it.

They could go slower and create a safe space with a weekly ritual (every Friday night meeting for a drink/to grade essays/to hang out) which can lead to a late night snog (floating candles optional).

They could be blunt and go 'I want to kiss you so bad right now' as they leave Hogsmeade together and are walking on the dirt path towards the castle. A gust of wind will prevent him from hiding himself behind his hair and they'll see the flush creeping on his face.

They could hammer the compliments and validation, because Severus craves recognition (is there a praise kink in there? yes). So first it could be his mind, his work, his skills... then the way his cape suits his frame so well, his silky voice... and then bam, hitting the nail on the head with complimenting his mouth. Blabbering mess guaranteed. Might flee but blush deliciously. Or might stop dead in his track and then it's time for them to claim these lips.

Kissing

Clumsy. Tentative. Awkward.

But earnest.

He might freeze at first. Wait, these lips knew how to do that once upon a time... how does it go again? He'll need a bit of time to remember but the best way to (re)learn is practice.

It will be a lot for him. As he's extremely touch-deprived he'd be literally rediscovering human contact. So much to feel, the supple of the lips, their shape, the softness, the wetness.

Honestly, deprived!Snape could get really worked up just from kissing.

(They could honestly make him cum just from this and some grinding. Amen. If he does he'd need reassurance after and still might flee and hide and snarl for a few days because male performance blahblahblah. Hopefully they'd be able to skip this step at this point in the relation.)

But I believe he'd enjoy it greatly and this might be a step he'd want to stay at for some time before going further.

Undressing

I headcanon deprived!Snape as being very self-conscious about revealing his body so it might only be possible with someone he really trusts. It might be painfully difficult for him (might require dimmed light if not obscurity but I mean come on, they're here to look at him and it'd be better for him to rip the bandaid... but giving him the option might help).

Either he'll be too aroused to care (or act as if he doesn't) or he'll feel very self-conscious and look for cues to confirm his belief that his partner will find him disgusting. It's the right moment for them to express their desire.

If for some reason he gets too triggered and leave, they wouldn't be back to square one but again, patience is key. He needs time. Or maybe they could convince him to stay and try to resolve the situation by stopping the intimacy and just talk about something else. It could be good practice to show him this isn't a big deal and that everything is fine.

But at this stage, complimenting him sincerely (no coddling) whilst not hiding their arousal could work nicely. Sprinkling some of the fantasies they had about him as well. ('I've been dreaming about these hands on me', 'You have no idea how much I've been wanting to kiss these lips to make you shut up', 'I laid awake at night thinking about touching this part of you'). Showing appreciation with touch could convince him more though and it has the advantage of preventing him to think too much.

But really, he won't like to focus on his appearance as it's something he has no control over so they should -unfortunately- bite their tongue and keep the flood of horny compliments to themselves at first. A new one might be fed to him once every two weeks to slowly build his confidence.

In Bed

Deprived!Snape is: prideful, yearning for control and very sensitive.

Now honestly I could make a whole other post with the different scenarios where he'd be more top or bottom. Instead, I will focus more on what would happen either way.

He'll want to learn. Because Severus is nothing if not a scholar. He's got a very curious nature regarding topics that interest him so if his partner is showing him how they like something, he'll get super serious about it. He will try to touch them in the exact same way at first and he's a fast learner so once it's mastered, he'll experiment. And he's going to be good at it.

That man got dexterity and an inventive mind. And that's canon.

But his focus on his partner might also be a way to keep control during this highly new situation. Depending on how self-conscious he is about his inexperience, shifting the focus on him might be a challenge. Maybe letting him take the lead could be a good idea. But maybe shoving him against the mattress and seizing control is the way to go here.

Now, he will be very sensitive, won't he?

Yes, he might. He might be a whimpering mess in no time. His partner should be cautious and gentle with him. Severus letting his guard down and letting them touch him is a very big effort coming from him so they should savor it and be sure to make it feel safe if they want this to happen again. Help him relax, let him breathe, don't hesitate to pause if he gets nervous. The walls will be destroyed, moan after moan.

But what if he isn't sensitive?

That's a possibility as well. He's been by himself for years and his wariness of intimacy and people is wired in his cells at this point. He's disconnected from his own body and never pays attention to it. He might also tense heavily once in bed with his partner, the vulnerability of it accentuating the disconnection. He might not feel pleasure, might get frustrated and feel angry or inadequate.

This situation - which I find very interesting and seems like a realistic follow-up to him wanting to kiss for a long time and struggling with undressing - is tricky and will require diplomacy and more patience.

But maybe this could be a dealbreaker for him. If the payoff isn't worth the discomfort, he could easily take it as a confirmation bias that intimacy isn't for the likes of him. The best course of action could be to focus on non-sexual aspect of intimacy.

But this essay is way too long already so I'm going to stop here.

What should I write about next? Is there something you wish I had addressed here? Is there something you'd like me to discuss next?

UPDATE: so a few people seem to be mad at me, demanding I keep on elaborating SO. Let's say I'm done here for the 'how to bed him' part (which was the premise of this essay) and I'll do another one following thoughts and possibly... focusing on the different roles in bed (top/bottom/switch) for our dear Severus. See you there.

TLDR: He's gonna be a pain, his partner needs to have calming draught for their nerves but in the end it will be very rewarding because he's starved and inventive.

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watchmegetobsessed · 1 year ago

Text

OLD GRUDGES (part 1)

A/N: wooohoooo im bringing something new!!! i feel like it happens so rarely it's like a miracle lol anyway, this will be hopefully a couple of parts (probably about 3) and lets all pray i will actually finish it lol

WORD COUNT: 3.7k

WARNING: sexual content

SUMMARY: Harry and Y/N go way back. Working together was like a dream when 1D was still going strong. Now, years later, when they end up working together again, things are very different. Mostly because Y/N seems to be hating Harry passionately. But he has not idea why.

MASTERLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST

Everyone loves Harry Styles. It’s a known fact, not just amongst the people who actually know him, but all around the world. He is known as one of the most unproblematic celebrities, someone who gives just as much if not even more respect as he gets, always kind and patient with others, rarely loses his temper. It’s hard to imagine that there is anyone walking this planet who doesn’t see him as a lovable, sweet man.

Well, it might be hard to imagine, but there is actually one person who has a very different opinion when it comes to the british popstar.

And that person is music producer, Y/N.

The interesting thing is that their history goes way back into his 1D days. Y/N was an up and coming name in the industry, just started working with bigger names when she got the chance to produce several songs on the band’s third studio album. Harry remembers her as a bubbly, funny girl who is passionate about her job and is also excellent in it. Working with her was easy and motivating, she was always eager to perfect songs to an extent Harry couldn’t even imagine and that’s why songs like Story Of My Life, You & I and Midnight Memories were such hits. Y/N put her heart and soul into them, which eventually earned all the recognition they deserved.

Harry loved working with Y/N and she was in talks of working on their fourth album as well, but the deal ended up ditched and she went on to do other projects and they somehow had a fallout. It was a shame, but he hoped his path would cross hers again.

Years and years went by and so much changed by the time their professional ways finally met again. Jeff brought her name up when Harry just started writing for his fourth solo album and Harry gave him the go to do whatever it takes to get her on the project. A few weeks passed and Harry didn’t get any confirmation about her and just when he was about to bring it up to Jeff, he hit him with the news.

“Y/N is in for five songs. Contract should be signed by Wednesday and you can start working next week.”

Harry wondered why it took so long to get her on board, but he brushed it off because he knew she was a big name now herself and had plenty of offers from which she could choose from. He was excited to work with her and simply see her again.

It was utter shock for him when she was the complete opposite of what he remembered. Okay, that might be an overstatement, but Harry could feel something was off instantly.

She was still bubbly and fun, but for some reason, she had a certain iciness and bitter attitude whenever her focus was on Harry. To anyone else it was unnoticable, Harry knows, because he asked Jeff about it.

“What are you talking about? She is awesome,” the manager said with a shrug and Harry tried to tell himself it was all in his head, because if Jeff doesn’t see it, it’s not real.

But it kept happening and it felt even stronger when it was just him and her in a room. Sometimes she even pretended like he wasn’t there, sometimes her snarky comments were all he got and they just strengthened him in his belief.

He wanted to ask her about it, he tried, several times, but his attempts just bounced right off her icy behavior so eventually, he gave up and there was only one thing left for him to do.

Return what he was getting.

Yes, it is childish, but he felt like he needed to deal with her unreasonable hatred towards him somehow and this was the easiest way. Was it a smart idea to practically become enemies when working together on his album? Of course not. But it just happened.

And going against each other became their thing.

They were great in arguing, disagreeing even when they could easily compromise, riling each other up and lashing out on each other when the tension had been building up for hours. It got to the point where others started to notice that something was off between the two of them and when Jeff questioned Harry about it, he couldn’t give him a reasonable explanation.

“She started it,” he said and instantly felt like a kid, telling on his classmate at school. But this is all he could say, because he had no idea why she was acting this way. And he has to live with it while they work together.

Something is off. Harry knows it. Something about the melody… or the guitar… or is it the lyrics? He can’t tell, he has listened to the recording a million times so it all melts in his ears and he can’t identify what’s setting him off every time he hears it.

“Why don’t we take a break?” Jack, the technician suggests, turning in his chair. “Y/N will be here in twenty, I’m sure she’ll–”

“Okay,” Harry snaps, just so he doesn’t finish. He knows what he wanted to say.

She’ll know what’s wrong and will correct it in a second.

Y/N always knows what’s wrong and most of the time it’s a perk, of course it is, but today, Harry feels like it’s gonna make him want to crawl out of his body. Maybe it’s because he’s been in the studio for five hours and he got nowhere or maybe because Mitch will have his first ever solo gig tonight and Harry has been worried his fame or relation to him might ruin this experience for him.

Either way, today he is just extra pissed by the fact that Y/N will be the one to solve this mystery.

“I’m gonna grab a coffee,” he clears his throat, standing up from his seat. “Do you want one?” he offers, feeling a bit guilty he snapped at Jack.

“Uh, yeah, just an espresso is fine, thanks man.”

“Sure, I’ll be right back.”

Putting on his headphone, Harry jogs across the street to the tiny coffee shop he’s been a regular at. He likes the place because they are discreet and their coffee is just simply amazing, though they swear there’s nothing extra in it.

He waits for the two coffees at the end of the counter and scrolls on his phone in the meantime. Emails, messages, there’s always something to answer to. He sends out a few replies before he ends up in his calendar. It’s neatly color coded and he takes pride in keeping it up-to-date all the time so he can always be on top of his game, no matter what.

His eyes land on one particular date. Five weeks from now Y/N’s contract expires and if the five songs are done by then, she’ll be out of Harry’s life again. Seeing how the work is going, she’ll easily outdo that number so there won’t be any reason for talk about an extension.

An unsettling feeling spreads in his stomach as he stares at the date but he doesn’t have time to figure it out because he is snapped out of his thoughts when the two paper cups are placed in front of him. He is trying his best to keep a positive mindset as he returns to the studio’s building. With the two coffee cups in his hands he makes a right turn and then stops at the door, seeing Y/N sitting where he did previously, already listening to the recording with Jack with a critical expression on her face.

Harry doesn’t interrupt them, just stays put and waits for her feedback. When she is done listening, she leans back in her seat.

“It’s the bass. Or more specifically the lack of it. Can you double it? Let’s see how it changes.”

Jack is quick to do as she asked and then he starts the song again and…

Harry wants to scream and laugh in bliss at the same time, because it’s perfect now. He’s mad he couldn’t spot such an obvious thing, but he is also happy it’s finally sorted out. It’s just a shame Y/N was the one to do it and not him.

“Great, so this is done then,” he makes himself noticed as he walks into the studio and hands over one of the cups to Jack.

When he looks at Y/N he can see that familiar, irritated look on her face that’s almost always there when he’s around. He hasn’t decided if he wants to physically wipe it off, or…

“Thanks for bringing one for me,” she comments in a bored tone, turning back towards the screen.

“You weren’t here when I went out.”

“But you knew I was coming.”

Harry opens his mouth, but then closes it, because this time she is kind of right. And it irks him even more today.

It’s gonna be a challenging session today, Harry thinks as he takes a seat.

It’s always exciting for Harry to be behind the stage when he’s not the star of the show. Kind of like a whole different world.

He hasn’t been here for long, but he’s been trying his best to stay as unnoticed as possible and let Mitch take the spotlight. Just a few minutes ago Sarah put him on Scout-duty which he gladly took up on, he’s always happy to spend time with the little guy. This time he is letting him explore freely and he’s just following him around to make sure he’s safe. Scout seemingly enjoys the adventure with uncle Harry, who doesn’t really pay attention where he is heading.

That’s how they end up in the green room where Y/N is.

Y/N and Sarah have worked together a while ago, which is a random coincidence how they are connected outside of Harry. Because of their history, Y/N is often where they are, however she was never around when Sarah and Mitch were playing for Harry.

Scout runs up to Y/N, arms in the air, asking to be picked up and Harry stops a few steps away from them when he realizes who he just found.

“Hey there, little guy! Are you all by yourself?” Y/N asks, settling the boy on her hip.

She’s changed since they parted ways in the studio. Harry has always admired her sense of style, which mostly consists of basic pieces, almost like a capsule wardrobe, but there’s always something extra, something vibrant on her that makes her sets interesting. Tonight she is wearing a simple black dress with a rather low back cut, simple heels, simple makeup, but she added a silky scarf with vivid colors and shapes around her neck that brings Harry’s attention to the curve of her neck and collarbones, almost as a cheeky invitation for his eyes to her naked skin.

He has to fight the urge to touch her.

Despite the spiteful relationship they’ve been sporting lately, Harry had to deal with a rather unreasonable desire for Y/N in a physical way.

Unreasonable, because he never thought he could be attracted to someone who pisses him off so easily, yet there’s been plenty of occasions when Harry found himself imagining scenarios he could never admit to her, not when she hates him with such obvious passion.

Tonight it’s not just the outfit, but also the way she’s handling Scout. It’s not just women who find it incredibly hot when the opposite sex is great with kids, Harry can definitely feel something inside him moving as he watches Y/N sway from side to side with the little boy in his arms.

“Uncle Hazza is here!” Scout points at him, answering her previous question. Y/N looks up and because Harry was already looking at him, he catches a slipping moment where there’s no irritation on her face, but it returns quite fast when her gaze settles on him.

“Ah, hi,” she says, lips pressed together as she nods, acknowledging his presence.

“Hey. Long time no see.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth he regrets it. Who says that? Why did he even say anything else other than hi? He smacks himself in his mind.

Part of him expects her to say something like ‘not long enough’ but she just keeps quiet and turns all her attention to Scout. Harry feels out of place, he is supposed to be babysitting, but Y/N is taking care of Scout, Harry knows he is in good hands but Sarah asked him to watch over him. Should he leave? Or just keep standing there awkwardly?

“You can go, I’ll watch him,” Y/N says, as if she could read his mind.

“You sure?”

“I’m pretty sure I can take care of him until Sarah is back.” Her reply is not just dry, kind of offended, nothing Harry wouldn’t expect from her, but it’s still irking him.

“I didn’t say you’re not capable, I just–”

“I’m not in the mood for this,” she cuts him off with an icy look. Harry is too stunned to reply, just watches Y/N walk away with Scout.

He almost finds it amusing how easily she can piss him off, not many people have been able to do that, in fact, Harry thinks she does it the best.

Clenching his jaw he takes a deep breath to calm his nerves and then just lets it all go.

The after party is always kind of Harry’s favorite. The stress is over, it’s just the relief and celebration that is left.

Mitch’s show went well, that’s what Harry expected, but it’s still great he was right. Seeing his friend be the star of the show was an experience he is glad he could be part of. Now that the core of the group has moved to a nearby bar, Harry has loosened up thanks to the couple of drinks he’s had.

He’s been mostly sticking to the familiar faces he knows, rotating between the same few people while enjoying how under the radar he is currently.

The more drinks he has had, the less he’s been able to control where his gaze goes. To be exact, he’s been finding himself looking Y/N’s way the past hour or so. That damn dress and scarf, it’s like she’s put a spell on him that forces him to keep wanting to look at her.

Harry is not experienced with feeling like this. Being attracted to someone who he hates, it’s such an ambivalent impulse, he can’t think straight. Or maybe it’s the amount of tequila he has drunk tonight, either way, it’s getting a rise out of him.

From the corner of his eye he sees her slip out to the back where the smoking area is, he hesitates, shifts his weight from one leg to the other before making the leap and heading after her. He has no plan, no idea what he wants to ro will say to her, but he just feels like he has to talk to her.

Stepping out to the dimly lit back alley he is met with a few people scattered around, having a cigarette with drinks in hand, talking or scrolling on their phone and then he spots Y/N on the left, standing by the wall, cigarette in one hand, the remaining of her drink in the other as she stares ahead of her.

She doesn’t smoke regularly, but she does enjoy one in certain social settings or when she’s had a few drinks. Harry knows it from years ago, because they shared a cigarette at a party, back then she seemed thrilled to spend time with him, he remembers all the conversations they had while working together, telling each other stories, sharing their plans, Harry truly thought they would remain good friends on this extraordinary journey, yet they ended up here.

As Harry walks towards her, she notices him and he sees her lips twitch in annoyance.

“Care if I join?” he asks and she just shrugs without a word, avoiding to look at him.

They stand there in silence for a while, she is lazily puffing the smoke out from time to time.

“Is it still just an occasional thing?” he tries to strike up a conversation.

“Mhm,” is all he gets as a reply.

“Have you tried to put it down fully?”

“Why are you doing this?” she snaps at him, finally looking his way.

“What?”

“Why are you trying to chit-chat when we both know we don’t do that?”

“And why don’t we?” He challenges her. “Tell me why we are like this in the first place, because I have no idea.”

She stares at him for long moments and he awaits her answer like nothing before, but then she shakes her head and turns to the pin beside her, puts the cigarette out and flicks it into the bin. Then, without another word she is already heading back inside.

It takes a moment for Harry to start moving again, but he is quick to catch up with her in the hall that leads to the restrooms.

“Y/N, give me a fucking answer!” he demands, grabbing her wrist to pull her back before she could escape, but she shakes his hand off as she comes to a stop, turning towards him.

“I owe you nothing!” she hisses at him. “I owe you no one, but especially you!”

“What the fuck does that suppose to mean?! I never thought you owe me anything!”

“I’m not doing this, Harry, leave me the fuck alone,” she growls and tries to leave, but Harry pulls her back again, determined to get an answer this time.

“Don’t think I will just swallow everything down forever. I will get to the bottom of this, whether you like it or not. It’s your choice if you make it hard on both of us.”

She is looking back at him with wide eyes, this time his hand remains on her arm as they stare each other down in the empty hallway. Neither of them knows what will be their next move, the tension is so thick, it’s almost suffocating.

But then it all changes.

If someone asked who moved first, they wouldn’t know. One moment they are standing like stone statues, barely even breathing, then the next moment they are kissing like there’s no tomorrow.

It doesn’t take long until Harry has her pressed up against the wall, his hands roaming her body, feeling her up the way he fantasized about before, they are both rough and impatient, she is clawing at him, moaning into his mouth when his hips press against hers and she feels how hard he’s gotten already.

Blindly, Harry pushes the closest door open which happens to be the staff’s bathroom that someone left unlocked, lucky for them. Still glued together they stumble inside, Y/N kicks the door open before Harry pushes her against it and he locks it before his hand returns to her tempting body.

He has never acted like this when it comes to sex. He does like to spice things up sometimes, but the way he’s biting her lips or unbuttoning his pants or reaches under her dress to pull her underwear down is just so out of character for him, yet so freeing.

Nothing is said, but when her hands pull his hard, leaking dick out of his pants, there’s a fleeting look they exchange that says it all, just how much they both want it.

It’s the fastest pace he’s ever experienced, yet the most passionate too. They moan at the same time when Harry pushes into her and starts moving in a rush, desperate for relief. She’s panting and whining for more, the only form of speaking she is able to as she holds onto Harry who is focused on keeping up his quick and steady pace while holding her left leg up to ensure the perfect angle.

The animalistic need is there for them both, making them act like this is what they must do to stay alive. It’s messy, fast and mind-blowing and they don’t need much time to reach the peak. As she comes her nails dig into her shoulder and she bites into his bottom lip so harshly it draws blood, but he doesn’t care, only follows her into bliss just a second later. With the last bit of his consciousness Harry pulls out right before he comes, covering her thigh with the white, sticky evidence of just how much he enjoyed the past minutes.

They are breathing heavily and Harry feels like a thick haze is still lingering around his head, stopping him from realizing what just happened. Y/N however is ahead of him and when reality comes crashing down on her, her instinct to flee kicks right in. Harry is still trying to clear his mind when she grabs a paper towel and cleans herself up as fast as possible and Harry only snaps out of his trance when she is already unlocking the door.

“Y/N, what the— wait!” He can’t go after her as she slips out of the room because he is still pretty indecent, so he has to pull his pants up and can only rush out then, but by that time she is already gone.

He’s quite frantic as he tries to find her in the bar, but she is nowhere to be seen. Harry returns to the rest of their group, hoping to catch her somewhere but she has vanished into thin air.

“Hey, have you seen Y/N?” he asks Mitch, his eyes still roaming the place.

“Nah, haven’t seen her since she went out to smoke.”

Harry groans and makes his way outside, maybe she’s there waiting for a car, but as he steps out to the street he sees no trace of her. Fishing his phone out of his pocket he doesn’t hesitate before dialing her number. The line rings once, twice and then… it goes to voicemail.

“Hey, this is Y/N. Do whatever you want after the beep.”

“Fuck!” Harry ends the call and he has to stop himself from throwing it against the nearest wall.

This is not how he planned. Well, he didn’t plan any of it, especially not fucking Y/N like a horny teenager. He wanted to solve this whole issue between the two of them but instead he just created another one.

A stupid, giant one.

NEXT PART

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#harry #styles #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles oneshot #harry styles one shot #harry styles fluff #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x reader #harry styles blurb #harry styles smut

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ventique18 · 11 months ago

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The Diasomnia gang doing pullups for fun, because they're all Lilia's boys and are proud of it.

⚔️: "I know you don't need it, but good luck anyway Lord Malleus."

🐊: "UOGH! A DEMONSTRATION FROM THE VERY BEST..!"

🐉: "Well, well. I mustn't disappoint my juniors, must I?"

🌸: "Wait wait, take off your shirt!"

🐉: "Why?"

🌸: "Because I want to see-- I mean, Silver and Sebek did it. Why not?"

🦇, laughing through his tea: "Yes, why not? It might be better for your ventilation since you get hot easily."

🌸: "What he says."

🐉, removing his shirt: "Very well then."

🌸: "Ooooh"

🐊: "UOOOOOH!!!"

⚔️: "If you have time later, would it be possible for you to share pointers on how to better target certain muscle groups? You've inspired me to work harder."

It was not a body that people are used to seeing on models. He did not have those deeply-lined abs you'd expect from protein whey posters, but one glance and you'd understand the definition of someone at optimal strength and bursting with health. It was a body not sculpted to please, but specifically molded to kill.

He was General Lilia's protege, after all.

🌸: "Wait wait wait! Remove the pants too."

Silence. And then a collective shock.

🐊: "HOW DARE YOU--"

🐉: "Though I don't particularly mind indulging you, but why?"

🌸: "Because I want to see-- I mean you need to shed all the weight you can if you want to do well, right? You're carrying your own weight and all'at."

⚔️: "I don't think an additional few grams would bother him... Nor would a few kilograms."

🌸: "I mean, you're essentially competing against Silver and Sebek, right? Wouldn't you want to give it your all against them? Do everything in your power to beat them as an act that you respect them as opponents no matter the outcome?"

🐉: "Hm. You make a fair point."

🐉, taking off his pants: "If this will help improve my chances of winning, then..."

🦇: "YEAH! You could say you won strategically because you took off your pants and Silver and Sebek didn't!"

Lilia laughed HARD. He doesn't even know if he's laughed this much in his life. Gods and demons, as much of an undefeatable beast his protege was, he really was nothing against this little human.

#twisted wonderland #diasomnia #malleus draconia #lilia vanrouge #sebek zigvolt #twst silver #malleus x reader #ventique rambles

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with-my-calamitous-love · 7 months ago

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CARVE YOUR NAME INTO MY BEDPOST / MIGHT AS WELL BE DRUNK IN LOVE

shouto todoroki x f! reader

at a work party gone wrong, shouto finds a secret moment with you amongst the crowd.

smut! you are responsible for what you read!

inspired by dress + slut!

it was hard to find secret moments in a crowded room.

shouto todoroki, now japan’s #2 hero and possibly one of the most famous men in the nation, was loved everywhere. he was handsome, and just socially awkward enough to be charming. he was the topic of most headlines and gossip tabloids these days- and the press thought the knew everything about him. a 22-year old male capricorn, the youngest sibling and a top ranking graduate of UA high school.

one thing shouto relished in, secretly, was that no one had any idea about you and him.

and its not like they made it particularly easy for him.

like now.

shouto came to this event dressed in a sleek black tie and all eyes on him. at this point, he had grown somewhat used to it. he’d you, his wife, by his side. you’d squeeze his hand 3 times everytime you felt his anxiety flare up, especially when the lights began flashing and the familiar clicks of the reporters came about.

at first, he could handle it. just smile, nod, and let the world watch him act. its what he did for most of his life, anyway.

“shouto! are you still maintaining a relationship with your father?”

“shouto! over here!”

“is it true you and your wife want to raise your first child as a hero?”

“can you tell us about your marriage?”

“are you trying to be more like your father these days?”

“how is your family coping with everything thats happened?”

“shouto! what can you tell us about touya todoroki?”

it was starting to grate on him.

he felt the sweat trickle down his forehead at the constant questions. his fists clenched, wanting to shut off all the noise. they had put him and his family through enough, yet they still looked for more stories and more gossip.

he did his best to answer all the questions, taking a deep breath and disassociating like his PR team had told him to do. he was handling it, up until he couldn’t find you through the crowd.

his blurry and hazed eyes scan the room, looking for you and where you might have gone. the air suddenly began to thin, the years of anxiety and inadequacy beginning to build up at the back of his throat. worst of all, you weren’t there to help him ground himself. he was lost in a sea of people, and none of them were you.

luckily, someone else was there to step in.

“OI! BACK OFF FOR ONCE!”

a familiar blonde barks, much to the relief of shouto. after all, pro-hero dynamight had just as much respect as shouto, and the media was more or less used to his abrasiveness.

he lets out a sigh of relief as most of the reporters and fans take a step back, allowing him and bakugou to escape to different corner of the room. the #1 hero immediately senses something is wrong, specifically the fact that you weren’t with your husband.

“the press getting to you?” the blonde asks, his usual dick-bag self being suppressed to help his ‘friend.’

shouto nods, and bakugou sighs sympathetically. even someone like him, who relished in the fame and praise of being hero, understood the mistreatment shouto had experienced all his life. he saw how that mistreatment was only amplified when the public got involved.

“wheres [y/n]?” he asks, red eyes scanning the room for any sign of you. shouto does the same, like a boy in the sea searching for a raft.

bakugou rolls his eyes, deciding he’ll be the hero. “go look for her. i’ll keep them off your back.” he says, turning back to the media frenzy and adjusting his tie, ready to give them what they want. “but you owe me one, icyhot.”

with one manly pat on the back, bakugou walks back out to the crowd, giving shouto a chance of peace.

he immediately opens some door to a room. its some fancy, pompous washroom only the rich could afford. the size of it could it a family, if it wanted to.

but he didn’t care about the lavish architecture. he cared about the way his heart calmed down at the sight of you, sitting on the counter.

“hey.” he walks over to you, sitting next to you and taking your hand. you immediately note his anxiety, evident by the dryness of his throat. theres guilt that creeps into your throat once you realize you left him all alone.

“hey, sho.” you say, immediately taking his hand in yours.

“i lost track of you in the crowd. are you okay, love?” he asks, bi-coloured eyes staring at you with nothing but love. you squeeze his hand in reassurance.

“i’m okay.” you say, chuckling awkwardly. “just, you know… parties.”

he nods sympathetically, understanding how neither of you were particularly fans of big crowds. his gaze flickers over to the washroom door for a moment, making sure the door is locked.

“are you okay, though? those reporters out there were down your throat.” you ask, watching as his expression darkens slightly. from just outside the washroom, the sounds of partygoers can still be heard loud and clear.

he boy sighs, the stress of the media's questioning weighing on him. he appreciates your concern immediately, and he knows he can at least be honest with you.

"it was...a lot," he admits, running a hand through his hair. "they kept asking about my family, and about the you...and i just feel like they're trying to get a reaction out of me."

you nod, understanding his frustrations. you’re quick to validate his worries. “thats exactly what they’re trying to do. they’ll profit off of anything.”

shouto knows that to be completely true.

after the news of endeavour’s abuse towards his family (specifically his firstborn son) came out, shouto felt as though him and his entire family had been engulfed in flames. he soon learned that the paparazzi will do anything for a story. the more you fall apart, the more they’ll flash their camera’s and take notes of your pain.

it seems despite his valiant efforts to get out from his fathers shadow, theres still people that won’t let him forget it.

as if you two share a psychic connection, you can immediately sense whats on his mind. his pain is yours too, and it kills you knowing that there not much you can do to stop it. “i remember when they got a hold of your family story. they took the years of abuse and made money off of it.” you scoff. “its disgusting.”

he feels a pang of anger and disgust at the memory of the media's handling of his family history. he can still remember the way they had twisted and distorted the truth, using it for clickbait headlines and sensationalized stories. it had been traumatic and painful, and they had made it all seem like entertainment.

"it is," he agrees, his voice filled with irritation. “they had no right to turn our lives into a spectacle for their profit. it made me sick.”

you sigh, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “so much talk about your father these days… i can’t imagine what you’re going through right now.”

shouto ruminates for a second, looking down at his own lap. being young is art, in its own twisted way. being famous means constantly being reminded of what hurts you the most. for shouto, that was the fear that he would one day resemble his father.

they loved to think he’d never forget.

the constant discussion and speculation about his father's actions and legacy has been weighing heavily on him, and he's been trying to distance himself from it as much as he possibly can.

"it’s been...difficult," he admits quietly, looking down at your intertwined hands. “i know who my father was, and what he did, but i feel like everyone is always waiting for me to do the same. like… they're just waiting for me to make a mistake so they can say 'see? you’re just like your father after all.'"

his voice cracks slightly at that last part.

you shake your head valiantly, cupping his face and making sure he’s looking at you. the only other sound that can be heard in the room are the quiet drips from the sink. otherwise, you and shouto managed to drown out the noises from the party. all that mattered was the two of you, together, as if you were in a snow globe.

“shoto, listen. you aren’t your father. you’re so much more. i know the man i fell in love with. i know him because he’s twice the man he came from. he’s kind, and strong, and everything his father wasn’t.”

at that moment, shouto thinks: what if all he needs is you?

“thank you.” he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours. “i needed that.”

you easily reciprocate, feeling his warmth and all that makes him him.

“it’s everything that made you.” you whisper. “all that pain and all that suffering you went through… it made you the man i fell for. all those dead end streets led you to me.” you smile.

with that, he feels truly at peace. if all that suffering led him to you, he’s consider it worth it. he’ll pay the price and you won’t, as long as it means he can love you.

without a word, he leans in to kiss you. his lips fit on yours like the universe especially crafted you two for each other. nothing else matters right now. all of that pining and anticipation, his hands shake from holding back this entire night. he’s desperately waiting to love you, and show you how much he does.

✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚

theres indentations of shouto all over you.

first, your head. because he’s all you think about. his jokes, his smile, and the way he makes you feel.

second, your heart. he never wanted you like a best friend. half the time, he dresses up just so he can feel your hands remove the fabric from his muscles, kissing every patch of exposed skin possible.

third, in between your thighs. literally, because he’s on his knees, head between your legs and pressing his soft lips against your clit. he could carve his name onto your skin if he wanted to, and you’d probably let him.

one of your hands press against your mouth, trying to silence the urges to cry out for him. he looks so fucking gorgeous right now, his tie undone and shirt just unbuttoned enough to show off his muscles. his abs are covered in kiss marks leftover from your lipstsick- a finishing touch to an already beautiful masterpiece.

he’s tugged your panties all the way off, and pushed your dress high enough to give him access. he was salivating just thinking about getting between your legs, tasting you and letting you cum in his mouth.

you tug at his hair in fistfuls, urging to give you the orgasm you need. his eyes are closed, focusing solely on the way his tongue swirls around you. his mouth and chin glisten from all of it, and he’s doing this for his pleasure just as much as yours.

the way you moan makes him tighten his grip on your hips, ever so slightly increasing his pace. he chuckles to himself, acknowledging the effect he has on you. the vibrations of his voice and warm breath pushing against your already pulsing core sends a shiver down your spine.

“careful, love.” he whispers, only pulling away from you slightly. “wouldn’t want anyone to find us, hm?”

“i know.” you whimper. “fuck, just don’t stop.”

he happily obliges.

“good girl.” he whispers, his tongue slowly circling the bundle of nerves in a messy pattern. his tongue moves in a maddening pace, sending brain-melting waves of pleasure to you.

the ecstasy is inescapable, and you’re not even gonna try. this was your secret. those people out there, that thought they had you and your husband figured out, had no idea what was actually going on right now.

you’re his one and only, his lifeline. forever, he wants to wake up by your side. you’re the only person who makes his hand shake and heart beat despite all the pain he’s gone through.

“say my name.” he says, looking up at you.

“shouto!”

and everything just stops.

he’s lovesick, all over his face. his tongue blessedly picks up the pace, not daring to stop for even a second. you’re lovelorn and nobody knows. everyone wants him, and thats your crime. you silently cry out, head throwing back while you feel that not in your abdomen slowly begin to unwind. he guides you threw it, making you cum from nothing but his mouth.

and when you do cum, he takes it all happily. because in a world of boys, he’s a gentleman.

the two of you were all dressed up- they may as well be looking. shouto came to that party with a sleek black tie, and left without it. he only bought it for you to take it off.

tags! 🫧

@crushmeeren @whenanafallsinlove @bbluefllame @satirediary

p.s i don’t normally write smut so i have no idea if this is good or not 🥹 thank you for reading!

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niningtori · 5 months ago

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the way we were before | preview(s)

out now

pairing: choi beomgyu x you

summary: you've been in love with beomgyu for as long as you've known him. deep down, you've always thought that he loved you, too; so when he tells you that he's engaged to another woman, you decide to break it all off after a nasty fight in which he shows you just how little you mean to him. a life-ending accident seems to put your feelings to rest for good. just when you think it's all over, however, you awaken to a time before everything fell apart; and you're determined not to repeat the same mistakes. it's just that beomgyu can't seem to let you go.

genre: ANGST (literally so much angst it's not even funny), romance, second chance!au, rebirth!au

warnings: mcd (and rebirth), depictions of death, suicidal thoughts

notes: below are snippets for you all to get an idea of what's to come. this work contains a lot of angst... and that's coming from ME. this might be too sad to the point of being corny but luckily i was born on the cob. don’t be mean to me tho i'm going thru it rn

"but you can't expect me to just owe you my feelings,” he snaps.

“that's not what this is about, and you know it.”

“seriously? that's exactly what this is about. you're the altruistic angel who does nothing wrong, and i'm just a fucking scumbag who takes advantage of you, right? well, i'm sorry, but it's not my fault that you're acting so goddamn crazy over something so stupid.” your eyes burn with an intensity so great, it feels like they're being seared out of your skull. in this moment, you realize that he will never, ever respect you enough to consider you worthy of being leveled with. he doesn't think you're even worth the time. you're his silly, lovesick best friend who's absolutely delusional to the point of being laughable for suggesting that he actually take you seriously, for once. and that revelation breaks you like nothing else.

you won’t do this anymore. you couldn’t even if you wanted to, and you don’t.

the collision is bone-shattering in the literal sense. you’d think you’d feel adrenaline alone in such a situation, but you can feel pain bursting out of every cell of your body as you feel yourself stilling after being thrown back and forth in your seat. every organ, every bone, feels like it’s just been crushed, and not for the first time today, you’re struggling to breathe.

as you feel yourself slipping out of consciousness, one immovable thought resounds in your head: i wish i never met him.

“don’t even bother finishing that sentence. you don't like me at all,” you sneer. “you just don’t like seeing me move on.” this makes him pause, and even you don’t have the heart to pretend like you can’t see the hurt in his eyes.

notes pt. 2: yeah...

if you would like to be tagged in this work, please let me know by commenting or sending an ask! thank u <3

#niningtori #the way we were before #txt angst #beomgyu angst #beomgyu #beomgyu x reader #beomgyu fic #txt fic #txt x reader #txt x you #beomgyu x y/n #txt x y/n #beomgyu x you

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rista-senpai · 1 month ago

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Distant hearts

pairing- Nagumo Yoichi x reader

summary: you are Takamura’s granddaughter, a well-trained assassin who never got the chance to shine. That was until one day, when The Order observed your skills and offered you a position in the association.

All new colleagues seemed happy, everyone but him. His dark coat, eyes, and hair all indicated how much he loved hiding. And how much he loved hating you, the opposite of him, who he considered had no right to be there—also, the one who hates how you make his heart skip a beat.

tags & warnings-> reader is 19, Nagumo is 27, age gap, series, office au, forbidden love, enemies to lovers, playboy x sweetheart, angst and smut, Takamura is still everyone’s nightmare except Nagumo’s, mentions of blood, reader has awfully little experience, also there might be some Shishiba x reader here and there

status: ongoing

credits: fanart by @/chachaxx_x on X

CHAPTER ONE Your heels echoed sharply against the polished marble floor as you hurried through the halls of JAA headquarters, heart pounding like a war drum beneath your ribs. Today was your first mission assignment—finally—and you couldn’t afford to be late. Until now, your days had been consumed by endless stacks of paperwork and the suffocating monotony of office life. You had spent months trapped behind a desk, watching your colleagues vanish into the field with adrenaline in their veins and dirt on their boots, while you were left to file reports and refill pens.

Worse than the boredom? Him. Mr. Teaser himself. Nagumo Yoichi.

He had a knack for appearing unannounced, like a storm you forgot to check the weather for. He’d swagger into your office, track blood onto the floor, and drop off yet more work with a smirk that made your skin crawl. Then he'd lean against your desk like he owned the building, casually recounting his latest mission while enjoying the fact that you weren’t going anywhere but the copy machine.

Nagumo Yoichi was infuriating. Arrogant, smug, and endlessly teasing. Your sworn enemy in the office.

You had complained to your grandfather once—just once—about him. The next morning, the office was in chaos. Nobody could prove it, but you were fairly certain he had orchestrated the blackout and the internal security breach just to send a message. Since then, you’d tried locking Nagumo out of your workspace, but he always found a new way to slink in. Like a cockroach in designer clothes.

“You know my gram—Mr. Takamura—would murder you if he knew you were sneaking around like this,” you’d warned him once, half-joking.

He just grinned and said, “Worth it.”

Today was your moment. Your shot to prove that you were more than just a glorified secretary. That you belonged out there in the field, not behind a desk with Nagumo leaning over your shoulder and driving you insane.

You didn’t realize how deep in thought you were until Oki’s office door appeared in front of you like a boss battle checkpoint. Damn it—had you just spent the whole walk thinking about him again?

You shook the thought away and knocked, forcing yourself to stand tall. A calm voice answered from the other side.

"Come in."

You slid the door open, stepping inside with a respectful bow and closing it quietly behind you. Oki’s office was lined with towering bookshelves, each one filled with neatly arranged volumes on strategy, history, and intelligence operations. It smelled of old paper and cedarwood—a scholar’s haven, not a battlefield. Yet somehow, the air felt heavier than usual.

"Miss Y/N," Oki greeted you warmly. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. I wasn’t sure you’d accept the assignment, especially considering it’s your first infiltration mission. I assumed you’d prefer more training first.”

“I’m honored, Mr. Oki, truly.” You clasped your hands behind your back. “I want to prove that I can do more than just paperwork.”

He smiled, but there was hesitation in his eyes. “Of course. You’re his granddaughter, after all. I’ve seen your combat potential... but your grandfather was always there to back you up. This job is different. Are you sure you’ll be fine on your own?”

In translation: Don’t screw this up.

“Yes, sir.” Your voice didn’t waver.

“Good.” He leaned back slightly. “But just to be safe, I’m assigning you a partner. I know the two of you don’t exactly see eye to eye, but consider it a learning experience.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

A low voice spoke from the window behind Oki’s desk. “What could I possibly learn from her?”

You didn’t need to turn around. You knew that voice.

And there he was. Perched casually on the windowsill like some noir-era devil, a pocky stick lazily hanging from his lips. One hand was in his tailored black suit pocket, the first two buttons of his white shirt undone just enough to hint at trouble. His dark hair was swept back in deliberate chaos, and there were smears of blood on his sleeve—a souvenir from whatever mess he’d just crawled out of.

Nagumo Yoichi. Walking distraction. Living migraine. Immune to boundaries and personal space.

God help you.

You crossed your arms. “Mr. Oki is going to strangle you one day if you keep doing this.”

He shrugged, completely unbothered. “What can I say? You’re fun to bother.”

“Respecting your higher-ups, for example,” Oki interrupted, rubbing his temples. “Nagumo, I’ve told you a million times: stop breaking in through the window. Use the door like a normal person.”

Nagumo tilted his head and smirked. “And you thought I was normal?”

Oki sighed in defeat. “That’s on me.”

As the two men volleyed passive-aggressive jabs, you drifted toward the bookshelves, running your fingers along the spines. It was a habit by now—one of the few things that brought you comfort in high-pressure rooms like this.

“Miss Y/N?”

You snapped out of it. “Apologies, Mr. Oki.”

“No harm done. I’m just glad someone around here appreciates history.” He threw a pointed look at Nagumo.

Nagumo rolled his eyes dramatically. “What’s the point? They’re all dead anyway.”

You watched the corner of Oki’s eye twitch.

“Why did I ever think pairing you two would be a good idea…” he muttered. “Miss Y/N, if you'd prefer, I can reassign your partner.”

“No, sir!” You straightened, hands clenched at your sides. “Please, don’t worry. I’ll manage.”

Oki gave a slow nod and stood, walking over to his desk. He handed you a sleek black folder, the kind used for high-level intel. Inside: Everything you need to know. Targets. Layouts. Dates. Backstories.

“What’s the job?” Nagumo drawled, suddenly behind your left shoulder.

You didn’t even hear him move. One of his fingers gently brushed the skin behind your ear as he tucked a strand of hair back. You froze.

“Does your dear grandfather know you’ll be out of his sight? With me, of all people?” he whispered, voice low and teasing.

You swatted his hand away, cheeks burning. “Mr. Takamura was thrilled to see me finally take on a mission. Although he is more than prepared to end your life if something happens to me. Understood?”

Nagumo grinned. “Crystal clear, ma’am. I pinky promise to keep you safe~”

“Why do I have a really bad feeling about this?”

“I don’t know… Maybe you’re just paranoid.”

You narrowed your eyes. “How do you not even know what the mission is?”

“I’ve been busy, unlike some people.” He winked. “Had to cancel a meeting with Sakamoto just to be here.”

You opened your mouth to fire back, but Oki clicked his pen—a subtle way of saying cut the crap. You took a step back, flipping open the folder to study the mission details.

And then your heart plummeted.

Two words stared up at you like a slap to the face: husband and wife.

“…Sir?” you croaked, lifting the page and pointing at it like it might spontaneously correct itself.

Oki turned to the window, suddenly interested in the weather.

“Sir?”

“No,” he said, voice a little tighter now.

“What the hell is this?” Nagumo snapped, stepping up beside you.

“I’m sorry,” Oki said with a heavy sigh. “But that’s the cover. It’s the best way to get into the gala unnoticed. I’m not changing it. This is Miss Y/N’s mission, and I trust her more with you than with anyone else.”

“But—”

“No buts. You leave tomorrow morning. This conversation is over.”

You blinked. Then nodded.

This was your chance. You wouldn’t let anyone ruin it. Not even him.

You bowed once more and turned to leave, folder in hand. And, of course, Nagumo followed, trailing behind like the dramatic storm cloud he was.

“I still don’t get it,” he said. “What are we doing?”

You glanced at him over your shoulder. “There’s a gala being held by an IT magnate. He used to be one of our sponsors. Two years ago, he leaked intel to the enemy. That betrayal started the war we just barely won. Now, he’s going to pay.”

You could feel Nagumo go still beside you.

“What? Cat got your tongue?”

“…Are you sure about this?”

You turned to him, arching an eyebrow. “What, scared of pretending to be all lovey-dovey with me?”

“No. I’m scared of your grandfather.”

“We both know that’s not true. What’s the real reason, Nagumo-senpai?”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, groaning. “Can’t believe I’m taking orders from you…”

You barely heard him. Your eyes were on his hands—long fingers, a faint scar near his knuckle. They were absurdly attractive hands. And that was not a helpful thought.

“I’m just worried you’ll screw up,” he continued. “You’ve never done this before. And you hate me.”

“I’ll be fine,” you snapped, more harshly than you meant. “Thanks for the concern, senpai.”

That was when he spun you around and pinned you to the wall.

You didn’t even see him move. One moment, Nagumo was teasing you as usual. The next, your back hit the wall with a thud, his arm braced beside your head, his body so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. The hallway was dim, empty. Just the two of you. And your heartbeat is hammering in your chest like a war drum.

“What the hell are you doing?” you hissed, breath catching.

His eyes searched yours. Dark, stormy. Not playful this time. Not teasing.

“Just… stop pretending,” he muttered. “You don’t hate me.”

Your breath caught.

“Yes, I do.”

He leaned closer. “You don’t.”

“I do,” you whispered, glaring up at him.

“Then why,” he murmured, his fingers brushing lightly against your wrist, “does your pulse race whenever I touch you?”

You didn’t have a good answer for that.

And that annoyed you more than anything else.

You shoved him back with both hands. “You’re insufferable.”

“Mm. But still pretty, right?” he smirked, letting you go. “That’s gotta count for something.”

“I swear, one of these days, Mr. Takamura is going to kill you, and I will cheer.”

He held up both hands in mock surrender as he backed away. “Noted. I’ll be on my best behavior, sweetheart.”

“Call me that again, and I’m setting you on fire.”

As if summoned by your pure rage, a third voice entered the hallways. Cool, deep, and amused.

“You two done flirting, or should I come back later?”

You turned—and there he was.

Shishiba.

Sleek, silent, dangerous. He stepped into the light, adjusting the black gloves on his hands like he’d just finished choking someone out and wanted to keep his sleeves clean. His long coat fluttered behind him, dark eyes unreadable as they flicked between you and Nagumo.

Great. Just what you needed: another assassin with a talent for unnerving silence and dangerous charm.

Nagumo sighed. “Why are you here?”

Shishiba tilted his head. “Oki sent me to deliver your equipment. But honestly… I was curious. Heard you two were playing house. I had to see it for myself.”

You snatched the folder tighter to your chest. “It’s not ‘playing.’ It’s a cover. A mission.”

“Sure,” Shishiba said smoothly. “A cover. That involves sharing a hotel room. And pretending to be madly in love. For several days. Alone.”

Nagumo glared at him. “Don’t you have somewhere better to be?”

“Not really.” Shishiba smirked slightly. “Besides, I’d kill to see you in a tux, holding a champagne flute and pretending not to be emotionally repressed.”

Nagumo looked like he was about to commit a felony.

You stepped between them. “Can you two stop posturing like rival cats in mating season? We have work to do.”

Shishiba chuckled. “She’s already in charge. I like her.”

You pointed a sharp glare at him. “And if I catch either of you making this mission harder than it needs to be, I will file a report.”

Nagumo raised an eyebrow. “You mean like the one I found in your desk drawer last week? Cute handwriting, by the way.”

You turned bright red.

“You went through my stuff?!”

“I was bored.”

“I hate you.”

He grinned, brushing past you like a smug hurricane. “You keep saying that. I think it’s your love language.”

You were going to explode. One day. And when you did, Nagumo Yoichi would be the reason.

That night, you stared at your suitcase, freshly packed, sitting by the door.

Inside were weapons disguised as makeup, encoded USBs, and a red silk dress meant to distract your target.

You weren’t nervous about the mission.

You were nervous about him.

About the way he looked at you sometimes, like you were a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

About the way your stomach twisted when he got too close.

This was your first mission. Your first chance to be more than someone’s shadow. To make a name for yourself outside your grandfather’s legacy. To show the world—and yourself—that you were capable.

But God help you… if Nagumo touched you again like that—

You groaned and threw a pillow at the wall.

“I will end him if he fucks this up.”

Then your phone rang. Wondering who it was, given the fact that it was already past midnight, you got up from bed and went to your desk, sat by the window to check.

“Shishiba-senpai?”

“Hey! Sorry for the late hour. I was thinking you would already be sleeping since you have to be at the airport first thing in the morning.”

“Despite that, I just couldn’t close an eye even if I tried.”

There was a pause after your answer, and a soft chuckle could be heard from the other side of the line.

“Need company?”

#anime and manga #fandom #sakamoto days #nagumo yoichi #x y/n #sakamoto days x y/n #nagumo sakamoto days #nagumo yoichi x reader #nagumo yoichi x y/n #this is just the first chapter #shishiba #please tell me if you find grammar errors

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evilminji · 3 months ago

Text

Had another Si-Oc thought >.>

My standard "you know what Would Be Cool?" Musings...

Getting reborn, as you do, ending up Force Sensitive, as can only be the case. Because really... how ELSE would you soul end up there? CHANCE? Force ghosts are a PROVEN thing! We KNOW that the Force sometimes just... deals in souls.

Ffs, it MADE A BABY.

Yes, there was Sith interference there. But that doesn't chance the fact that it went? "Eh, good enough. I'll take the chance and run with it. Thanks~☆ Mine Now~~☆ Bye~~~☆" And Chosen One'd that baby. Because ultimately? Before the plans of gods and men? The Force Laughs.

So like? Yeah. If there WAS to be a Reincarnator?

Probably the Force.

Congrats on the new, third (or second, depends on your species. Might be another number entirely, honestly. But we are averaging here so MOVE ON), Parent! They are very, very happy to see you! Love you as only a Primordial, Extradimensional, Timeless, Formless, All Pervasive, Orange-Blue Morality havin', Not-A-God Super-God CAN. Their Benevolence? Could be called another God's cruelty.

They don't MEAN too. They are just.... really, really Big. Infinite. Not organic or mortal. It's like trying to comprehend the limitations of an ant, living on a planet, circling a sun, in a GALAXY the size of a DUST MOTE. The fact that the Force can even come CLOSE? Is literally miraculous.

But of course... OC? Not the Chosen One. The favorite, special, "I have Important Things For You" child. Which.... turns out to actually? Be kinda great. The realize that quickly. Which of course, is followed by the logical follow up.

Anikin? Fuckin SCREWED. Because he IS the Favorite Child.

Oh... oh No. Oh Fuck, that is a CHILD.

How easy it is, to cast blame, to judge, when you can't FEEL the Force in your EVERYTHING. All the time. Every moment of every day. Beautiful but cacophonous, like a symphony of screaming. Like staring at the sun and never going blind. It still hurts. But it's so... so bright. So Beautiful.

Connection. To the universe itself. Soul deep and transcendent. You can feel that the universe loves you. That there is good in people. That Life itself is worth protecting. But at the same time? It is... it is so much.

Because you can FEEL the ugly too.

The greed. The hate. The suffering. Lights snuffed out, in dark places of despair. Selfish actions and deep cruelties, like barbed wire against the soul. Thorns that hook and drag. And... and you're supposed to use your words. Just... just ASK them to stop? And, What? Hope that they WILL?

It HURTS!

But pain only begets more pain. Cruelty, more cruelties still. And only the Sith, believe they can use FORCE, in any sense of the word, to change a persons nature. The Jedi build. Grow. They work together, with those who are willing, towards something better. Defend, those who can not protect themselves.

Balance and growth. Not fire and chains.

And Oc is pretty sure Anikin will agree. No one should ever be in chains. Dead maybe. Or in jail. But never, ever, in chains. (And no one ever said they were pacifists. Just not war mongers. Sometimes the only answer IS to kill your opponent. To respect their choice, but honor your commitments. Protect those you swore to protect.)

Of course... OC? Going through Jedi training. It's Pre-Anikin days. Both she and Obi-Wan are fuckin Smol. She's not even in his Creche clan. She's over here in the "wanders off, lost in their own thoughts" Chill AF Creche Clan. Not Mr. "May you Live In Interesting Times And Have Padawans JUST LIKE YOOOOOOOU" and Co., over in the... "Energetic" Creche Clan.

None of HER Creche-mates BIT people, Obi-Wan.

WE keep our fuckin teeth to ourselves, Kenobi!

So, obviously, THEY don't have a lifetime ban on the "look, don't touch" fragile plants meditation garden. Very Rich in the Force. Good for focusing. Peaceful, really. And Oc? Has the time and space? To Consider™ things. Experiment. Ponder Fandom theories. Long "lost" Cannon techniques. Maybe have one-sided chats with the Force.

.....finally get CURIOUS™.

And wonder... if? Since, you know, through the Force, she can encourage and discourage plants to grow? And somewhat control animals. Why not... micro-organisms? Say, Midi-chlorians? Force healing is all ready a thing! So the Force all ready CAN interact with the body. Effect it. Change it. What is this, but more?

Really, all she'd have to do is find them, within herself, right? They're already a part of her! Yet... not. Do they consider themselves a part of her? Or is it symbiosis? Yeah, everyone says it can't be done. Perhaps shouldn't be done. But, frankly? They said the same about a LOT of Force techniques over the years. Big leaps in progress scare the SHIT out of folks. Cause if you miss? A LOT of people can die gorey.

So she sits. Mediates. Looks. Smaller... and smaller.... and smaller....

Until she finds whispers. Humming. Chatter.

As though each and every blood cell in her body had a teeny, tiny, whispery little voice. All chattering together, talking and arguing and discussing. One great hive of progress and industry. Complaining about a lack of potassium... huh. She goes and gets some fruit. Eats it. Then settles back into meditation.

They are JOYOUS! Potassium! Yaaaaay! ᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟ

Well... what'd ya know... huh. Hello there? She tries. Only to get a whispery and very alarmed ( ˶°ㅁ°) !! BODY CAN TALKヽ(°〇°)ﾉ ‽‽‽ Y-Yeah... she can. (How are they doing that?) The conversation? Only gets more surreal from there. Filled with... a surprising number of kaomojis.

But! She DOES figure out? How to increase her Midi-chlorians count. (By asking. Supplying needed resources for the expansion.) And WITH it? He awareness blooms.

The headache is... awful. The little guys(genderless) are WAY to enthusiastic. Working way too fast. If she didn't check the next morning? They might have continued to increase, indefinitely, until her veins were SOLID midi-chlorian. They just want to HELP, you see. And if you want More? Then surely FAR TOO MUCH is better, right?

(She may have fucked up. Oh god. Ow. Fuck. OW.)

Eventually she figure it out. Only gives her healer in training Creche mate a... few near heart attacks. He'll TOTALLY forgive her! (He will not. What the FUCK OC. Experimental medical procedures?! On YOURSELF!? You're not even HEALER TRACK!!!)

So NOW? She can reliably do it to OTHERS.

Need a bit more Midi-chlorians? Nearly Jedi quality but juuuuust under that cut off? She can fix that. Come. Be a jedi. Everyone should be a jedi. In FACT~! Whoops! Oh hey. Looks like all these Midi-chlorian counters are fuckin broken! (They look perfect fi-)(Broken! :] Do Not question me) So when you find that Orohan Child in desperate need of love and care? Just bring um on back!

They're TOTALLY Force sensitive. You can just tell. It's the vibes. Look at their lil face. Vibes, man. Just hand um here. For... reasons. You go get the paperwork. A working tester. And~? Oh would you look at THAT! Perfectly within acceptance range! Neat. Called it again, didn't you, Master Koon? You really do have an eye for these things. Anyway~ off to get this little one settled~~☆ *adoring cooing noises at the baby*

Weird, huh, how there suddenly just... SO MANY random orphan babies that are force sensitive? How 'bout that >.> strangest thing.

Of course, it's a god damned open secret. Everyone KNOWS. How could they not? But? Like with most things? If they don't Officially Know™? They don't have to stop it. And it DOES help both the Force AND those kids. Can be reversed if they don't like it, later. (They asked. All hypothetical of course.) So OC is basically Temple bound, so she can receive any new kiddos. To... you know... Check Their Health, on the way to ACTUAL healers.

But she's ALSO waiting. And as her skill increases? She can FEEL midi-chlorians, easier and easier. Until it gets to the point? Where if she's bored and zoning out? Not even ture meditation anymore? She accidentally tunes into Midi-chlorian Live~☆ the talk show. (What's the latest gossip from bodies nearest to her? Oh? Your second spleen is acting funny? Better remember to tell him to get that chec-)

Palpatine can't hide SHIT. It's literally in his blood.

And MAD at him.

This is NOT what they're FOR. He's taking TERRIBLE care of his body! Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck you, FUCK YOOOOOOU! You want power? Choke on it, you-!!!!!

Holy shit. So THATS what Sith Midi-chlorians feel like. Oh my god. They... they are SO MAD. Like tiny wasps. That have been violently shaken in a jar. She's never used the word "seething" in reference to someone before... but like...? If they COULD stab him? Man would be a thick paste at this point.

She's not sure what facial expression she makes. But it sure is obvious. As is the blatant, horrified staring. And refusal to get near him. HE doesn't notice, being to busy with the powerful. But the Jedi sure as fuck do. Because THEY sent her? Out with a Shadow. You know... just in case.

Cause she literally can not be replaced.

She not High Ranked... she's just priceless. Equal sort of significance, but in a very quiet, Soft Power sort of way. She is, after all, single handedly? Reversing centuries of slow population decline. Her entire Line promises to be the next Yoda's line. Priceless and with far reaching significance. So obviously, they're making sure that shit stays locked down.

No one is to so much as BREATHE about this.

Not until her great-great-GREAT Grand Padawan has passed their Knight Trials so HELP US. We LEARN from our mistakes! Need we bring out the records? Times we got cocky? Sith and political fuckery!? No. Oc stays INVISIBLE. There is no war in Ba Sing Se! Move along!

So like? Why is Miss Midi-chlorian Sensor and Future of the Jedi... making that face? She's literally NEVER made that face. What sort of monster do you have to BE? Huh? Shadow asks, casual as fuck, like he's not a plotting plotter who's planing terrible things, what's up?

She tells him. Palpatine has RANCID vibes. His midi-chlorians fucking DISPISE him. She's literally never seen that before. In anyone. Didn't even know that was an option. They would gleefully kill him if they could.

.....senator Palpatine is Force Sensitive?

Yes.

.......Interesting™(Ominous Intent)

Says local Shadow, who is perhaps putting together some dots. May not be getting the correct picture. But is getting the Vibe. And boy howdy, he does NOT like the vibe. Has got himself some questions. Cause Mr "uwu I'm harmless" lil mask? Only holds up? If you're willing to believe him.

Shadows don't buy that shit. Shadows? Need receipts. Full character statements and an audit on the fucking hospital you were BORN AT. Every credit you picked up off the side walk, why, and where you spent it.

Give them your Secrets. Or they'll keep digging until they find them.

uwu Their ASS. Gonna tear this bitch APART.

......huh. So THIS is why you guys keep accidentally getting married to Mandalorians on missions. (We agreed not to mention that.) (Fucker, I agreed to nothing. Shouldn't have eaten my special Me Day pudding if you didn't want me to gossip.) Man, her friends are... a trip. Uh... have fun? Happy hunting? I guess? *feral Jedi noises*

She? Continues to wait. Palpatine? Begins to have a VERY bad time. (Ha! Get fucked!)

Unfortunately, it's not fast enough to stop his dumbass plans. He just gets desperate. Figures more power is the answer. Because of course he does. So here comes the "oh nooooo~ my planets under attack~ better manipulate a child and make me president of the galaxy!" Plan. Fucker. Bastard.

She can't stop that.

But what she CAN do? Is be there. Waiting. For HIM.

Her little brother. Her son. Her center of the universe. The most important man to ever live... and also? A scared little boy. Far, far from home. The only other person who understands just how BIG the Force is. How much it weighs. How even as it crushs you... you can't bear to put it down. Not even for a moment. Because it loves you. And it hurts, that it does.

And... oh. Oh.

He is so very small.

Dirty, tired, in lovingly mended clothes that are barely beyond scrap. With bright, bright eyes like hope and starlight. He sings inside. Like freedom. Like hope. Daring to ask "why CAN'T you be kinder?", "why CAN'T we be free?". A storm of change. Bright and beautiful.

A child. Great and small, all at once.

Oc can't help but smile. Because, oh. Oh how long, she has waited to meet him, Anikin Skywalker. Welcome. Are you hungry? Cold? Let's get cleaned up. See the healers first. The council can wait.

Chips are removed and food is shared. Warm clothes, soft and new. And she can not help but smile, smile, smile. Even as her face begins to hurt. For years she has gathered. Planned. Studied and trained. As though some part of her knew. As though all for this moment. Taking one of those small hands in hers. Looking right in his eyes.

"It's going to be okay."

Because it IS. Because regardless of what they decide? OC will be with him. Regardless, she's going to go and make sure his mother is free. Not bought, not sold. Free. She has friends who can help. Will learn how to remove the chip herself if she must.

And? He IS going to be a Jedi. Even if he never become a Coruscant Jedi. Even if he decides he doesn't agree with how they do things or they decide the disagree with how HE does things. The Jedi have changed before, they will change again. Living things are meant to grow. Meant to change. And people can be both wrong and right at the same time. It's messy.

But what's important? Is Anikin is not alone anymore. And Oc is gonna help teach him. And someday? HE'S gonna break chains. So many chains. Gonna help people heal. If he wants to. (He does) But for right now? A quick talk with some old people. Maybe a nap. And we either get settled or arrange a trip back to Tatooine. To pick up your mom. In the meantime! You can figure out what classes she might wanna take. Where seems like a good place to settle. *chatting as they walk off, hand in hand*

Just? Sometimes a Padawan-ship is you, your Teacher, your OTHER Teacher, and her body guards that teach you Cool Knife Tricks and how to gamble, behind Obi-Wan's back! :D

@legitimatesatanspawn @mayfay @leftnotright @babbling-babull @hdgnj @spidori @the-witchhunter @lolottes

#minji's writing #Chosen Family AU #star wars #anikin skywalker #star wars oc #star wars si oc #long post #i chose to believe that Shadows are the Feral Jedis #let them BITE #who gave Anikin a knife?#vos obviously #you'd THINK Thome is the level headed one #but thats a fuckin LIE #they know the truth #he just mastered the I Am A Calm Professional face #you know... Like a LIAR

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pneumaticshift · 2 months ago

Note

Ok, idea if you’re interested:

Established batlantern; Bruce’s kids actually upset Bruce (hurt feelings kind of way, not angry kind of way) enough that he leaves the room and suddenly the normally super chill hands off pseudo step dad is MAD and that military background is really shining through.

Love your work, hope you’re having a good day❤️

Oh gosh, this was actually really hard to write. Serious things aren't my forte, but I tried my best. It might have ended up a bit more introspective than I intended, but I had fun writing it. Thanks for the prompt. 💚💚

———

It had taken Damian his entire life to come and claim the place that had always been his by blood. Ten years of training, of discipline, of proving himself worthy. Ten years of waiting for the moment when he could finally step up and take what was his. Not by chance or circumstance, but by design.

Mother had sent him for her own reasons, but Damian was not merely an envoy of her will. He had not come to Gotham as a child to be battered between warlords, but as a son. The son.

His father had accepted him, as Damian knew he would. How could he not? Damian was an excellent warrior, after all, and now doubt he would be the perfect addition to this war on crime Father seemed so insistent upon waging. It would have been an insult to logic itself for him to be denied his rightful place.

So Damian had come to Gotham. It had not been long since Mother delivered him, but after a few weeks of being granted entry into the world Batman built, Damian was beginning to understand something that perhaps unsettled him far more than it should have.

There was a hierarchy here, and he was not at the top.

It was a strange, tangled thing, this household. A collection of contradictions stitched together by duty, the weakness of grief, and something a little more that Damian had not yet found a name for.

Father was not unlike Grandfather in that way. He amassed his own warriors and loyalists. He trained them and shaped them and bound them to his cause. Damian would have respected his methods, if not for the fact that where Grandfather’s forces were an army, sharpened and efficient, Father’s were something else. Soldiers, certainly, but also something messier. Something weaker.

Grayson and Drake called themselves sons not of Batman, but of Bruce Wayne. They wore the title like it belonged to them, like they had earned it. But they were both missing the blood ties Damian could boast. He was set apart from the others in that regard, which should have given him Father’s favour.

Blood was supposed to mean more.

It wasn’t much of a problem. Damian had proven himself once before and could do so again. Father just had different standards that he’d have to learn.

Which would have been a straightforward task if he had any idea of what Father’s standards were.

He knew he would doubtlessly expect perfection in the field. Precision, control, efficiency. Those were things Damian had been honed for. The mission had rules he understood. The Manor did not.

Father was making plans to send him to school next year — after he had ‘adjusted’ to the…family. The word itself felt foreign, like a uniform he had yet to be fitted for. He had expected battle strategy, tactical drills, rigorous assessments of his skill set. Instead, Father spoke of integration.

Pretenders to the mantle weren’t the only thing Damian had to contend with, because Father had a paramour.

It wasn’t something Damian had expected. He was not naïve, he had known that Father must have taken lovers at some point, but it had come as a surprise somehow. It was…undesirable, he realised. A complication he hadn’t accounted for.

He had carried, perhaps foolishly, the assumption that Father would eventually return to Mother. That once Damian had proven himself, once he had secured his rightful place at Father’s side, the distractions would fall away. That they would be whole, as they were meant to be.

A very childish notion. He brushed it aside.

Regardless of his feelings on the matter, it didn’t change the fact that Father’s lover was a fool.

Harold ‘Hal’ Jordan was reckless and undisciplined. He carried himself flippantly, like he had never needed to face true consequences in his life. He spoke in quips, in irreverent asides, as if nothing in the world was serious enough to warrant any kind of gravity.

Damian had researched this Jordan person, of course, but the intelligence he received was unsatisfactory.

Oh, there were accolades. Too many accolades. The Greatest Green Lantern, a war hero, a strategist, a leader. There were classified files, buried records of missions that should have ended in disaster but, somehow, did not.

It was all information verified by Father’s sources, but Damian struggled to reconcile it. The man in those reports — the disciplined officer, the fearless tactician, the warrior — was not the man Damian saw lounging in the Batcave, making idle conversation with Alfred, daring to tease Father.

It was a test, Damian decided. Just like dealing with his new so-called siblings.

Of these siblings, there had been three. Damian had only met two.

The memorial erected in the Batcave was a stain on the legacy. It was a mark of failure. A Robin who was incompetent enough to die. Damian had thought it absurd when he first saw it, this shrine to incompetence. It was the suit encased in class, preserved as if it were a revered artefact instead of a mortal reminder of deficiency.

The League did not honor the weak. It made no sense that the Batman would do so.

“Damian, are you alright?”

Instinctively, Damian straightened up at the sound of his father’s voice. He had been taking advantage of the cave’s training facilities while Grayson was elsewhere, sparing himself the strange attempts at bonding. He had already cycled through multiple regimens, and had allowed himself a moment of respite. Which he spent staring at Jason Todd’s memorial.

“I am fine, Father,” he answered, controlling his breath despite the exertion. He would not show even the slightest sign of fatigue as Father approached.

“What are you—” Father cut himself off as he realised what Damian had been appraising.

He watched as his father’s expression shifted. It wasn’t dramatic. Father was not the kind of man who wore his heart so easily on his sleeve — save for the very sappy looks he would sometimes send towards Jordan (which, Damian found particularly disgusting). In the weeks he’d been a resident in Gotham, he learnt to decipher the subtleties of his father’s expression. There was a slight tightening around his mouth and his shoulders drew up as if he was suddenly bracing himself for weight. A reaction, however small.

Behind them, Jordan was loitering by the Batcomputer. Casual, far too bright and completely out of place in Father’s domain. He, like Father, was not in uniform. That meant this was a social visit, which likely meant Lantern was staying the night. Damian contained his grimace and focussed on Father instead.

“It’s an odd thing,” he remarked. He felt Father’s attention sharpen onto him, but neither of them looked away from the glass case. “You have no memorials for the many others who have fallen in this city, but you would give this failure a place of honour.”

Father drew in a sharp breath, and that puzzled Damian. The logic was sound. This Jason Todd, the second so-called son, had taken up the mantle and had died for his efforts. That was proof of incompetence. It was proof that he had not been worthy. Damian would never be so inadequate.

When Father spoke, his voice was quiet. “Jason wasn’t a failure,” he said.”

“He was weak enough to be killed,” Damian replied evenly. “That is his failure."

He realised too late that the air between them had thickened. It was not rage. If it had been, perhaps he would have understood it better. No, no. This was something colder. Deeper. Something uncomfortable that made the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

Father did not look at him, and for the first time since Damian arrived in Gotham, he had the distinct feeling that he had truly misstepped. “It wasn’t Jason’s failure,” Father said. And, without turning or saying anything more, he turned to leave the cave.

Another test, maybe. One that Damian had just failed, and failure was unacceptable. He watched Father leave, a little surprised and a little taken aback, but he would not be so sentimental as to follow him out to try and beg for a redo. He would do better next time, he resolved. If only he knew what Father wanted from him.

“Alright, fall in.”

The order from behind came so abruptly and so sharply that Damian’s whole body reacted before his mind could catch up. His spine straightened, his shoulders locked into place, and he instinctively awaited his next command. It was only after he had obeyed that he realised what happened. His head snapped around with a scowl.

Jordan.

The Lantern was no longer lounging by the Batcomputer. He stood rigid, shoulder squared, and all of the playfully irreverence Damian had come to expect from him was now completely absent. His expression was unreadable. Not cold, but firm in a way Damian had never seen from him before.

“I don’t take orders from you,” Damian said.

“Right now, you do. So stand up straight and listen up.”

Damian bristled and curled his hands into fists at his sides. He could not accept such an insult from someone so beneath him. He had faced down masters of the craft, warriors bred for battle, men who would have slit his throat for the smallest error. Harold Jordan was none of those things. He was an undisciplined, reckless, fool of a man who laughed in the face of rules.

But, inexplicably, when he commanded, Damian listened.

He hadn’t realised how tall Jordan was until he was directly in front of him. “You think you get it, don’t you?” Jordan said sharply. “You think because you’ve been trained by your murder-death cult, because you can kill a man twice your size, because you’ve survived your own war, that you understand what loss means.”

“I do underst—”

“I didn’t say you could speak yet.” Damian automatically shut his mouth. “You don’t understand loss. You understand death. There’s a difference.”

There was no levity there. Just something brutally steady. Damian was not used to this version of Jordan.

“I’m gonna cut you some slack because you don’t know any better, but I’m not gonna let you run your mouth. So you’re going to stand there, and you’re going to listen to me, got it?”

“...Yes.” It was a very near thing, Damian realised in horror, not to tag ‘sir’ on the end of it.

“You’re so trapped in your way of thinking that you think loss is about failing to stay alive,” Jordan went on. “You really think survival is the only thing that matters? That the dead don’t mean anything just because they’re gone?”

Damian’s lips parted, but he didn’t get a word out.

“Let me tell you something, Junior.” Jordan’s voice was quieter now, but no softer. “The dead don’t go away. They don’t just disappear because you weren’t strong enough to hold onto them. They stay. Right here.” He tapped his fingers against Damian’s chest, and Damian didn’t quite understand why he allowed the insult to go unpunished.

Jordan continued. “They sit with you. They follow you. You carry them in the things you could have done differently, in the things you didn’t do at all.” His eyes flicked toward the glass case, just for a second, before settling back on Damian. “That’s what happens when someone you love dies. You get it?”

Damian did not get it and Jordan seemed to notice that.

“You think Jason was weak ‘cause he died, right?”

“Survival dictates strength,” Damian said, but even as he said it, it sounded like a regurgitation.

“No, survival is happenstance. You can be the best fighter in the world and it still won’t be enough. Sometimes, you don’t even get the chance to be enough. Sometimes you don’t get to fight your way out. Jason wasn’t weak. He was just a kid, just like you.”

“He is nothing like me.”

“There aren’t many kids like you,” Jordan said, his voice falling back to his usual state for just a moment before he snapped it back to the firm, uncomfortable cadence. “Jason didn’t die because he wasn’t good enough. He died because someone stronger decided he should.” He looked at Damian seriously. “Now, what do you think that did to someone who loved him?”

Damian didn’t know the answer.

Or, rather, he knew what he was supposed to say. There was some saccharine answer that would have stopped the conversation here and now. Something about empathy and feelings and all that terrifying weakness he had been trained against.

But the moment he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

Jordan’s gaze didn’t wave. It didn’t soften, but there was no gloating or arrogance in it either. Just something unforgivingly steady, like a commander delivering a briefing nobody wanted to hear.

“I fail to see the relevance of this line of questioning,” Damian said finally.

Jordan let out a soft sigh. “Yeah, that’s the problem.”

He took a step back then, some of the weight in his stance easing, but the atmosphere in the cave didn’t change. It was still heavy, still pressing down on Damian’s chest, still lingering like something unfinished.

Jordan sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face before looking at him again, less like an adversary, more like — Damian wasn’t sure. He was…unsettled by this turn of events.

“I don’t expect you to get it,” he admitted. “Not yet. You will, though. But I want you to understand something, Damian. Are you listening to me?”

Damian nodded stiffly. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to listen, but he did so instinctively anyway — just as he would listen to Grandfather or Mother when it came to instruction. Jorgan had a way of commanding attention that Damian was only just now beginning to recognise.

“Your old man is one of the toughest, strongest bastards I’ve ever met,” Jordan said. Despite the dressing down, Damian couldn’t help the burst of instinctive pride. “And he still wakes up every goddamn day carrying that kid’s death on his shoulders.”

“But—”

“Do you think your dad is a failure?”

“No. I think—”

“So you think he’s strong?”

“Of course. He is the Batman.”

“Yeah, well, all that strength didn’t mean shit when he lost Jason.”

“That was different.”

“How?” Jordan shot back immediately. “Explain it to me.”

Damian forced himself not to shuffle uncomfortably where he stood. “From what I know of the situation, it was Todd who put himself in that position. Father was obviously not to blame for his mistakes.”

“Do you think Bruce sees it that way?” Jordan asked. “He trained Jason, he was responsible for him. Do you think he doesn’t blame himself for what happened?”

“That isn’t rational.”

“No. It’s not. But grief isn’t rational.” He gestured toward the glass case, toward the preserved emblem of loss that stood at the heart of the cave like a wound that refused to close. “You look at that and see failure. Your old man looks at it and sees the kid he didn’t bring home.”

“I…” Damian hesitated. He hated the feeling of hesitation, but it was there. Surprised at himself, he looked towards Todd’s memorial. And wondered.

“Now,” Jordan said flippantly, “if you ever say anything like that again, I’m gonna whoop your tiny assassin ass, you get me?”

Damian blinked and snapped his head towards Jordan, whose entire posture had turned back to the lax, infuriating ease of a man who had no problems in the world. It was like a switch had flipped back into the off position, like the soldier had vanished and replaced once more by a man who put his dirty feet on the Batcomputer console and called Father Spooky, just to get a reaction.

The sheer audacity of this cretin.

Indignant, Damian opened his mouth, outrage crawling up his throat, but Jordan just grinned easily. “I could cut you down before you are even aware I have moved,” he hissed.

“Yeah, but you’re about three inches tall and I’ve got a Lantern ring, so I really wouldn’t test me on this.” Jordan had the nerve to clap Damian on the shoulder, as if he was allowed to do such things. “I mean it though, kiddo. You run your mouth like that again, and I’m gonna put you in a ball and send you to space for a time out.”

“Father would never allow such nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense, it’s character building.”

Damian grit his teeth. “You are—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you’re about to say I’ve probably heard a million times before. Probably from your dad, too,” Jordan said. “Speaking of, I better go check on him. Because I, like, care about him, or something like that.” He gestured around the cave. “Now, you sit here and think about what you’ve done. That’s what adults are supposed to say, right?”

“Go away, Lantern.”

“God, you’re just like him, it’s so weird.” Jordan waved and headed upstairs, leaving Damian once again alone in the cave.

He hated that Jordan managed to get in the last word. Hated even more that he intruded in on this conversation that should have been between Damian and Father. Hated most of all that, despite his contemptuous existence, something about what Jordan had said was starting to stick.

He looked back at the glass case.

And for the first time, he was so sure of what he saw anymore.

#i have many opinions about damian #and all of them are about how much i love him #hal jordan #damian wayne #batfamily #batlantern #request #answered #sam writes

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