#they hold it back unless they think the fic was PHENOMENAL AND GROUND BREAKING AND AMAZING

[tenpintsof-sundrop]

EXACTLY

especially because I have now been subjected to the very mind numbing idea that people leave kudos for different reasons

me personally - I leave kudos as a way to say "good on you for being brave enough to post your fic". because I know that even just the act of putting yourself out there and posting a fic is hard. if I get to the end of a fic and I didn't necessarily like it or love it, I still leave kudos. even if get halfway through reading a fic and don't feel mentally engaged enough to finish it, I will still scroll to the bottom and leave a kudos because I think the author deserves a pat on the back for going through the effort of writing and posting a whole ass fic

(so I leave kudos on pretty much every single fic I read because if I liked the tags and summary enough to open the fic and start reading it, then I will leave a kudos on it)

but some people (apparently) don't leave kudos on every single fic that they read because they think kudos should only be reserved for fics that you absolutely love and think are utterly amazing

some people leave kudos on a fic if they liked it but didn't think it was likeable enough to comment on

so now authors are supposed to discern if kudos means "this fic was only okay-ish" or if it means "this fic was fucking amazing and I loved it so much" - when I have always thought it means "I acknowledge that I read the entire fic and got to the bottom of it. it was readable enough to sit through. good job for posting" and then if the fic was actually amazing, people would comment on it

(and I think this also goes along with the fucked up tiktok idea that you 'should' be filtering fics by highest kudos - so that if people 'hold back' their kudos for only fics that they loved, then only 'the best' fics will show up when you filter by highest kudos)

I really don't understand how "without getting kudos or comments a fanfiction author is going to assume that people who clicked their fic didn't like it" became a controversial take.

I don't know why some people think an author should imagine, or guess that people who click their fic enjoyed it it when nobody is telling them that.

If you're re-reading a fic constantly, or leaving it up in your tab so that it re-loads every day for a hundred days the author is not going to know that unless you tell them. They'd love to hear it. It would make their day.

And if you don't tell them you liked their fic, there's no reason for them to assume you did.

[messwriting]

Written for The Smut Pile Collab: Mafia AU | MASTERLIST HERE.

SCARRED HANDS

Iwaizumi Hajime (Older) x Female Reader

Rating: E for explicit | Don’t read this if under eighteen.

Warnings:  Mafia AU related plot, including drugs. gun traffic and homicide. Violence. SERIOUS TALK ABOUT GAMBLING, ADDICTION, DEBT AND FAMILY ISSUES/FORGIVENESS. Hajime is older, about early forties while Reader is in her twenties, so: Age gap.  Slow-burn (I think?). Presence of an OC named Rei in a side-ship with Mattsun. In this first part there’s no smut.

Part One | Part Two (soon) Word count: 7.5k

Note: This is my second contribution to The Smut Pile Collab, hosted by the lovelies @present-mel​, @pleasantanathema​ and @linestrider​. Thank you so much Claudia, @thisisthehardestthing​​​, for beta-ing this and all your amazing comments who have made me scream so much i’m pretty sure my neighbors are wary for my sanity. There’s a side OC/Mattsun here that is my small gift to @mixedhell​​ for everything she has always done for me and for being such a great beta, friend and enabler. <3

I was trying to not break this in two parts, but as it seems my brain keeps hellbent on putting more plot in this, it has become unavoidable. Uh, enjoy? This is my excuse of a fic to just love Iwaizumi at any and all given opportunity! Second part in the works but with no release date yet. <3

Iwaizumi never wanted this life. 

He thinks about it while cleaning his bloody knuckles with a wet cloth, taking care to surround the parts where the skin had broken, scars over scars to the point that he practically did not know what was old and what was recent. The pain didn't bother him anymore, a constant in his life to the point that he barely registered the new injuries. That was the life of the second-in-command of the Seijoh Mafia.

He lived a poor childhood, violent teenage years. At the time, he didn’t have much choice in resorting to crime. It was easy, even; he was good with his hands, fast and built broad and strong since he was young. When his only and best friend told him he wanted to be the Boss, he’d almost laughed before seeing that familiar glint in his friend's eyes – that pure, fierce determination Oikawa had been practically born with– and, void of a dream for himself, he pledged himself to that of his only family.

“Take him to the back,” Hajime tells his trusted duo, who watched over him and the man they’ve been working for the past hour. Matsukawa nods shortly and puts out the cigarette he was smoking, still in half, on the nearest surface, before addressing the bloody man tied to a chair.

“What are you going to do now?” Hanamaki asks from the entrance threshold, not looking at him but rather to the night sky above them outside the deposit in the outskirts of the town. His joint is ending, sweet smoke blowing out and swirling up. 

“I’ll tell Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says like it was obvious. “He’s gonna have to be more careful with his companies.”

Hanamaki snorts while smiling. “Not that he’ll listen.”

Hajime shrugs, throwing the blood-stained rag back without a care for where it’ll land. “That’s his problem.” Then he sighs, looking up at the smoke from Hanamaki’s joint swirling around the wind. “The mole is ours.”

--

Iwaizumi has a special place, if he could call it that. 

He discovered the owner had died with consternation, when he went to the place at his usual time and found it, for what was probably the first time in more than a decade, closed. The diner operated until the ignoble hours of the night, which is why, since Iwaizumi was still a soldier, he used to spend the last hours of his day or the early hours of his mornings there, in what he’d call his little break in between work; his moment of calm even on the most eventful nights of his violent life.

Since he had risen the ranks rather quickly, the habit had given way to certain care with the frequency in which he visited the place, although the time had little variation and was always after two in the morning. 

It was the moment when the night calmed down, the clubs and parties booming, the restaurants that opened at early hours already closed; the brave few passers-by running to their safe places on empty streets while the cars running through the streets lessened by the minute. This was the time when night-shift policemen were already tired of both the events of their shift and the long worked hours, nodding off in their cars.

The diner was on a street just a few blocks away from the heaviest area of ​​the city, where clubs and parties continued until the bright hours of the morning; the drug traffic in these places had been feeding the old mafia veins for decades, since before Iwaizumi, and he was certain he would meet his end way before it did. 

The place was small, nothing much, two big windows beyond the door showing the old, almost vintage interior, careless by the owner who never paid much attention to the decorative aspect of the place. Twenty years ago, when Iwaizumi went from being a simple associate to a soldier, just beginning his life as a man, the place was busier, almost famous - and even then the nights were always the quietest shift, the time where degenerates inherited the city.

Iwaizumi didn't know exactly what had disappointed him so much when he found out that old Lou had gone for the better. Lou wasn't even the old man’s real name - he just adopted it once the name of the diner -- Lou’s Diner -- ended up merging with his in the daily life of being the business owner. Iwaizumi was a constant presence in the place enough to know that Lou, in fact, was the name of the old man's wife, who had died young.

In fact, Iwaizumi spent the days following the discovery of the man’s passing trying to figure out where the place would end - Lou had never said anything about family, but there was always the possibility that the business had been pledged in warrant of some debt and if not, there was the bank. The old man wasn’t exactly what you’d call an exemplary business manager.

A surprise came again when Iwaizumi drove past the place during the day and for the first time in three weeks, there was movement inside the diner - and his first thought is theft. 

It wouldn’t be surprising, considering both the neighborhood and the fact that with the place closed three weeks before, every thug in the street knows that everything is still there.

Iwa sighs, then makes a u-turn so he can park close to the alley on the diner’s corner. He’s surprised, but he realizes it is, in fact, not the case. Unless the young woman holding a broom and looking around as she rolls up the sleeves of a loose oversized T-shirt over normal jeans shorts were, somehow, a phenomenal smuggler.

Against his better judgment, Iwaizumi gets out of his BMW and steps carefully onto the sidewalk, checking his surroundings with practiced ease. The glass doors of the diner are wide open, sidewalk wet and leaking soapy water into the street. Iwa crosses through it with little care, pausing for a moment while the oblivious girl inside keeps brushing away.

“Hello,” Iwaizumi salutes from the wide open doors, perhaps to also let the place breathe some air after the days closed. You startle, the broom in your hand flying to the floor with a loud crash. 

“Holy fuck!” you yelp, turning around with both hands in front of your body. “Are you trying to kill me, dude?” 

Iwaizumi almost chuckles, the corners of his lips turning up. 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He takes his hands out of his pockets, showing them in front of his body as a sign of peace. And it isn’t like he can’t easily kill you and anyone you may have inside with just them.

“Oh god. My heart,” you murmur, clenching your shirt over your chest while sucking in a few breaths. Your eyes finally come up to his. “Sorry, I think I was just too distracted.”

Hajime nods. He isn’t a man to say sorry twice. “I was just passing by and noticed the diner open. It’s been closed for some weeks, so I was just checking.”

“Oh, sure.” Your mouth opens in a small ‘o’, and Iwaizumi is surprised at how it got his attention. Pretty lips on an even prettier face. “Yeah… I’m reopening it this week. I just need to fix some things around here.”

Iwaizumi gives you a once over. Discreetly. He leans against the doorframe, curiosity winning him over.  “So, you bought it?”

“What?” you laugh, hand coming to wipe the sweat from your brow. “No. I inherited it."

Iwaizumi assumes that he was unable to hide his surprise by the way your lips move to form an amused smile.

“Ha, yes, most people have the same reaction as you.” You bend to grab the broom in the ground and Iwaizumi’s eyes tread for a second too long along the spanse of your body while you’re not looking. “Which is funny, and also tells a whole tale about the old man.”

“I suppose it does,” Iwaizumi nods once while speaking.

He looks over the place, sees the few changes being done; the paint cans on the ground, the boxes by the corner, the shelfs being replaced and the new color of the upholstered sofas. You in the middle of it all -- the new and the old. 

“I’ll leave you to your cleaning, then. It’s good to know the place isn’t closing.” 

Before you can say anything else, he’s already taking his leave. 

You turn around to thank him but Iwaizumi is already far down the sidewalk, not sparing a glance at you once his back is turned. Your head bends sideways almost involuntary, eyes threading the expanse of his broad back, clad in a beautiful light blue social shirt, rolled sleeves over bulging forearms, with black slacks and expensive looking shoes. While you hoped you didn’t stare before, now you are free to do so and wow, that is a beautiful male specimen if you ever saw one. 

Your first thought is that he didn’t belong in here -- the scenario of a beaten up street and a mildly abandoned diner, in the middle of the day on the foul part of the city. Then again, he looks rather at ease, familiarized, and it isn’t like you can know someone from just one look. 

If anything, a good looking man like that always comes with a catch.

“Hey,” your friend comes through the kitchen doors, looking pretty much like you, tired and sweaty after the morning deep cleaning. “What's going on here? I heard something but I was on the phone”

“Oh,” you say, then grin mischievously at her. “A hot piece of man just passed by asking about the diner.”

“No!” your friend almost cried, lips pressing together in a pout. “See! This is why I keep being single! I never get to see any hotties from the fucking kitchen.”

“Hey, not my fault you decided to be a cook.”

--

Iwaizumi tells himself he’s just checking on the place he likes.

It’s out of a weird misplaced sentimentality, he reasons. He’s been going there for years after all. He’s checking out the new owner, that’s it. The young woman who somehow inherited Lou’s bar. The pretty young woman who was redecorating and cleaning the place that probably didn’t get any love for the last fifteen years. And that’s what Iwaizumi is telling himself when he crosses the city at late hours of the night because the first thing he needs to know is if you’re stupid enough to actually open the place until the ungodly hours of mornings like the old man used to.

And, sure enough, you are. 

It’s past three in the morning when Iwaizumi parks on the other side of the street, but the regulars pour in like clockwork at the sight of the open diner -- old fellas, mostly, and some passersby who work at night. The whores, and the tired workers, all mingling the later it gets. Iwaizumi counts five clients, which is a busy night, and somehow he struggles to find security in your arrangement. 

It’s a weird feeling to have for someone -- worry -- and for all the constant preoccupation he has going on in his life with Oikawa, he’s sure he hasn't felt that particular brand of it in some time. 

For that same reason, Hajime turns around and leaves.

A week later and he’s back. 

This time it’s earlier in the night, just past midnight and the diner is empty save for three regulars he knows well enough. Iwaizumi hates to admit it, but he’s curious; Matsukawa told him that the place had been closing at four and reopening at eleven, with not exactly lots of clients, but with enough patrons to not be discouraged. 

But it was the fact that the man depicted the place as “nice” that got Iwaizumi interested.  Mattsun is not the kind to throw empty comments like those and there was a glint in this man's eyes that made him suspicious. If a small hint of jealousy sparks on Iwa’s chest, he says it’s for the place.

He signals for Makki to turn a curve so he can get off on the other side of the street and tells him to park somewhere out of sight. He doesn’t like to have the BMW close, working as a beacon; the fact Iwa already dares to have a routine place is trouble enough. 

“Bring me a coffee when you come back.” The strawberry blonde tells him while perching himself over the car window, driving off before Iwaizumi can give him a nasty stare. Iwa takes his time on the pavement directly across the diner, lighting a cigarette while moving to cross the street. 

The bell that rings when he crosses the door threshold surprises him for a moment, bringing the stares of everyone inside to him. Some of the old regulars nod his way, and Iwaizumi nods in return, a stiff greeting but one they grew used to in the years of sharing the space.

You look eager, eyebrows shooting up as if you’re not expecting to see him standing in the middle of the place like that. Then, your lips turn up into a smile and Iwaizumi almost misses the sentiment behind it. It’s been far too long since someone looks this pleased into seeing him anywhere. 

Well, with the exception of Oikawa. But that’s because he normally shows up to save the man’s stupid ass.

Iwaizumi walks over to his usual spot, in the back, by the window and sits on the newer looking red sofa. The scratched old table looks bright with new polishing. He notes the changes, appreciates them even: the cleaner looking designs despite the vintage diner ambience, the cream walls, the new smell of good food and well brewed coffee. 

The ground is clean for the first time in a few years, the glass windows and doors looking good and there’s an overall different air around the small place. It feels good. Iwaizumi isn’t used to it. You come close to him, no uniform but jeans and a loose white shirt with a black apron tied around your middle, a coffee pot in one hand and a cup in the other.

“Hello there. Good night -- or day, depending on how your life works.” Your smile is disconcerting. You signal with your head to the coffee. “Want some coffee?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“No worries.” You pour some for him and ask if he wants milk or cream, which he doesn’t. Iwaizumi likes his coffee black. “Can I bring the menu?”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say no. But he’s curious about what you’re doing with the place, so he nods. Again, you smile while nodding and leaving, and Iwaizumi is baffled by your disposition to be nice at this hour. The old mas was more of a fuck-it kinda person, so it’s a small whishplash to have actual service in here.

Before you leave, however, you turn back and smile at him in what Hajime can only define as playfully. 

“Glad you finally decided to come in and give us a shot.” Your eyes are bright with mirth, proud of yourself for being so observant, and in the late hours of night he feels charged. “I promise you it’s not so bad.”

Oh, Hajime thinks as his face feels slightly warm, a twitch on his fingertips while he looks at your pretty face. This can’t be good.

You wait a bit. Seeing as the whole movement inside the diner changes with the small addition of one man at the corner table. You realise people haven’t sat on that table during the late nights, even when Iwaizumi had yet to even enter the place before.

So, you brace yourself with all the courage you’ve been mustering, and pretend to offer him a refill of coffee while walking over. You’ve been conjuring up theories for him since you saw him the first time, perched on the doors while you were cleaning, and it didn’t help that you kept seeing his car passing around the place for some time before he finally decided to come to the diner.

“Are you an old regular or something?” you ask while refilling his cup with hot, freshly brewed coffee. You’d lie if anyone asked if you did a whole new coffee pot just to find an opening to talk to him.

“Why do you ask?” His eyes are always so deep, the musky green color seemingly pulling you in, black irises eating you up. Your pulse quickens but you hold his eyes on yours even as your face grows warm.

“It’s just that you’re always here.” The words tumble out of your mouth quickly as you deposit the coffee pot on the table, looking at him almost eagerly. “Most of my regulars seem to know you and leave you alone. So I thought that maybe, you know, you may come here for the old times sake.”

He holds your eyes with his for a moment, then looks down to the cup of coffee while he brings it to his lips. 

“I guess you could say that.” 

It feels like a period. Like he isn’t much for small talk, so you pat the apron in front of you, pick up the coffee pot from the table and nod while looking back to the counter to mask your disappointment with such a short conversation.

“Hmm, got’cha.”

“So, the old man was your father?” His voice picks up a tone higher and you turn with big eyes to him. He looks quiet, observant while he looks up at you and somehow, without nothing to hold on, you decide you want to talk to him some more.

“No, I never knew my dad. The stupid man was my grandpa.” 

“Hm,” Iwaizumi nods, his eyes still on you. For some reason you can’t stand the silence, so you keep talking.

“He’d left the business for me and if I'm honest things were not going great where I was so,” you shrug. “I thought about giving this a shot.”

“And your mom?” His eyes on yours make you feel pressured and also lacking, your mouth working before your mind can really think. “She’s been dead since I was a kid.”

He blinks, surprised, and when he speaks he sounds so genuine you smile, “sorry to hear that.” 

“No problem. It’s life, right?” you ask rhetorically, an unwavering smile on your face and bright eyes despite the forlorn subject. Hajime’s chest does something weird at the sight, eyes moving down to the coffee mug by his hands.

Is it? Hajime doesn’t know. But he also hasn't had parents or any kind of family besides Oikawa and the trouble duo, so he nods, murmuring agreement. You leave him alone for the rest of the night, but not without getting his name and introducing yourself; and you do it mostly because you’re still unsure about the man. He’s quiet, mostly keeps to himself while drinking his coffee and sometimes ordering something he never finishes, but other than that, he doesn’t do much. Which, despite that, doesn’t change the fact he sticks out like a sore thumb in the middle of the place. 

His clothes are expensive even if they’re simple; his watch and rings glints under the diner lights, catching attention; and his eyes are like two black gunbarrels pointed straight at you in a face with a jawline sharp enough to cut. 

He makes you feel slightly unnerved and a whole lot interested. 

 Hajime wonders, as he exits the dinner and walks the short distance to where Makki has parked the car, if he has enough reasons to be worried about you. He enters the back of the expensive black BMW, gives the annoying blonde his promised coffee and nods so he can start driving. Iwaizumi settles on the backseat and turns to look at Hanamaki, eyeing him through the rearview mirror.

“Makki.” 

“Yes, Boss.” The answer comes immediately.

“Is this place in anyone's rotation?” Makki’s eyes thread to the mirror to look Hajime back.

“Old Lou’s dinner?”

“Yes.”

Makki’s brows furrow in thought while he seems to think it over. “I’m not sure, but I don’t think so.” His eyes lock on Hajime’s figure through the rearview mirror and Iwa counts the seconds until he asks, since his curiosity always wins. ”Why?”

“Check it for me.”  It’s the end of conversation, and Makki knows. He nods.

“‘kay, Iwa.”

Iwaizumi’s thoughts are brewing, his brows furrowing deeply while he thinks over the whole exchange from earlier.

In a short conversation of a few minutes, you already unsuspectingly told him that you had no family left, no one to miss you if you’re gone. From that he can infer the easy things -- that you probably live alone, seeing as he’s never seen a boyfriend in the restaurant or calling you while you’re working the counter; that you must either live in your grandpa’s house or a small apartment if you’re trying to make more money by renting the old man’s place; that you probably leave alone after closing the dinner -- and he got all that by an easy small talk over coffee. 

Iwa’s lips turn sour while he turns to watch over the streets late at night, the dangerous things that lie in the dark. He ignores that he, himself, is one of them. 

Yes, maybe he should check on you.

--

Iwaizumi observes with a frown while Oikawa waltzes inside his penthouse with his new friend. The woman is, much like all of Oikawa’s partners, beautiful. Luxurious hair and curves, all wrapped in an equally expensive package the color of bright fucking red. Tonight things are less busy in the place, with Iwaizumi and the duo in the living room, while Kunimi keeps watch on the door from his position bended over the counter. Like with everything in his life, the man looks bored and done at the same time.

“I have to give it to him, he does have taste.” Hanamaki points it out unemotionally, his eyes threading along the lady of the moment hanging off Oikawa’s arm. Mattsun looks up from his phone in time to catch a look, his arched brow doing an appearance.

“Yeah, but that’s not new.”

“The idiot blows through women as you do with joints.” Iwaizumi scoffs, twirling his cup of whisky and enjoys the moment to sip his drink. “Which is stupid, both of you.”

“Couldn’t hear your criticism over the sound of you downing that whisky.” Hanamaki pipes in and Mattsun laughs but quickly retrieves himself back to his phone once Iwaizumi gives both of them a nasty glare. 

On the other side of the room, Oikawa parts ways with his company, probably telling the woman to go somewhere inside his apartment while he handles business. His companion’s normally don’t ask much about what he does -- the less they know, the less they lie.

While Iwaizumi does understand the appeal of having someone to warm his bed at night like that, it just seems ridiculous to parade them around as Oikawa does; as if they’re a walking vitrine of his power and money, clad in so many brilliants, Hajime wonders if Oikawa can even see them through the shine.

Iwaizumi sighs when Oikawa finally moves in their direction, crossing his leg over his thigh as he stretches his back against the chair backrest. He drinks the rest of the whisky in one go.

 “I see you already treated yourself to some beverage, Iwa-chan.”

The ridiculous nickname stuck, even after all these years, no matter how many glares and curses Hajime threw his way– and Oikawa has seen Hajime kill men before. Still, the brunette stays unwavering in his teasing -- and Iwa has made arrangements to make sure no one but him feels free to use that denomination.

“Good whisky ain’t making me nicer, shittykawa.” There’s also the fact Iwaizumi maintains his mockery with his friend, even as most of the Mob now call him Boss. He supposes it’s good to have few good childhood memories, if one can.

“At least it makes you less grumpy.” 

Iwaizumi wonders if people would believe him if he told them the Boss pokes his tongue out and flops on the sofa then again, Oikawa’s charm is in being unwavering himself. When Oikawa crosses his leg over his knee and blinks feral, focused eyes over Iwaizumi, it’s easy to see the beast that brought him into the position as the chief in command of the Seijoh Mafia. “So, what did you have to tell me that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

“You’re being reckless,” Iwa starts, calm. “I’ve told you about being careful with your companion’s while I’m busy handling that subject.”

Oikawa pretends not to listen, falling back on his big chair without a care in the world. 

“She’s a friend!” His face turns smug, even while there’s a small whine in his voice. It’s a stark difference from the feral Oikawa Tooru that put fear in the hearts of every Mafia in the bordering neighborhoods where they acted and climbed the ranks so fast, he became the head of Seijoh mob while only closing in on his early thirties -- and that was ten years ago. Still, around Iwaizumi, Oikawa keeps being the same brat he ever was.

“You need to get laid, Iwa.” The brunette laughs a bit, pouring more whisky for both of them. “How long it’s been, huh? Two decades? That’s how long your frown has been etched onto your face.”

Makki and Mattsun try to hide their smiles, but it’s futile.

“Don’t worry about my love life.”

“Love life?” Now Oikawa laughs, hand smacking his knee in his amusement. “I’m talking fucking, Iwa. We don’t have time for love.”

“Another reason why you shouldn’t worry about what doesn’t pertain to you.”

“Ohh~” Iwaizumi hates that he saw the singsong coming, “such big words. Gosh, that must mean it’s been years without action down there.”

“Why the worry, Tooru?” Iwaizumi asks, voice turning deep, eyes threading over Oikawa’s face. That has happened -- and ended, but it didn’t mean the two men didn’t play around it sometimes.

“Is the sex you’ve been getting so bad, you’ve been worried about mine?” Iwa scoffs, drinks a full mouth of whisky and turns to look at Oikawa once again. 

“You look too old to be getting any action,” Oikawa mocks him, snickering behind his glass. “Look at those lines and wrinkles, oh gosh Iwa, we’re the same age, you’re making me look bad.”

“Shut up, trashykawa,” Iwaizumi grumbles. “I’m just going to tell you this time: fucking behave. I’m looking into the mole, but you need to watch your back.”

“I thought that was your job, though.”

“Makes it a bit fucking hard when you bring home a diferent friend every night. Babysitting a toddler would be easier than you.” Iwaizumi grumbles and scoffs, finishing his drink in one go. “I’m doing my job. Now listen to me so that I can do it well.”

Iwaizumi slams his glass on the wooden coffee table and stands, the sound loud but not enough to disturb the rest of the men around the place. Maddog does look at Iwaizumi as if thinking what’s the cause for his distress, but the man has learned long ago that Oikawa rattles on everyone's nerves at some point -- Iwa just happens to be ticked more than the rest, a consequence of being friends with the man, he assumes.

Iwa pats his slacks, re-doing the button on his suit and walks away, moving a hand in the air as a way to say goodbye to Oikawa. “Your friend is waiting for you.” 

Hanamaki and Matsukawa are behind him before he stops in front of the elevator doors, Kunimi not even looking up as the three of them leave. “Try not to be dead by the morning.”

“I’ll do my best~” Oikawa singsongs back, a carefree smile on his face. 

Mattsun is driving tonight and that means Hanamaki is speaking the whole time, going on about how the Karasuno Mob is growing, potentially able to slip between Seijoh and Shiratorizawa’s territory if they’re not careful. Iwaizumi listens, but doesn’t really offer anything to the discussion; he’s too caught up in his head, wondering about what he’s going to do with Oikawa and how he can flush out the mole as fast as possible until something catches his ear, every thought in his mind freezing at the mention of the diner neighborhood.

“What did you say?”

“Huh?” Makki stops, looking back through the seat. “Oh, some of ours have been talking about seeing Shiratorizawa around downtown territory.” Makki turns serious, and it happens so rarely that the moment his demeanor shifts, Iwaizumi actually grasps his worries by the simple difference in the air surrounding the blonde. “Johzenji too.”

Now, that’s worrisome. While Seijoh and Shiratorizawa have some shared business in downtown and somewhat of a truce on those places, Johzenji is way too far from its limits, crossing borders they know they should not. Iwaizumi catches sight of how his frown actually caves lines on his forehead and Oikawa’s snickers pops in his mind as if the male was right there, he scoffs but his look is serious.

They can’t leave it that way.

Hajime tells himself that the fact that your face pops in his mind and the thought of a territorial war a few blocks away from the Diner makes his hands constrict into fists, has nothing to do with how fast he decided he must handle it. 

But it gets a little less believable as he orders Matsukawa to keep an eye out on your street, like if it wasn’t clear that by your street -- he meant you.

--

You notice the man staying around.

Actually, you doubt anyone hasn’t noticed the tall man who likes to linger just a bit too much around your diner as if he’s your hired security guard or something. He’s taller than most people, broad and built enough for you to see it in the way his clothes cling to his form, and has this fixation with metal, because both his ears are pierced and his knuckles are always adorned with thick rings. He looks bad, and has a cigarette pending from his lips to crown the look. Which, of course, prompts half the women population who enjoy your diner to look. It probably doesn’t help that despite his aloof behavior he can be quite the charmer.

And you’re suspecting your cook and friend is falling for it.

“If you light that cigarette right now after I’ve just told you to leave and smoke outside, I swear to god I’ll use the fire extinguisher on you, Matsukawa-san.” You always chastise him out of the Dinner once he starts smoking, since Issei has no respect for the very big, very red “no smoking” sign you had to purchase just because of him. He grins at you from his high seat on the counter and lifts his hands in a sign of rendition.

“Okay, honey. I’ll drop it.” 

You eye him very sharply until his fingers finally close around his cigar and he takes it out the clasp of his lips. You watch until he pockets it again in his metal case. Then, you finally blink and nod, turning to enter inside your kitchen. You’ve made the mistake of trusting him before, letting him out of your sight once he signaled defeat when you reprimanded him, just to come out and find him smoking anyway. So, now, you take the extra precautions with him, reason why you open the door without warning to check on him, finding him calmly studying the menu. 

He eyes you and blinks, a big grin splitting his face. 

“I’ll behave,” he crosses a finger over his heart like a scout. ”Promise.” 

You snort, but turn around and enter the kitchen space, yelling at your friend the newest orders, to which she just yells back a fine.

You grab the done plates– buttermilk pancakes and swiss omelette with orange juice and black coffee– and push the door outside with your hip, while calmly balancing everything on your tray. 

It’s a quiet late-morning, most of the regulars have already left for work and you’re dealing with the unusual clients, just three if you count Mattsun.

Once you’re back at the counter, Matsukawa is signaling with the menu for you to come over. 

“So, what’s your order, Matsukawa-san?”

“First, I’d like you to drop the san, it makes me feels fucking old.” 

You tease him just the bit by giving him a pointed look with a very arched eyebrow. 

“Stop it,” he hisses at you, eyes narrowing. “Don’t you fuckin-”

“You are old,” you tell him, pleased with yourself when he hisses as if burned, making you sport a big smile while on it. He’s glaring at you. “See, this is how I feel when I catch you smoking once I tell you not to.”

His lopsided grin is a panty-dropper; too bad you’re thinking about how it would be if someone else grinned at you like that. “Valid.” 

The seconds tick by while you wait for Matsukawa to say his order but he just stares at you as if you’re slowly losing your mind. You sigh, resist the urge to facepalm but do press two fingers into the middle of your forehead in an upwards motion to help with the stress, to look at him again and smile. 

“Your order, Matsukawa-san?”

“Again with the -san? Let me make a deal with you. You call me Issei and I’ll never smoke inside again.”

You eye him suspiciously but ultimately decide it’s a nice deal. 

“Deal,” you say, while jutting your lips out to hide a smile, still looking for hints he may be lying. “And if I catch you smoking inside again I’ll start calling you Jiji.”

Issei’s eyes go large, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline until he coughs and sputters, “you wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

The stare-down goes for a few seconds until you end it by saying, “I’ll get your regular,” and turning around to leave.

“This isn’t over!”

“Yeah, yeah, just behave.”

Once you’re in the kitchen, the clattering and noises are loud.

“You should chill a bit before you end up completely mutilating the pans, Rei. Half my money is in your kitchen.”

She throws you a nasty glare from across all the other way by her stove, doing God knows what but whatever it is smells heavenly.

“Do you believe the gall of this idiot outside?”

“Yep,” you chirp, but you eye her closely while she continues. You know her enough to know what’ll happen next.

“He had the fucking nerve to say my food was too salty.”

“Uh,” Escapes your lips, but you narrow your eyes at her, taking in the redness of her face, the way she looks overheated and the gesticulating arms while she walks around using too much strength while opening and closing the kitchen cabinets.

“SALTY!” She hollers to the emptiness of her kitchen, which pretty much makes it echo through the walls. You’re half certain you can hear Matsukawa chuckling outside. You wait for it, by now you know it’s coming. “I’ll show him what the fuck being too salty means.” She keeps going, cranky and beating the pans with that bit too much strength so that the clanks and tinkling sound loud even to you. You wait just a little bit more. “That handsome motherfucker, I’ll fucking deck him with my frying pan!”

And there it is.

You snicker just the tiniest bit, and put the order for his regular. She snatches it from your hand and points a paring knife at you.

“Don’t you dare say anything.” She does look fairly threatening, but the thing is that you’ve been on the other side of that knife one too many times to care now.

“Hey, if you like insufferable assholes, who am I to judge?”

“Fuck you.”

--

The movement is slow tonight, the cold weather with a drizzle makes your regulars stay home and the streets stay empty. It’s just a bit past midnight and you already know you’re closing early. Iwaizumi has been seated at his usual spot for a good twenty minutes already and, much like every other night, he’s just doing nothing -- looking over the street, reading the paper, sometimes a book or daring to look at his phone. Rei is still moving around in the kitchen and there’s only one other person in the diner -- an old man eating his soup calmly on the whole other side.

You feel restless; your eyes keep darting to him as if waiting to be caught, definitely not being the subtle person you hope to be, nothing catches your attention when Iwaizumi sits calmly by the window reading the paper and sipping on fresh coffee. Your eyes thread through his broad shoulders, poorly hidden under the fitted black social button up, rolled sleeves showing big, veiny forearms leading to strong, broad hands that seem even bigger when they engulf the coffee mug.

Hajime wears one ring, thick, black and a matching watch that probably costs as much as this whole place. You don’t need to see it to know his dark grey slacks are fitted; you’ve caught sight of it when he entered and you think there’ll be hell on earth before you forget how perfectly it hugs his frame, how delicious his ass is and how his waist is marked, beautifully, by the black belt. You thank the gods that he had already disposed of his suit jacket, or you’d be unable to survive so long.

 You’re probably drooling, so you tear your eyes from him to make yourself a hot cup of coffee and hope that you can pretend the flustered feeling in your insides is from the steaming caffeine quickening your heart. However, seeing as your eyes drag slowly back to him, you think that’s a lost battle. 

You drink a bit, breathe some more and decide to say fuck it. You’re not risking anything -- if he doesn’t want to talk, he can just say so. So you wash your hands, shed your apron and pick your coffee mug back up while walking to him. Before you even tread more than two steps, his deep, hard green eyes are already looking at you. They’re so impenetrable and focused, you wonder if he looks long enough, will he see your mind?

The thought makes your face heat up and you swallow the saliva pooling on your mouth before speaking,“mind if I sit?”

He nods no, but still answers, “go ahead.”

You slide on the seat in front of him, and for a second you regret your choice. Up close and with nowhere else to look, he’s even bigger -- his frame engulfs anything past his shoulders, his eyes demanding the sole focus of yours and you give it to him. But there’s a thought in your mind that helps you fight back the urge to let yourself slide and drown in the pool of deep green.

“So, I've been meaning to ask,” you tread carefully, knowing it’s a minefield ahead. You’ve been alone in this world with just your grandpa for a long time, and he was no saint. You’re no stranger to the fact that his diner has always been in mob-controlled territory. You’ve seen him bullied into paying back gambling loans too many times to not know how a bad man looks, and still, here you are, body warming and trembling just by the sight of what must be the baddest of them all.  “Were you friends with my grandpa or something?”

Iwaizumi looks at you, blinks and then hums a question, slightly furrowed brows his only sign of confusion. “Hm?”

“It’s just that I’ve noticed… that you seem like you’ve been taking care of this place… of me.” You speak while your eyes keep darting between his face and down, a warm feeling seeping from your eyes that makes his brain slow down, too caught up in watching you until he realizes he walked into a tricky question.

Fuck. Think fast, Hajime. 

“We weren’t exactly friends. But he was a mean card player and he got a lot of money out of me.” Iwaizumi speaks fondly, which is probably the only thing indicating that he isn’t here for some wicked king of payback. You nod while your brows slide up.

“I’m sure you also took a lot of money from him.”

“If I was lucky,” he pauses, “I don’t like to bet. But it was nice to play against him, even without betting.”

“I’m surprised he wanted to play without betting.”

“Rare occasions.” Iwa muses with a small smile in the corner of his lips.

Iwaizumi looks at you again, that deep stare as if he’s trying to catch your soul intent. “What I mean with that is… He never talked about you. Or having a family, for that matter.”

“Well… it’s like you put it. He was a gambler. And before he got good, he was bad. We struggled a lot with his debt while I was growing up. Once I left the house and I was working and got into college... he called me, asking for money.  He knew I had a college fund -- small, but you know, enough to get by for a few years. I gave some of it to him and I told him that if he was going to call me for money, it’d be better if he didn’t call at all, so… our relationship was pretty strained this last few years.” 

Iwaizumi doesn’t know what to say. So he tests around something he hasn't used in a long time, “sorry.”

“It’s fine. I just couldn’t possibly deal with his debt on top of mine, you know. And it was his choice not to call me for other reasons, so.” You shrug your shoulders, eyes downcast for a moment. If Iwaizumi ever knew how to console someone, he’d forgotten it a long time ago, but he’ll swear on his gun and every god above that he wishes he was sensible enough now to offer any kind of words that can resemble solace. He doesn’t know what you find in his face that makes you do a funny face, nose wrinkling, while smiling.

“It’s ok, I don’t hate him, you know. I just... He’s dead and I can’t help but think these things are in the past. Which may be fucked up but I’ve made my choice not to go through life with these demons.”

Iwaizumi nods, solemn. He knows a thing or twelve about going through life with demons and he wishes that you didn’t have to bear this even for the smallest of seconds. It gnaws inside your being, and the places where their claws sink usually fester. But, he doesn’t even risk thinking about what it’d be like for him to live without them -- they’re the closest to penitence for a whole life of sin he’s ever gonna get.

Talking to Hajime makes hours fly by like minutes. 

He’s not very talkative himself, but he’s a great listener and he gives you fair, honest answers so you try to do the same. You ask him about the old man, what he’d been doing, and Hajime doesn’t even blink while saying that he kept gambling until his death; tells you how he’d been worried that the diner had been offered as collateral to some debt and would fall victim of your grandpa’s addiction even after his death. You tell him about life after college, how disheartening and anxious it was, how you’ve struggled without finding a job and hustled your way together with Rei. You tell him how you’ve felt good to win the Diner -- the new ideas and purpose, the excitement and how fun it was to think about life like this -- a business owner. 

The one thing Hajime doesn’t tell you about is his job, which you feel is answer enough; and when you ask him about the late nights at the Diner, his lips quirk up and your heart quickens, whole body warming at how he tells you the diner has a special place in his life and that he doesn’t likes to sleep, only crashing once the sun come out.

He stays with you as you bid Rei farewell and close the restaurant, walks you to his car and drives you to your house. His car doesn’t move until you make it safe inside and only when your face comes to the window, does it starts to move away.

-

[to be continued]

[dragonologist-in-the-making]

You’re Here

Pairing: sirius x fem!reader

Summary: it’s sirius’ birthday, so the reader decides to finally confess their feelings.

a/n: eeeeee I’m back!! Sorry it was such a long break, I can’t promise this is a permanent return but it’s Sirius’ birthday today so I had to do a special fic for him xx hope you enjoy!!

wordcount: 2k

…

He sat in front of the fire, the warm glow from the dying flames flickering on his face, in a way that could easily enchant anybody who happened to be watching the scene. In fact, it already had. y/n was sat on the sofa, pretending to be engaged in the conversation happening around her as she couldn’t help but let her eyesight drift back to the raven haired boy sat in front of her. She’d noticed this starting to happen in their fifth year, and despite knowing what it meant and trying to push the feelings away, here she was in her last year of Hogwarts, still hopelessly in love with her best friend.

“Well, I think I’m going to head upstairs.” His soft voice entered the conversation, as he stretched and dragged himself off the floor, sleep clearly weighing his eyes down. The group of friends all wished him a goodnight and a brief silence settled over the common room as he left, leaving the group of four friends to sit with their thoughts for a second.

y/n sat with her knees pulled up, thinking of her friendship with Sirius, how close they had always been. She’d been part of the Marauders since that first day on the train, and had always loved the four of them, but she couldn’t help the pull she had to Sirius. Maybe how it was despite everything he’d been through with his family, he was never scared to be vulnerable around her. Maybe it was how no matter how many girls he kissed, he would save his brightest smiles for her, and would (and had) drop any of them the second she had said she needed him, no matter how insignificant an outsider might have thought the reason to be. Wrapped up in her thoughts, she felt her cheeks warming, a combination of the warmth from the fire and the warmth from her heart. However, when a voice finally broke through the silence, embarrassment won over, heating her cheeks more than anything had so far.

“Merlin, y/n, you look like a lost puppy. Can you both please just admit your feelings to each other so we can get past this.” She glared at James between her fingers, throwing a pillow with deadly aim, smirking as he squeaked in surprise. “I do mean it though, there’s nothing to lose.”

“He does talk about you constantly. It’s rather sweet, if you forget how annoying it is.” Remus piped up, putting a hand on her shoulder reassuringly. “You both know how the other feels, you’re just too scared to say it out loud, in case you cross a line you can’t go back on.”

“And this middle ground won’t stop things from going south, if you never talk about it.” Peter added as the boys began to collect their things, clearly going to join their dormmate and retire for the evening. As they all said their goodnights, y/n sat alone thinking over their words, a plan forming in her mind as she glanced out the window at the glistening October sky.

…

She sat at her desk, November 2nd, folding the parchment once the ink had dried, sealing it and carefully writing his name on the front. She waited in the common room, heart racing as the fire died beside her, up much later than was healthy, but determined, the anxiety helping to keep her awake as she waited for the elves. Finally they came, and with a kind smile and a little pleading, they promised to take the letter from her and leave it and the end of Sirius’ bed, amongst the pile of presents that was undoubtedly there for when he woke up. She smiled to herself, glad that so far everything had seemed to go smoothly, and went back to her dorm to try and sleep, feeling finally that good things were on their way.

Sirius woke up to the cheers and whoops of the boys, singing a badly harmonised happy birthday tune. He laughed, sitting up and reaching to start opening his presents, knowing the harassment would only end when he had done so. He spotted a letter with his name on it in familiar handwriting, one for sure he knew hadn’t been there when he had gone to sleep the night before, and quickly slipped it under his pillow, deciding to read it when the boys weren’t watching his every move. He flew through the present opening, and soon enough his three friends were preoccupied in getting ready for their classes, giving him the spare few minutes he needed to inspect his most interesting present of all. He carefully unfolded the letter, his heart rate picking up as he spotted y/n’s handwriting and how carefully it had been written, free from the usual scribbles and splotches he saw when she wrote.

Siri,

Happy birthday, love, I know you were worried about today, with it being the first birthday since you moved in with the Potter’s, but today’s about you, and your real family are all here to celebrate with you, and for you, as you turn seventeen and start to think about life past graduation (with all of us by your side, of course). I know this is a slightly unconventional present, and I would appreciate it if you kept this a bit of a secret for the boys, for now at least.

I just wanted to say how proud I am of you. You’ve faced more than I could ever imagine and had to grow up so fast, but you’ve always been unwaveringly loyal to your friends, considerate and kind throughout it all, truly striving to become the opposite of who you were raised to be. I’m so, so, glad that you took my hand that day on the platform, bringing me into your carriage on the train. I couldn’t picture a life without you, and sometimes I forget just how insanely lucky I am to have you around. Believe that, because I know you’re feeling sceptical right now, but I mean it. You’re phenomenal in every way.

Y/n sat at the table in the great hall, eating a pancake and sipping on her tea trying to push down her nerves waiting for the marauders to come and join her as they did every morning. Hopefully, Sirius would have read the letter by now, and she could have some closure either way. Preferably not one way, though. She heard them before she saw them, the loud laughs bouncing through the Entrance Hall, recognisable to anyone in the school. Despite her nerves, she couldn’t help but smile as they walked in, enthusiastically waving to her as they walked over, sitting down in their usual seats. Some of the tension dropped from her shoulders as Sirius sat next to her, gracing her with a smile.

“Happy birthday, Siri.” She smiled, heart catching as his fingers grazed hers under the table. Was it intentional? “Get any nice presents this morning?” She hinted, hoping she could keep up the façade if everything crumbled around her. To her glee, his smile stretched a little wider, a glint in his eye she knew, one that meant he was keeping a secret. Luckily, she was in on it too.

“Couldn’t have asked for anything better.” He smiled, staring straight at her, winking quickly before turning away and filling his plate up with food. She grabbed his hand more firmly under the table, feeling her confidence grow even more when he squeezed it back. She smiled down at her plate, barely believing this could be happening. The rest of breakfast passed in a blur and soon they were heading their separate ways to classes. With one last birthday wish, y/n and Sirius were dragged away from each other, more reluctant than ever before to be anywhere but at each other’s side.

I also wanted to thank you. You’ve never failed to be there for me, whenever I’ve needed you, without having to say a thing. You make me laugh impossibly hard, to the point where I can’t breath and my sides hurt almost constantly. You have a way of twisting anything into something positive and you truly make me believe you when you tell me that things will work out okay. I think in part, I believe they will be okay, because it’s you. With you, everything is okay. In fact, okay is a major understatement. With you, everything is perfect and right.

After dinner, an hour full of more stolen glances and secret hand-holding, y/n had urged the boys upstairs while she carried onto the seventh floor, pacing in front of the tapestry until a door appeared. She walked across the room lightly, trying to focus as she decorated but her thoughts kept drifting back to a certain man, and even though she was fairly sure of the outcome, she couldn’t help but keep the nerves at bay.

You’ve always been the best of friends to me Siri. But if I’m being honest, for a long time now you’ve also been so much more than that. When I’m with you I can feel truly safe, like no matter what happens it can’t touch me because you’re there and you dull everything else. I would be lying if I said I was indifferent to your charms. You’re utterly gorgeous, and my heart flutters when you give me that brilliant smile, the one that I know you save just for me, the one that makes me fall a little harder every time I see it. Your touch is electric, nothing else can be simultaneously so adrenaline-sparking and so comforting. I love the fact that you learned to braid hair for me now that Lily’s all busy with James. Sirius, I love you.

And unless I’m horribly mistaken, I think you love me too. Our friends seem to think so. So tonight, I’ll be in the Room of Requirement with some music, waiting for a dance. If you don’t show, I completely understand, and I won’t bring this up again. But if you feel the same, I hope this was a good enough birthday present for you to.

Yours, if you’ll have me,

Y/n

She finished lighting the last candle, hearing the door handle turn behind her, and the soft creek of the old door opening. She turned, seeing him stood there, the letter in his hand, usual confident aura gone in favour of one that was utterly relaxed. Her face broke out into a breath-taking grin and she bounced forward the few steps that it took to close the gap, straight into his open arms.

“You’re here.” She breathed, finally feeling all the tension and the nerves leave as she admired him, eyes searching his for any trace of doubt and finding none.

“Of course I’m here, there’s no where else I’d want to be.” He smiled, stuttering her heart. “Thank you for the letter, I’ll cherish it forever.” His hand moved to cup her jaw, as the other stayed circled around her waist. She couldn’t do anything but stare at him, completely enthralled in the moment, lost in him. The record playing softly changed to a new tune, and Sirius slowly began to sway the two of them, moving ever so minimally to the beat of the music, neither able to look away from the other.

“I’ll write more.” She broke the silence, “I’ll write them forever as long as you enjoy them. I’ll give you everything I can.”

“I only need your heart. That’s already more than I could imagine.”

“It’s been yours for a long time. Keep it, I like the way you love it.”

“I do,” he breathed out, watching her eyebrows furrow slightly in confusion. “I love it. I love you, y/n.”

He leaned in closer, seeming to hesitate for a moment, looking into her eyes, seeming to ask permission. She nodded, maybe too eagerly, eliciting a laugh from him as her eyes fluttered closed and he pressed his lips to hers, slowly and softly moving together before they broke apart again.

“Happy birthday, love.” She smiled, leaning in again as the dance was all but forgotten.

[touchmycoat]

kinktober: day 7

I am LATE. Working on the Marco-centric piece and got all the fragments. Just shifting them around until they do what I want ;; So here’s another cop-out fic (but I’m genuinely wanting to develop this into a stupid romcom situation)

References @watermelon-chan‘s BEAUTIFUL fuckable!Marco design

Day 7: massage

Ace’s moans of pleasure got quickly out of hand. And, Sabo thought incredulously, checking the clock on his phone, it’s been all of five minutes.

“Here?”

“Yeah, yeah that’s g—Oh, motherFUCKER—”

“Alright.” Sabo punctuated his interruption with a loud slam of the backroom door. “That’s enough.”

“Something wrong?” the massage therapist—goddamn Marlboro or whatever the fuck his name was—had the audacity to ask, all innocent-like.

“Sabo,” Ace grunted into the hole in the bed, where his face was no doubt distended stupidly like the stupid fucker he was. “You’ve gotta give Marco a go. His hands are magical.”

“This is a place of business,” Sabo hissed, channeling all his rage and stress and something fucking else at the only righteous cause on hand. He jabbed a finger in Mobert's direction. “Tone it down.”

“Me?” The guy was just a massage therapist, not a surgeon like he was all pretending to be, holding his hands up like that, glistening with oil. At least they were off of Ace's body now, which was absolutely what mattered. “Shall I just do my job less well then yoi?”

“Don't you dare!” came Ace's protest, the bloody traitor. He hadn't even bothered lifting his face from the pillow. “Put your hands back right now!”

“I think your boyfriend's gonna rip my hands off if I do,” Medward drawled, fixing Sabo with a flat, unimpressed look. That, flatteringly, was what got Ace's head up.

“He's my agent.” Oh how Sabo loved it when Ace corrected strangers so vehemently about the nature of their relationship. It would really convince any stranger that Ace had nothing but absolutely platonic feelings for Sabo. That was Ace—the best MMA fighter in the country and a phenomenal actor. It could break Sabo's heart. “Not my boyfriend.”

Whatever Sabo's expression was giving away, Marrison had the actual audacity to look sorry for Sabo, hands still hovering. Sabo quickly schooled his face into something more appropriate for the situation; that is, a cool snarl for the massage therapist, whose expression morphed immediately back to unimpressed.

“C'mon Sabo,” Ace was beginning to whine. Sabo busied himself with staring Monathan down instead of meeting those eyes turned big and beseeching. “We only have him booked for half an hour. And my shoulder actually still kinda hurts.”

The massage must've been really damn good, if Ace was pulling out the big guns already to get Sabo to capitulate. And capitulate Sabo did, clenching his fists so he didn't flip off fucking Mephistopheles over there with the trendy haircut and stupidly buff forearms. That'd be unprofessional, and definitely grounds for a bad Yelp review—Koala and Nami would absolutely kill him.

“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. Mamanda looked immediately smug, until Sabo yanked one of the chairs lining the side of the room forward, slamming himself down onto it with vicious abandon. “But I'm staying.”

“Wha—”

“Sure!”

Mister Forearms-with-the-Trimmed-Beard looked down at the back of Ace's head, mouth agape.

“Wouldn't you be more relaxed with your agent not in the room yoi?” he tried to coax.

“Nah, Sabo's great,” Ace hummed happily, with all the cheeriness of a man who thought every problem was uncomplicatedly resolved. “We're good in here.”

“I—”

“What's wrong?” Sabo goaded, “performance issues with an audience?”

“I am a professional,” Mantucket breathed, brows all furrowed and his big masculine face looking all serious as he started kneading at Ace's back again. Little happy huffs of pleasure were already coming from the direction of Ace's head. “I don't need a chaperone yoi.”

Especially not one as belligerent as you. Sabo heard that loud and clear.

“Professional,” Sabo snorted. “Is that what you call being fully erect since you walked in?”

“Sabo—!”

“Okay, I've had enough.”

Massage therapist was across the room in the space of a blink, wiping his hands clean on a towel and hoisting his bag up at the same time with motions of controlled fury. Ace, scrambling upright, was glaring at Sabo too (but not before, Sabo noted with satisfaction, guiltily eyeing the front of Micycle's pants, where of course there was no inappropriate sign of sexual attraction that Sabo was sure the douchebag felt toward Ace, because who wouldn't).

“Marco, wait—” Clearly realizing that this wasn't something that could be resolved in the moment (not unless Sabo did something drastic and completely unnecessary, like apologize), Ace sighed awkwardly and scratched the back of his head. “I really am sorry. Um, I'll stay in touch?”

“Figuratively speaking,” Sabo couldn't help but add, inspiring a loud scoff of incredulity from Marco the Massage Therapist, the damn bastard who had to come in and be good at his job and get all those noises out of Ace all while looking like that. Never mind Sabo had called him first. Asshole had it coming.

Ace flung a towel at Sabo's face, and Sabo didn't dodge it. Out of respect for Ace.

“If I pick up the phone and he's on the other end, that's it yoi,” Marco warned Ace, standing at the door. “I'll speak to you as my patient. That's it.”

“...Okay, thank you for your time today!” Ace called weakly, as Marco's back (and what a stupidly thin shirt he was wearing) retreated down the hallway. His smile dropped away, the moment Marco was out of sight. “Great. Sabo. You dick.”

“I was protecting your virtue from an obvious creep, you're welcome.”

“Creep—you're crazy! Okay, fine, maybe I shouldn't have been yelling so loud, but he's honestly, really, truly the best one you've ever hired! That knot that's bothered me for ages? He got it out in seconds!” With a deep and beleaguered sigh, Ace flopped back onto the bed, torso still bare and vaguely glistening with oil. Sabo swallowed. “Great. Now I'll never get a good massage again for as long as I live.”

“You're such a drama queen.” And because Sabo loved Ace, he let the appropriate amount of irony suffuse his tone, getting a little chuckle in response. “Hand it here then.”

A quirked eyebrow. “What?”

“The massage oil.” Cracking his knuckles, Sabo approached the massage table, trying to examine Ace's toned body with a critical eye, not the eyes of some jerk inappropriately lusting after a man way out of his league. Marco really was a creep. “If that scrawny little man can do it, so can I.”

[dramaqueeenamby]

Kings’ Trip (7)

T’Challa | M’Baku | Redeemed Erik

Part 7/11: Fevers and Temptations

Words: 2.5K 

Warning: Profanity

CHAPTERS: @sisterwifeudaku  (1), @blackandfair (2), @royallyprincesslilly (3), @eerythingisshaka  (4), @katasstrophey  (5), @blublubleu  (6), 

A/N: This is my contribution to the wonderful collaboration fics started by the amazing @royallyprincesslilly  I am so grateful and honored to be apart of this collab effort and hope that I did it justice because the rest of these talented ladies have absolutely slayed so far! :D

7: Fevers and Temptations

“Okay, which one of ya’ll niggas finished off the orange juice and put it back in the fridge, empty?” Erik held the item in question high up in the air, his other hand tightly squeezing the door of the LG refrigerator with a mixture of disappointment and irritation.

M’Baku looked up from his nonchalant position on the sofa and shrugged. “I left some for you, short and angry one.”

Erik clenched his jaw and slammed the door, the sound of the suctioning material contracting letting him know that it was sealed. “M’Dumbass,” he took the carton and tilted it over the sink so that roughly two ounces of product slid down the drain. “What the hell was I supposed to do with this small amount of drink?”

Again, M’Baku seemed unbothered by the prince’s vexation. “I assumed that it was an appropriate amount of sustenance for someone of your stature.”

Erik threw the empty bottle in the trash. “And just what is that supposed to mean?” He was already on edge from not sleeping too well the night before and was therefore not in the mood to argue with the Great Gorilla. However, if it came to it, Erik was always prepared to throw them hands.

“Eh, eh, eh,” T’Challa came out of his bedroom with Nakia at his side. “What is all the noise?”

“Bro, why is she always here?” Erik lifted his hands in the air with exasperation. “I go to sleep, she’s here. I wake up, she’s here. What the hell I gotta do to not have to see her face?”

“Die,” M’Baku responded calmly, causing T’Challa and Erik to both look at him. “What? He asked. I answered.”

“I’m going to head out,” Nakia announced while shaking her head and turning to the king. “I shall talk to you later.”

“Of course,” T’Challa responded and went to kiss her when she hurried to place one on his cheek. He frowned slightly as she offered a weak smile and made her way out the door.

“Correct me if I am mistaken, but I believe that you have just been, how to the colonizers say it?”

“Rejected!” Erik shouted, covering his mouth with his hand to allow his voice to project.

T’Challa ignored him and decided not to look too much into it. He was in a good mood after having sat down and made amends with Shuri, apologizing for how he allowed his emotions to get the most of him. His chat with the woman from the bar certainly helped provide clarity and lucidity concerning his conflicting feelings regarding the outpour of secrets that seemed to continue to stem from his father’s growing list of transgressions.

However, while peace existed between the two full Udaku siblings, the king was still slightly troubled but chose to hide his woes for the sake of not wanting to attract too much negative attention to himself.

“What is on the agenda for today?”

T’Challa asked as he noticed Erik had hopped on the sofa with M’Baku, the two carrying controllers in their hands.

“We finna get into this MK, boy.” Erik supplied, grinning cockily. “Ole’ Green Mile over here think he ready for Rainbow Road.”

“Such a rudimentary titled course is clearly no match for a warrior such as myself.” M’Baku loudly proclaimed with his chin raised in the air.

Erik sucked his teeth. “Yeah, whatever. You game, cuz?”

T’Challa started to tell him no but decided to amuse the both of them by partaking in their frivolous activity.

“Why not,” he shrugged, making his way over to the sofa set. “Harmless fun never hurt anyone, eh?”

---

“FOR THE LOVE OF BAST, WHY DO YOU CONTINUE TO SWERVE OFF THE TRACK, YOU INEPT SIMULATION?”

“THIS GAME IS CURSED, I TELL YOU! CURSED! NOT EVEN THE GREAT HANUMAN HIMSELF COULD COMPLETE IT!”

Erik was having a field day watching the other two men grow frustrated and livid with their failure to successfully make their way through the course.

“You should see ya’ll faces right now,” he laughed, walking back in the living room, one arm filled with snacks, another with a wine cooler. “Looking like fake ass Timon and Pumba’s.” He’d given up on the course a while ago but the other two were determined to prove that no American game could get the best of them.

The “battle” between the Wakandans and the game went on for another two hours before all three men decided that they were ready to eat. Erik suggested that they try this little Chinese takeout place around the corner, T’Challa being delegated as the one to pick up the food. 

“What kind of establishment does not deliver?” T’Challa spoke to himself as he got out his rental after parking it in a lot across the street. “The food better be….” He trailed off as a slow, melodic beat hit his ears. “-good.” The king found his eyes falling onto the entrance to a place called “The Majestic.” Though no one stood outside, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking that it was because everyone was already inside enjoying the music that he felt called to him.

Before he realized what was happening, T’Challa’s legs carried him across the way and into the establishment. Of course, he was stopped by the bouncer who served as a barrier between him and finding the source of the sweet sounds, but when he threw three hundred dollar bills the man’s way, he was easily granted access.

T’Challa instantly found himself met with the reason for his even being there.

On stage, a woman, with a complexion rich in melanin and touched with hues of gold as if blessed by Bast herself, eyes as deep and warm as the humid heat that occupied the summers of his country, belted out the song that called to him. Her body, curvaceous and filling, her chest pushing boldly against the corset of the bedazzled fiery dress that also allowed a glimpse of her smooth brown legs. Long onyx hair cascaded down her back in wavy tresses, covering half her face, only granting him a portion of her painted red lips that continuously flexed due to the soulful notes that emitted from her mouth.

Ooh

You give me fever

Fever in the morning

Fever when it's late at night

Her raspy voice captivated him, sending unfamiliar chills throughout his body as he noticed an empty spot by the bar and plopped himself down, never taking his eyes off her.

You give me fever

Fever

Fever when you kiss me

Fever when you hold me tight

She worked her way across the stage, sending suggestive and seductive looks and smiles to various members in the crowd while still managing to keep up with the live band.

Fever in the evening

Fever all through the night

You give me fever, yeah

T’Challa was mesmerized as she descended down the stage, helped by one of the musicians who held her hand before she hit the ground. The king marveled at how she interacted with certain attendees, sending occasional winks to male patrons who seemed absolutely flustered by her gestures.

He was so captivated that when she came to him, reaching out and running her hand down his face with a sly smile, all he could do was numbly stare, only breaking from his trance as she walked away from him and back on stage.

T’Challa shook his head when thunderous applause filled the room, signaling the end of her song. He caught the end of the accolades, clapping strongly as she took a bow and blew a kiss before disappearing from his sight.

The king was beyond the realms of interested, not necessarily because of attraction but a rather innocent intrigue. Also, the woman possessed a phenomenal voice;  he felt the duty to inform her of such.

And so, he waited for her to come out into the crowd after overhearing that that was her last performance for the night.

He wasn’t sure how long he was sitting at the bar, consistently ignoring attempts at conversations from women when he spotted her. She was making her way out. He promptly rose from his seat and maneuvered his way through mostly inebriated individuals, never taking his eyes off her.

“See you tomorrow, Rob.” She laughed, a wide smile on her slightly round face.

“Excuse me-” T’Challa froze when she spun around and slammed her forearm into his own which was reaching out to tap her back.

“I don’t know what you want, but I can assure you that I’m not interested.” He was slightly surprised by her voice; it was soft, the epitome of femininity, a complete contrast to how she sang.

In order to ease her apparent discomfort, he raised his arms to signal docility.“I apologize if I scared you-”

She scowled. “Do I look scared?”

“No.” He observed, her face hardened with determination. “I simply wished to tell you that you have a beautiful voice.”

She rolled her eyes. “And a fat ass, right?”

He was appalled. “I would never speak in such a way to or about a woman.”

She lifted one brow, a small smile breaking her poker face before pulling her arm back. He watched her eye him from head to toe. “What’s your name?”

He did not hesitate to reply. “T’Challa.”

“Figures.” She chuckled. “You’re not from around here, are you?.”

“Something like that,” he echoed her chuckle, noticing her slowly starting to ease her way into comfort. “And yours?”

“Max,” she replied but noticed the strange gleam in his eyes. “It’s Maxine, but if you call me that, I will punch you in that pretty face of yours.”

“Understood.” He smiled softly. “Max.”

Max shifted her weight on her right foot and crossed her arms over her chest. “You busy?”

He lifted his eyebrows. “I’m sorry?”

She chuckled and turned around. “Come on.”

T’Challa froze, apprehension overcoming the great warrior. “Where?”

Max twisted her body, walking backward, smiling wryly. “Don’t worry. I don’t bite.” A beat. “Unless you want me to.”

T’Challa was thoroughly confused.

Why on earth would he want her to bite him? How animalistic.

---

“So you have no intentions of becoming a singer?”

Max laughed loudly as she walked the beach with the kind and, though she’d never admit it, handsome stranger. “Not at all. I like to sing, but my heart isn’t in it. It just helps to pay the bills.” She explained with a small sigh. “And I certainly have plenty of those.”

He said nothing but made a mental note to find a way to help her out. Monetarily speaking.

“What are you studying?”

“Social Work,” she responded, pushing her hair behind her ear. “I’m tired of seeing so many kids lost in the system, being shipped around from one dysfunctional home to another. It’s detrimental to a person’s mental health.”

He nodded, listening to her talk, picking up on the sense of sadness that imbued her countenance before she brushed it away.

“Make a difference, ya know?” She looked over at him. “What about you? What do you do for a living? Something illustrious judging by the expensive threads you’re rocking.” She teasingly bumped into him, T’Challa cracking a small smile.

He paused. A part of him wanted to tell her the truth, but he also liked the flow of their conversation, how she treated him so….normally. It was a nice diversion from how people typically acted when they learned that they were in the company of a king.

“I….work in management.” He decided on that vague answer, hoping that it would satisfy her.

“Oh. Of what?”

He stilled with apprehension. Of course, she wanted to know more. She was very perceptive.

A rap song about paramedics that he recalled Erik listening to sounded from her bag as she stopped walking, swinging the backpack around to grab her phone. “Excuse me.” She pulled it to her ear. “What’s up?” Max gave the king a strange look as he lifted his head to the sky as if searching for something. “No. I’m out with….a friend.” He returned his gaze to her. “Just order a pizza...use the money in the jar. I’ll be home soon enough….aight’.” Max hung up the phone, placing it back in the bag. “Sorry. My sister.”

“You have a sister?”

“Pretty sure that’s what I just said.” Max blew out a small breath as she spoke, continuing to walk after fixing her tote.

“I apologize,” T’Challa had no idea why he was behaving so strangely around this small woman with a bold personality. He was a warrior for Bast sake. “I too have a sister...and a brother.” He added quietly.

Max noticed the strange way he said, brother. “Estranged?”

“You could say that.” He commented. “I...just discovered his existence.”

Max made an ‘O’ with her mouth. “One of those.” She momentarily tilted her head and went to push her hair behind her shoulder. “Papa was a rolling stone type shit?” He regarded her with confusion. “You know….like the song?” His expression remained unchanged. “The Temptations?”

“As in pleasures of the flesh?” He suggested with hopeful eyes.

Max fell out in laughter, shaking her head and wiping at her eyes. “Seriously? Where did you say you were from again?”

“Africa.” He responded accordingly, failing to see the humor in his guess.

“And you mean to tell me that they don’t listen to The Temptations in the homeland?”  

“It is a musical group then, yes?”

Maxine just continued to grin, halting in her steps as she swung her bag around and forced it against his chest. “Hold this.” She started to dig through it before pulling out her phone and a set of large, white headphones that held a ‘B’ on the ear part. He watched her press a few buttons before leaning up and placing them over his ears. “Just listen.” He read her lips as she hit something on her phone before the music started to play.

He wasn’t even a full minute in when Max saw him snapping and slowly swaying. “This is wonderful! Who are they again? Do you have other artists similar to these tempts?”

She laughed softly as the two continued to walk.

“If you like them, wait until you hear The Supremes.”

---

Meanwhile…..

“I swear, this bobblehead looking ass nigga had one damn job.”

Erik was going to kill his cousin for turning off his kimoyo beads after going MIA on them.

“No. His name is T’Challa.” M’Baku attempted to explain to the restaurant worker, holding his arm out, stretching his hand. “About this tall, rather skinny in width, similar to him.” He gestured over to Erik.

“Keep it up, Jabari the Big Red Dog.” The prince hissed before pulling up a picture of his cousin, flashing the phone in front of the employee who spoke very little English. “This is him. Have you seen him or not? Cause his car is right outside.”

“Ohhhhhh,” the Asian commented with a friendly smile. “Yes. Him. Of course.”

M’Baku’s face lit up. “So you’ve seen him?”

“Yes!” She answered happily, pulling out her own phone and tapping a few things before showing it to him. “Great actor!”

“No! That’s not him!” A beat. “The fuck? That’s Chadwick Boseman!”

M’Baku narrowed his eyes at the picture on the screen.

“They do share an uncanny resemblance.”

“Man, shut up, Tiny Lister!”

----

Collab Authors: @muse-of-mbaku @kumkaniudaku @airis-paris14  @thewriterinflannel @mbakusthrone

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