Yakuza!Hanzo with pregnant s/o? During the pregnancy and birth?
((SO I MADE THIS A LIKE TWO PART STORY BECAUSE YAKUZA HANZO IS LIFE….I also do an excessive amount of research on things for this and it FUELED my need))
From a hostess at an upscale bar to the wife of a Yakuza boss. It sounded like the storyline of one of those movies or TV dramas and yet, this was your life. You had drawn the eye of Hanzo Shimada; the sophisticated, suave man of few words who initially frequented the establishment when holding private business meetings. You could feel his eyes on you whenever you had been working and soon found yourself requested as a personal hostess for the sharply dressed man with the hawk-like gaze. Enticing professionality morphed into actual attraction; small gift of affections turning into a request to date you which soon led to marriage.
You counted yourself as lucky. Most of the other hostesses or former yankee girls ended up in loveless, violent marriages with men who wanted a trophy wife and punching bag all in one. Hanzo treated you like a queen; granting your any desire or wish, showering you in gifts and private displays of affection. You wanted for absolutely nothing and lived in the lap of luxury within the Shimada faction walls. Anytime you left, you were flanked by personal female guards and whenever Hanzo had important ‘legitimate’ meetings, you were on his arm as his doting and loving wife. He didn’t involve you with any of his illegal practices, you were an exquisite flower in the garden of his life and he planned to keep you safe. And his child that grew inside of you.
You smiled, Hanzo’s voice was still tinged by sleep, his hands lightly moving over your waist to rest on your growing stomach. You tilted your head to the side as Hanzo placed a gentle kiss against the side of your neck, his chin resting in the crook of your shoulder. You had neither been actively trying to conceive nor working to prevent it, letting fate handle any type of family planning you’d fall under. When he found out you were pregnant, he was ecstatic in his own ways; his eyes lit up, he pulled you to him and kissed you hard and openly in front of the doctor that made the housecall. Hanzo wasted no expense in making sure your pregnancy progressed smoothly; a personal chef on call 24/7, a masseuse that you could visit in person or request on the estate, your own private midwife and weekly spa trips to keep you ridiculously pampered and relaxed. He had even begun accompanying you more after you expressed that you felt lonely with him gone so often.
This is how you found yourself waking with him at least three days out of the week, enjoying a meal or two together as he answered calls and dispatched orders to his secretary who would then pass them onto whomever needed to hear them. You leaned back into your husband, humming contently as his arms wrapped tighter around your body. His lips pressed hard against the side of your neck again, drawing a quiet chuckle from your lips and a pleased sigh from his. Covering his hands with your own smaller ones, you massaged the back of his hands before deciding to speak.
“Good morning dear husband”, you teased playfully, earning a throaty huff of a laugh at the formal nickname. “I hope I didn’t wake you…”
“No dearest”, Hanzo started between another kiss, squeezing you again. He had never made you second guess his attraction to you even through the pregnancy, his level of affection almost growing as you did. “Waking in bed without you however was inspiration enough to rise.”
A wave of nausea had pulled you out of your sleep and forced you out of bed, your hand combing through Hanzo’s hair as you rose as not to wake the man. You had slipped to the down to the kitchen and fixed yourself a cup of peppermint-ginger tea, obnoxiously sweetened to your preference. Turning your head, you gave a soft ‘oh’ when you saw he had already gotten dressed, the white button up covering his once shirtless torso.
Turning yourself around, Hanzo pulled back slightly, your eyes looking him up and down, humming approvingly. Hanzo wore both traditional and modern clothing, both looking dashing on him but the latter edging out with your preference. He wore black slacks, the white button up tucked in but not buttoned all the way up, the navy blue tie hanging undone around his collar and his black hair still down. A warm, thankful smile began to pull at your lips, your eyes connecting with your husband’s dark ones. This was a ritual that the both of you had started from when you had first been brought into the Shimada clan. You initially had been no more than a glorified wallflower; pretty, pleasant and essentially useless. Before meeting Hanzo you had been a working girl your entire adult life, working hard to earn your keep and live your life as comfortably as you could. Doing absolutely nothing left you antsy, restless. So in the morning you would rise with your then boyfriend and assist him with getting ready. You’d pick out his ties and socks, button up his shirts and assist him with putting his shoes on. It made you feel at least somewhat useful before you became the lady of the house.
Reaching out, you pulled him closer so his torso rested against your pregnant belly, one of his hands lifting to lightly stroke at your cheek. Your fingers made quick work of the button up, your fingers playfully ghosting under his shirt to lightly stroke the edges of clan’s dragon tattoo on his left shoulder before closing it. You worked your magic, tying his tie into a trinity knot, your hand smoothing over his chest as you looked up at him affectionately. His hand moved from your cheek to your chin, holding it as he dipped his head down and pressed an affectionate kiss to your lips. His free hand tenderly massaged your belly as he pulled away, smiling down at you.
“Remember to tell your doctor this, beloved.”
You nodded your head, understanding he was referring to your nausea. He’d text you mid-day just to make sure it had been done and would take care of it himself if your pregnancy brain made you forget. Always watching out for you.
“Of course, my love.”
“Boss we can just force our way back in there…she can’t tell you to get out like that ca–”
Hanzo stopped on a dime and snarled at the man that had dared to speak, his eyes pinning the man with a look that could kill. The younger man immediately bowed, stammering an apology as he backed out of the room at the quiet recommendation from a senior member. Hanzo was known for his chilling calmness, his cutting words and icy gaze usually enough to break anyone who would cross him. But now he was on edge, snapping angrily at anyone that would speak to him as he paced. No one could blame him really. Hanzo had been kicked out of the room by your midwife after snapping at her when you went through a particularly rough contraction, the man demanding to know why the pain medication hadn’t kicked in yet.
So now all he could do was pace while several of his guards fidgeted about, thrown off by their boss’ energy. He could hear your cries through the door, his heart tugging every single time it reached his ears. His twin dragons begged to be set free, to protect their master’s mate, Hanzo was barely able to fight the urge himself. But he knew that it would upset you so instead he would wait, his heart in his throat and nervous flitting in his belly. Time trickled by, far slower than Hanzo would have liked, hours feeling like days. Until the strong, loud cry pierced the air.
It felt as if the world around him melted away, the strong, growing cries of the newborn working everyone into an excited frenzy. Someone clapped Hanzo on the back, another on the shoulder and they were all cheering when the door to the room you had been delivering in slid open a crack. The midwife smiled and motioned for Hanzo to come forward, his men pushing him when his feet froze to the ground, excited and intimidated by the prospect of finally meeting his child.
“Hanzo…come say hi.”
Your voice drew him the rest of the way into the room, warmth exploding in his chest as he laid eyes on you and the small bundle you held in your arms. Your face was ruddy, hair stuck to your skin by sweat, eyes heavy with exhaustion; but he was sure you had never looked more beautiful. He stopped in front of you, his hand lightly stroking your cheek, his other hand shaking as it came to lay gently upon the head of the newborn. The newborn boy fidgeted at his touch, his mouth opening in a big yawn as Hanzo lightly stroked his face. Emotion made his throat feel tight as he dipped down, pressing his lips hard against your forehead, pulling the both of you into a hug. Haruto gave a whine at being jostled, the newborn fidgeting before settling between his mother and father quietly.
“Haruto Shimada”, you hummed softly as Hanzo pulled back, your head falling to the pillow on your bed, patting the space on the California king sized bed next to you lightly. Your midwife hung around the background, cleaning up the area quickly and quietly, the omnic nurse following right behind her. Hanzo took the seat, taking your hand gently and kissing your knuckles hard, as he scoot back to lay amongst the pillows with you. Immeasurable pride, love, happiness and need to protect filled his being as he looked between you and Haruto contently. You leaned your head onto his shoulder, peeking up at him through your lashes. “Would you like to hold him love?”
Hanzo barely nodded before you were carefully passing the newborn into his arms, the Yakuza head breathing stopping for several moments. Haruto fidgeted, smacking his lips lightly in a yawn once more as he turned into his father’s touch. Hanzo took this time to study him thoroughly; thick black hair covering his head, face chubby and skin ruddy from being birthed. Later, he would say that Haruto was a peculiar looking little thing when he came out but right now at this moment the child was the image of perfection. Your snort drew Hanzo’s attention up, your finger pointing to the foot of the bed with a humored smile.
Yuuki and Ame sat at the end of the bed, curled into a loose pile on top of one another and rest at your feet. The translucent blue dragons were content to sit and wait, intrigued yet protective, instantly acknowledging the new charge that had been added to the family. Extending a hand to them, you gently pat Ame on the head as he moved forward, chuckling quietly as the dragon purred under your touch.
“Keep him safe”, you ordered softly, knowing there was no real need to tell the dragons what to do.
“The dragons will consume our enemies”, Hanzo reminded you, his voice soft but mirthful as he leaned over and lightly kissed you on the forehead, cradling your sleeping son to his chest lovingly.
((I hope this is okay anon! I know I went on a tangent but it was fun!))
Imagine Loki hiring you as his manager while he slowly takes over Midgard again. You are to manage his PR, his daily schedule, and you also are his guide to everything Midgardian. He doesn’t make it easy for you, though. He causes trouble, doesn’t listen to your advice very often, and in general, annoys and intimidates you. He is the God of Mischief after all, and you are the nearest target available to him. You suffer through his antics because he pays well and also, you don’t know what might befall you if you refuse him. He is kinda scary after all.
However, slowly, his mischief towards you becomes more intimate in nature. Your attempts at dating suffer weird setbacks, you aren’t allowed any leaves, and Loki crowds your personal space way too often. You have no idea how to deal with this side of him, but he sure knows how to push all your buttons. Secretly, you like the attention, as you do find him devastatingly attractive. But you desperately want to keep everything professional and try to ignore it. It all comes to a point where he grows strangely possessive of you and you can no longer push it under the rug. And then, one fine day, you find yourself in his embrace, seduced and compromised, wondering how the hell did you end up here.
Beauty in Simplicity|Ch. 1 (Yakuza!Hanzo x Hostess!Reader)
It was much too early.
Twisting your wrist you glanced at the time as it projected itself an inch above your skin, grimacing slightly at the time. ‘0714’. Carding a hand through your hair you couldn’t help the soft sigh that tumbled from your lips, the soft click-clacking of your heels against the concrete sidewalk picking up. This was ridiculously early for you. If Ayane hadn’t called you with this ‘urgent favor’, you had no doubt you would still be wrapped up in your comforter, dead to the world until 10 AM at the earliest. The older woman, who you affectionately referred to as mamasan, was your boss and dear friend but you swore that as soon as you made it to the club you were going to have a talk about your ‘business hours’. Still, you couldn’t be upset with her, it appeared that a ‘special’ client had reserved an early trial meeting and she wanted her ‘best girl’ there. Her flattery worked, obviously, pulling you out of your bed and sending you down the road towards the coffee shop on the corner before catching a cab to Roppongi.
She had kept details scant, as was normal, not wanting any prying ears to possibly pick up anything over ‘unsecure lines’. The patrons of the club valued their privacy and every girl that worked there as well as mamasan were more than happy to comply. Club Rosebud was a members only club that served the elite; politicians, CEOs, oyabun of the upper crust yakuza families, military leaders and the like. As long as they paid their dues, respected the ladies and didn’t become too disrespectful or belligerent, they would always be welcomed back with open arms. The building itself was discreet; a Vishkar commissioned project, sleek and modern with solid black privacy glass covering the outside. Ayane had balked at the thought of subscribing to the neon signs that often decorated the hostess and nightclubs in the area, instead vying for a hologram that projected the name in stylish cursive and katakana, hard light roses and petals constantly falling down and onto the sidewalk. It was chic yet discreet, beautiful and classy; the exact image mamasan wanted to convey and what kept their clients both happy and impressed.
Club Rosebud location was a calculated decision on Ayane’s part, a street that existed an arms length away from the hustle and bustle of downtown, yet close to several embassies and five star hotels. The street was fairly calm; wide sidewalks leading to high-end cafes and bistros and a small two-lane road that had a small side lane that cars could take directly to the front of Rosebud. A side street led to a private entrance for those that required it, although it was most often used by the women that worked there as a quicker way to the back. This is where you often entered the club and where you were headed that morning.
Lifting your wrist to the panel next to the door, you hummed idly as you waited for your credentials to be verified, the small security pad turning blue before the door slid open smoothly. You barely paid any mind to the environment around you as you moved through the warmly lit hall, continuing the softly hummed song as you made a beeline towards the back. The art deco theme left the place brightly colored and yet tied together with dark walls or decor, seating plush and comfortable and inviting. A long bar was attached to a door that led to the kitchen, the different bottles of high-shelf liquor on the wall looking like twinkling gems. There were private rooms, of course, with varying themes; Japanese-style tea rooms, traditional conference rooms, hell, there was even a small private theater. Anything the clients needed, Ayane wanted to be able to provide.
You carried on past them, walking through a door that was affectionately marked ‘Roses’ Only’, signifying an employee only area. A little ways down was another door that led to the dressing rooms; a pastel explosion of a room that was fitted with a dozen pearlescent white vanities, soft lighting and two dozen or so rolling racks filled to the brim with clothing from designer clothing from all over the world. Tucking your purse underneath your personal space, you sighed as you sank into the soft pink skirted vanity chair, stretching before crossing your legs.
‘Know your enemy and know yourself and you can fight a hundred battles without disaster’- Sun Tzu.
The quote from the great Chinese philosopher sat permanently affixed to the mirror of your vanity, a silent reminder of your life’s philosophy. You jokingly would tell the other girls you worked with that you were preparing for a battle; dressing yourselves in fine silks and chiffons like they were armor, your warpaint high-end cosmetics, your simplistically intricate hairstyles your helmet. The war ground is one that you had fought proudly on for years and would continue to do so for however long your spirit compelled you to, the battle of courtesans and their wealthy, upper class clientele.
Your battle hardened statements were all in jest, of course, but you enjoyed the playful distance it allowed you to practice whenever you entered the club. You were skilled at your job and you knew what was both wanted and demanded of you. An amicable warmth, lively conversation, class and professionality, charm and attractiveness all wrapped into a package with a pretty little bow. You were fortunate. Within the walls of the club and the mouths of patrons and advertisers, you were sought after not only for your beauty and charisma but your intellect as well, known for being demurely scintillating. For now, however, you worked on accentuating the beauty that was seen before the brain, primping in front of the vanity in the changing room.
You kept your vanity clean and tidy, makeup neatly stored away and sorted in a deep blue makeup case, your hard light styling multi-tool laid across the top of it. Assorted hairsprays, perfumes, brushes, accessories and jewelry were scattered, albeit tidily across the back of your small table. A place for everything and everything in its place. Your fingers moved over your items in a practiced manner, humming softly to yourself as you considered the look you were trying to go for this afternoon. Bold, glittering neon matte lips had become popular recently, appearing on magazines and in talk shows but you felt that it was much too flashy, at least for the client mamasan had assigned you. Your look had to be perfect, demure and respectful, enticing and seductive. Chewing lightly on the inside of your cheek, you visualized several looks before opening your eyes and looking at your reflection. You had an idea.
Hanzo rolled his shoulders as the hovercar came to a stop, eyes glancing up at the building, barely suppressing the groan that tumbled from his lips. Hanzo could feel anger begin to lap at his insides like fire, doing nothing to hide his agitated expression from his brother. Hanzo made a soft dismissive ‘tch’ in the back of his throat as he stared at the name, ‘Club Rosebud’, the fluttering flower petals aesthetically pleasing and yet…irritating.
“A hostess club”, Hanzo deadpanned, shooting his younger brother a scathing look. The frown on Hanzo’s lips only grew deeper as Genji returned the look with a shit-eating grin, clapping his hand down on his older brother’s shoulder and shaking. “This is the last time I trust you with picking the venue Genji.”
“Relax aniki”, Genji says, his tone much too lackadaisical for Hanzo’s taste, purposefully sliding directly next to the man despite the car’s roomy interior. Genji wrapped his arms around Hanzo’s shoulder, the older pushing against the younger, drawing laughter from the man. “Rosebud is one of the classiest joints in all of Japan! I promise, aniki, even Prime Minister Sakamoto goes here!”
That earned a small upward quirk of the eyebrow from Hanzo, skeptical yet easing the shoving match he and his brother were locked in.
“I don’t think you would know ‘high class’ if it bit you on the ass”, Hanzo stated matter-of-factly, finally managing to untangle himself from Genji’s hold. Hanzo’s hands immediately began straightening the tailored black suit he wore, readjusting the deep blue button up with an agitated precision. He shot another glare his brother’s way, only earning yet another wide grin. “What exactly was wrong with Suzume?”
“No offense but during the daytime that place is boring”, Genji said bluntly, nose wrinkling up at the thought of returning to the empty, musicless, patron-less club in the daytime. “It doesn’t create a ‘welcoming’ environment! We want to make our ‘partners’ feel welcome, Hanzo! Not bore them to death in an empty night club. Plus the girls here are gorgeous and they are very generous with alcohol. You know how that loosens lips, right? Plus today is only a trial run aniki! No pressure!”
Genji wiggled his brows conspiratorily, a knowing smirk on his lips as he gently nudged Hanzo with his elbow. Hanzo gave a grunt, an unspoken, if temporary, concession that he would try this for the time being, twisting his body towards the door as their Omnic chalet opened the door. At the very least, if the location was subpar, Genji had actually come prepared for the meeting. The 25-year old had actually worn one of his nicer suits, albeit was a crisp snow white in color. The inner button up was a forest green, his cufflinks golden dragons with emerald eyes, much like Hanzo’s own white gold and sapphire ones. His younger brother had even managed to dye his garish lime green hair back to black, just solidifying how serious he was about assisting Hanzo with this transaction. Although the elder sibling had no doubts that his brother would soon dye it again when things were set in stone with the Americans.
From birth, both brothers had been molded, trained to take over the Shimada-gumi, one of the strongest and largest Yakuza factions in the Tokyo area. The older the heir and the younger his right hand man, each imbued with their own skills. Hanzo was the tactician, blessed with a naturally analytical mind with a scathing wrath that could, and would, crush anyone that dare to buck against their Shimada reign. He was protective of what was his; his family, his assets, his livelihood. Genji was the amiable social butterfly, a man able to read the room and the people around them, able to draw people to him with his innate charm. Contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t a naive playboy, his ability to disarm people allowing him to gather his fill of information before flashing even a modicum of his true nature. Both had extensive training in both hand to hand combat and various weapons; pistols, assault rifles, swords, bows. Name it and it had been in their hands. And while their father, Sojiro, still handled a bulk of the responsibilities, he trusted his two sons with managing new business deals in his stead.
Giving one last vexed grunt, Hanzo turned towards the door as Yosuke, their Omnic chalet pulled the door open. Hanzo stepped out into the subtle warmth of the spring morning, straightening up and rolling his shoulder before stepping to the side to allow his brother room to move out as well. Genji practically jumped out of the car, arms raised high as he waved at the elderly woman who was walking towards the two of them, both waving enthusiastically before each approached the other with open arms. She was short, definitely no taller than five feet tall, dressed in hōmongi-style black kimono, soft pink and creamy yellow primroses and tea roses stretching from her feet to her back then over her left shoulder and to the edge of both sleeves. As Genji spun her around, Hanzo caught sight of the simple graying bun she wore, adorned by a fresh pink-red rose pinned in her hair.
Setting her down, Genji and her continued to talk animatedly as Hanzo observed, taking in the yellow obi with the intricately tied knot. An obvious refined taste was felt in the clothing, but her nature only helped to solidify her classiness. Her gaze was affectionate yet sharp, focused on Genji yet not missing anything happening around her. She wore very traditional clothing and yet her mannerisms were nothing if contemporary; hands on hips, grabbing Genji’s chin and pinching his cheeks. However when her gaze twisted to Hanzo, the playful chiding in her tone gave way to a warm professionality.
“Shimada-san”, she said, stepping away from Genji and giving a respectful bow that Hanzo returned with one of his own. Straightening up, a small sage smile settled onto her lips as she returned Hanzo’s once over before giving a quiet chuckle. “Your brother has told me much about you. My name is Ayane Takahashi. Let me assure you that we, at Club Rosebud, are both honored to be at your service and understanding of your need for discretion. Genji has enlightened me on the company you are expecting and I do believe I have the perfect accommodations for your needs, Shimada-san.”
Hanzo gave a short half nod, disguising the look of skepticism with a small bow to the elderly woman. Her eyes twinkled as she returned the bow, turning on the heel of her foot and beginning to move smoothly towards the building. Hanzo kept himself a few paces back, Genji walking backwards between the both of them, a Cheshire grin on his face. As Ayane approached the front doors, two well dressed men, obvious bodyguards, pushed the doors open from the inside.
As soon as he stepped foot within a door they were greeted by a comfortably sophisticated ambiance; lighting warm but frosted, casting a well lit yet relaxed vibe. The soft scent of perfume hung in the air, constant yet not overpowering; base notes of vanilla, musk and amber were accompanied by notes of citrus and stone fruits. Plush fauteuil armchairs in colors of pink and key lime and powder blue and creamy peach were spaced around the room, some near wrap around black hard light tables, others stand alones with small cherry wood coffee tables placed in front of them. To the left of the room was a long bar counter, black marble with glittering gold flakes locked under a highly shined surface, ambient lighting shining beneath top shelf liquor and fine crystal glasses. The floor was hardlight as well, sturdy and slip resistance, twinkling lights following the steps of the three of them as Ayane came to a stop in the center of the room.
“This”, Ayane started, sweeping her arm left to right across the room. “Is our general sitting room and bar. This is where most of our one on one meetings between our ladies and their patrons, although small private rooms are readily available if requested. Our bar is one of the, if not the best, stocked bar in the area. However, if you do have a particular brand which isn’t located here, we will be more than happy to order it for you. We also have a fully stocked kitchen and chef on call, so if you have any requests for your guests or if you’re anything like your brother, we can supply almost any sustenance you’d like.”
There was a satisfied smile on her lips as she casted a brief glance over here shoulder, able easily read the subtle impressed look that rested on the elder Shimada’s face. Hanzo had seen some of the clubs that Genji frequented and this definitely differed from the playboy’s normal. Hanzo had half expected a gaudy interior, fraught with the acrid smell of cheap liquor and perfume, cigarette smoke clinging to everything. This was actually…nice. More than nice if he was being honest. Genji smiled, breaching the gap between his brother and him and clapping a hand down on his shoulder.
“Nice isn’t it aniki”, Genji practically sang, the smug smile on his face only growing as Hanzo rolled his eyes yet didn’t push him away. That was as good as an admission as he was going to get from the hardass.
“Security seems lax”, Hanzo stated, more to his brother than Ayane as if to pull some of the wind from his presumptuous sails. Ayane turned completely with that, her grin slick and filled mirth.
“Oh Shimada-san we take security very seriously here”, Ayane said stated warmly, reaching into her sleeve and pulling out a tablet from a hidden pocket. “We value privacy here and you cannot uphold privacy without superb security, right? Every single guest, employee and Rosebud members are authenticated into our systems. If you are not in our system, you do not get in. If by some chance, let’s say, some paparazzo snuck in here we have automated security systems that not only notify our security team but short circuits any electronics they have on their person. If they happen to fight back, well, we do have other means as well.”
Hanzo hummed softly before looking at the woman and giving a small smirk at the dangerous glint in her eye. Well, it appeared that this place could be…acceptable.
“Shall we continue”, Ayane asked with a soft chuckle and a graceful turn back around. She didn’t wait for their acknowledgement, steps picking back up as she led them down a warmly lit hallway. “The conference room your brother requested is one of our mid-sized rooms, more than enough space to accommodate up to twenty people if need be. Light refreshments and drinks will of course be provided within the fees for the room, as well as the services of my girls. Now you both are in for a treat. I have picked two of my loveliest, most charming girls to attend to both of you personally. It always looks nice to have a pretty lady on your arm, especially with those Americans doesn’t it? Oh and Genji, do watch out. She is not happy with you.”
Ayane waved her hand over a small console built into the wall, the screen coming to life as her credentials were instantly accepted.
“These doors are secured as well”, she stated simply as the console turned green and the doors began to slide open. “Just as an added measure of privacy. Ah, Aiko, Hitomi, come and introduce yourselves!”
Ayane stepped to the side as the doors to the roo fully opened, allowing the two Shimadas to enter before her. Hanzo hummed in approval as he looked around the room. Two bright, avant garde chandeliers hung over a mahogany conference table; glasses, holopads and bottles of premium spring water sitting in front of each plush, leather upholstered chair. A small bar was tucked into the corner, a small holopad denoting an automated bartending system. Across from the table was a large screen, obviously for projecting any presentations, pictures or videos to anyone who hooked up to their system. What set the room apart, however, was the sitting area that had been included. A large, cream wrap around couch sat spaced apart from the conference table, fluffy pillows and throws of various shades of orange adorning the piece of furniture. Two women were just beginning to turn as Hanzo’s eyes finished assessing the room, his focus now on them.
“Genji-kun”, the shorter of the two squeaked out, a playful, scolding look on her features as she stormed over to the younger Shimada. The woman was petite but the heels she wore placed her just under Genji’s nose. She was dressed in a glittering blue lace bodycon dress, her light brown hair styled in loose waves around her shoulders. Her hands rested on her hips, her frown faltering as Genji grinned back at her, bottom lip quivering as she tried to keep her expression downturn. “Where have you been mister?”
“Ai-chan”, Genji exclaimed, taking a half step back so he could give the young woman an exaggerated look up and down. Aiko rolled her eyes at him before cocking her hip to the side and continuing to stare him down, any real malice in her actions lacking. “You are looking as beautiful as ever. Did you do something with your hair? It accentuates your cheekbones!”
Aiko’s face lit up, her hand moving to wrap around a lock of her hair before moving to her cheek, the hard look on her face melting away as she dissolved into a fit of giggles.
“You’re lucky flattery works every time”, she stated simply before throwing her arms open and laughing as Genji’s arms wrapped around her in an affectionate huge. The two began talking back and forth rapidly, the increasing volume and pitch of their voice making him cringe.
“So excitable. I’m envious, I wish I had an iota of that much energy. Although, I highly doubt I’d get half as loud…”
Hanzo’s gaze snapped to the left, eyes dancing over the woman he could only assume was the ‘Hitomi’ Ayane had mentioned. She wore an ombre strapless chiffon dress; the bodice fitted and white, the color gradient slowly trickling downward until it was a warm orange marmalade color around her feet. Her exact shoewear wasn’t clear but she stood right at Hanzo’s chin,dark eyes glancing up at him as she addressed him. A rose gold bracelet with pink and white diamond hung loosely around her wrist, shifting with the subtle movements of her hands as she commented on the pair in front of the two of them.
Her dark hair was half up and half down, loosely pulled back with a twist and secured by a pink crystal hair comb, the shape a large sakura blossom flanked by smaller closed buds. Her makeup was simple yet elegant; a soft pink glow across the cheeks, lips glossed with copper and bronze eyelids, mascara and eyeliner tight. Confidence poured off of her in waves as she stood next to the man, the smile on her lips demure and inviting, eyes respectful yet curious. The eldest brother was intrigued. While attractive people were not a rarity to either brother, he couldn’t help the way his heart picked up as he looked her up and down. Hanzo hid the gulp that unconsciously wanted to follow as he stared, his eyes locking onto hers before snapping to her hand as she extended to him.
“Oh where are my manners”, you asked softly, head tilting to the side as you admonished yourself. “My name is Hitomi. It is nice to make your acquaintance, Shimada-san.”
Hanzo lightly grabbed your hand in his, feeling a rush of lightning arc through his system at the physical contact. This was new. Lifting your hand to his lips, he pressed a chaste kiss against the back of it before looking down at you with the slightest ghost of a smile on his lips.
these adopts are either 400 deviantart points or $4 USD each
names,genders,info can be changed upon purchase
first come first serve
Inkwell Female Nightwing A seer, she works as a writer for a popular newspaper, and uses her seer powers for the rather mundane task of predicting the weather.
Prince Sleet Male Icewing A rather young member of the Icewing royal family, and army. He’s quite arrogant and is covered from head to toe in scars.
Buffalo Male Mudwing A baker living in Possibility, specializes in importing fruit from the rainforest, and baking said fruit in to delicious cakes, pies, and tarts.
Hornet Female Rainwing A moody rainwing with a case of mild insomnia, she’ll sting you with her harsh words and prickly personality. Usually has her colors match her name, but shes partial to purple as well.
Sunspot Male Sandwing A tailor who works mostly with light, showy clothing. He’s not the one you want to go to for armor. A bit obsessive with his own looks, and everyone else’s. If he believes there’s something “wrong” with your appearance he’ll do everything within his power to fix it.
Cuttlefish Female Seawing Cuttlefish is a very attractive professional dancer, who’s employed in the royal Seawing court. Has a harsh outward personality, but is very kind, and a bit silly once you get to know her.
Princess Garnet A rebellious Skywing royal, greatly dislikes her mother (the queen). Spends a lot of time causing trouble around the city for attention.
Summary: Spring cleaning with your husband and kids (yeah that’s all I got for this summary)
Warnings: None really
A/N: I’m so sorry! I’ve been absent for quite some time, except for all the reblogs I’ve made. I’ve been caught up with school and I promise I’ll be posting more in the next week. This is the first time I wrote for TOP I hope you like it! Remember my inbox is always open! Send me anything from random words to enouragements and requests!
“Mommy! Mommy, what’s this dress for?” Your four-year-old daughter asked you. Your husband, Choi Seunghyun sat on your shared bed with your one-year-old son in his lap. A wide smile spread on his face when he saw what dress she was looking at.
It was decided when both your son and your daughter started to sneeze early in the morning, that it was time for spring cleaning. Both you and Seunghyun had taken off from work and were spending time with your kids as you attempted to clean the house together. It ended up with you doing most of the work, Seunghyun playing with the kids, and you sneaking pictures of them on both his and your phone.
When it was time to clean your room, your daughter, Areum, had made it her job to go through your closet. Of course, she went straight to your dress and heels, putting on the footwear and gaining a few inches with the cost of losing a portion of her balance. Seunghyun was with your son, Ki Joon. They were playing on your bed together, playing with the fresh new white sheets on the bed.
“That’s my wedding dress Areum. I wore when I got married to appa.” You said, a smile forming at the memory. You looked to Seunghyun, a smile already aimed at your direction. The memory was a fond one like it a wedding should be but it was even better. Your wedding was planned to be a perfect wedding, family and friends only, maybe a few people from work you both liked, and the perfect venue with the perfect decorations and setting. It was supposed to be the perfect normal wedding, but nothing is ever normal with Seunghyun and his friends or you at times.
Shelie? She doesn’t lie when she says this gift to you, it’s really a blessing to us all. Happy Dralentine’s, @shelielaff!
Our gifter says:
“Hey, giftee! I’m so excited to be back for another round of Dralentine’s Day! I hope you like firstie antics and Draco blushes just as much as I do! Also, big thanks to our wonderful mods!”
For The Slytherin Within - After watching the new Slytherin first-years be met with scorn during their Sorting, Harry takes a stand and re-Sorts himself into Slytherin to prove there’s no shame in being a snake. Along the way, he befriends the first-years who make it their personal mission to help him find love on Valentine’s Day. 8k.
no smut, does contain a description of some injuries sustained after a beating, but no descriptions of the event. Also bad poetry.
color-coded by character; black outline so you can read the subs no matter what; footnotes on top of the screen when something esoteric is mentioned; opening and ending themes have romaji lyrics w/special sing-along effects and english translations on the bottom; attractive, professional, easy-to-read font
ugly-ass yellow or white font on everything w/no outline so u can't read it sometimes, no translations for songs, looks like it was made on microsoft movie maker
How do i get in relationship with a working girl? I know i could but idk what she would think.She always seems sad and somewhat embarrassed I feel like she has true hidden beauty that isn't her body. I haven't seen her Lately I think she quit.
There are three possibilities here. Let’s go through them:
1) You have seen/are seeing a sex worker professionally, and would like to convert that relationship to one where you don’t pay her. To this, my answer is extremely simple: don’t. You do not know her, you are not special for noticing her true, hidden beauty – she is professionally attractive and appealing to people, plenty of people know how amazing she is. You cannot do her any favors by being a relationship with her, and she almost certainly does not want to be in one with you. I could go on, but if this is you you probably won’t listen, so instead I will say this: I do know sex workers who have had non-professional relationships with people they met as clients, and they all have one thing in common. Every single one without exception was initiated by the worker. Each and every one. If she wants something about your relationship to change, she will tell you so very explicitly.
2) You know someone in your personal life and are aware she is a sex worker, and would like to date her. If you think that you cannot ask her the way you would ask any other human being because of her job, then this is a good sign that you lack the emotional maturity and general goodheartedness to date a sex worker (and possibly anyone). You are not doing her a favor by being in a relationship. Sex workers, as a group, are pretty wonderful. We do not need someone to “see past” our flaws (or to “discover” our beauty – see example one). We deserve, every last one of us, someone who will love us because of who we are, not in spite of who we are.
3) You do not know a sex worker in your personal life or professionally, but think it would be hypothetically cool to date one. Don’t do this. It’s fetishizing and you’ll probably be a terrible partner. I would go into more details as to why, but since you don’t know any sex workers, I’m not too worried about you hassling them for free sex.
This man has the ultime After-Shave smell that seems to spread around as he passes by you. He always smells like something clean and tidy.His suit and his aroma gives him that very mature and manly feel that makes you dizzy . You just want to bury your head in his suit to appreciate this amazing smell.
This mature guy smells like Business man cologne.He’ has that professional smell that seems to attracts all females. An aroma that makes you able to relay on him and feel free. He has the kind of aroma you’d like your man to have when he gives you a warm backhug.
This dude smells like heavy cologne and hair products, A LOT of hair products. His aroma shows he doesn’t like to go out much and enjoys staying in bed. Still, yonngi’s aroma seems to sooth you and calm you down whenever you’re in panic mode, which is why you wished you could stay his arms.
He smells like Baby powder with a hint of lemon aroma that comes from his flawless hair. His aroma shows his youth and sneaky personality. He basically has the ressuring smell of a bestfriend You’d always want to give him a backhug just to have that amazing smell invade your senses.
He would smell like a perfect combinaison between fresh laundry detergent and soap,which makes you feel like you’re in heaven. He has the chest you want to be laying on in the mornings before waking up. How much you wish he could engulf you in his manly arms with your head buried in his chest.
This boy smells like spice fuckboy cologne with a slight hint of cinammon aroma that is just sweet enough to make you weak to your knees. You just want to basically have your nose in the crook of his neck all day long since his scent is addictive to your senses.
Hobie would smell like bubble gum , with a hint of sour candies which self explains his personality.His aroma is what makes him full of surprises and it seems to intrigue you.You’d like to lay your head on your shoulder to subtly inhale his amazing aroma that seems to make you drunk
You can request ANYTHING from my blog :) REQUEST BOX IS ALWAYS OPEN
!!I’m open to answer anything whether it be ships/bts reactions to
“___”/scenarios/drabbles/ bts fb status/bts text conversation/ bts
snapchat AND MORE !!! IM LITERALLY OPEN TO ANYTHING just please ask me
what you want and I’ll make it come true
Summary: As Hyungwon’s make-up artist, getting to be close to him every day is good enough, until he has other plans.
Requested by anon!
When I finished school, I imagined quite the future for
myself. My sights were set on theater, elaborate stage make-up and prosthetics every
night, getting to channel my crazy inner-visions to the face of an actor. It would be the dream.
Respect my Ratchet: The Liberatory Consciousness of Ratchetness
Recently someone interviewing me asked me to define ‘ratchet’,
but I couldn’t at that moment. A few days later though, I found myself urging a
group of Black students standing in solidarity with Mizzou to be free and
embrace their ‘ratchet’. Both of these incidents made me think a lot about what
I mean when I say I’m ratchet. Today in a Black feminist panel discussion with
the nonpareil Dr. Linda Carty, I figured it out: ratchet is the embodiment of
Black femme liberatory consciousness.
Academics like Barbara J. Love define liberatory
consciousness as the ability to live life in oppressive institutions with
intentionality and awareness, rather than internalizing the socialization those
institutions have imposed. A liberatory consciousness enables us to maneuver
through oppressive society without giving in to self-pity and dejectedness… and
if that aint ratchet…. What is!??
Being a Black woman in a white patriarchal society positions
Black women and femmes in unique relation to power and privilege. Being seen as
attractive, professional, intelligent, or successful is a fight when those
attributes are saturated with Whiteness, maleness, and heteronormativity. In
order to find some piece of acceptance into these systems, Black folks welcomed
respectability politics – basically values and beliefs that police ourselves in
an effort to impose dominant White values. You know them: dress nice, work
harder, pull your pants up, don’t eat watermelon in public, close your legs,
get a perm, speak like you got some sense, tuck in yo Blackness! These politics
are especially impossible and violent to Black women and femmes who are most
regulated and silenced by them. Respectability leaves Black women and femmes
walking a tightrope of trying to appear worthy of being respected by Black men
and everyone else. It’s a suffocating place to be, and as a fat Black lesbian, I
fell off of that tightrope a long time ago. What was the safety net? RATCHET!
Awareness is the first element of a liberatory
consciousness. Ratchet awareness? CHECK! From the moment I stepped foot into a
college classroom I was aware of how I was different and why. My hair, my
clothes, my skin, my growin up in the hood… and the way I talked! When trying
to change all that failed, I embraced ratchet. I repped Queens harder than I ever
had, proud of Sutphin Boulevard that equipped me with a language my white
classmates couldn’t understand and my English professors tried to erase. I
learned quickly that under white supremacy, Black English must be devalued –
relegated to ratchet. If we laugh at and devalue the way Black folks talk, we
internalize that we don’t have our own language… but we do! Yeen never seen a
white muh fukka try to figure out what the hell we talmbout? They be lost! And
beyond that, awareness is the ability to notice, paying attention to our
language. Ratchet makes room for the art of shade, a good read, and all the
other nuanced ways we communicate as Black folks. Ratchet is also the
undercurrent of awareness of other black folks. How is it that we ALL know the
electric slide? The Cupid Shuffle? To close grandma’s door because we ‘lettin
her good air out ‘cause we don’t pay no bills round here’? It’s the ratchet! The
awareness and ways of knowing we hide from the white gaze.
Analysis is the second element of a liberatory
consciousness. Ratchet analysis? CHECK! Analysis is all about ways of being
that will yield the best results in a given situation. That’s that code
switchin’ that is embodied in the ratchet. I can always tell who my momma is
talking to on the phone based on her voice – white voice, the power company;
loud voice, her sister. We don’t talk to hegemonic institutions the same way we
talk to each other. Within community we have freedom to show our range of true
selves – laughing, crying, twerkin, sewing our bundles in. We feel the
liberation we strive for as a people and we run wit it! This element of ratchet allows for creativity
in the way we express ourselves, body positivity, and subverting gender
binaries. Ratchet analysis tells us we can behave however the fuck we want and
switch it up whenever we damn well please – because we are free. Big ole
booties, crooked smiles, rainbow bangs, all excluded from the hegemonic
standards of beauty that tell us our bodies are wrong. Ratchet makes room for
it all, telling us our bodies aren’t wrong, they just is what they is.
And there’s something particularly feminist about being
ratchet. It’s not a term I hear ascribed to men or used too often by men – even
though it leaves room for expressions of masculinity that respectability just
won’t rock with – like Young Thug. Ratchet asserts that women don’t have to be
Michelle Obama or Janet Mock to be influential, feminists, or revolutionary.
Ratchet allows Cardi B to be just as influential and feminist – wholly embracing
sexuality, herself, and other women makin’ shmoney however they can.
Ratchet is revolutionary in the way that it does not play to
being palatable for whiteness. Unlike respectability politics, ratchet is
attainable for black folks of all social class. Ratchet provides the space for
Black folks – women and femmes especially – to subvert the white gaze and explore
the presentation of self that they truly feel comfortable with. Ratchet is the
freedom to laugh out loud, dance in public, cuss somebody’s ass out, bring your
entire self into all you do. Ratchet is knowledge that can be shared across
Black communities and is not bound by geography, social class, or level of
traditional education. So why are Black students, activists, and student
activists so afraid of ratchet? Because white hegemony has told us we can’t love
ourselves or be free to be who we are and respectability still has us falsely
believing that if we are good enough negroes, we will ‘make it’. We know that
respectability fails us… so what do we have to lose from forgetting that shit
and defining ourselves? I’m here for embracing the gutter glam liberation of