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ushidoux · 3 years

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Power Struggle - Ushijima x Reader

Summary: You’re set up on a blind date with a man who might just be your match. (~5.1k words)

Warnings: fem pronouns, fem!reader, blind date, exhibitionism, public sex

A/N: Part of @cherrytenko’s CEO collab! Surprisingly this is possibly the longest fic I’ve written as a oneshot and it’s a little softer than I expected it to be but please enjoy!

---

It’s about half past 6pm when you add the final touch to your makeup, a smear of matte lipstick (Rouge Hermes #48, to be exact), to your lips.

It’s not often that you’re able to leave work early but your mother and father had called you from overseas in the late afternoon, interrupting their own third honeymoon, to remind you of your final meeting for the day -

A date.

“I know you hate these things, but just go! You might like what you see,” your mother insisted over video chat, her voice muffled by the sound of wind whipping past her as she and your father cruised along on a shaky speedboat they’d purchased just for the day. You weren’t completely sure where they were, only vaguely aware that they were somewhere around Jeju Island, and not exactly sure why they still had phone service, but you weren’t going to ask too many questions.

“No obligation!” Your father adds, just out of view and yelling slightly.

Sure, never any obligations.

As you smack your lips in the mirror to smooth out the lip color, giving yourself a brief once-over to decide whether or not you feel the need to adjust your hair or if you will wear falsies or not, you frown ever so slightly, then let out a sigh.

You hate this.

This is the third “meeting” they’ve arranged for you this month, and they’d been at this for almost six months overall by now. This search for a ‘suitable husband’ was getting stale - not to mention, time-consuming - and you weren’t sure you would be willing to appease your parents any longer.

In fact, you weren’t exactly sure you were interested in a partner anymore. The clock would hit thirty any moment now, and the math of falling in love, getting married, having kids, and still heading a successful company no longer seemed to be adding up. You didn’t know how exactly to tell your sweet parents who were the picture of domestic bliss that they’d probably have to give up on the idea of grandchildren, and consider raising puppies instead.

Regardless, for the time being, you could still bother to meet this stranger for dinner.

There’s a clasp seal envelope atop your dresser - a portfolio that had been left on your desk by your father’s assistant at the beginning of the week - that still seems entirely too formal for the process. This is matchmaking, not a job application, was the first thought that came to mind once you realized the envelope held a set of photos, a resume and an admittedly curt but formally written statement reminiscent of a cover letter.

Ushijima Wakatoshi, the signature at the bottom of the letter read in an extremely neat script. He must be particularly organized and detail-oriented.

There were two pictures, one that looked almost like a passport photo and the other much more relaxed, where he was dressed casually in a t-shirt and pressed jeans, standing with his arms crossed beside a redheaded man whose smile was wide and infectious, his arm around his neck. You wondered if he picked those photos himself.

You’d perused the first photo much more carefully because you could see more of his face. He’s quite handsome, you’d admitted, the faintest warmth in your cheeks, but he seemed awfully uptight. For one, the look on his face was very neutral, not bothering to smile. He was clean shaven and his hair was close cropped at the edges, a woody brown that paired well with serious olive eyes. You wondered if he ever laughed out loud, and what he looked like when he did.

The taxi driver is prompt and waiting outside of the high-rise in which you live by the time you make your way down the elevator. The click of your heels is loud on the tile as you make your way past the revolving doors. As you slip into the back of the car, you wonder if you’re dressed too professionally. You may have forgone the women’s pantsuit, but you’re still wearing a feminine pantsuit-esque ensemble in a creamy beige - pink would have seemed too ditzy, white would have seemed a bit too innocent (not to mention risky) and yellow too juvenile.

You’re not sure why you’re thinking so hard about this, but really years of paying attention to your appearance in public, not being taken seriously because you’re pretty and young and your personality is more bubbly than bossy puts you on your guard, especially when it comes to first impressions.

The location appears to be an upscale sushi restaurant, the type that you have to call ahead for months to get a reservation unless you have some kind of special arrangement with the owner. A staff member checks you in and brings you to the back to a private room, and as you pass through the dimly lit hallway, clutching your purse a little too securely, a scene from a yakuza movie comes to mind.

“Your room, madam,” the young man nods and motions you to enter a room that is brightly lit enough that it is almost blinding, large and round as though you were in a fishbowl yourself. You look up and notice that even the ceiling is curved. Elaborate paintings hang off the wall.

He’s not here.

You glance at the attendant and he raises his eyebrows as though he is expecting you to say something. You must look surprised, and continue to look so as you remove your shoes to sit at one of the thin mattresses set before the low table.

You wish you’d worn stockings perhaps, tucking your bare feet beneath you in a casual seiza position. You can’t recall the last time you’ve been this traditional/formal, and the thought of a man you barely know already knowing what your feet look like bare bothers you just a bit.

The attendant pours water and then tea for two wordlessly and slips out of the room.

Your heart pounds once you’re finally alone. Why is this so intense?

You fidget nervously with the thin silver necklace you are wearing, looking for a menu. There is none so far. Just square plates, both chopsticks and forks (odd for sushi, you think), and a steaming cup of tea set right next to a sweltering crystal glass of ice cold water. Opposites.

For a fleeting moment, you actually wonder for once if this man will like you.

“My apologies, Ms. ___.”

You’re startled by a rich voice, a tiny gasp revealing that you’re more spooked than you realize, and your eyes shift towards the direction of the sound to see what looks like your date finally arriving in a hurry.

You instinctively readjust yourself onto your knees to look formal, then realize you should probably stand instead, but before you can get up he waves you to sit back down, now settling down himself across from you.

“I had intended to arrive early but quite a few things happened at the company to make that unfeasible.”

He said this while removing a suit jacket in a way that was in no way intended to be sexy, not at all, then let out what sounded like a single, semi-nervous chuckle.

Wordlessly, you replied with a nod, transfixed as you compared photography to reality. The photos didn’t do him justice, not at all. The suit jacket was picked up quickly by a waiter who you had forgotten was still in the room.

Ushijima extended an arm to you across the table, intending to shake your hand.

“Did you wait long?” He asks as you shakily take his hand for a handshake that consumes your hand almost entirely in his large one.

You shake your head, then embarrassed when you realize you aren’t using your voice, and add, “No, I didn’t wait long...”

“Are you hungry?” He replies, quickly. Your instinct is to say no, no you didn’t need anything, especially not from him, but you are pretty sure your stomach would growl loudly any minute now, and you’d only look like a fool.

Ushijima glances at the waiter, who finally hands the two of you menus.

“Please order anything you like.”

You look down, swallowing hard again, and for a moment it is difficult to focus on the unnecessarily elaborate handwriting on the menu.

Something about him already grates on your nerves and you couldn’t exactly pinpoint what. You could forgive people for being late, and you were used to people being a little forward, but something about the way he was both familiar and unfamiliar in the way he spoke to you seemed to veer into patronizing behavior.

Why wasn’t he nervous? Every man you’d sat across from in the past half a year had just a little waver in their voice when they spoke to you at some point, even those who had started off boasting their fancy degrees and their villas and their large bank accounts.

But he sits perfectly still, all broad shoulders, gently wafting cologne, and a gaze that is both disconcerting and impartial, so you don’t know what to think.

When you look up from the menu to him, his eyes are still heavily focused on you, and you can’t really fault him. There’s nothing else to look at in this room, after all.

You take this opportunity to tease him. No man has ever intimidated you before and this one is no different.

“Are you going to order anything? I barely saw you look at the menu.” Your voice is light and coquettish and it implies, all you’re doing is staring at me.

“I already know my order. I’ve been here enough times,” he replies, immune to the playfulness in your voice. You watch him roll up his sleeves as he answers, and take note of the shape of his hands as he takes a sip of tea.

Maybe you’re the one staring.

“Would you like a recommendation?” He offers as he sets the cup down.

You shake your head no, and wonder again why you’re making gestures instead of talking. He smiles as though he can read your mind.

Once the waiter takes your orders and leaves the room, you’re left in silence, facing your would-be partner. It’s a stalemate of sorts and you lose, asking the first personal question.

But you ask it semi-clinically, refusing to lose the upper hand. You’re not sure why there’s an upper hand, but there is, and it will be yours.

“I read a little about your company before arriving. You gave me quite a few details, which I appreciated,” you state, turning your head to the side politely to take a sip of tea yourself. “You’ve done very well for yourself as CEO,” you add.

His eyes don’t crinkle from the flattery. “My employees do great work at all levels so it’s only natural that there would be positive growth,” he replies matter-of-factly.

You smile politely, but this answer doesn’t give you very much information about him. He’s shifting the success away from him, you remark, however he accepts the compliment as though expected. Is this genuine humility or arrogance?

You lean very slightly forward, just enough to see if he’ll take the opportunity to glance down your blouse, as other suitors have invariably done. He doesn’t, and you proceed to ask the next question.

“What do you do outside of work?”

His eyebrows raise, and you wonder if it’s because he realizes you are pretending you didn’t read that section on his application, but he answers anyway.

“I don’t have very much free time, as you are probably aware, but I garden and paint. And of course, I like to keep fit through team sports.”

A quick look at him makes that last part quite clear. You clear your throat slightly and then it is silent again. It’s not exactly an uncomfortable silence, but it’s not comfortable either.

Just as you wonder why he isn’t asking you any questions, he suddenly speaks up.

“Pardon me if this sounds inappropriate, but you’re beautiful. Why would you need a matchmaking service?”

You’re taken aback, and while your brain is scrambling for understanding of what his intentions are, he adjusts his sitting position so that he��s cross-legged with both hands on his knees and lets out a sigh before continuing.

“You’re also accomplished and clearly articulate. I don’t imagine you’d have trouble finding a partner through more organic means.”

It seems like there are a million butterflies that suddenly inhabit the small space in the pit of your stomach. Again, you’re at a loss for words, something that is rare for someone as opinionated and cordially fierce as you.

Should you be offended? It’s almost as though he’s asking what’s wrong with you?

He asks frankly, “Why a blind date?”

You want to ask him the same question, but you hear the waiter return and you fall silent, letting the butterflies in your stomach die down.

---

“I-is this the first time - ah - you’ve done this?”

You’re no longer laid out on the tatami like you were just an hour earlier, Ushijima nibbling on your lower lip and your collarbones instead of the overpriced, high-quality fish that sat atop your table, but now laid under him, spread eagle save for the hands you use to hold on to his shoulders as he slowly and deliberately thrusts inside you.

Your voice is breathy and catches in your throat every time he moves, but you have to know. How often has he ended up like this?

The heat that fills your whole body now isn’t just from the shame of letting a stranger fondle your body in an upscale restaurant, it’s because Ushijima somehow knows exactly where and how to touch you, as though he’s always known. His fingers have traveled your body like a hiker on a well-beaten path, from the softness behind your earlobes to your squishy center and back, and now have settled into a hold that is firm yet gentle on your hips.

When he replies “no” with immense honesty, his mouth sinks into the crook of your neck and he goes just deep enough that you don’t have time to factor this new information into your impression of him.

So instead you savor the thickness that fills you and the strength that holds you close, the soft grunts that fill your ears before they get drowned out by your equally loud whimpers and moans.

---

You don’t spend the night, partially out of shame that Ushijima bedded you so quickly and partially because you have a full schedule for the next morning. The parting of ways is brief and awkward and you seem to feel it more acutely than he does.

“I enjoyed our time, Miss ___,” he offers. You’ve dressed up faster than he has so you find yourself unwittingly ogling at the expanse of his sculpted chest and the flex of his muscles as he redresses. You’re almost sad to see him cover up.

You nod and walk out of the room, trying your best to hide the fact that your legs feel far too wobbly to be walking on these heels.

---

“Miss ____?”

Your eyes widen as you realize you’ve been daydreaming through a meeting with the board of trustees and now the wrinkled old men who hated the fact that your father thrust you into leadership you “didn’t deserve” are staring at you with disgruntled expressions.

“Oh, um,” you think quickly, recalling where the presentation left off and glancing quickly at the notes you’d jotted down on a notepad before wondering why Ushijima hadn’t called or texted since you met two weeks ago.

“Um?” The most senior of the group repeats, and your stomach turns for a moment before you steel yourself. He bares his teeth every time he’s displeased with you and you get the impression of an ancient and disgruntled wolf.

You clear your throat loudly, and settle back in your chair, crossing your legs and your arms over your chest.

“I have some disagreements with the current approach, but I’ll start with the pertinent positives,” you start.

---

“Was the sex at least good?”

Your best friend from high school glances at you briefly, as you face forward on the Peloton you are riding side by side with her. She’s much less out of shape than you are given that she also is your personal trainer and thus rides hers effortlessly, taking some time to wait for you to respond.

You begrudgingly say yes.

“Wow, for once someone dropped you before you could drop them!” She teases in a sing-song voice. You would slap her on the shoulder if she was close enough and if you weren’t out of breath. It stings just a little bit that you’ve heard nothing from him nor the matchmaking company and don’t have a good response to tell your parents aside from I guess we didn’t click.

“He’s missing out, though.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you huff, and cycle faster. No hard feelings.

---

Scratch that, there were absolutely going to be hard feelings now that he was not just fucking with you but also with your livelihood.

Admittedly, it was strange that despite the fact that your companies had never crossed paths until now despite working in the same consumer domain but this was unacceptable.

You’d opened an email that had just slipped into your peripheral vision as you worked on reviewing a couple of interns’ executive summaries, only to find that Ushijima might have just royally fucked you over.

A curt email from a crucial business partner read,

We apologize but we’ve decided to move forward with Ushijima Industries instead. I understand that this is last minute, but we believe that it will be mutually beneficial to discontinue our relationship at this point in time.

Your blood boiled. What the fuck was this?

Your phone rang, one of your team leaders calling immediately and likely looking at the email at the same time you were. He apologized profusely.

“What happened?”

“It seems like they just showed up and offered twice as much as we offered them last minute.”

This bastard. Then in a moment of horror, you wondered if this was your fault, if you had blabbed a little while slightly tipsy off of sake, and revealed that you had this acquisition in the works.

Voice smaller now, you asked, “So we can’t do anything to woo them back?”

“No, I don’t think so. I just have to make sure our other deal doesn’t fall through,” the slightly frantic man answered, the sounds of keyboard keys clicking rapidly heard in the background of the call.

“Okay, thank you for your hard work,” you stated. “I’ll see what I can do,” you replied with a click.

Maybe calling someone who’d ghosted you as you drove home, fuming and irritated, wasn’t the best idea, but you needed to confront him somehow. The idea of being bested in more ways than one was too much to bear.

The phone rang once, twice, then three times, and you were getting angrier with every tone through the car speaker. You hung up in frustration.

How embarrassing.

You made it home still irritated, indulging yourself in a relaxing bath to quell your anger. By the time you had soaked for close to an hour, you were mad at yourself for reacting impulsively and now having your number in his phone as a missed call… if he recognized it anyway.

It turns out he did.

“Ms. ___, did you call me earlier? I wasn’t able to make it to the phone in time.”

His voice was even lower on the phone, a slightly gravelly quality making you wonder if he’d actually been napping or just had a smoke. You couldn’t imagine him doing either of these things.

“What kind of game are you playing, Mr. Ushijima?”

There was a bit of hesitation on the phone, and you let out a sardonic laugh once he replied, as expected, “What?”

“How did you know about that deal other than what I told you?”

He paused again, and you too, stood still, a towel wrapped around your still dripping body.

“I assure you, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he then said, carefully. “I, uh… assume you were calling about something else.”

You grit your teeth. What the fuck else? The fact that he sounded genuinely confused only served to aggravate you further.

“Did you or did you not use the information I gave you to intercept my deal with MNY?”

Finally the lightbulb went on.

“Oh, that was you. Hm.”

If you’d been talking in person, you probably would have slapped him at this point. Or at least considered it.

“I didn’t know you were our competitor in that aspect. I… probably would have reconsidered if I had known.”

“Excuse me?”

That tone of over-familiarity, patronizing… the care when you’re not supposed to care was back and you realized you regretted this phone call.

“How would it be any different? Are you implying that you’d let me win?”

“No, of course not, I…” He trailed off. “Would you like to come over to my apartment and talk? I can give you my address, I would rather talk in person.”

Why? So I can get over there and end up fucking you again?

“I respectfully decline,” you answered curtly, and hung up, tossing your phone onto your bed and letting out an aggravated sigh.

---

The next morning, you leave an early executive meeting only to find that your office had been overrun with flowers between the hours of 7 to 8 am.

There are yellow roses, stating admiration, spilling out of an oversized bouquet on your desk and a separate bouquet of light red carnations and white camellias that imply that he finds you ‘adorable’. A white card is placed in the yellow bouquet, and on it is written Ushijima’s neat script - you realize it’s from him before you even finish reading the note.

I would like to see you again. Please accept my call around 6 pm.

Respectfully,

Ushijima Wakatoshi

Your hands hover over the wastebasket in your room with the flowers in your arms, but instead you sigh, and stuff them behind you on your shelf. At least you won’t have to see them while you work, but they’re pretty. They’re clearly bought from a floral shop, but you recall that he had said he gardened in his free time.

Ushijima calls promptly at 6 pm and you let it ring twice before deciding to block his number just as he’s calling. Something about the action is satisfying.

You can’t be won over with a couple of flowers and kind words. Women aren’t as easily swayed as he may think.

---

It’s another Friday, and surprisingly you haven’t been contacted for a blind date, whether it’s by your parents or the matchmaking service they’ve subscribed you to.

Maybe they’d gotten the message after you’d been ghosted that you were tired of this game. Maybe they were giving you a break. Maybe they’d run out of potential suitors. You were surprised, but not upset.

Ushijima had truly gotten under your skin.

After blocking his call, there were no more attempts at contact for the rest of the week. The only thing left to consider was that if you ever crossed paths in your careers, you would pay him back for snatching your investor.

And snatching your dignity in the process.

It was about 4 pm and most of the employees were wrapping up their tasks for the day. You usually aimed to have everyone out by 5, especially on Friday so this was boding well.

“Hey, Madam President, are you okay with an add-on?” You hear your secretary call from outside your door.

“Oh, I mean, I guess but-”

She’s already letting Ushijima through the door.

You smile sweetly, maintaining professional behavior as best you can, while your secretary leads him to an armchair across from you, up until she exits, your expression souring the moment she closes the door.

“Mr. Ushijima, what are you doing in my office?”

He’s settled into the chair so comfortably that it feels as though you’re in his office, not your own. He’s dressed more casually than he was at the restaurant, no suit jacket, just a brown V-neck sweater over a dress shirt that almost seems too tight and a pair of chinos. He’s also wearing a pair of glasses, which is new.

You hate that he looks good.

“Apologizing and requesting your company.”

He looks at you sincerely, his hands clasped together in his lap. You narrow your eyes.

“Please leave.”

He actually frowns, and the small action actually surprises you.

“Do you actually want me to leave or are you still upset about the investor? Because if it’s that, we can make an arrangement-”

“No, I’m upset because you did that after not following up after our one night stand!” You finally blurt out, then bite your lip realizing you might have said too much.

“I… got busy.”

“Busy screwing me over?” You quip.

He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture.

“I didn’t call because I thought you didn’t like me.”

You’re a little stunned by this reply, then decide you don’t believe him. What was there not to like? At least at that point he hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Why would you think that?”

His hands leave his hair again and rest on his knees. You notice it seems like a default position for him.

“I’ve been referred to as ‘stiff’. It’s great at work but not great for relationships.”

Ushijima’s brutal honesty is again sending you for a loop. You raise an eyebrow, bidding him to continue. Your arms uncross and you rest your elbows on the table.

“So…?”

“So usually by the time I’ve had sex with someone, it’s all they’re after. And since you didn’t call, I assumed even the sex wasn’t good.”

You unwittingly burst into laughter. Here was this successful, attractive man with a perfect pedigree who was insecure about how good he was in bed?

His eyebrows furrow, and you recollect yourself, realizing that this is a bit cruel.

“You could have sent a text,” you murmur.

“I’m bad at starting conversations.”

You stifle another laugh. “So you just don’t?” You tease. It’s gently mocking but mostly incredulous. It seems that he’s the opposite of the confident man he appears to be.

“That’s why I got excited when you called but then you were upset.”

You purse your lips.

“I promise I didn’t intend to put you in a bad situation,” Ushijima insists.

You sigh, then offer him a small smile. “Are you normally this persistent?”

He glances at the flowers that are only partially hidden from view, which makes your face warm up bashfully, and then looks right back at you.

“No. I just like you.”

Again with the directness, a confidence that is effortless, even when he’s not confident at all.

You don’t want to melt but you do. So instead you rise and clear your desk, stuffing a few items into your handbag as you prepare to leave. He watches, unsure of what you’re up to, sitting still as you walk around towards him and place your hand lightly on his shoulder.

Your body faces the door, but you turn to the side to look at him and grin.

“I’m done with work for today. Take me out.”

---

A couple months later...

“Fuck, you’re - ah - they’re gonna know, I-” Your voice morphs into a mewl instead once his ring finger reaches just the right spot; you’re squirming as much as possible under his touch but he has you laid back on your work desk with both ankles rested on his shoulders and his weight leaning onto you to essentially keep you in place.

“Move your hands,” Ushijima whispers in a hushed tone, leaning in to kiss between your breasts as he readjusts your legs atop him. His pants are down and his cock is already up and ready, the base and swollen balls rubbing against your wet cunt that you are desperately trying to protect from his intrusion. You know there’s absolutely no way you’ll stay quiet when he’s pounding the shit out of you, he likes it entirely too rough, and the walls are thin. You don’t listen, continuing to reach for his hands to swat them away from you.

There’s a part of you that is almost certain that at the very least your secretary knows that every time Ushijima comes for a ‘meeting’, it really is just to fuck the shit out of you before you leave together for the evening, or to relax you right before you once again have to defend your dad’s establishment of you as Company President.

This isn’t a good look.

“I-I can’t…” you whine.

“You can,” he assures you.

He gently kisses your face before prying your hands out of the way and keeping them pinned up against you with one hand and guiding his trajectory with the other before sinking inside of you. You moan at the breach of your privates and he quickly presses his lips to yours to swallow the sound.

Once he’s bottomed out, he rolls his hips, and soon you start to see white once you climax, clenching and cumming around him.

“T-Toshi!” You moan his name, and he clasps a large hand around your mouth before continuing, picking up the pace as he fucks you through your orgasm. He can’t deny that he likes the fact that you’re noisy, that the fact that the heavy desk he’s fucking you against is making a squeaky noise that suggests he’s really putting some force behind these strokes, and that if anyone could see the two of you now, it could be an issue for both of your corporations. Misconduct, they would call it.

He doesn’t care and while you act like you do, you don’t really care either.

When he lets go of your wrists to use the edge of the desk as leverage and tilts backwards, you scream in pleasure, a terribly obvious sound, and it’s enough to have him tip over and spill into you with a groan. He collapses onto you and the two of you almost slip onto the floor, but don’t; you wrap your arms around him.

Your hair is disheveled and so is his, and your legs are sticky with sweat and cum. You sigh, letting him soften inside you and stroke his hair.

“You’re getting me in trouble,” you murmur, and he lets out a breathy laugh.

“We don’t really have to answer to anyone, do we?” He replies with a smirk, and pecks you one more time on the lips.

He’s right - only you two are a match for each other.

#ushijima x reader #ushijima wakatoshi x reader #ceo!ushijima x reader #ceo collab #ushijima wakatoshi smut #ushijima smut #haikyuu smut #not sfw #fic: power struggle #mae.writing #hqintheclub

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no-droids · 4 years

Note

Can you describe the exact moment where Mando knew he wanted to fuck the reader?

I think tumblr ate my ask, so (in Bernie Sanders’ voice) I am once again asking if you can describe the moment Mando knew he wanted to fuck the reader and couldn’t deny his feelings any longer.

(((Your second ask included another question, so I’ll write for both, ALSO SPOILERS FOR SEASON 1 OF THE MANDALORIAN YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED)))

***

The first moment Mando knew he wanted to fuck you? Or the moment he couldn’t deny his feelings any longer?

Different moments. Completely different moments. Took place weeks, if not months apart from one another, in fact.

If… if he’s being entirely honest, the first one probably isn’t that interesting of a story. He’s almost certain the thought crossed his mind before you ever said a single word to him. Actually, now that he’s actively thinking about it, he’s pretty sure he hadn’t even seen your face when he was first struck with the idea.

That really isn’t all that uncommon for him, though. Of course, Mando has never been immune to the charms of women, but as he grew older and in his more recent years, he learned it’s almost always best to just avoid the hassle altogether.

That doesn’t mean he never thinks about it.

In fact, not having sex surprisingly causes people to think about sex more, if you can believe it.

Not that anyone would ever know it, obviously. Most people are entirely capable of keeping their thoughts to themselves, but Mando does them two better and keeps his words and his face to himself, too. Nobody truly knows what’s really going on behind the helmet, and he prefers it that way. He can think whatever he wants, let any emotion play over his face without once worrying about its potential impact on another person.

Nobody ever knows. Nobody knows when he’s smiling, when he’s gritting his teeth. Nobody knows if he’s sleeping, or if he’s just choosing to sit remarkably still.

Nobody knows how often he looks at you, especially if his head is facing a different direction.

The beskar offers solace in that regard. He has many personal qualms with it, but on occasion, there can be. Benefits. Specifically, it was incredibly useful the first time he saw you. That day was one of the rare occasions he remembers being truly grateful for the helmet.

At that point in time, Kuiil had been dead for a few weeks, and realistically, Mando had no real reason for even being there. He had no real reason for landing the Crest somewhere in the outskirts of his late friend’s abandoned moisture farm. He could make up some excuse about the blurrgs weirdly getting to him, how Kuiil’s enclosure was likely too well-built to escape from and they’d probably be nearing the point of cannibalism by now. But realistically, he had no reason.

Secretly though, if anyone ever asked him to cut the shit and just fucking explain himself—give them a legitimate, valid rationality as to why the fuck he bothered wasting the fuel returning to this desolate planet, why he delayed collecting payment on Nevarro in order to visit a barren moisture farm he knew would be empty—Mando could. He wouldn’t, obviously, but he could. It was stupid, it was completely fucking illogical, it was absolute fucking nonsense, but there was indeed an underlying motivation attached to his actions that he likely wouldn’t even admit to himself.

He was looking for something. Or, someone, to be more specific. Someone like Kuiil. His good friend’s affinity towards children and his abilities as a versatile mechanic were incredibly useful when he was still alive, and while Mando wasn’t stupid enough to think those things came from the water here on Arvala-7, whatever trace amounts of it there were to be found in the air, he was… well, he was getting a bit desperate.

The kid was a fucking handful, always getting into trouble while he was out trying to hunt down bounties. It would be irresponsible to take him with Mando, but it was also irresponsible to leave him in the ship by himself. He couldn’t do both at the same time. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t continue to be this child’s caretaker and provider. It just wasn’t physically possible.

He needed help. But he had no idea where to look for it. Kuiil was one of the only people to whom Mando ever extended an offer of partnership, one of the only people he ever trusted to look after his ship and his kid. So, after a few weeks of unsuccessfully juggling the responsibilities of a single-parent/bounty hunter, Mando figured that if he needed to start somewhere, he should probably start at the very beginning.

He wasn’t expecting much of anything. When he hid the sleeping kid in the stowaway cot on the ship and silently made his way across Kuiil’s land, he wasn’t expecting much of anything at all. In fact, he kept inwardly scolding himself for even bothering. He’d let the blurrgs out of the corral, try not to get immediately eaten by the starving beasts, and then probably just have to figure something else out in regards to the kid. Sorgan, maybe? There were some nice, trustworthy people there. Maybe he could find one who’d entertain an offer of adventure.

If anyone pressed him about it, Mando supposes what he was expecting was an empty house. Rabid blurrgs enclosed a few hundred feet away, either in the process of dying or already dead. He even braced himself for the possibility of a dismal, scavenged scrap pile that those Maker-forsaken Jawas would leave behind if they decided to raid Kuiil’s farm while he was gone.

He… he absolutely was not expecting the sound of someone moving things around in the house. A quiet voice murmuring unintelligibly to itself as pieces of scrap metal clanged carelessly against the floor.

Mando stepped around the corner. And then he saw you. Bent over, rummaging around in one of Kuiil’s spare junk bins.

And…

There.

That’s the moment.

That’s when he knew he wanted to fuck you. Seeing you wave your ass in the air, completely oblivious to his presence as you continued rifling through Kuiil’s things.

Not very interesting, he said before.

The thought struck him a split-second before an immediate flare of anger at your blatant disregard for his friend’s memory.

His third emotion was his blaster in his hand. That’s—admittedly, not really an emotion, but then maybe somebody should tell him why Mando sure as fuck seemed to feel it often enough.

“None of that shit is yours,” he remembers saying through the modulator, his voice rough from a day or so of disuse. Your body snapped upright at the first word, hair pulled into a high ponytail and hands black and greasy as they immediately flew up into the air over your head, clutched tight around a few frayed wires.

“Oh shit, I wasn’t—” You started to spin around, but you froze halfway through the process at the sound of Mando clicking off the safety of his blaster with his thumb. Based off your positioning relative to one another and the way a sweaty tendril of your hair hung in front of your forehead, he could just barely catch a sliver of your face at this angle, but it was enough to see you try to look at him through the corner of your eye as best you could without lifting or turning your head. “I was just here taking care of th—”

He wasn’t in the mood, and Kuiil deserved better. Kuiil deserved better than a lot of fucking things Mando handed to him. He deserved so much better than what happened to him, but no matter how much Mando wilted under the guilt of being the main reason Kuiil wasn’t here right now telling you to get your fucking hands off his personal belongings himself, he simply couldn’t change the past. He could, however, right some wrongs right here and now.

“I can see how well you take care of things,” he grunted sharply, cutting you off. “A good man dies and you think his shit is yours to scavenge?”

The wires immediately dropped from your hands and you whipped around entirely to look at him in the eye, disbelief and shock painting your expression. “Kuiil is… d-dead?”

He… he wasn’t expecting that.

Okay… any of those things, really.

First, he wasn’t expecting you to be surprised, much less upset by the news. Second, he wasn’t expecting you to know Kuiil’s name, or third, to move so rapidly and carelessly under a loaded blaster in response to his, in hindsight, incredibly cruel taunt. Looking back, he wishes he made even a marginally better first impression with you, but as Mando quickly comes to learn, you’re too forgiving. You never bring it up again.

Fourth, and notably, one of the things he remembers thinking most is how he wasn’t expecting you to well… look the way you did.

You were a young woman in the middle of this arid, fucking Jawa-infested desert and you somehow managed to look well-fed. Vibrant, even. Bright eyes, soft features, blinking up at him from under long lashes, plush lips parted and chin beginning to wobble like he just broke your fucking heart.

Pretty. Grease smudged across your cheek bone, fingernails dirty, hair a complete mess. Still. Devastatingly pretty.

Fifth. Strangely, and perhaps more jarring than anything else—Mando didn’t expect you to stare right into his eyes the very first time you looked at him. Most people ended up focusing their gaze somewhere near his forehead, maybe even down to his nose on occasion. You managed to hit him dead-on. On the very first try.

Sixth. He faltered.

Mando faltered under your stare, your words, your appearance. He took way too long in responding. He remembers watching your hands fall to your side in a shocked sort of dismay, and then he remembers silently holstering his blaster as you all but plopped down on the ground, right where you were, the stricken horror of realization painting your expression a hauntingly empty tabula rasa.

“Oh,” is all you said.

Over the next few hours, Mando learned a few things about you. Some things you told him, other things he figured out.

Things you told him: You were one of Kuiil’s neighbors. When you didn’t see him for a few days, you set up base here to keep things running smoothly, feed and take care of the blurrgs while he was gone. You were waiting for him to come back.

Things he figured out: You liked animals (even those stubborn overgrown creatures that look like they’re missing the middle-third of their body) and from the immediate softening of your expression upon catching sight of the bleary-eyed kid peeking his head around the doorway at some point, you liked children as well. You were a moisture farmer like Kuiil, an occupation that required you to be a wide-ranged and skilled mechanic. You lived alone and managed to stay relatively healthy in such an unwelcome environment, which meant you were hardworking and resourceful. But the state of your clothing said you needed money. And the way you looked at him told him you were lonely.

The last one was a shot in the dark, he’ll admit, but Mando has always been observant. Your house had to have been a reasonable distance from Kuiil’s, just based on the sheer square acreage of his land alone. Sometimes you tripped over your words, like it’d been just as long for you without speaking as it had been for him.

Admittedly, you were… quietly endearing to him. In a way. Soft spoken but sharp, capable yet entirely untested beyond this tiny little rock in the backskirts of the outer rim. The kid liked you. He had good instincts, and he smiled a toothy little grin every time you turned your attention to him, clearly finding the little one much easier to talk to than Mando.

And, he supposed, at the very end of the day, Kuiil apparently liked you. Kuiil apparently trusted you. And Mando… Mando very suddenly remembered someone—something else. Something else Kuiil once trusted, and at that time, Mando sure as fuck didn’t. He probably couldn’t have distrusted that fucking bounty/nanny droid more, and yet… Mando ultimately trusted Kuiil, and he ended up being completely right. Mando was wrong, and Kuiil was right.

Weeks after he covered his body in rocks. Weeks of silent overthinking, of the guilt of his friend’s death weighing heavier on his shoulders than any armor he’s ever worn. Well. Mando wasn’t about to start second-guessing him now.

Perhaps, the real question is why you ever agreed to join him when he casually offered. A chance at adventure, at finally leaving Arvala-7? The promise of good money, of not having to constantly worry about farming water from the atmosphere just to have a sip of it?

To this day, he still has no fucking idea. That’s probably something best to ask you.

Now. The second question.

When Mando couldn’t deny his feelings any longer.

He… he feels like there’s something weird about phrasing it like that. It’s probably better to ask about. The turning point. When everything either fell apart or came together, depending on how you want to look at it. The split-second realization that shit had changed. The exact moment when Mando knew he was well and truly fucked.

Before he starts, he should probably preface.

Mandalore isn’t known for their fine arts.

Anything creative he did as a foundling that wasn’t also inherently, at its core, strategic, wasn’t rewarded. Ever. His people have always been a militaristic people, and art is for peacetime. Mandos aren’t known for their music, painting, or architecture. Their specialty is smithing, combat, and depending on the clan, espionage. Their symphonies are war chants. Their murals are blood-streaked battlefields. The last person he really remembers hearing sing, if only just for the love of it, was his father.

Maybe that’s why it originally took him so long to figure out what that fucking sound was.

He was in the pilot’s chair of the Crest, almost asleep at that point. The door to the cockpit was shut tight, and last he checked, you were entertaining the little one in the hull. After a few weeks with your company, he had come to expect certain things from you, if not based off the terms of the deal you two struck, then simply based off newly established precedent.

You took good care of the kid and fixed mechanics, yes, but you were also apparently a decent pilot. You even took to the habit of cleaning the ship whenever Mando was gone. That was never part of the agreement, but you did it anyways. You were surprisingly helpful. Sweet, in that regard. Not difficult to be around, nor to work with. And if he was being honest, you were just about the furthest thing from difficult to look at.

But mostly, you were quiet. In general. The record for the longest conversation ever occurring between the two of you was still held by your very first introduction. As a quiet person himself, Mando had grown accustomed to the average individual’s insatiable need to fill the silence for him, talk his ear off out of nervousness, discomfort, or an annoying combination of the two. In contrast, and like him, you barely said a word unless it was necessary. It made for a peaceful journey around the galaxy, if ever a silent one.

Even more surprising, you were usually very good about keeping the noise down even with a small child in tow, and excelling where Mando failed (mainly, stopping the tears before they evolved into screeching sobs). Because of that, the unfamiliar sound he could just barely hear from his place in the ship was that much more intriguing to him. It was audible through hyperspace, through a metal door, and through sound-absorbent beskar. So quiet, but loud enough for him to wonder what its source was.

He remembers standing up and slowly walking over to the door, straining his ears and listening to the volume marginally increase, but not by much. Just to the point where he could finally place it, though it took him far longer than it should’ve even considering the situation.

A gentle melody. Humming. Sweetly reverberating throughout the ship despite its deadened acoustics, when Mando didn’t think he’d heard a song in years.

He must’ve stayed like that for a few minutes at least, just standing statuesquely in front of the door leading to the hull. Either… either you were singing to his son, or you were singing just because you felt like it. Somehow, each one of those possibilities managed to move him more than the last.

Only it was still too quiet to truly hear. There were still just too many pieces of metal separating him from you.

So, at that point, he had two choices.

Well, three. Mando had three choices. He could always just fuck off and go back to the pilot’s seat, up the noise cancellation setting on his helmet just slightly and try to pass the fuck out, but that wasn’t… realistic.

So he had two viable choices. Each one came with its own set of problems.

One, he could press a button on the panel and open the door. Potential problems included the noise it would make while shifting to the side, and the ability for you to catch him eavesdropping if you happened to be standing right under the ladder to the cockpit. Statistically, the prior was much more plausible. If it happened, and it was very likely to happen, you’d stop singing and the ship would be silent. Once again. Like always.

Two, he could. He could… take his helmet off. But—

—But here was the thing about that. Mando hated doing it. Even when he had to take it off to eat, he hated doing it. And not because of the reason most people would probably expect. It wasn’t because he felt uncomfortable or exposed without it, even when barricaded inside an enclosed space like this by himself. It wasn’t because he felt guilty about it, either. Technically, he would probably be violating his oath by removing it unless absolutely unnecessary—eating, for example, or bathing, or about to bleed out and die from a head wound, etc—but Mando probably couldn’t have given less of a shit about the details. He was always more of a big-picture person.

No, the reason he hated doing it was because… well, because of how much he really fucking loved doing it.

When he was younger, he’d always looked forward to any excuse to breathe fresh air. He’d drag out his meals for as long as he reasonably could, trying to memorize the way everything looked without a digital interface shielding his eyes. He used to have absolutely impeccable grooming habits, really taking his time shaving his face and deep cleaning the beskar and filter every single day.

That… that only lasted a few years.

Eventually, it became harder and harder to put the damn thing back on again. Only, he had to. This was his life. After a handful of decades, taking the helmet off became less about savoring the moments without it and more about just prolonging the inevitable. Making it that much more difficult to accept. If you knew you were going to starve, would you want a full course buffet in front of you the entire time? Let the visuals of everything you could never have, the aromas torment you until your very last breath? The blissful temptation started to eat away at him, until eventually he just grew to dread taking it off altogether.

Eventually, those few moments of relief from the torture of wearing it just became the worst torture of all.

It was easier keeping it on. Physically, emotionally, whatever. His body would acclimate to the metal and padding wrapped tight around his skull, and some days he happily forced down the growling in his stomach and skipped meals altogether. He hated taking it off. He hated the fresh air. He slept in the helmet. When he had to, he scarfed down his food. He learned how to eat with his eyes closed.

So. To reiterate, Mando had two choices.

One. Run the incredibly high risk of you stopping entirely.

Two. Do the thing he arguably hated doing more than anything else in this galaxy.

He silently turned and pressed his back against the closed door, sliding down to the ground and weighing his options. Technically this was a non-problem. Technically he was just making things difficult for himself. He could always just say fuck it and mind his own damn business. He could always just… he could…

He—

He took the helmet off.

He cradled the beskar between his knees and stared down at the visor as it glared judgmentally back up at him, his spine resting against the closed door and listening to your soft humming for as long as you felt like doing it.

And…

There.

That’s the moment Mando knew he was fucked.

That’s the moment the countdown started. From that point on, it became only a matter when he’d give in, not if. Before, he could at least pretend everything was fine. Before, he could at least tell himself with reasonable certainty that while he genuinely liked you as a person, he’d never push your relationship past the point of quiet, yet friendly, business acquaintances.

But that was the moment Mando knew he was full of shit. That sooner or later, there’d come a point, a shift, when his resolve would eventually snap. And like his kid and the ship, he’d let himself get taken care of by you, too.

He didn’t know how long it would take, or the catalyst that would set everything off. It could be anything. A close brush with death. A soft, much needed touch.

Fuck, even just a really rough day.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #rough day #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #reader insert

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orphic-osamu · 3 years

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Hello can I request “You bake when you're stressed and sometimes you give me cookies, but recently you're giving me whole baskets each day, now I'm not complaining but are you okay?" au w/Akutagawa? Congrats on 800 🎉🎉😊!

title > fresh cookies

genre > fluff

wc > 1.3k

song > out like a light ii

a/n > hello i’m so sorry i took so long. few things about this: imo it’s vv sloppy n frankly i think i shouldn’t have posted this but i didn’t wanna keep this sitting in my inbox for longer. akutagawa is ooc here? bc ngl don’t feel like doing a whole mafioso vibe for him rn, so he’s a soft boy here. i will fix the template of this post tomorrow

— AKUTAGAWA RYUUNOSUKE —

when akutagawa first made cookies, they were quite horrible. some pieces were burnt, some tasted like rocks, and some had hardened into a weird, melted shape. he’s never cooked or baked, let alone make a full batch of cookies. however after meeting you, the cute baker across the street, he figured he’d try it out to impress you. the first try made him scowl for days after gin giggled and told him that they were barely edible.

the second time akutagawa made cookies, gin had invited you over without him knowing. you caught him in the midst of trying the treat fresh from the oven. his face twisted in disgust and he rushed to spit out the remnants of the cookie. he didn’t even see you reaching to grab one off the tray. when he realized, it was too late. grimace was written all over your face as an awkward hello slipped out of your mouth. akutagawa flushed red. how was he supposed to impress you now?

“i don’t think you put sugar, akutagawa-san.”

from across the room, gin laughed at your comment. “he’s been trying to bake cookies over and over again, he just can’t get it right.”

akutagawa wished that the ground would open up and swallow him whole right then and there. he was already so embarrassed and gin just loved to make it worse. he expected you to laugh at him, call him stupid for not being able to make such a simple delicacy.

“would you like me to teach you?”

there was visible surprise struck across his face at your suggestion. his fingers pulled on the edge of his sleeve as he fiddled with it back and forth.

“o-okay,” he stammered.

the third time akutagawa tried to bake cookies was the morning after his embarrassing encounter with you. he stood anxiously by the kitchen counter, his fingers dancing around to ease his distress.

“where’s your apron?” you asked, reaching into your bag to wear your own.

“apron..?”

akutagawa couldn’t bring himself to say he didn’t have one. you smiled knowingly at him, pulling out an extra you had. “it’s not like you have to wear one, but it puts you in the spirit, y’know?”

he wasn’t sure if he agreed. especially when the one you gave him was frilly, streaked with red and white flowers. nonetheless, he wore it. perhaps the apron was the secret to making a successful batch of cookies.

“do i look silly?” he asked, seeing your grin turn teasing more than assuring.

“mm, a little, but you still look good.”

his body flared red. admittedly, it was flustering, but if it meant seeing you smile, he supposed it was worth the trouble.

you hovered over his shoulder throughout the entire baking process, helping out here and there (like saving him from switching up the salt and sugar). until finally, all that was left was to leave them in the oven to bake.

“so, why’d you suddenly go on a cookie craze?” you leaned against the counter, trying to rest your body whilst waiting for the timer to go off. the boy fussed around with the straps of the apron, itching to take it off.

“uh, it just seems like a fun thing to do.” it wasn’t entirely true, but it’s not like he could openly say he wanted to make you a batch and pose as an expert baker to possibly strike up a conversation with you. though after you taught him, he decided that baking was enjoyable, and was definitely something he’d do again.

after that, you two settled into comfortable conversation. drowning in laughter and stories to the point where you hardly heard the timer going off. the cookies looked decent and akutagawa could only hope they tasted decent as he watched you take a bite. your eyes lit up in excitement, taking more and more bites off the cookie.

“is it good?”

you nodded, pushing him to try it too.

the next time akutagawa baked, he did it to take his mind off work. his blood was boiling and taking it out with the use of violence didn’t seem to help. his movements were harsh and rushed as he mixed the ingredients. his mind was clouded with red and he barely stopped himself from pouring an entire bowl of salt into the mix. once he caught himself, he sighed and pushed everything aside.

his eyes shut as he took deep breaths to calm himself. he already learned how to make this exact same recipe from you, he didn’t want to mess up again. his mind drifted of into thoughts of you. the way you teased him by making him wear such a girly apron, to the soft tone in your voice as you reminded him to put sugar instead of salt.

feeling the haze clear up, he picked up the spatula and resumed, movements more relaxed and calm.

the fourth, fifth, sixth time akutagawa baked, was for the same reason as the last. with every time going almost exactly the same. rage making his hands tremble until he thinks about the sweetness in your aura when you helped him. and for every time, you and gin were the only people he gave the cookies too. with every batch came a conversation with you. and soon you learned the pattern.

whenever he’d have a rough day, he’d come and give you a freshly baked batch of cookies. pretty soon he begun baking other sweets. cakes, donuts and the list goes on. and you were there to try everything, to provide him with constructive criticism.

you didn’t mind at all. if this was his way of relieving stress, then so be it. not only did you get treats from it, but you also got the baker behind them to come and talk to you. it’d happen at least once a week, usually on a sunday when he’s finished for the week. thus, you’ve learned to keep your sundays free just for when he comes by.

however one day, he baked a cake for you. and it wouldn’t be a problem if the following six days he didn’t come to give all sorts of things. he hardly noticed how drained he looked, and he would’ve gone baking for weeks straight if you didn’t ask him about it.

“are you alright? i know you use baking to cope, but you’ve been giving me so much every single day.”

“i am?”

the frown on your face tugged on his heart. you invited him in to sit down and relax for a bit, to talk about anything that was bothering him. but when he sat down, he couldn’t find the words. having you near him made everything dissipate into thin air, and suddenly nothing was wrong in the world.

“so? what’s wrong?”

he shrugged with a sheepish smile, “don’t quite remember.”

you sighed and shook your head. “but it helps when you bake, right?”

he nodded before averting his gaze from yours. all it once it hit him how close you were, and how he was sitting on your couch, in your cozy little place. his cheeks were painted red in embarrassment, causing him to shuffle away from you.

“and you don’t wanna talk about anything? you just wanna bake?”

he nodded again. another sigh left your lips. you tugged him off the couch and into the kitchen.

“well then, what are you waiting for? let’s bake. hmm, i saw this recipe and i wanted to try it out...” your words trailed off as he looked at you admiringly.

god forbid he say anything now. but maybe one day he’ll tell you. he’ll tell you about how baking isn’t so much of a reliever, and instead it’s the memory of you baking with him that came with it. maybe one day he’ll tell you that it wasn’t about making cookies, but rather seeing you get excited after he gives you a batch. that it wasn’t about learning new things, and more about the time he got to spend with you.

#bsd #bsd x reader #bsd x y/n #bsd x you #bsd akutagawa #bsd ryuunosuke #bsd ryunosuke #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungosd #bungou stray dogs akutagawa #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs scenarios #bungou stray dogs #akutagawa x you #bungo stray dogs akutagawa #akutagawa x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #akutagawa ryunosuke

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