yoixhette
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There was no one else there except for him, but Luka knew that he would be able to recognize him in a crowd. The neat uniform, red tie violating the dress code that no one dared to point out for whatever reason, jet-black hair spilling in straight shards over his forehead and eyes. His eyes were dark, impossibly so, with bright red pupils that looked like bloodthirst incarnate, a threat more than a warning. Or maybe Luka just villainized him a little bit more than he should. But those eyes looked at him with unbearable contempt and Ivan flicked a sculpted eyebrow, maybe still expecting a reply.
No, Luka would never not recognize him. Even among a hundred crowds. Because never in his whole life had he wanted to punch the smile off of someone's face this bad.
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“Did the..” Ivan blinked. He was pretty sure he heard nothing. “... Oven go off?”
“Microwave,” Luka corrected kindly.
“Microwave.” Ivan was even more confused, now. “When did it…”
Luka tilted his head, and smiled. Gently. Like this was a no brainer, because making a personal snack during work hours was beyond the point. “My ability.”
Ivan fell in love with the cute baker at the first sight, but were microwaves truly this practical? -
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Yoichi’s previously wrathful eyes fell upon the growing bulge in his husband's pants. Straining against the fabric, imposing itself more than Rin ever did. Rin looked down at it, then up at Yoichi. Down then up. Down then up, then at Sae whose chopsticks thunked against the plate, his mouth falling open.
“Don't…” Rin grumbled weakly, face red against Yoichi’s increasingly more amused stare. “Don't look at my boner while we're fighting, shitty Isagi.”
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“Is this your new safeword?” Isagi pointed out unhelpfully in response.
“Does it look like a fucking safeword,” Michael thrusted into Isagi impatiently, seeming pissed off, even at the helpless moan that gurgled out of Isagi's throat. “Yoichi?”
They did need a suggestion box. Isagi might strap it to a trashcan, or a paper shredder if he's in a bad mood, but at least it would be there, intercepting ideas before his overstimulated body and mind have to. -
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Because the more Ivan stares at his husband, drinks him up with his eyes, the more he understands why and how Helen of Troy’s face moved warships. The more he stares, when those irises of molten gold stare back at him, the more fury forms in his gut and snarls like a living thing, and the more he detests that his husband is allowed out into the merciless world where one too many eyes would leer, ogle, and fantasize.