#*{ ‘. florawrites<3

[florvaine]

lost comfort and found familiarity.

Escaping the prison was a mess, and Carl is devastated when he can only find his girlfriends red jacket, but not her. (afab! reader)

genre: heavy angst to fluff

warnings: death, blood, gore, panic/anxiety attack, !carls’ SA scene!, kissing.

-— DREAD BEGAN TO FILL THE PIT OF CARL’S STOMACH WHEN THE HEAVY REALISATION SET IN. That realisation was that the prison was overrun, the Governor and his goons having broken down the wired fencing with a tank and brought in dozens upon dozens of brain-deteriorated, famished walkers into the previously safe confines of the prison.

They had killed Hershel in cold blood using Michonne's katana, leaving his severed head to pool a red sheen on the grass. Somewhere in the time of his beheading bullets began to ring out around the borders of the prison.

Cars, trucks and military-grade vehicles began to fill the courtyard, Rick and the Governor are beating each other bloody with their bare hands by the overturned bus.

“Holy shit.” He hears you say, and once he looks to his left to find you, his heart hurts a little more.

You’re typically comforting smile has vanished like the peace had just a few hours ago, instead pulled in an open-mouthed look of pure shock and horror. Your eyes are blown wide, brimming with a small collection of tears. There’s dust and debris flying everywhere, staining your cheeks. A shotgun is tight in your grip, ammo stacked in your pockets and an army knife clinging on your belt.

He’s only ever seen you this devastated when the farm got set up in flames, and when you had been told that your brother had been bit.

Carl gulps, pulling you closer to him via the strong grip he has on your hand. Both of your palms are sweaty, but it was barely even registered as the tank that the Governor had hijacked shot another bomb into the crumbling, brick walls of the prison.

“We gotta go!” He says, running in the opposite direction of the explosion. You follow behind him, still holding his hand as an anchor to keep you aware of reality.

Your eyes drift around the series of events around you. The obliteration of your home, the snapping jaws of the decaying walkers that drooled and reached to take a chunk of flesh from either of your bodies. Bullets rain hell on everything that moves, sparks of orange and yellow shining from all directions, the scent of blood, gunpowder and dust is heavy as it clings to your clothes and hair.

You stumble, tugging on Carl's hand, "We have to get your Dad!" You point to where Michonne is helping him up, and the blue-eyed boy falters.

A loud bang followed by the sound of debris hitting the floor, a flash of heat passed over each of your skins. Between the flash, he sees his dad covered in splatters of blood, bruises and cuts stumbling towards a break in the metal fence.

Every sense in his body is muddled, an annoying, high-pitched ring in his ears makes his clammy hands raise upwards to press against them, sounds muffled as dust coats his tongue like thick, chalky medicine. His eyes flutter as the light passes, debris clinging to his lashes and dirtying his freckled face. Carl sniffs, his head turning around rapidly to see you again.

Except you were gone.

Just like the flash of orange light and thermal blast, you had seemingly dissipated into thin air. His first reaction is panic, in a form that roots his body into the concrete floor at the thought of you being hit by the bomb, therefore disintegrating instantly.

Carl feels sick to his stomach and he removes his hands from his ears, picking up his gun that clattered to the ground and spinning in circles to catch even a glimpse of you.

"Y/n?" He shouts even if his throat was aching from the particles in the muggy air.

There's no response, "Y/n!" He calls out with more urgency, his feet moving quick against the ground as another round of bullets pass beside him.

The shaggy, brown-haired teen dashes through a gap between the cell blocks, keeping as low as he could whilst running, pressing the sheriff's hat his father gave him just a few days prior against him skull.

Then everything stops. It's practically silent if you ignore the echoes of the snarling walkers that invaded the space. His eyes brim with salty tears, scrambling to pick up a too familiar red cloth discarded on the floor.

His heart is put on pause for a few seconds as he kneels down to claw at the jacket. Your favourite jacket. Bright red stained with black smudges and bloody hand smears, an open hole passes cleanly through both sides of the left sleeve, encircled in a deeper scarlet that dripped in a sickening curve of an open wound.

Time passes slowly, as if God himself was providing him time to grieve. You had slipped through the cracks of his callousing hands, the blood trapped under his fingernails suddenly more obvious as he scratched at the drying liquid on the jacket. His heart hurts. So does his head, a throbbing pulse that matched the pants and trembling breaths that exited his chapped lips. His body washes out any adrenaline or happy emotion an refills it with dread and mourning.

He feels like crying. Sobbing, screaming your name until his lungs collapsed and his throat was raw. Vocal cords torn, shattered like his heart that would no longer beat with the same life he had with you. His thoughts turned from joyous hope of a future with you and Judith outside the crackling prison to disbelieving hurt at the realisation you were not near him anymore.

With no body, their could be no funeral. Nobody in the limited black attire they collected throughout their time in the apocalypse. With no grave to bury you under, you could not rest.

But without a funeral or a tattered corpse of your being, Carl refused to believe you were dead.

The sound of bullets restart his heart again like a defibrillator, and he's back in the moment. There's shots in the courtyard, the boy scrambles up, clinging onto your jacket with harsh breathing.

There's two walkers further along the cell block. Carl ties the jacket around his waist. Rage slowly drips into the building acceptance in his mind, and the shotgun that he held previously was snagged up off the floor.

The gun is raised, aimed perfectly for the decaying heads of what used to be morally guided people. His breathing picks up slightly.

One shot rings out, bullet shells hitting the ground. Chunks of skin, bone and rotting organs spills over the floor and the walker hits the ground with a dull thud. He steps over the remains with what could only be described as a bitter mixture of anger and sadness on his face.

The second shot is fired, and the first victim is joined by the other. A mess of liquid ruby changes the grey hue of the floor, the sound of blood spilling like tossed water would usually sicken him.

His gaze drifts towards the bodies, and he is repulsed at the image of you, your hair splayed against the concrete and your eyes wide open yet unseeing, glossed over in grey as your plump lips turn blue, skin cold. Your chest does not rise. You are still, graceful and dead.

He blinks, and yet again you were gone. Carl looks up from the meaningless corpses.

His own dad looks back at him.

"Carl," It doesn't sound like him, there's a hint of liquid that gurgled in his throat as he spoke, and Rick gulps it down. He's breathing heavily. A collection of red patches adorn his beaten face, curls from his hair and stubbly beard pressed against the sweat gathered on his skin.

The two of them limp away from the remains of the prison, trauma and sorrow tossing and churning in their minds and stomachs. They had lost not only you, but Judith as well.

One of the only memories of his mother that he had. And the only hope that Rick had of raising one of his children without any fear even in the apocalypse.

That night the two of them exchanged no words.

-—-

1 month, 27 days and 17 hours.

That's how long it had been since Carl had last heard your voice. Him, Rick and now Michonne occupy a two story house in a leafy road surrounded by woods. They visit the neighbouring homes further down, once he even found a 112 ounces worth of chocolate pudding, and ate it in one sitting. Alone.

The words 'alone' has never been in the forefront of his mind this much before. He wonders if you would've enjoyed the pudding with him, or comforted him on his worst nights as his dad slept on the sofa barricading the front door. Maybe you would've stopped him shouting at his unconscious body.

He was terrified, that night. Because the sleeping body of his dad would sometimes look like you - except there's a bite on your shoulder and a bullet wound punctured between your closed eyes.

Now there was no resting body on the sofa as his dad was awake, alive and moving whilst Michonne helps the two of them work with their slightly tense familial relationship.

Sometimes he'd get bombarded with questions about you. He'd still answer with one phrase.

"She's alive."

The same tone, the same memory starting to form before his ocean eyes whenever he blinked. After a while it went from being a quivering statement of hope to an exclamation of law.

Every time you were brought up negativily, it ended in him storming out of the house and sleeping in a different one for the night, and coming back in the morning to his anxious dad who was very close to vomiting and a worried Michonne.

Carl knew you wouldn't just leave or give in that easily. It wasn't in your blood that stained the jacket he kept folded upstairs in one of the rooms.

He had washed it, any trace of what happened at the prison left in a stream of water; the hole from your bullet wound was sewn together as best as he could. No more smudges of soot and crumbling brick smeared down the hood and arms, no more scarlet hand prints that grabbed and tainted your clothing.

Carl had one mission that he would complete - he had to complete it before anything else.

And you were going to get your jacket back - alive.

-—-

Terminus was a horrible idea. It had been advertised as a safe haven for anyone in need of it, offering sickingly sweet luxuries that no other place had before.

Who knew it was run by cannibals that captured, disarmed and intended to eventually eat them? Not Carl, that's for sure.

They had barely escaped with their lives, and Carl could only wonder how many more times he could dodge death until it inevitably caught up with him.

But in the back of his mind, he knew he would avoid it for as long as he possibly could, because if he kicked the bucket then he wouldn’t see you again.

At least they found everyone else - including Judith. That was one miracle that Carl dreamed of, and it was accepted, so the last one was you.

Many nights and days he had spent wondering where you were, if you were thinking about him too, some other days passed with tears and muffled screams of your name; those days he’d be comforted by the tight arms of his dad or Michonne wrapped around him.

Carl would sometimes have nightmares of that grimey, old man that pinned him against the floor, Michonne and Rick having to see him at his most vulnerable in that moment. That was the one time he was grateful you weren’t there. Not because he didn’t want you to see him so shattered and broken, no.

He knew that whatever was going to happen to him, would happen to you too. And with the predator pinning him down, the company of his equally as vile creatures that held Michonne and Rick as captives. Nobody would be able to save you in time.

Part of his innocence was picked up and snapped that night. He fell asleep with your jacket over his torso, and he let his quivering frame curl into yours.

He wanted to see you again, in real life. Not a part of the fractured, twisted part of his imagination. He wished to hold you close against him, kiss you under the stars like you had done too many days ago. Everything Carl found that he thought you’d like was in a small pouch at the bottom on his bag.

A thin-chained necklace, a gossip magazine, a comic book. A small heart shaped rock that he had found. Most importantly, your jacket.

Carl was intelligent, observant. He could tell everyone had already grieved for you, mentioned your name in speeches of motivation saying ‘do it for her’. He hated it.

Another argument happened whilst they were all moving down the abandoned road, towards a new hope of life.

*

His father brought you up again when he saw Carl wearing your jacket. They had stopped for a break, sitting in the middle of the road whilst Daryl went hunting for anything they could eat.

“Carl,” He spoke, voice slow and gentle as if he was a ticking time bomb, “I think it’s time you let go of her jacket.”

Everyone’s eyes moved from his father to his son, eyes slightly widened and mouths clamped shut. The air becomes tense as the blue-eyed teen looks up at his father through the corner of his eyes.

Carl swipes his tongue over his lips, “Why’s that?” He spoke, Judith coo’s in his arms, pulling at the strings that tightened the hood.

Rick adjusts his stance, placing his hands on his hips and thinking of what to say to his son. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he speaks.

“I just think, well we just think that,” The curly-haired dad gestures to everyone with one hand, “It’s time to let go, son.”

Carl lifts his head fully, eyebrows knitted together in scrutising disbelief, “You all think she’s dead?” His tone is harsh, accusing and targeted to pierce their racing hearts.

Everyone knew that the mention of you being dead was something that the boy didn’t agree with. Stubborn as ever, Carl points his gaze towards his dad. His gaze as sharp as daggers and Rick knows hes in for the long run.

“She disappeared, Carl. We can only guess what happened to her.”

Carl hands Judith to Carol next to him and she takes her without looking at the boy, “You can guess, but I’m not guessing. I know she’s alive.”

“She’s got lost, nobody saw where she went. She’s alone.” Rick argued, his voice louder.

“She has a gun and a knife!” Carl replies, shouting over his father. Michonne stands up and removes her gun from her holster, as did Abraham and Tara when a branch snaps behind the wooded trees.

Daryl shows himself, empty handed. Everyone internally groans, but they give him a look to tell him to be quiet and point at the arguing boys.

Rick places his hands on his sons shoulder, looking down on him, “People have still died with a gun, kid.”

Carl pushes his dad away from him, face contorting into pure anger and vemon lacing his features, “Don’t touch me.”

“I’m just tellin’ you the truth, Carl.” Rick points at him, eyebrows raised and his voice returning to the soft, almost patronising tone from before.

“But it’s not the truth!” Carl argues, his anger put into lashing out against his own blood, “She’s alive, I know it! I see her, Dad!”

Michonne places a hand on Rick’s shoulder when she hears him sigh and prepare himself, “Don’t-”

“She’s dead! Trust me. She. Is. Dead. If you’re seeing her like I see your mother, then she is not alive anymore!”

It goes silent, a few birds fly overhead with calls of their scratchy language. Even in the open surrounded by trees it has never felt more claustrophobic than ever for the Grimes family.

Carl stiffens at the mention of his mother, the woman that birthed and nutured him through his pre-teen years. The woman he eventually ended up killing.

Rick takes his silence as an opportunity, “Let her go, Carl. That’s my only advice.”

Tears form in his lashline as he stares back at him dad, and the sheriff’s hat against his head has never felt more heavy than in this moment.

“But everyone saw Mum’s body.”

Rick has never turned around quicker than in that moment. The mention of his lovers lifeless body, deep cut in her lower stomach flashes under the glaze in his eyes and Rick swears he can see a white dress move through the treeline.

Carl continues, “We saw Mum’s body,” His voice trembles and he sniffs, “I knew she was dead more than anyone else here.”

It’s deathly silent. Everyone knows what he’s referring to, and everyone is scared shitless to say anything to either of them. Rick takes a deep breath, but doesn’t speak.

A droplet rolls down Carl’s pale cheek, and he looks down to ensure no one saw him wipe it away, “We haven’t seen hers. Until we see her body, I’m keeping her jacket. But when we find her, she’s gonna have it back.”

Rick only nods lightly, picking up the supplies he agreed to carry.

Nobody makes any objections to continuing to move further up the road - towards Alexandria.

-—-

You have never felt so close before. Yes, they were extremely suspicious and afraid of Aaron and his husband, Eric. Having been tricked into a cannibal house just a week ago does that to a group of people.

But walking up yet another road, littered with lifeless corpses of walkers with bullets making their brains paint the pavement. Carl knows only one thing.

He has never been this sure that he was going to find you.

Aaron is rattling on about what facilities they had. Running water, heating, electricity. Promises of necessaries they haven’t heard of for years now.

His dad is on edge, not particularly fond of the idea, but he knew that everyone was so tired and burnt out that they needed just the idea of a safe place to be just to bring more motivation to themselves.

So far, Aaron’s words of a 15 foot, metal wall that bordered Alexandria and protected the insiders was true, and Carl begins to feel more energetic and hopeful than before.

Carol notices this, and questions the boy, “What’s up, Carl?” She looks at him, and he looks back.

“She’s here, I know it.” He replies and then looks forward again, walking ahead of her.

Carol furrows her brows and decides to take harder and longer looks at the walkers on the floor.

The group arrive at the large, metal gate. The journey felt like hours for each of them, but extra long for Carl. He was antsy, and fully compliant to anything any of them told them to do. If Aaron or Eric told them to stop, he would. If they told him to go find a bird, kill it and bring it back, he would.

The gates finally screech open, Carl feels as if his heart is going to burst open. An alarm sounds in the back of his head but not one of worry, but one of intuition that told him she was here.

He looked into the gated community as the gate opened fully, and felt alienated as soon as he entered with his group. They were dirty, hair knotty and unclean against the pristine and organised residents of Alexandria.

People poke their heads out of houses and stare, smiling or looking upon them with apathy. Every face Carl doesn’t recognise.

They get told to hand over their weapons. Their refusal is argued, and eventually they give in. It’s hesitated and unsettling seeing all their guns and knifes piled onto a trolley.

Carl is the second to last person to place anything on the trolley, his handgun is held in his hands tightly as he walks over to the collection, placing it down and reaching for his knife-

“Carl?”

It’s a voice further along the pathway into Alexandria, and he looks up in slight confusion.

His blue eyes meet hers, they’re as recognisable as ever. Finally.

His body is practically overflowing with emotion - relief, joy, sadness and the most overpowering feeling of love.

The knife clatters to the floor, there are hands reaching for him, tugging on his clothes to hold him back and the leaders that he didn’t care to remember the names of tell him to stay put.

Instead he runs. It’s a run of desperation. He’s afraid that if he doesn’t run fast enough, you’ll disappear again in the aftermath of an explosion. You’re running too, a hand against your mouth to cover sobs.

The two of you meet halfway, arms wrapping around eachother as a form of physical touch to ensure that the other that this is real.

“You’re alive,” Carl whispers, breathing heavily and clutching the back of your head that was pressed against his chest, “I knew it.”

You’re both crying, holding eachother in a tight, cathartic embrace that released any inkling of doubt that the others heart wasn’t beating.

Carl’s hands clamber to hold you face in his hands again. You let him, raising your head to look into his eyes. He runs his thumbs against your soft skin, scanning your face.

His head lowers, yours lifts, and your lips meet in a greeting that was way past it’s due date. Eyes closed, experiencing something that has only been a dream for so long. You didn’t care that his lips were chapped, he didn’t care that yours were slightly cut up from you biting at the dead skin there.

It’s messy, teeth clashing and your noses bump one or two times, but all that you care about is that he’s here, and that he finally found you.

You pull apart, and your eyes fly open to witness his still closed like he was still in shock. His lashes flutter, and you make eye contact once again.

There’s a sense of melancholy realisation that slowly ebbs through him. The fact he hadn’t been there to witness you grow up alongside him during the time you were apart. He admires the change in your facial structure, features from before stronger and more prominent to show that you had grown up.

“You’re just as beautiful as I remembered,” His thumb wipes away a few of your tears and rolls over a small scar that streches up from your jawline to your cheekbone and his eyebrows furrowed in slight worry, “What happened?”

You press yourself further against his palms, relishing in the feeling of him again, “I survived, Carl.”

His name has never sounded so good before. His brain feels funny, his heart floating as he pulls you in for another kiss. It’s less messy this time, not that either of you care.

Carl pulls away again as he’s reminded of his mission, his forehead against yours, “Your jacket,” He gives you peck, and departs again, “I have your jacket.”

His hands leave your face to pull the rucksack of his back, and in panting breaths you gasp softly as he pulls the red fabric out of the bottom of the brown bag, holding it out to you.

“I cleaned it, sewed up the bullet hole,” He holds it up, showing the messy threading, “It’s not the best-”

He’s cut off by you taking it from him with a sniffle, pressing it against your heart and clutching it.

“I love you, Carl.” Your voice trembles, and he smiles, pressing a kiss against your forehead, brushing a few loose strands of your hair from your face.

“I love you too.”

You unzipped the red jacket, struggling to get it on; Carl moves forwards to help you slide it on over your arms again.

Where it rightfully belongs.

-—-

#*{ ‘. florawrites<3 #carl grimes x reader #the walking dead #carl grimes #twd #angst #the walking dead x reader #fluff #twd fluff #twd angst

[florvaine]

bakugou katsuki in denial ;) warnings: none, reader is mentioned to have a telekinesis quirk (im obsessed with the idea of telekinesis atm) genre: fluff, headcannon-type-thing notes: take this draft from months ago as i try finish the first chapt. of brutal <3 mwah love you guyssssss!!

totally-not-crushing!katsuki bakugo who angrily denies accusations denki and mina throw at him, asking the ashy-haired boy if his lingering eyes and slightly kinder actions towards you were intentional. he’s yelling pretty loudly, calling the two of them names in the empty common room of heights alliance, and it’s no surprise that denki called kirishima down for backup.

totally-not-crushing!katsuki bakugo who gets tired of being interviewed, so he storms out of the common room with his hands deep in the pockets of his grey joggers. his expression is aggressive, a dangerous snarl on his face and with his thin eyebrows pinched together.

the moment totally-not-crushing!katsuki bakugo gets into his dorm room he collapses onto the sheets of his head, hands behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling with vermilion eyes.

he doesn’t like. he hates you. he hates your stupid hero costume that’s a perfect mix of tactical and cute, he hates the way your hair looks good 24/7, he hates the way you give him genuine smiles that reach your pretty (e/c) eyes, scrunching them. he hates how attractive he finds it when you get serious.

totally-not-crushing!katsuki bakugo who despises the twisting and churning of his stomach, the heavy beating of his heart, and the amount of focus he has to place into not accidentally setting off his quirk when he’s near you.

he hates how he goes all out on you during sparring because he knows you can hold your own against him. he hates how funny you are even if it’s unintentional, the fact that he hides his grins behind his hand when you say a joke. he hates the way his eyes immediately go to search for you in a sea of people, or whenever someone mentions your name he’s suddenly intently listening in.

totally-not-crushing!bakugo who, 5 minutes after clambering onto his bed, pulls his phone out to search up the symptoms he’s having. of course, he knows how the human body reacts when the person likes someone, but he would sleep easier if google tells him it’s something else.

totally-not-crushing!bakugo who slams his phone onto his bedside table with gritted teeth once scanning a few answers and articles about ‘how to know if you like someone’ from this bullshit reporter and writer.

totally-not-crushing!bakugo who has to actively avoid looking at you, he's hyper aware of everywhere his eyes move and if he even sees a glimpse of you (h/c) hair he's going to turn bright red. too bad for him, there's practical hero studies today!

and it seems you had some adjustments made to your costume - a whole new design and colour scheme that better suited your quirk and a big hood that covered your head. oh, and the same style of boots that he has - you even said that you got the idea from him!

trying to ignore your whispers with mina at the back of the group, he listens in at aizawa groups everyone in pairs for the practical exercise. and it was just his luck that totally-not-crushing!bakugo was grouped with you.

he wanted to yell in disagreement, but as soon as he saw you walking up to him, totally-not-crushing!bakugo saw the look on your face as you rattled on about ideas of what faux villains you two were up against, and he swallowed down his shouts. instead, he plasters on a disinterested face and hums along with your words.

turns out, the two of you are quite a duo. with your telekinesis, the two of you could rescue the dummy civilians and safely bring them to the safety in a matter of seconds, and he kept any threat at bay - both on the ground and in the sky.

totally-not-crushing!bakugo who gave you probably one of the kindest compliments he's even given that year - 'you're not the most useless, i guess,' and he even squeezed in a hesitant 'good job' at the end. but you barely heard it from behind his clenched teeth.

and you just looked so happy that he had been nice for once, and instead of commenting on the struggle to say the praise, you smile at him with those dimples, sipping water from a plastic cup provided to you by momo, and thank him.

totally-not-crushing!bakugo who feels a strange feeling in his chest and gut when you comment on the fact that the two of you made a good team, and should probably try work together in the future.

and he's actually going to sleep with a tiny, minuscule smile on his face thinking about the both of you creating agencies, and partnering up when you're both capable heroes.

still, you wont get the number one spot, he wasn't willing to give that up.

...yet.

#*{ ‘. florawrites<3 #x reader #mha x reader #my hero academia #mha #fluff #bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #mha bakugou #bnha bakugou #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugou #bakugo katsuki #dynamight #fanfiction #anime fanfic #anime x reader

[florvaine]

pretty kitty.

Hobie is a little a little too excited to see you at another robbery. (afab! black cat! reader)

genre: fluff, nsfw mentions

warnings: nsfw mentions, teasing, swearing, stealing, throat grabbing, binding (is that the right word?).

-—- “WE AIN’T DOIN’ THIS AGAIN, DOLLFACE,” His raspy, London accent rings around the large jewellery store, “We both know you don’t like hidin’ from me, yeah?”

With his mask now pulled off of his face, wicks bouncing free from the confines of the spikey-mohawk on top of his mask, he looks around with his hands in his leather jacket’s pockets. He twitches his nose, spinning around in his spot a few times - slowly surveying the area.

Hobie was, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, waiting for another call in of a robbery. With the chance of it being you that he had to ‘take down’. Something in the way you seemed almost fueled by his remarks, or the way your hips swayed with each calculated step, he knew why you were called ‘Black Cat’.

Sly, quiet, flexible and complete and utter bad luck.

But if you were bad luck, why weren’t his senses going haywire?

A silky voice responds, “But where’s the fun in that? I’d rather hide in plain sight and watch you try find me like a little puppy.”

Hobie has to stop his lashes from fluttering close, looking up to meet eyes with you. Underneath the black latex mask (that he regularly made fun of; ‘why have a mask if it doesn’t cover anything?’ He’d say) your e/c eyes crinkled as you smile.

“C’mon, as much as I love the idea of takin’ from the rich, you gotta return that shit.” Hobie points at the black velvet bag dangling from your belt.

You pout, and the man almost feels bad, “I thought you liked our little run-ins, you seemed pretty eager to come,”

Hobie’s mind goes straight into the gutter; he suppresses a groan.

You drop down from the ceiling, upright and running a finger along his jawline from your close proximity, “What about a chase, hm? You like those.”

Hobie’s held tilts in the direction your finger runs, a thin, silver point making it’s way along his supple skin and tracing his adam’s apple, whilst your e/c eyes look up at him. His tongue runs against his lip ring, the hoop shifting slightly.

“Will that get you to return everything, kitty?” His eyes lower to your lips, back up to your eyes and then they closed tightly with a hiss as you left a miniscule cut beside his adams apple.

His burnt-auburn eyes open again, and now you’re in the doorway across the room, leaning against it with the velvet pouch in your hand. A golden-banded ring with a large diamond in the middle is plucked between your thumb and pointer finger. Your eyes drag across the shimmering jewellery and flicker up to him.

The ring is now back in the bag, and you take of running with a chuckle. It’s around this time Hobie sighs, a smirk on his lips as he yanks his mask back on, a web sticking above the doorway to accelerate his speed.

The jewellery store is open, but practically everything inside is fragile. He notes this, a few extra layers of precaution filter through his body, checking his movements before he does anything.

A streak of black from your form-fitting suit dances across his vision through the door to the left of the hallway you were previously in. The sound of a hollow metal rings through his ears before he enters after you, and he stops at the sight of three metal barrels on the floor.

Ahead of him, turning around from him with a grin on your face, you turn around and continue running away from him. A flight of stairs ascends from the end of the hallway, exactly where you’re headed.

He huffs, vaulting over them, “Really? Barrels? God, that’s cliché of you.” He snarks quietly, outstreching his hand as a thick string of web shoots out towards you.

The web misses, splatting against the wall to the right of your body at shoulder height.

“All you got, Hobie?” You say. His name rolls off the tip of your tongue, and it sounds like music to his ears.

The man bites back a quip, aiming and shooting another web in your direction

The thwip of his web is the first thing you hear, and then it’s the feeling of it latching onto your forearm as your tugged backwards.

A small sound is released from your lips and you lean backwards to try break, but only to go against the his web on the other side of you. The bag is clutched in your free hand, and the drawstring to the pouch is quickly moved to dangle out of your teeth as you use the silver claws on the tips of your fingers to cut the web.

It works, but rather slowly as Hobie’s a lot closer to you now. You pull the drawstring back into your right hand, turning back around and dodging another web that he shot your way.

“We always do this, Y/n. It always ends the same.” He calls, and the exciting thing is you knew exactly what it meant.

With extra fuel, you reach and open the door ahead with ease, looking back to see Hobie just seconds away from the door. He slings yet another web in your direction, but you close the door just in time.

The web hits the doorframe and the door, sticking it together - and with all the speed he had gained - Hobie couldn’t slow down in time.

A loud bang follows you shutting the door, and you wince, jogging up the stairs with the clicking of your chunky heeled boots. The jewellery clinks with each step you take.

Hobie’s spitting curses as he pulls at the webbing on the door, and a thought passes your mind. Eyes looking back at the door at the bottom of the stairs, you smile.

The taller of the two of you finally manages to pry the door open, his mask discarded in his pocket as blood drips down from his right nostil.

He takes a breath, then bolts up the stairs with something new shining behind his eyes.

“Kitty,” He calls once he passes the open door that lead to the roof.

It’s a clear night, and the jewellery store is beside and opposite over taller buildings with less pretty exterior. The stars are bright, the moon in a waxing crescent. Fresh air and the sounds of cars below filter through the air.

His hands aren’t in his pockets rather dangling at his side, and there’s blood spilling from his nose, running over each indent and crack in his lips and smudged at his chin. Eyes squinted slightly, he catches sight of you crouched on the edge of a railing.

You turn to run, but his web is faster. A new force applied to both of your wrists drags you back, a squeal leaving your mouth as you’re pulled towards him. Your back meets his chest, and you huff with a small smile, trying to hide your enjoyment.

His hand raises to your throat, a gentle squeeze that left your mind running circles. His tilts your head upwards, and you meet his gaze.

“You see what ya’ve done, hm?” His eyes scan yours before they move to your wrists bound behind your back.

Something about that picture causes a reaction in his lower stomach.

You hum, “I can see it, looks pretty hot to me.” Voice husky and low, you reply.

“Might look hot but it hurts a lot, dollface.” He trails his other hand across your forehead, moving a few loose strands back behind your ears.

“You should see someone for that, get some painkillers.”

“Why don’t you distract from the pain, huh? I don’t have any painkillers on me now, but you’re right here. Plus, you did this to me.” His hand lowers from your throat to the base of you neck, and with your wrists still bound, he lowers his head down to the place where your shoulder and neck meet.

His lips kiss gently at the skin, before he bites and nibbles at each free spot of skin you had on show above your collarbones. Each time his lips meet the flesh of your neck you let out a sound - a groan, a breath or a light moan.

Through your rushing thoughts and whispered sounds you speak, “You know the bag is in the stairway, right?”

He hums against your skin, tongue running over his most recent hickey like a cat grooming itself.

“I did, I saw it,” His mouth moves up to your ear to whisper, “I just wanted you.”

His lips meet yours, and the taste of metal fills your senses. His lip ring is cool against your warming connection, and you can feel his tongue sliding against your lips to tease you. You can feel his hips roll forwards into you, and you activity have to stop yourself from whimpering as you feel him.

“This is gonna be a long night, ain’t it, kitty?” He whispers against your lips.

-—-

#*{ ‘. florawrites<3 #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown x you #across the spiderverse #atsv hobie #spiderman x reader #atsv fanfiction #hobie brown #female reader #fluff #smut?

[florvaine]

silver spikes and pastel ribbons.

headcannons of Hobie with an opposite aesthetic gf. (afab! reader)

genre: mainly fluff, slight angst, nsfw(?)

warnings: little nsfw if you squint, crying, some kid gets a car lobbed at him 😭

i imaginee the two of you actually met at one of his gigs 🫶🏻

He was on the stage, flicking his roughened fingertips on each string on his guitar, a harsh rift sounding through the amp on the edge of platform as he moves his hand further up the fretboard.

Then he looks in the crowd, right by the barrier of sweaty, headbanging and most likely hammered fans, and you’re right there.

Directly in front of him, pressed against the metal-barred barrier that security was struggling to keep people from hopping over.

What caught him off guard wasn’t only the fact you were fuckin’ gorgeous, but the fluttery, light pink dress that was just above the middle of your thighs. White lace trimmed the v-shaped neckline that was held up by thin, spaghetti straps.

Strips of silky ribbon cascade from the wrap around your waist, dangling pearls and a small-chain necklace decorate your collarbones and shimmer like the sheen of sweat that held stray hairs against your temples and your forehead.

And your shoes - a pair of white, glossy, open-toed high heels that added a few extra inches to your height (Hobie secretly wanted to give you a few other inches), but even with them Hobie could still tell from the stage that he was way taller than you.

He misses a single strum of his guitar, so he temporarily redirects his attention back to the gig, his hickory eyes still wandering over to you from under his mask.

100% got the security to practically hunt you down so you could meet him backstage.

He’s a little anxious because they were taking a while, and he’s slightly disappointed at the thought you already left.

But then there’s a knock at the door and one of the security guards speaks muffled through his private backstage room.

“Hobie, got the girl you were askin’ for.”

The rest is history, really. You were officially dating after 7 painfully long months.

You got along well, even if everything else about each other was contrasting, you’re political ideals, music taste and humour are practically a copy and paste.

The two of you get undoubtably get some stares.

A man clad in black leather and silver spikes and a woman dressed like a doll stood out a lot against the Nike trackies of London.

“Everyone’s staring, Hobie.”

“Ignore ‘em, hun. They’re pissed JD is shut.”

Every now and then he takes you to a more quiet, downtown street with a collection of thrift stores and craft shops.

Hobie’s definitely caught in Hobbycraft at least twice a week 😭😭

Literally loves your style - everything from your jewellery to the way you get your nails done.

He’s whipped ‼️

Loves everything about you, but especially your hair.

If you wear wigs he’s helping you install it, if you have naturally curly hair he’s taking note of each step for later on, he reads the labels of every hair product you own.

I feel like he has a thing for curly hair idk why I just get the vibe.🤭

Hobie definatly told Pav and Gwen about you when you first met, like the next day he’s at the Spider Society talking even more than usual.

“She was stunnin’, I’m tellin’ ya’ now. Really nice eyes,” He turns away from them and mutters under his breath, “And tits.”

Gwen smirks, “You’ve told us, I’m pretty sure.” She nudges Pav, and he’s giggling like an excited schoolgirl.

“Never thought I’d see Hobie have a full-blown crush!” Pav comments.

Hobie hums, a small smile on his face as he stares infront of him. Gwen and Pav share a look before they imitate the way he looks - like a lovestruck idiot.

It’s funny with one of you in the other’s room - Hobie, dressed in dark blues and blacks with an overall threatening aura just sat on your pretty pink bedsheets in your floral-scented room.

Sometimes you’ll randomly go on a tangent about a new dress or concert tickets whilst doing something else, and you’re convinced he’s uninterested.

Next time he’s at yours he had that new dress in a silk scarf wrap, or he pulls the tickets out of one of his pockets.

You’re in the kitchen of your apartment, stirring the milk into your tea as Hobie scrapes butter onto two slices of toast you had put in.

When he’s finished, he slides the plate over to you before leaning back on the counter and looking at your over his shoulder.

“Thanks, Bee,” You pick up the plate, moving it closer to you for easier access to the toast.

There’s two rectangular, shimmery-sheened tickets underneath the circular plate.

You’re shocked, looking at the ticket now in your hand, eyes moving from the words and numbers printed onto it and your boyfriend.

“Hobie, you didn’t have to!” You say.

“You said that ya’ wanted to see them, so I got us tickets.” He shrugs, a small proud smirk on his lips.

Movie nights every Friday after dinner 💕

Sometimes he has to leave early or he shows up later on, but he makes up for the time lost by bringing you your favourite food and drink from the local corner shop.

If you’re in college or uni, he will swing in every break and check in on you and everything.

When it comes to cuddling, he’s the big spoon 95% of the time unless he had a really shitty day.

Like really shitty.

It’s not very often Hobie crys, and even when he does it’s not for very long.

The man prides himself in being Spider-Punk, saving civilians whilst preaching his beliefs to his followers that feel more like a family than fans.

He can only hold on so long, and it’s only a matter of time before he can’t save someone.

Sure, the little boy wasn’t dead, he was in hospital after a car had been carelessly tossed into him by the anomaly he was supposed to contain.

After visiting the boy in hospital, chanting apologies and ‘get well soon’s like a broken record, he goes to the first place he can think of.

Yours.

There was something so special, so serene and comforting in the confines of your cluttered shelves and organised wardrobe pressed against the walls of your bedroom.

Hobie knew it wasn’t the room, but it was you.

You, so different and relaxing. Calming and exciting, understanding and motivating. Anywhere was safe if you were there.

He swings through shadowed alleys, reaching your apartment over the bustling roads and honking horns of the cars below.

Hobie perches on your small balcony, and taps on the window.

In his reflection, Spider-Punk looks back at him. Strong, unbeatable, selfless and stubborn. But as he pulls the mask off, the fabric hanging limp like a ragdoll cat in his had, Hobie Brown stares back at him.

Tattered, exhausted, overwhelmed and in desperate need to be in your arms.

The window opens. His mental image of himself splits away as soon as he sees your face.

“Rough night?” You ask, voice slightly raspy and muffled, yet still as soothing as hot tea and honey on a sore throat.

The routine begins when Hobie nods. He clambers in, he takes off his boots and jacket and leaves them by your desk, his mask discarded somewhere beside them.

You pull out one of his white, soft cotton shirts from your dresser, and a pair of dark grey shorts. He gets changed, you make a cup of tea.

Then he cries. Salty droplets of embodied sorrows paired with the pinch of his eyebrows and the slight quiver of his bottom lip.

Each time a tear drips down his soft cheeks you wipe it away with your equally as soft hands, smearing the liquidated sadness into his now clumpy lashes.

You count sixteen droplets this time before he stops, and you stand up to offer the silk scarf he wrapped your gifted babydoll dress in, and he takes it before wrapping the coarse, black wicks that topped his head.

And then he’s curling his back against your chest, holding the hand of your arm that loosely covers his waist.

Their consciousness fades into two seperate slumbers. A comforting silence drapes over the two lovers, knowing that the other will be there when they awake.

-—-

#*{ ‘. florawrites<3 #hobie x you #hobie brown x reader #hobie headcanons #hobart brown #into the spider verse #spider man: across the spider verse #x reader #spider punk #spiderman x reader

[florvaine]

giggling and kicking my feet at the thought of old-school love with shoto todoroki <33.

he’s sneaking out of his house to see you late at night just to cuddle up with you laying your head on his chest in your bed, no need for blankets because he’s using a small amount of his fire quirk to keep the two of you warm.

there’s no phones, so he’s sending letters to you everyday. even if you’ve seen him and spoke to him, you still receive a long letter, delicate words carved out in black ink, crafted his love for you into words with his bare hands. they’re tied with twine, a small, pressed flower encased inside the careful folds of the yellowing paper.

every week there’s a new bouquet at your doorstep. even when the two of you were in u.a, and he was slightly more reserved, your parents would still bring up a vase with a smile and comment on him being sweet. nowadays, he would knock on your door and give them to you personally.

every now and then he’s purchasing clothes or products for you - this can range from a dress you were eyeing up in the window of a yellow-walled shop, or a pair of loose slacks you mentioned months ago. perfumes that remind him of you, jewellery that, in his words, ‘don’t even come close to being as beautiful as you are’.

you want to see a new movie? he’s got you, and he’s brought all the snacks the two of you can ever want. casual bike rides? once you stop at the top of the hill, he’s not looking at the breathtaking view of the tiny town, but instead your face and the look of tranquility in your eyes. new vinyl you want? it’s wrapped in a brown-paper with a short note taped to it.

your laugh is contagious, as well as your smile. he’s showed more tenderness when he met you, his sister noticed.

the rain doesn’t stop him nor you, either. todoroki would happily run down drenched streets with you, hand in hand and twirling you so the hem of your soaked dress flows upwards at the movement. and then he’s pulling off his jacket to drape over your soggy torso.

he’d 100% place his coat down on a puddle so you could walk over it without dirtying your new scarlet heels.

and by god does he swear that he is the happiest, luckiest man in the world when he proposes to you.

“will you marry me, let me be your husband?” and then he’s sliding the indestructible metal loop on your ring finger with a tear-soaked kiss to your knuckles afterwards. there’s a shimmering gem, your favourite gemstone, that you mentioned once nearly a year into your relationship.

the wedding is extravagant. he took care of the venue after you talked about where you wanted it to be. besides, it was both of your days - but mainly yours.

he cried happy tears when he sees you, clutching a bouquet of red, white and grey flowers in a floral, silky wedding dress with a trail that tsu and ochako have to hold up so you can walk. your veil is long and lacy, but he can still see your face and styled hair. even katsuki can’t hold back a quivering smile.

the vinyls he gifts you get used, after moving into a cosy little cottage house on a hill with a open, emerald garden with acres of apple and peach trees. the two of you sharing glass after glass of port as the music blasts from the corner of the room. and then, he’s whisking you up from your seat on the sofa and you’re slow dancing. todoroki noses at your cheek and you can feel him smiling as he presses his lips against yours in a wine-tasting kiss.

but he’s scared when the doctors bring up the chance of you being pregnant. as frightened as he is at the idea, he’s by your side every step of the way. at your bedside whilst your in labour, letting you cut all circulation off from his fingers and shout curses at him.

and he waits patiently as his little girl is being cleaned and wrapped up, using his ice to cool you down, his hankercheif to wipe sweat off your face and tucking baby hairs behind your ears, kissing your forehead and muttering sweet nothings of encouragement.

when he holds your daughter, he swears that for as long as he was alive, she would not have a father like his.

and even after the time changes, as his daughter grows up, he still finds himself more enchanted with you by the day. he finds himself admiring every forming wrinkle on your face, the silky silver strands in your hair. but your eyes are as gorgeous as ever, and you still have the spark that you did when you were younger.

once your daughter leaves for collage, a bittersweet goodbye, the two of you move. and now the two of you are that sweet elderly couple that sit together in rocking chairs on the porch, overlooking and waving with smiles at others going through the same.

“(y/n)?”

“yes, love?”

“do you want to go on a walk through the park? i heard it’s delightful during autumn.”

“of course, give me a minute to grab my coat, hun.”

old love with todoroki shoto <333.

#*{ ‘. florawrites<3 #fluff #mha #mha x reader #my hero academia #my hero academia fanfiction #x reader #shoto todoroki x reader #todoroki x reader #todoroki shoto x reader #bnha x reader #bnha #anime #anime fanfic #anime x reader

[florvaine]

Mercy, my Dearest. | Q!Quackity

q!quackity/d!quackity x fem!reader

genre: angst-ish, general.

warnings: blood, gore, implied murder/suicide, implied torture, many names for (y/n).

notes: this is a chapter from a qsmp x fem!oc thing i was going to post on AO3, but i wasn’t 100% sure on if i was gonna finish the whole story and decided not to post it. of course, if enough people ask i can cross-post to AO3, or keep posting here! just thought id post it rather than letting it just rot away lol ❤️

Quackity had been having reoccurring lucid dreams. Or nightmares.

It typically begins in an entirely different world. One where he's stood beside a man on a podium, the two of them in black suits and ties. Every time Quackity glanced up to try to distinguish who he was, the man's face held no features. Just a blank expanse of skin fitted over a skull. Even with the censorship to his face, the man's curling ram horns were the most recognisable thing about him. The man stood with such confidence, such suave that Quackity was sure he'd fall for whatever he was preaching if he could hear him.

Once he gathered himself, Quackity would look into the crowd of people below them. He'd make eye contact with people who furrowed brows and held burning pools of hatred in their eyes as they looked up at him and the man. They're lined in wonky rows of deepslate chairs, cushioned by black velvet seats, some of them didn't sit, opting to stand for whatever reason they had.

When the man beside him is speaking, saying words muddled to make phrases, the crowd's face contort into looks of despair and disbelief. Quackity could never hear the words clearly, a few minor ones coming out in echoes like he was in a cavern or void, but other than that the only noise made was mumbles from the other people and the man behind the microphone - and his voice, of course.

It doesn't matter what he does to try to wake up - pinch himself, drown himself, scream, exit the stage, jump off headfirst, push the man off in the middle of his speech, slamming his own or someone else's head into the stone floor, using the (blunt) stone sword in his inventory to carve his heart out - no matter what, he'd always end up here.

It would always come back to this.

"You lost yourself again," The girl reshuffles the cards, bringing him back into whatever reality he was currently in, "What's wrong?"

They're in a room: polished, spruce plank floors, an elegant chandelier hanging from nothing above the poker table they were sitting at, and stone brick walls that towered higher than his eyes could see. The scarlett velour cover of the dark oak table contrasts the slight darkness luring in the corners of the room. Two dark oak chairs with dark red cushions sat opposite one another at the heads of the betting table. There was a crystal glass beside him with a sphere of ice in it, whisky poured a fingernail away from the rim, and a wine glass that was half-full with some kind of concoction that changed every time he returned here. This time it seemed as if she had red wine, though it looked a little too viscous and left an orange tint on the rim when she'd placed it back down. Last time she had what seemed to be liquid gold, swirling the shimmering liquid as if to lure him in.

The woman has never disclosed her real name, saying she went by many in her life. Bia, Asteria, Nemesis, Medusa and Andarta and others. She had (s/c) skin that glittered silver in the candlelight from the chandelier, and the tips of her fingers looked as if they had been dipped in soot, yet almost seemed transparent. She wore the skull of a Nightmare Stalker, a horrifying creature that followed its targets at night under cover of invisibility with two white, glowing dots for eyes. Her (h/c) hair has a thick strand of pure white, root to tip, at the front of her head. She always has it pulled back into a half-up, half-down style, a loose strand or two dangling in front of the skull. The deep eye sockets from the skull hide hers' in a cast of shadow, every time Quackity has to look into them he is unnerved by the void where her eyes should be seen, pinpricks pass along his nerves and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

She's always in the same clothing, a dark navy sequin dress with a slit that runs up her left thigh and silver, polished heels with light beige undersides. Silver jewellery decorated her wrists as bangles, on her neck pearls hung from dainty chains like rain droplets on her collarbones. A band of gold the width of his thumbnail wrapped around her upper arm like a snake. Hoops and gems dangled from her ears in a delicate dance of wealth. She wore two rings on her ring fingers: on her left was a silver band with a considerably big emerald tucked into it, and on her right hand a golden ring with a diamond the same size.

Every time she has the full deck of cards in front of her and never dished them out to play. She'd sit there and mix and fiddle with the flimsy sheets of card, tapping them with long, sharp, sparkly champagne-coloured nails.

She flickered through them again, his eyes immediately redirecting to look at the cardistry she executed.

"Nothing's wrong," He replies, his voice uneven. He can tell his words didn't convince her. At least they created some kind of comfort for himself.

The woman slides the cards facing upwards into a slightly curved semicircle in front of her, "I'm not stupid. You're thinking about something or someone?" The cards flip over methodically so the backs are facing up again as she moves her hand underneath them.

Quackity swallows the lump forming in his throat - the one she'd slit before. As much as the woman claims to be on his side, to want to help him, he cannot bring his mind to trust her. His heart says differently. He knows it does from the way it calms whenever he notices he's sat opposite her. It's a sense of familiarity, like seeing an old friend that moved away decades ago and reconnecting: at the same time it panics the man.

Because this was not someone he knew. Quackity knows little to nothing about this woman. Not her name, not where she came from, not how she keeps appearing and having full conversations with him in his dreams. He has never seen this woman a day in his life.

Whoever 'Bia' or 'Andarta' or 'Phoebe' was, was unknown. She was not someone he recognised. She was not something he should recognise.

His hands furl and unfurl underneath the table, "I'm just confused. Who are you, like, actually?"

"I believe you're asking the wrong questions, Alexis."

Quackity almost flinches at the name. His lips parted slightly as he drew in a breath of air so cold he feared it would freeze his lungs. The feeling of disturbance and disbelief filters through him from his brain, his hands clenching so hard that red crescents appear on his calloused palms. Everything seems to move, the room spins and the chandelier sways in a way that the black-haired man feared would send it crashing down on the table.

His heart acts as a fastening beat, blood circling his ears like a sickening backing track, "How…"

It panicked him when she knew his alias, the one that hovered over his head like a half-transparent halo. How did she know his actual name, the one he kept so close to his chest, in a chest under lock and key? He hadn't told anyone his real name, yet the woman opposite him seemed to know every little detail about him, from the bold headline to the fine print at the bottom. It was as if she had built him herself. Knew everything about him from his biggest, truest fear to his favourite plant.

The woman smiles underneath the shadow of the skull. The chains - decorated in silver charms and tumbled gems - that ran from the ends of the horns from the skull to the inside of the eye sockets clinked during the movement of her tilting her head upwards. She collects the cards in a pile in front of her all facing the same way. Downwards.

"Who are you?" He presses with more demand, hands pressed into the table, "Surely I'd remember you if you were…"

She stops all movement and Quackity feels as if he's said something wrong. The air chills and the tension grows, much like the tension in her shoulders as she reers her head back slightly. The vignette that crowded in the corners of the rooms seemed to darken and close in on the table, making the room seem smaller.

'Bia' takes a breath of cold in, her voice even as she speaks, "If I was important?"

"I wasn't the one who said it." The man shrugged and lowered his gaze to the fabric of the table, not daring to look at her after such a belittling comment.

And when he falls short of being able to scan her face for prominent emotions, he hides the chill that locked his hands into tight fists.

"I thought you would've changed, this new version of yourself you're so proud of," She places the cards into a pile before her, "But I think I was wrong."

Quackity's face sours and he goes to speak, but is cut off when she swiftly stands from her seat, sending it flying backwards to scrape against the floor. Her nails scrape against the wood of the table as she rounds it, stepping closer and closer with her heels clicking in a rhythm that he recognised.

His heart stuns as he catches sight of two glowing dots in the middle of her shadowed eye sockets, trained on him like a pair of trained snipers. His heart began beating faster than before, yet he felt as if his blood had run so cold it froze over. He didn't want to die again. Not to her. Not after the last time she dragged it on for so long.

"No, no, no. No, please, there has to be another way!" Quackity trips over himself clambering off the chair, his hands clammy as he presses himself into the corner of the room, "Please!"

She doesn't respond, the two dots stare back at him. He catches his reflection in her freshly polished netherite blade, the handle obsidian and trimmed with amethyst.

The man can only pray she makes it quick this time.

#*{ ‘. florawrites<3 #angst #x reader #fanfiction #quackity x reader #quackity x you #qsmp #qsmp x reader #qsmp quackity #dsmp quackity #fem reader #dsmp #c!quackity #q!quackity #q!quackity x reader #c!quackity x reader #female reader #x yn