#anyways i had to draw them too. not letting light and L have all the fun

[thelordofgifs]

In light of recent interesting discourse about Beren and Lúthien's Silmaril theft, and the Fëanorions' priorities in the lead-up to Nirnaeth and after, I started wondering how things might have changed if B&L had managed to steal two Silmarils rather than one. Would pulling the Union together be harder with only one jewel left to draw focus in Angband?

Then as soon as I thought about it some more, I realised the most inevitable path diverged earlier than that.

Then I started writing a fic, got 400 words in, and realised I wanted to actually figure out what happened first. So here's a half (or potentially a smaller fraction) of a sort of bullet point fic/plan/thing, which may or may not get properly written up later. First I need to work out where to go from here.

Angrist was forged by the greatest of the Dwarf-smiths in the master-workshops of Nogrod. It cuts two Silmarils from Morgoth's iron crown before the blade snaps, and Morgoth stirs in his enchanted sleep.

Beren passes one Silmaril to Lúthien, and they run for it.

Carcharoth still meets them, snarling, at the gate. Beren still holds out a Silmaril to ward him off. His hand still gets bitten off.

But when the Eagles come for them, and Lúthien clambers sobbing onto Thorondor's back, she clasps a Silmaril in her hand.

The Eagles bear them towards Doriath, and the Treelight undiminished shines out over Dorthonion and Gondolin.

In chilly Himring, Maglor is shaken awake from nightmares of fire and smoke by his eldest brother, who drags him out of bed and towards the window. "Look! Is that not a Silmaril that shines now in the North?"

Maglor recognises it, of course. Moreover, he recognises the size and shape of Eagles in flight, even at a distance. Recognises, too, that as often as not they bear doom itself upon their great feathered backs.

(His father's jewel stinging his Oath awake, his brother's emaciated bleeding body wrapped in Fingon's cloak - they all mean failure.)

"Thingol's daughter and the mortal must have succeeded," he says. "What can we do?"

Maedhros and Maglor, you see, are Not Happy with the news out of Nargothrond.

That Celegorm wanted to force an elf-maid to wed against her will, after what they heard befell Aredhel—

That Curufin could turn against his favourite cousin, and betray him to his death—

"I am afraid," says Maedhros, "of what it will make us do. What it will make us become."

"We could ignore it," says Maglor, whose first response is always inaction. "Let it go to Doriath—" But it is hard even to finish the sentence, with the Oath choking his words.

And there is a bigger problem: Celegorm and Curufin, who are sleeping now (it is only Maedhros who can be relied upon to pace the fortress by night), will not do so forever. They have already attacked Thingol's daughter once - will they do so again, before she can pass into the safety of her mother's Girdle?

"We have to get to Doriath before they do," says Maedhros, and wonders when his little brothers became the threat to be outpaced.

"And then what?" asks Maglor, who never shies from difficult questions.

Maedhros gives him one of his quick strange smiles. "This is how it works, you know," he says. "Huan has turned from Tyelko. Tyelpë has repudiated Curvo. It turns you into the worst version of yourself, and then it strips away the best thing you have left."

Maedhros has ridden out to claim a Silmaril before, and lost all of himself in the process.

Maglor, too, has been offered all he ever wanted - his dearest brother, returned to him - and turned away for the sake of the Oath he renewed at his father's deathbed.

They are both afraid of what they could become.

They ride out from Himring anyway, swiftly and secretly, before the dawn.

Meanwhile, Thorondor sets Beren and Lúthien down on Doriath's southern border.

Huan comes to join them, and with the power of the Silmaril, Beren is healed sooner than he might have been, otherwise.

The Quest is fulfilled. Beren has no reason to stay away from Thingol's house.

Instead of wandering in the wilds, the lovers return to Menegroth, present a Silmaril, and promptly get married.

Thingol is very surprised (and overjoyed) to see them; the last news he had of Lúthien was that she had vanished from Nargothrond.

In fact, he's just sent out a couple of messengers, led by Mablung Heavy-hand, with a scathing letter to Maedhros Fëanorion demanding his aid in finding the princess.

North of the Girdle: "Hey, isn't that Maedhros Fëanorion?"

"Sure is," says Mablung, who was at the Mereth Aderthad.

"Hail, Mablung of Doriath!" calls Maedhros, who never forgets a face. "What news from King Thingol?"

Well, there isn't news as such. Just... fury.

Maedhros considers the merits of keeping his cards close to his chest versus the dire diplomatic situation he's currently in, and opts to share what they saw from Himring, and what it bodes for Beren's success.

He decides not to share that Lúthien was definitely with Beren, which he knows because his brothers attacked her.

Maglor is not sure how stopping to chat with an Iathren marchwarden is going to get them closer to a Silmaril, but he isn't in the habit of arguing with Maedhros.

Anyway, before the conversation can wrap up, a marauding werewolf appears.

Right. Carcharoth.

The Iathrim make the sensible call and scramble up some trees. Maglor follows a beat later.

Noldor don't climb trees very often. It isn't one of the skills Maedhros has had cause to practice one-handed.

Not that it matters, because he's frozen where he stands, eyes wide and bright and thoughtful.

This is unusual. Maedhros would not be the most renowned warrior of the Noldor if he were constantly dissociating in the midst of battle.

He saves the dissociation for after the battle, thank you.

The wolf is almost upon him.

Well, thinks Maglor, about time I did some saving for a change.

Maglor is not Lúthien. Does he need to be? He knows enough about madness, and enough about torment. He knows how to sing the suffering to sleep.

He drops down from his perch to begin a lullaby.

Carcharoth slows down when he sings, and comes to a momentary halt, and Maglor takes the time to hiss, "Nelyo, run—"

"They burned him," Maedhros breathes, still with that bright faraway look in his eyes that means he is half-lost in memory. "His hands were black and ruined. No evil thing may touch them."

The wolf lunges.

[I want to kill Maglor off here but I'm a coward. so.]

Carcharoth savages Maglor's leg and he collapses.

That brings Maedhros back to himself.

Mablung and his party aren't heavily armed. They were only meant to be messengers, after all. They get a few shots in at the wolf, who runs off, still maddened.

Maglor isn't moving isn't talking and there's so much blood—

(to be continued)

#silmarillion #my fic #bullet point fic #beren #luthien #maedhros #maglor #I think I know what happens next #but not what that leads to #I had to look at a map for this do you know how traumatic that was #anyway turns out bullet point fic is quite fun to write #maedhros and maglor have entered leithian and derailed it #maybe fingon will make an appearance too #who knows I'm tired #what even is this actually #cw blood

[givemea-dam-break]

Hi!!!! Your L&C fics are my favorite thing ever, your writing is absolutely incredible, I'm a bit obsessed I think XDD

Apologies if this request is too specific, but I would die for a Lockwood x reader fic where the reader makes up their mind to do something stupidly reckless for a case, something even Mr. Reckless himself can't support, especially not when it's YOU. He begs you not to, you do it anyway, get badly injured, but he's still there to patch you up after all of it.

Have an awesome day!!!!!

a/n: my day is absolutely awesome so far, i hope yours is too!! and thank you so much, i'm so so glad you enjoy my stuff!! i hope you enjoy <3

warnings: language, injury gn reader

You knew the case was going to be a bad one from the get-go, you just didn't know how bad.

Everything had seemed fine when you and the other members of Lockwood and Co met with the clients, a pair of men who owned a nearby butcher's. A Type Two haunting the place, nothing you couldn't handle. George had even found a lot a decent information on the place that could help you guys figure out where the source was. The notion of it being in a butcher's made you uneasy, and you knew very little about the Type Two, though Lockwood was sure you'd all be fine.

But, standing in the shop, facing a ghost you can't see, you know you're fucked.

It's just your luck to be faced with a poltergeist, honestly.

Unlike other Visitors, poltergeists can't inflict ghost touch which, in the long run, is very handy. If ambulances can't get to agents on time to give them an adrenaline injection, then it can lead to loss of limbs or death. It sounds like a positive, right?

Well, staring at the carving knife floating a few feet away, you would much rather be faced with a Wraith or even a Rawbones.

The thing is, poltergeists have no physical form so it's harder to look for a source, hence George and Lucy scrambling around in the backroom, clattering about as they rush to look.

Ahead of you, the knife hovers in midair, its sharp, gleaming point slowly turning as if to decide which person to dart at: you, Lockwood, or Lucy and George. It's like a horrible version of Spin the Bottle.

"So, this lovely Visitor was the old butcher?" you say, keeping your voice light. Poltergeists feed off negative emotions even more than other Type Twos.

Lockwood nods, rapier in hand as he looks around the rest of the room, rooted in place. "That's what George says."

"What reason does it have to be haunting the place?"

"Killed by an angry employee, I think."

You hold back a grumble, forcing down your anger at stupid people from the past. If they'd known how many problems they'd cause in the future, would they still have been such idiots?

Probably.

"Watch your back then," you joke. "You have three employees. Keep us happy, will you?"

"There's only so much tea I can make."

The knife rises in the air slightly and you falter back a step as its sharp end points at you.

"I think I'm the favourite," you mutter, trying to keep your fear in check. It's not often ghosts threaten you at knifepoint. "Lockwood, you go help Lucy and George look for the source. I'll keep its attention."

"No way." He looks at you incredulously. "We're doing this together."

Palms sweating, you say, "Your rapier isn't going to do much against a ghost we can't see, and not all of us can look for the source because then none of us stands a chance."

"I'm not letting you face it on your own," Lockwood insists. "Not a chance. The thing's got a knife, and it can do much worse."

But Lucy shouts something from the backroom, drawing Lockwood's attention. Through the buzz of fear in your ears, you think she says they might've found something.

"Lockwood, go!"

"(name), I'm not just going to leave you to -"

The knife whizzes in the air, lodging itself in the wooden doorframe, awfully close to your shoulder. It's like the Visitor wants Lockwood to stay, but you aren't going to let him. He's the leader of Lockwood and Co, the face of it. The company needs him. But not you. You're expendable.

Your Talent isn't anything special, not like Lucy's, and your research skills are nowhere near the standard of George's. All you're good at is using a rapier and sweet-talking DEPRAC when cases go tits up. Lockwood can easily fill in for you.

"Lockwood," you grit out, trying to keep the frustration at a minimum. "Go."

He's about to argue, but George calls for help - whatever they've found is stuck. He doesn't move.

Before you can think about it, you rush over and shove him in the direction of the backroom, and he stumbles, falling into the door. He barely gets his footing before Lucy's dragged him through.

"(name)!" he shouts, but he doesn't appear. Thank god for Lucy.

"All right," you murmur, turning to look at the knife in the doorframe. "Just you and me, now, Polty."

Slowly, threateningly, the knife dislodges from the frame, shining in the dim lanternlight. From the far wall, a knife rack trembles on its hooks, and more come free. Your heart is in your throat. Maybe you'll end up like a ghost you've defeated before, an old man who'd been jumped and stabbed endlessly.

Hopefully, you'll be an easy ghost to get rid of.

The carving knife comes flying at you, and you barely deflect it with the thin blade of your rapier. Another knife darts across the room, and you duck out of the way, though it nicks your ear. You can feel the little dribble of blood sliding down the skin already.

"Do you guys mind hurrying up a bit?" you call, eyeing the large collection of knives hovering. "Not to rush you or anything, but, you know, I'm not the biggest fan of being threatened by knives."

"Almost there!" Lucy shouts. "George got his arm stuck trying to get the source out. We're trying to get him unstuck."

Swallowing, you say lightly, "Yeah, sounds fun. Maybe speed it up a little."

You can hear a little arguing, likely Lockwood trying to come back out to help but getting told off by Lucy. You almost smile. Almost.

This time, the small knife that launches at you catches your shoulder and you resist crying out in pain. If you do, Lockwood will definitely come running out, and you can't afford that. They need to get the source.

Blood oozes down your arm, staining your jumper. Your grasp on your rapier weakens, and you swap the blade into your other hand, although this hand is considerably worse with it.

"It's rude to stab people," you grumble.

The next knife is deflected clumsily from your face, half from the inability of using your other hand and half from the pain in your shoulder. You'd pull the knife out, but you know it'll make things worse. At least it hasn't hit anything vital.

You can feel the presence of the poltergeist, thick and hanging over the whole room like a blanket. It isn't the most powerful one, not like the ones you've heard Fittes agents dealing with, because, even though its presence is everywhere, its focus is dealt solely on you. If it were stronger, it'd be targeting the others, too.

"Go on then, give me your worst."

Another knife, another dodge. It feels like it goes on forever, on and on and on with the same knives over again. The blood from your shoulder has reached your hand now and, god, how you wish you could throw a salt bomb at this thing. Your fingers itch to hold one.

"Hurry up!"

Mistake. You regret speaking immediately, having let out a little too much frustration, and the poltergeist feeds on it. The knives tremble in the air, every point staring menacingly at you, and the one hanging in your shoulder tears out, bringing with it another gush of blood. You can't help the cry that escapes your lips this time.

"Get the silver net, hurry!" Lucy's voice shouts.

The world moves in slow motion. As the knives fly in your direction, gleaming, one covered in blood, your heart feels like it ceases all functions. This is where you die. You'll never be able to dodge all of them in time.

Then the first blade sinks into your shoulder, just inches below the first puncture, and you shut your eyes.

You'll miss Portland Row and your friends. Maybe you didn't cherish their antics enough - the way George sings in the shower in the mornings, waking you up, or how Lucy will blast music at full volume while hacking away at the dummies in the basement for rapier practice. Most of all, you'll miss Lockwood. His smile, the way his eyes sparkle when he realises you've bought him a new magazine from the shop, the feeling of his fingers brushing yours as he passes you a mug of tea after every case.

There isn't much you regret, but you regret not telling him how you feel about him. About the nights you spend thinking about him, wishing for something more between you both.

Metal slams to the ground. The heavy pressure sitting on your shoulders dissipates, and silence ensues.

Slowly opening your eyes, you startle, seeing a dozen knives scattered on the floor right in front of your feet. Droplets of blood drip from your fingers, forming a little puddle on the floor. You're breathing heavily, much more than you should be, and your body is trembling.

The others stumble into the room, eyeing the blades that have fallen before you. Lockwood is the first to notice the blood soaking the sleeve of your jumper.

He practically leaps over the counter to get to you. "Lucy, George, go get rid of the source and get us a night cab. Quick."

Wordlessly, the two sprint from the shop and into the night.

"You're okay," Lockwood says.

You almost believe him, falling for the assured tone of his voice, but you feel a little woozy. Knees buckling, you drop to the floor, but he catches you with gentle hands, slowly lowering you down so you can sit after kicking the knives away.

"You're okay," he says again, though it sounds like it's more for himself than for you.

"I'm fine," you say, smiling albeit weakly. "Polty didn't stand a chance."

"Polty?" Lockwood parts from your side, grasping his bag from the corner and digging in it for a first aid kit. "You named the ghost?"

Nodding, you lean your head back against the wall. "He was my best mate."

There's a small laugh. "I don't think Lucy will appreciate that sentiment."

He's beside you again before you can even really process it, gingerly touching the ripped hole in your jumper. There's a lot more blood there than you initially realised.

"Do you think you can get your jumper off?" Lockwood asks. "I need to see the cuts."

Normally, you would've made a comment at that, but your throat feels awfully dry. "Take the knife out first?"

He goes pale, eyeing the - thankfully - small knife stuck in your arm.

"This will hurt. Hold onto my arm."

And you do. You weakly wrap your hand around his forearm, bracing yourself for the pain. He begins to count down from three, but he yanks the knife out on one, and you shout in pain, squeezing his arm.

"You pulled it early!"

"You would've made it harder to get out if I'd counted down the whole way." He looks a little bad for doing it, but you can understand why he did it. "Jumper?"

With his help, you manage to pull the thing off, hissing as you move your injured shoulder. Your T-shirt is stained at the sleeve, too, and partially at the neckline. It stings to pull it from the wound, but, soon enough, the cuts are visible. They're neat little things, nothing more than small slits in your skin, but they go deep. Lockwood will only be able to do so much.

With shaking hands, Lockwood pulls some things out of the first aid kit. You're too sore to really notice.

"You're an idiot, you know that, right?"

His voice shocks you out of the daze you were slipping into. "Hmm?"

"You shouldn't have done that alone. Look what's happened."

As he brings an alcohol wipe to the gashes, you wince at the sharp sting and the pressure he applies but say, "And what should I have done? Let you be the one to do it alone? We both know that you wouldn't have let me help, Lockwood. And you're more important in the grand scheme of things. I think I would've made quite the sacrifice if it had come to it."

"Don't say that." His voice wavers slightly, so quietly you barely hear it. "You're important to me."

He applies more pressure to the wounds, then he places wound dressings over them before grabbing a water bottle from his bag and soaking a tissue. Gently, he takes your arm in his hand and cleans away the slowly drying blood. It's messy work - the tissue keeps flaking apart, but it does the job and, soon enough, your arm is only faintly stained with your blood. He cleans the little bit of blood away from your ear quickly, placing a little plaster over the cut.

"I wasn't going to let you do it," you say, gratefully swallowing the painkillers he hands you. "You would've killed yourself to save us."

"And you didn't just try practically the same thing?"

There's an undertone of anger in his voice, but it's weak, taken over almost completely by his concern.

"(name) -" He hesitates, looking away from you. His ears are tinted slightly red. "You can't just be reckless like that. Not when..."

His fingers brush yours as you say, "When what?"

You can feel the tremble in his fingers. Although you're the one with stab wounds that still need medical attention, you worry. His smile, that cocky grin you've grown so fond of, is nowhere to be seen, replaced instead by parted lips and heavy breathing. The pulse you can feel in his fingers is erratic.

"Not when you mean so much to me. I can't lose you."

The words take you aback. For a moment, you're acutely aware of his skin touching yours, of the sound of his breaths, and the way the light accentuates the features on his face. His cheekbones look sharper, and his eyes glimmer, darkness set alight with little stars.

He mistakes your shocked silence for rejection. "A night cab should be here soon, then we can get you to a hospital and -"

His words falter when your good hand touches his cheek. Slowly, his gaze turns to your outstretched arm, gradually making its way up the limb until he's looking at you - your eyes, your lips. This is the most nervous you've seen him, and it makes you feel a little triumphant. Not many people make Anthony Lockwood nervous.

"I'm okay," you promise. "You've patched me up, and we're going to get me taken care of, yeah? But, first..."

"But first?" His eyebrow quirks, and he watches you closely.

It's something you never would do in normal circumstances. Really, you're probably not in the right state of mind, but you've wanted to do this for months. And Lockwood doesn't stop you.

When your lips touch his, you feel a sense of completeness. Like your soul has been made whole. It's as if they're the missing piece to a puzzle you've been trying to finish all your life, finally found after years and years of searching.

One of Lockwood's hands holds the back of your neck, his touch gentle, giving you enough leeway to pull away if you so wish. But you don't. You won't. No, instead your clutch his shirt with your good hand, holding him close. You never want this to end, this feeling of finally being whole. Your heart is racing, and it feels as though your very being is going to implode from pure elation.

Carefully, reluctantly, he pulls away, but his face stays close. His eyes search yours for any glimpse of regret, but he finds none, and he grins, at last. The smile sends a shiver down your spine, and you find yourself smiling, too, despite your pain.

"You don't know how long I've been waiting for that," he says, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You can feel his breath on your lips. "I might have an idea."

And then he's kissing you again, snatching your breath away.

Silently, you're thanking the poltergeist for the wounds, a thought that almost makes you laugh.

#lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood and co fanfiction #lockwood and co #anthony lockwood #george karim #lucy carlyle #x reader #fanfiction #lockwood and co netflix #givemea-dam-break

[flurglhinge]

Rachel sticks her head in Debbie's office door and waves a tablet at her.

"Did you see this?"

"Ms Luthor's new urgent project?"

"Yeah, what do you think of it?"

Debbie leans back in her chair and looks at Rachel, who is reading the email again, frowning at it like it's written in a language she's not quite proficient in.

"Shouldn't be too difficult. Your basic Seasonal Affective Disorder lamp, isn't it?"

"Yeah, no, but we already had a SAD lamp in development that we shelved because there wasn't a market for Luthor-branded consumer medical equipment. You know, because of," Rachel gestures vaguely in the way that L-Corp employees tend to when alluding to the time Lex Luthor lost his god-damned mind, built a super-suit and tried to kill Superman.

Debbie makes a face that's halfway between 'listening to a racist uncle at Christmas' and 'there's a screaming lunatic in the parking lot and he's standing next to my car'. "Yeah, sure."

"And anyway SAD lamps are supposed to simulate bright sunshine. Like, bright sunshine. These required outputs-- I don't know? I looked them up and it's like, red."

"Maybe there's a mistake?"

"No, the brief says to have a really specific range of wavelengths in a certain ratio. And it's straight from Ms Luthor. So, you know."

Debbie nods and leans further back in her chair, folding her arms and sighing. "Okay, sure. Let me take a closer look at it. Hopefully we can just dust the old prototype off and tweak some settings."

"But what is it for? This doesn't even say if its consumer-grade or medical or what."

"I'll take another look at it," Debbie says before Rachel spins up into a full panic. Rachel is an excellent project manager but she tends to get twitchy about anything unusual, a tendency only exacerbated by her realisation, after the fact, that she'd been managing development of the (frankly revolutionary) impact-absorbing materials that had allowed Lex's suit to take a punch from Superman without turning into a highly inefficient sausage maker.

Debbie is baffled by the project specs. They're pretty straightforward, but utterly ludicrous. It's not a proper SAD lamp at all. If anything, it's the exact opposite of one. It mustn't put out half of the wavelengths of light that are generally considered to be beneficial. The spectra it must be active in are largely out of the human visual spectrum. She stalls for time, researching any practical applications but the entire thing seems pointless. It's not for growing plants indoors, or incubating eggs, or lighting darkrooms, or anything. It's technically achievable, but ridiculously over-engineered for any practical application.

She's trawling through the old Luthor Corp whitepaper database when she stumbles across a design for a 'sunlamp' supposedly meant to allow crops to be grown out of doors during the winter. Which is Joker-shit on the face of it, leaving aside the fact that they draw enough power to run a small town and appear designed to withstand a simultaneous hurricane, earthquake, and strategic bombing campaign. But the lamps are designed to emit a very similar set of wavelengths to her stupid, obviously-not-a-SAD lamp. That, together with being a nonsense Lex Luthor project from a certain point in the company's less than glorious recent history, means the 'sunlamp' is some kind of anti-Superman weapon.

Debbie freezes at her desk. Is Ms Luthor going Lex? Should Debbie be calling the supervillainy hotline? But her project is for a lamp that can run off domestic current. Is Ms Luthor just more willing to sacrifice spectacle for efficiency? But Ms Luthor is quite publicly friendly with Supergirl. Supergirl has saved her life a bunch of times. And the whole L-Corp rebranding was the most minor of the changes she'd made to the company.

[Scene where one of them works out What The Lamp Is For.]

"Okay, so, remember that really creepy article that guy wrote a couple of years ago about Superman's sex life?"

"What? No."

"Ugh, lucky. It was the one where he was speculating about the speed of Superman's ejaculate and its effect on a human-"

"Yes, oh god, I'd managed to repress that, fuck you very much for reminding me."

"Well, sorry, but I think it might be relevant."

"I think I'm going to be sick."

"Buck up buttercup,

[Meeting with Lena, Supergirl drops in, Lena introduces them as 'the ones working on the project' :significant eyebrows: Supergirl gets very flustered but also pleased. Kara discovers that Super Blushing is actually a thing, R just about chews through her tongue because it is definitely an HR violation to high-five the CEO about her sex life, D is trying to astrally project herself to the moon, Lena is The Smuggest Person Who Has Ever Lived - like a cat that has just bought a dairy farm with an attached canary aviary]

#wip #supergirl fanfiction #no but seriously who makes all this stuff

[salchat]

Dean-in-progress Part 2

More adventures in the continuing development of my latest Dean portrait!

In this stage, I did a little bit more work on his mouth and chin, which I wasn't happy with at all.

And then, enough's enough with the dark purple. I need to work on the light, which will give me a better idea of the form. I know if I put light in, I'll somehow see it differently. And maybe some brown mid-tones. Both of these ideas might be a mistake, of course! It might be more effective with just the dark purple on the purple paper. But I'm doing it anyway! Yay!

Oh. Okay. Well, I think that was the right thing to do. Especially the hint of brown on his lower lip. It think the brown might be good for kind of reflected light? For softening edges maybe and for bringing life to the colour scheme. Or it could, of course, go horribly wrong. But that's half the fun.

Let's do some more. And, for the next progress shot, I'll edit so that it looks more like what I actually see.

Well, I think this is making good progress. Am I satisfied with it as a finished portrait? Not remotely! And now (rubs hands together), now comes the stage that always reminds me of that bit in Amadeus, where Mozart's dictating the Confutatis of his Requiem to Salieri. No, I'm not comparing my artistic skill to Mozart's musical genius (snort, chortle), but as a teen I had a massive crush on Mozart (yes, really) and I loved that movie, even though a lot of it is dramatic licence. Anyway, I get to a stage in many of my drawings where the big chunkies and finger smudges aren't quite cutting it. And so I bring in the pencils! And it always makes me think of Salieri asking, 'That's it?" And Mozart replies, with a smirk, 'No. Now for the real fire." The pencils!

All these options... I think the Payne's grey, which is actually a dark purple, like the chunky pastel I've been using. And for something pretty bright and luminous, actually that pale pink one is usually effective.

But don't be thinking I'm going to be holding the pencils in a writing grip and getting all tiny and delicate and detailed. Oh no! That's just not me!

Mostly, I like to grab hold and scrub using an overhand grip with lots of pressure. The only time I really need to use a writing grip is when I want a really strong highlight in a very specific small area and if I stuck with the overhand grip, I'd probably either miss my mark, or more likely break the tip off. I do that all the time! There's lots of vague, light softening too, though, and that needs a looser grip, getting as much of the side of the pastel in contact with the paper as possible.

And here's my third main strategy, which sometimes ties me down too much to a photographic representation, but often is the way I spot errors, because after a while your eye just can't see them. I bring up my progress shot and the original reference alongside, like this:

My poor phone gets very confused, but look how easy it is to spot the glaring, obvious discrepancies! I mean, wtaf? For heaven's sake - what have I been doing? So, yeah, there are thing that look pretty okay, but that mouth! And that chin! Still not right, are they? And there's still not anywhere near enough Deanishness! I'm going to focus in on the eye, though, and see what I can do. And the reference won't enlarge, but if you do it in photo editor it will! Neat little trick! Aha!

And now some more work on his mouth and a general run-around with a soft skin-toned pastel to soften the edges. Or soften them in some places, because now I really need to think about which edges are hard and which are soft and how. It's a crucial stage and can make a massive difference. And I'm playing with his hair too, because playing with Dean's hair is so much fun.

So this is what I've got so far. Am I satisfied? No! I most certainly am not. It's getting there. But there are loads of things to improve on yet. And it's still not Deanish enough! It just isn't. Look back at the reference. His mouth and his eye in particular are expressing very familiar Deanisms, aren't they? Sadness, resignation, probably lots of internal negative thoughts - almost certainly in John Winchester's voice. And I haven't captured that. I'm not saying that in any 'oh no, I'm so bad!' way. I'm saying it with relish, because I'm going to keep plugging away until I can see that emotion and make it as real as possible. And I'm going to enjoy that process and disappear into it completely and get into an almost meditative state, where the world and my problems melt away.

But not tomorrow. Because tomorrow is chemo day and the one really big positive of chemo day is that there's so much hanging around that it's possible to get loads of fanfic written, which is another really great way (actually even more effective that drawing) of disappearing from this world entirely and living, for a while, with Sam and Dean and a tiny-Jack, and tomorrow I'll get to the bit where Cas pops up. Nice.

#fanart #my art process #dean winchester #jensen ackles #supernatural

[miutonium]

Im so sorry @jils-things but you made me want to go on a tangent about art supplies in a bit cuz I'm a nerd andhekqkwkdjwoqo i lov u pls dont go away- 😭

Anyway yes I usually make a very light sketch with my pencil so that I could erase it easily for me to retrace it but I am here to make a very important public announcement and I feel that it is my duty to inform the public on something that could be beneficial to the society.

Behold: Kneading Eraser

This fucker have multiple names; Putty eraser, gummy eraser, kneaded eraser,clay. It's going through a phase, please don't judge it, let it change name every 10 seconds.

What I need is that I want everyone to put everything down and listen to what I say: You run to the art store, Michael's, Art Friend, soup store, whatever store you get your art supply at. You ask the store clerk you want a putty eraser and if they dont give you a putty eraser, tell them they're a loser in malay (it's mak kau hijau. The more your learn folks) and then go to the next store and find a putty eraser until you get them. Its not expensive, it cost me less than 2 bucks for 1 pack of putty eraser.

Why you may ask? Well, I can assure you as someone who draws, putty eraser is much much MUCH better than a normal generic eraser.

First of all, there's no dust. When you erase a line with this boy, there wont be any rubber shit nugget clumping on the table and making a mess on your bed (i know you hate your spine too and likes to draw on bed i live in ur walls u guys better sleep with 1 eye open). I'm so serious like I have 0 eraser shavings in my house since I use a putty eraser. Please stop sleeping covered in eraser shavings.

It's also malleable. You can literally shape it to whatever shape that you want so you could erase a a tiny spot that you couldn't reach without disturbing other lines. And it works sooooo well as a stress ball or a toy. People actually knead it into animal shape. Can you shape a normal rectangle eraser into a giraffe? CAN YOU? DO YOU SEE MY POINT?

Do you suffer from loneliness? Do you need a conversation opener? Are you tired of kneading an eraser to shape it into a friend? Believe it or not, putty eraser is a great conversation starter when you dont want to start a conversation! As a personal anecdote: whenever I sketch in school, if anyone I know sees me sketching, they will always ask me what the fuck is the clay thing I use to erase my lines and then I have to explain to them what is a kneadable eraser and then whenever I demo'd the eraser, an amusing OOOOOOO will come out and they will play with my eraser for like 5 mins. Am I mad that my eraser is taken away? No because the eraser can also be s e p e r a t e d . Black magic fuckery. Please go buy a putty eraser.

Anyway for the pencil, I swear to god if you ever get this pencil, you will never use a normal mechanical pencil ever again.

The pencil I'm using is called a drafting pencil, specifically Pentel Graphgear 500. There's tons of drafting pencil in the market but just look at this one because other's are expensive and you will cry. This pencil had a plastic body but the base is made of metal so its pretty heavy. It feels v e r y c o m f o r t a b l e on the hand, like the moment you hold it, you will believe that this is how mechanical pencil suppose to be. It just fits so perfectly with the contour of you finger. The weight feels so nice on your hands and the grip is very comfortable. The pencil sleeve also doesnt budge so you don't and won't have any issue of lead breakage (unless you press your pencil really hard)

It's also very long-lasting. I have 2 of them in my pencil case. The one on the left were bought in 2021 from Muji. The one on the right were bought in 2015. It still works fine despite being 8 years old. I don't think I ever have any mechanical pencil that is long lasting like this one. This is legit one of the product that I would say would last a lifetime if you take care of it well.

This ends my sleepy deprivation fueled post for today.

TL;DR: Please go buy kneaded eraser and a drafting pencil I am on my knees rn-

#asuka speaks #anyway aHHH I LOVE U JIL THANK YOU FOR BEING MY NO 1 HYPEMAN FOR CHLOE AND UTONIUM BLESS YOU 😭😭💕💕💕 #i have said what i need to say so I will go to sleep now //bonk head

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

part three of the Vast!Jon AU that is taking over my life

Have some Martin.

Danny Stoker is part of this, now?

Yes, EVERYBODY HAS TO CRY. Shut up.

---------------------

Martin’s frilly, pink apron is almost too saturated on camera, but he knows that’s how the viewers love it. He’s even added a pop of lip gloss today, a shade between the apron and the hearts it bears.

“Now, you’ll know it’s done in two ways,” he says, donning his thick oven mitts - wildly orange, but the hearts on them match his apron exactly. “First, the smell. You’ll recognize it after you’ve baked this recipe about six times. There’s nothing quite as good as these orange-cranberry muffins when they reach this stage, and if you’re in a place where you can smell it, it’s incredible. Fortunately, there’s a more reliable, less woo-woo way, too.” He waggles his eyebrows and gives a brilliant smile.

It’s his on-camera smile.

And his applying-for-jobs smile.

And his meeting-new-people smile.

It is sweet, and hopeful, and his eyes aren’t quite closed, and his chin is raised, and it comes across as open and kind and not quite vulnerable enough to invite hurt.

Sure, some people try, but they're trolls, and he just blocks them.

“Behold: your secret weapon!” And he brandishes a toothpick.

Tim laughs off-camera.

Danny mutters something like, “Yeah, they’ve never seen that before.”

“Yeah, well, maybe they haven’t,” says Martin, turning to them for the briefest moment before smiling back at his livestream. “The toothpick is your greatest weapon - well. After learning how to fold instead of stir, anyway. Look, this little guy can tell you if it’s ready, better than a thermometer, or knocking on it, or whatever else you've been told. Let me show you. Now, I know from the smell that the muffins aren’t ready, so I get to show you what it looks like when they’re not.”

He does.

The muffins need a few more minutes, and that is perfect, because he shows the camera how batter clings to the toothpick.

“Time for an awkward cut,” he says, and then there is an awkward cut.

Because there’s nothing to do until the damn muffins are done.

Fortunately, everybody loves the wait for it animation: a tiny version of him with anime eyes, huge, red curly hair, a chef’s hat, and his ubiquitous apron, prancing back and forth from the counter to the stove in an unending loop.

“You’re nearly there,” says Tim, who gets it, who understands why Martin is fucking distracted today.

No one who didn’t personally know Martin would know.

Anyone who does know him could clearly see he is a mess.

“I,” says Martin, and doesn’t finish his sentence.

Jon’s plane went down. That is all anyone knows. That is all anybody can tell him.

Neither tears nor manipulation will bring more info, and so Martin must wait.

He is not okay.

“Ready?” says Danny, keeping them - as always - on schedule. “Three, two….”

“Look at this!” says Martin a moment later, drawing a clean toothpick from the middle muffin. “Now, we’re talking. Oh… everyone, I wish you could smell this.” 

And he does one of his little moans.

Those moans are what made his channel.

Someone tried to make #BlackwoodMoan work for a while (like that movie with Samuel L. Jackson), but the fan base rose up and declared Martin too good, too pure to be associated in such a way.

#MartinMoan is the hashtag.

There are gifs.

It’s a high sound, sweet, freakily innocent, and it somehow brushes against every illicit desire any human has ever had for anything. He’s seen compilations of it, clipped together in a tapestry of embarrassment.

He doesn’t mind, exactly? 

He did make the sound on purpose. He knew it was effective because it actually got Jon flushed and stammering, and damn near nothing else did.

Martin had merely underestimated just how effective it would be out in the great, wide world.

“They’re perfect,” he says, and takes the time to show the camera the light golden muffins, speckled with red - a perfect batch of orange cranberry baked good from scratch. 

The stream ends with him opening one up, peeling the cap off with indescribable satisfaction, adding a tiny pat of butter, and indulging.

The eye-roll is a thing too, like a hungry shark, but that one doesn’t have a hashtag.

“Recipe in the description,” he mumbles, sounding like he’s been fucked within an inch of his life. “My team will answer any questions. You have got to make this. We’ve also included dairy and gluten free options. Bake well, my lovelies, and enjoy your life.”

Bake well, my lovelies, and enjoy your life. He’s ended every single video with that since day one.

Since before Tim and Danny joined him.

Since before he had the courage to tell anyone he was doing this, even Jon.

As always, he means every word.

This time, however, when the camera light blinks off, he bursts into tears.

#

“He’s got to be okay,” says Tim, who knows Jon, thinks he’s funny, and appreciates how much Martin loves him. “We haven’t gotten a list of deaths, or anything, and they have to release that, as far as I know.”

“They do have to,” says Danny, who barely knows Jon, and doesn’t really like him, but certainly wants Martin to be happy.

“Only to next of kin,” Martin points out, and sniffles.

Tim and Danny both pause.

“He doesn’t have you listed?” says Tim.

“I’m his friend. We’re not anything. Of course he doesn’t,” Martin snaps, and feels bad for it immediately after.

Tim and Danny give one another that look.

“Right,” says Tim. “Not anything.”

Martin rubs his face.

Danny gives Martin a side-hug - too strong, like a mountain man, but well meant. “He’s going to be okay. Have faith.”

“The plane went down.” Martin’s voice is… cold. Almost mechanical. A tone he’d never use with anyone who didn’t know him well. “It hit a gods-damned mountain. What am I supposed to have faith in?”

“Love?” says Tim.

“Actually, yeah. Love,” says Danny.

Martin gives them a look.

They look back. Two brothers, good friends, who’ve been part of his show and part of his life and helped him navigate the mess with his mother and helped him work out his feelings for his childhood friend and now want to help him work through potential grief.

Or his potential… faith, maybe?

Martin can’t seem to fall either way - acceptance of Jon’s death, or hope for his survival. He’s left at a lurching, ugly crossroad with no name, the sign worn beyond legibility.

He sniffles.

“Gonna be late,” says Tim.

“Yeah,” Martin sighs, because somehow after everything, he still has to go to work.

Patreon helps. The baking show definitely makes things easier. But it’s not enough to support his mother. Full-time care facilities aren’t cheap.

Martin tries to smile. “Good thing I’m in the kitchen, right? Don’t think I’d do so well facing customers today.”

“You would, though,” says Tim, and pats him on the shoulder. “Never seen anybody fake it as well as you.”

“Gee, thanks?” Martin says, dry.

Tim ruffles his hair. “Come on. Let’s get the lead out, or… I dunno, something punny.”

Danny never tries to pun. He also has no sense of timing. “I’ve been thinking of taking another job,” he says out of nowhere.

“What, now?” says Tim with fond exasperation.

Martin latches onto the subject change like a leech as he hangs up his apron. “What? I thought you were getting promoted.”

“Yeah, but kayaks just aren’t doing it for me anymore,” Danny says, and ignores when Martin rolls his eyes, reaches into his wallet, and hands Tim a fiver. “I’ve been thinking a lot about supernatural stuff lately, you know? All the things we can’t explain, but every culture and every society has them, all the way through history. And you know, the chances of that are pretty slim, because it’s not like there were fax machines in the stone age, and - ”

“So what’s her name?” says Tim.

Danny looks constipated. “What do you mean, what’s her name?”

“It’s always some date who gets you into a new interest. Come on, Danny, it’s been like that since secondary.”

Danny shrugs. “Caught me. How about I let her explain? We can do dinner tonight.”

“I don’t…” Martin starts.

They both look at him.

“You are not backing out,” says Tim.

“I’m supposed to see my mum,” Martin mutters.

“And it’ll be done in about fifteen minutes when she can’t stand you anymore and throws you out,” says Danny, who really has never had Tim’s charm.

Tim smacks him.

“Hey!”

“No, he’s right,” says Martin. “I’ll come.”

“Good. You’d better, or I’m taking some of this one’s leftover mountaineering gear and hogtying you to the back of my bike,” says Tim.

That image actually gets Martin laughing, which he didn’t think he could do today.

The brothers leave first.

Martin’s flat is tiny. Uncomfortable. Distinctly not sound-proofed. He has one window, room for his lovely kitchen setup, and three folding chairs or a Murphy bed, but not at the same time.

Somehow, when the Stokers are there, it never feels crowded.

It doesn’t with Jon, either, but that’s different.

All kinds of different.

Martin locks up, sighs heavily. Somehow, he has to get his brain in gear to handle four-star sous-chef work tonight, and he’s really not sure he can do it. Antoine can be such an ass, even on the best of days, and he always seems to know -

“Excuse me,” comes a voice.

Martin yips and drips his satchel.

“Sorry about that,” says the man, sounding not remotely sorry. Sounding, in fact, deeply amused. “You are Martin Blackwood, aren’t you? Little different without all the getup,” he says, absolutely cheerfully.

He’s some sort of sea captain?

Outside his flat, which is scary as fuck. “Hi?” says Martin, attempting to pick up his bag without taking his eyes off the guy. “Um. Can I help you?”

“Actually, I can help you,” says the man.

Maybe a fan?

Maybe a sicko.

Martin is very still. “Right,” he says, noncommittal.

The man laughs.

It’s… it’s a really good laugh. The voice is good all around, honestly; so is the expression, and body language. This man isn’t aggressive; taller than Martin (which is unusual), he keeps his hands in his pockets, leaning slightly away, as though determined not to violate his space. “I can tell I’ve spooked you, which isn’t what I was trying to do.” 

Martin can see no reason to be unnerved by this man.

Martin cannot escape the feeling that he should be, though. “Then why’d you track down where I live?” he says.

“I didn’t. I saw you by accident.” The man points. “Heading over there, to the Tube. But it works out, because I actually do want to talk to you.”

“Right,” says Martin.

The sea captain smiles. “Nice and cautious. Good! Let’s not drag this out, eh? You won’t have heard of me because I like it that way, but what I do is help out independent talent. People like you, in other words. Here.” He holds out a business card.

There’s a QR code on it.

Martin takes it, carefully avoiding contact. “Right,” he says.

“That’ll tell you all about it,” says the man. “I won’t scare you any longer - really am sorry about that.” He’s absolutely not sorry, and it shows.

Martin is damned good at reading people. It’s how he’s survived. The fact that he can’t get a bead on this guy is scaring him even more than the sudden appearance. “Sure.”

“Have a good day, Martin,” says the man. “I look forward to your email.” And off he walks.

Martin looks at the card. It says, Lukas Entertainment. That’s all.

It’s thick cardstock. Raised lettering. Definitely expensive. 

Martin looks back up, but the man is gone.

Martin’s gut says there is no way he made it to the Tube that quickly.

Martin’s head says he’s being absurd, and just misjudged how long he stared at the card.So that was freaky, he thinks to himself, and is already texting Tim about it before he gets to work.

#tma #tma fic #fic in proress #martin blackwood #lonely!martin #vast!jon #wip #amwriting #tma au

[secretshinigami]

Cooking vs Cookies

Author: @izaori (Malcolm or Kris works, too)

For: @mapsareforbraindeads (this makes me a brain dead, rip)

Pairings/Characters: Light, Near, L. Light/L, PLATONIC moonriver. Like a sibling relationship.

Rating/Warnings: Comedy, kind of fluff.. If people messing up stuff in a kitchen counts as a warning, you have been warned. Also food talk.

Prompt: light and near making cookies together to surprise L, who sneaks in and tastes the cookie dough when they aren’t looking and critiques it. i actually had a dream about this once.

Author’s notes: It’s been a while since I wrote characters that weren’t my ocs, so I was pretty excited to do a fic this time. I started one of your other prompts, but this one felt more natural, so here we are. I liked all your prompts. Wish my hands would’ve worked for drawing this past month lol.

Valentine’s Day. A fun, yet very stressful time of year. Some people rush to stores to buy chocolate and flowers, plan a fancy meal, wear different clothes for a variety of reasons, but Light Yagami has decided to bake.

Baking and cooking are very different. When you cook, it’s usually pretty easy to change a recipe on the fly. Adding a little more this, leaving out a little of that, and so on. Baking? Baking is a science. You add half a teaspoon too much of something and the entire process goes tits up.

Before he’s even started baking, Light has brought out every single utensil and ingredient he’ll need. His first idea was making cake, but there is simply too much that could go wrong with cake. Brownies were a no go, and cupcakes are essentially like small cakes that he could also very easily mess up. After mulling it around, Light decided on cookies. But what kind of cookies? Classic chocolate chip? A fancy lace cookie? The kind you roll up and put in a freezer? Lemon crisps? Thumbprints? Snickerdoodles? What about something more out there, like springerle? Light doesn’t have the tools to make those, anyway.

Who could go wrong with a classic chocolate chip recipe? Simple and delicious, easy to make in bulk. His boyfriend’s diet consists of pretty much only sweets.

Right when he’s about to get started, someone joins him in the kitchen. “It’s not good to let eggs sit out.”

Light sighs. Out of all the people to interrupt him, it had to be none other than, “Near. I’m baking, the eggs will be fine for a few minutes.”

Near observes the ingredients scattered around the counter, and the various mixing bowls and utensils. Light goes back to reading the recipe, but stops when he hears tapping. Near is playing with the mixing bowls, stacking them in an odd way. He doesn’t stop even after noticing Light’s glare.

“What? You aren’t using them yet.”

“And how will I, when you’re playing with them like toys? Did you even wash your hands?”

Near rolls his eyes. “I’m not dirty.”

“So? I don’t know where your hands have been.”

“On the bowls. Obviously.”

Light huffs, snatching the bowls away and setting them in the sink. He gives them a quick wash while Near moves on to playing with the spatulas instead.

“Stop playing around. I’m trying to bake.”

“L kicked me out of the room to study something. I’m bored.”

“Either help, or find something else to do.”

Near gives a slight pout, pondering the decision. He’d like to tell Light he’ll do what he wants, but knowing this is for L, maybe he should give the guy a break. This time. He’ll go back to being a nuisance another time. Near walks over to the recipe book and scrunches up his nose. “This is boring.”

“Sometimes boring is better.”

“Only two teaspoons of vanilla? That doesn’t seem like a lot. Why not half a cup?”

“You have to be joking.”

“It doesn’t sound like a lot to me.”

Light pinches the bridge of his nose, holding back some colorful language. “I don’t believe they even sell vanilla extract in that large a quantity, unless you’re buying one of those bigger, aged bottles. This,” he says, grabbing the tiny container, “is how vanilla extract is usually sold.”

Near takes the small bottle out of Light’s hand. Once more, he observes it carefully. “Why is it alcoholic?”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you making alcoholic cookies?”

“Do you know nothing about baking? I’m not trying to get L drunk off vanilla. Think of it like bier cheese, the alcohol basically gets cooked out. It’s just there for flavor.”

“Why are you putting something in just to bake it out?”

Light finally catches on to the joke. He glares, and Near gives a shit eating grin. “Very funny, Near. Hand it over.”

Near gives back the extract and moves on. Finally, after what feels like forever, Light starts working on the batter. Light mixes the dry ingredients together, then grabs a different bowl. Near stops him.

  “Why aren’t you putting the butter with the rest of it?”

Light is starting to feel more agitated. “It won’t mix properly if you do the ingredients in the wrong order.”

Near looks around at the remaining contents. “It all goes together anyway. Why does it matter?”

“It’s like math. If you do the equation in the wrong order, like not using PEMDAS, you’ll get the wrong answer. We don’t want the cookies to be messed up.”

That makes sense. Near doesn’t really understand the order of baking, but he definitely understands math. He’ll take Light’s word for it. The recipe backs up his reasoning, anyway. Near doesn’t lose the page as he flips through the book, noticing most of the recipes carry on that way. Dry ingredients, wet ingredients, mix. Seems simple enough.

The process has been prolonged by Near’s shenanigans, but the cookies are almost ready to be put in the oven.

“Why are you using such a small amount of dough?” Near questions, again.

Light has had enough. He turns his attention away from the batter and pulls Near over to the recipe book. “Look. Just look. We need to use one inch balls so that the cookies aren’t too small or too big. See the picture? If we use more dough, it won’t cook right. If we use less dough, it won’t cook right. The recipe is made for cookies like this!”

Near scrunches up his nose again. “L likes a variety of cookies. Underbaked, overbaked, just right- he’ll eat them no matter how you serve them. Why not make bigger cookies?”

“Because I want them to be perfect! I want to make something delicious for my boyfriend!”

With the argument happening, said boyfriend is able to sneak into the kitchen with ease. L quietly takes a look around, finding himself at the pot of gold- raw cookie dough. Salmonella be damned, raw cookie dough is a delight, a delicacy, one of the greatest things Watari would never purposefully let L have. He grabs a clean spoon and swipes some.

Oh. Oh no. He frowns.

“This isn’t right. At all.”

Light and Near freeze. With perfect timing, they both turn around to face L.

“He followed the recipe,” Near gets out first.

“Right, the recipe-!”

L shakes his head. He looks at the different measuring utensils laid about and figures out the issue with ease.

“You didn’t convert to grams properly. The ratios are all wrong. Also, it reeks of vanilla.”

Light glares at Near. Near smiles sheepishly. “Oops.”

L takes another spoonful of the cookie dough anyway. “It’s not horrible. You could try again.”

“I think I’ll go store bought this time.”

L smiles and tosses the spoon into the sink. “That might be a better idea for you two. Leave the baking to Watari.”

Light and Near have been defeated, but they still come out winners. L’s smile is the real prize. At least they attempted making something, even if it ended in disaster.

#fanfiction #death note #submission #light yagami #nate river #l lawilet #izaori #mapsareforbraindeads #naomi and halle's ambitious anniversary

[firstdivisiongirl]

—Hey, hey, hey Princess of Alabasta!

Hope you’re doing alright today,

I was wonderin’ if you do take requests from men too, about the male match up?.. Or if are they still open… I was just wondering who I actually could match, with my personality and odd things I do.

You don’t have to do it, I just thought that there might be a chance for me to know if there’s someone from OP men who would adore what I do xD.

So yeah… Imma get into the small description,

— Outside Looks:

I’m a little bit over 165cm (short, short ass) tall, a bit thick on thighs, dark blonde hair, with a short undercut. I wear golden (not real LOL) glasses with adjustment of light blue line on top of them. I wear usually thick, golden earrings — three on each ear, so I could basically call it piercings now.

— Pronounce:

He/Him.

— Fav. Colours:

E v e r y C o l o u r. But mostly blue and red, along with white and green.

— Personality & Things I like:

I usually am sarcastic much, but not that hard to bite back harshly. I often do have my emotions on leash but sometimes they snap, in worst time. I can do slightly lame jokes, basically I can count on my fingers on one hand of who I really made laugh.

Anyways, I am really into mechanics and I am repairing an old car I found in the wild (literally a still alive car in the middle of a meadow, checked the registration— the person who had it is now… ehem, on the other side of world). I often like to draw, write books/drabbles/HCs/etc, read mangas/ watch anime, and much more other things like skateboarding and snowboarding. I also do like cooking, enjoying the taste of my NON-BURNT meal is the most satisfying thing ever.

I often listen to music, mostly rock, a bit of pop and casual jazz in late evenings.

I also am a total cat lover, but also like dogs.

Thank you so much for reading my message, it took me a good half an hour to write something about me XD

Hi there! I am doing very well! You don’t have to call me by my title, just Vivi works. I’d love to do a match up for you. I hope you like it and let’s see the results!

You got…

Eustass Captain Kid!!!!

Before you judge this murderous bean, hear me out.

He loves mechanics and tinkering with anything. So he’s help you repair your car. A car tinkering date is a definite.

Rock music? Look at the boy! Him and his crew aren’t listening to the Jonas brothers, but I can see them like smooth jazz. Don’t ask me why.

You two are both emotional, but I think it would work for some reason. I feel like he’d love your lame jokes

He’s big and strong so anything you are afraid of, he’ll protect you.

He’d love all your gifts and cuddles. He may look and act scary but he’s a softy for you!

#one piece #trafalgar d vivi #one piece matchups #one piece matchup #eustass kid #kid one piece #kid pirates #eustasscaptainkid #kid

[glitterdustcyclops]

speaking of "bunch of queer misfits find family and belonging with one another" i was re-reading one of my many (many many) WIPS last night and i have poured both my heart and soul and literal years of faffing about with this particular story, and going back to it last night i surprisingly didn't hate most of it

it's about a girl named Cat, perpetual ADHD/Anxiety Ridden Disaster Machine, and how she just-friends her way into falling head-over-heels in love with the cool, mysterious Punk Baker she literally runs into, Quinn

they're both ridiculous and i love them with all my heart

anyway, here's the first chapter, in an effort to put more of my writing on tumblr

I always thought the moment my entire life changed would be more significant. That there would be some kind of ominous portent or some sign from the Universe. Even just some suitably dramatic background music at the very least. You’d think Fate would have the decency to give a girl a head’s up.

But no.

It started like any other morning. Running late, sleep deprived, and in desperate need of caffeine. That was my excuse. I mean, I was barely a functioning human being at 9 in the morning, how could I have been expected to do something ridiculous like pay attention to my surroundings? To notice the black-and-white person-shape strolling out of the propped-open door of Haven—my absolute favorite coffee dispensary—at the same time I was barreling in, my headphones firmly on and blasting Queen.

I swear, time actually slowed down as we collided. She practically skidded to a stop, her mouth dropping open on a gasp I couldn’t hear while I probably squakwed like a damn parrot, a gloriously dramatic cascade of hot latte raining down on us both while the empy paper cup thudded to the concrete.

“The fuck—” I yanked down my headphones, so very ready to take this already shitty morning out on someone else when—

Oh fuck, she’s cute.

Of course that’s what my brain decided to notice first. She was taller than me, especially in her stompy black punk boots, and her hair was almost silvery-white, her eyes like unfairly blue. She had a cute sort of pixie-ish face, tan skin and a silver eyebrow ring glinting at the corner of her neatly manicured black brows.

And she stood in the doorway with her very crisp, very tight white v-neck absolutely ruined by a giant coffee stain running right down the middle.

“Oh jesus I’m so sorry!” I basically shouted at her, like a completely normal functioning person would, flapping a hand awkwardly at her torso. “Your shirt!”

Oh yeah, good plan self. Let’s just go ahead and draw attention to the fact that we were staring resolutely at her chest, where the thin material of her shirt had gone very transparent, clinging to her skin and letting the pale blue lacy material of her bra peek through.

“Hmm?” She glanced down as I averted my eyes in just the smoothest way. “Ah, well, I guess we’re even then.”

I looked down at myself. My favorite faded blue Doctor Who shirt was a bit sticky, but since I was the one who had knocked myself into her, I’d mostly managed to get my arm, a light sprinkle on the thighs of my jeans.

And of course I found the soft little chuckle she gave me then utterly adorable too. There was just this smoky hint of an accent in her slightly-raspy voice and it sent a weird tingle down my spine. Because I was fucking hopeless.

“No no no, my bad, sorry! I wasn’t looking, God, I’m such an idiot.”

“Hey, relax. It’s just coffee.” She gave me a very casual shrug of her bony shoulder, and there was a wry sort of quirk to the corners of her lips.

“Here, uh, l-let me, uh, let me buy you a new one? To make up for it?”

“You don’t have to.”

“N-no, no I don’t mind, please. Shit I am so so sorry I wasn’t paying attention, I never pay attention, I can’t believe—” Great. Now I was spiraling.

“Really dude, it’s fine,” she said, sounding, well, at least not annoyed with me. Not yet. “I’m Quinn by the way.”

“Oh uh, uh Cat. I’m Cat.” I waved at myself like a complete moron.

“Pleasure to meet you, Cat.” There was another quirk of her lips that edged more towards a smirk, a glimmer of something slightly wicked in her blue eyes. I kind of liked it.

“You…too?”

“Leat’s go inside, yeah? Get cleaned up at least.”

So I followed her into the café, just barely managing to stop myself from compulsively apologizing again as I did. The interior of Haven Coffee was mostly quiet, somehwere in that weird bubble after the morning rush but before the lunch one. Always one of my favorite times here. There was this dreamy sort of quality that settled over the floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves and the stark black-and-white check tile floor. The sound of some vintage record drifted across the empty interior, the large stone hearth in the corner and the matching set of forest green velvet armchairs arranged invitingly in front of it, a cozy little nook blessedly unoccoupied, like it was waiting for me.

Haven lived up to its name, a safe little pocket dimension of warmth and old books and records and really damn good coffee. And it just so happened to be the employer of my two very best friends in the whole wide world who were also my roommates, Ginger and Greg.

“Oh, g’morning Kit Kat!” Ginger said brightly, only half paying attention as she rearranged something on the counter, before she finally looked up and then saw the strangest thing she’d probably ever seen me do (which was saying a lot, really): walk into Haven with a stranger, both of us lightly doused with coffee.

At least Greg wasn’t out here this morning so I didn’t have to deal with him judging all of my life choices with a single look the way Ginger so very obviously was.

“Oh jeez, what happened.”

Audrey “Ginger” Parker had been assigned into my life by the whims of the Greendale University Student Housing Department, and I was ever thankful for it. She was basically if a pumpkin spice latte was a person, with her wild Merida mane of ginger curls and a constellation of freckles dusted liberally across her skin like cinnamon sprinkles. She could be obnoxious and pushy sometimes but she was also a total goofball and one of the least judgemental people I’d ever met. Which was a good thing for her, surrounded as she was by a bunch of dramatic artsy queers.

She was my token Straight Best Friend, and I loved her dearly. Usually.

Right now, standing next to a hot punk rock chick I’d practically assaulted and Ginger staring at me all wide-eyed and concerned I was questioning a lot of things.

“Oh, just a small accident,” Quinn was explaining with that stupid edge of a smirk to her mouth. Why is that attractive?

“Oh no! I’ll get someone to clean that up, and I can get you another vanilla latte of course,” Ginj replied, all warm smiles and Customer Service Voice.

“Yes please, and whatever she wants.”

Ginger glanced between the two of us with a raised eyebrow. I shrugged back in my customary twitchy manner—and hey, wasn’t I supposed to be buying her coffee? But of course, I wasn’t nearly socially adept enough to say anything about it, consumed as I was with wishing that my too too solid flesh would melt right through the polished tile floor.

“Alright!” Ginger said in an almost gratingly perky voice. “One large vanilla latte and one Kitty-Cat special, comin’ right up! That’ll be $4.35 please.”

I shambled over to the other side of the counter to wait for our drinks while Quinn finished paying, Ginger and her making casual small talk in that way I could never quite grasp. Instead I grabbed a handful of napkins and started dabbing ineffectively at my jeans. It was an excuse to look down at my feet and not make eye contact with anyone else, and I took those where I could get hem.

“Come here often?” Quinn asked me with slightly more than a hint of a smirk as she came over to join me, grabbing her own handful of napkins and making a valiant attempt to blot the stain from her shirt.

“Uh, somethin’ like that. I, er, Ginj is my roommate. We live thataways.” I gestured randomly with my other hand without looking up, deeply aware that it probably made me come off as even more of a twitchy weirdo but utterly unable to stop myself.

“Convenient.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

And just like that our feeble attempt at conversation bled out and died on the checkerboard floor below us. I was about to start praying for a god to smite me out of pity when Ginj finally finished our drinks, handing over the cups with a cheeky little wink as I glared daggers back at her.

She was so getting a bunch of trash shoved into her bed later.

“So, stay and chat?” Quinn indicated the cozy little nook with the fireplace and chairs in the corner—my spot, my favorite spot, and how the fuck did she know that anyway—and for a brief second the fantasy flashed before my eyes. The two of us, sitting there together, talking and laughing, getting to know each other.

But of course this was me we were talking about so it would mostly be like: awkward silence while avoiding eye contact and then eventually slinking away, trying to apologize for my general failure at existing without having to actually say anything.

And more importantly, after seeing what a stunning conversationalist I was for like the two minutes it took to order our drinks why would anyone I didn’t already live with voluntarily subject themselves to more of me. It just didn’t add up.

And oh fuck, she was still standing there looking at me expectantly and I hadn’t replied. Because of course this was my life, God, why didn’t I say anything? Say something you idiot, oh God this is it, this was somehow the most awkward situation I had ever been in, pack it up boys we’ve done it—and then suddenly I remembered I had an out, and I’d never been so grateful to already be late for a 9 AM opening shift in my entire life.

“C-cant, sorry! I uh, late for work. Butthanksforthecoffeebye!”

And with that eloquent little display I turned and swiftly walked out the door, another flappy wave to Ginj as I went. Once I was safely deposited onto the concrete outside I fucking ran for it, straight booking it out of there like I was being actively chased by dinosaurs.

Briefly I contemplated Forest Gumping my way past all of my problems and not stopping until I ended up on a different coast. But I quickly got winded—it wasn’t like I was renowned for my athleticism or anything—and I needed to pay my rent. Ginj would find me somehow, if I skipped town, and then she would be forced to kill me. And I couldn’t do that to my best friend.

I slowed down to somewhat of an amble, trying very hard not to barrel into any more cute tattooed hipsters as I did. Suddenly I realized I was still holding my drink (the Kit Kat Special is basically hot chocolate with a double shot of espresso doused liberally in caramel sauce and then topped with a mound of whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles, because I liked to consume my coffee like a five year old would) and it made me feel weirdly guilty so I quickly tossed the whole thing in a nearby trash can as I walked down the street to my job.

The Dragon’s Keep happened to both be my absolute favorite retail establishment and also my employer. Situated rather conveniently a four buildings down from Haven, it specialized in board games and board game accessories; a local institution for nearly a decade.

You know when you find a place and it just feels like you’re coming home? Like you walk in and something about it, something in the air just makes you feel like you belong there? That was the Keep for me. Greg—who’d been my very bestest friend since the 7th grade and still somehow decided to live with me anyway—and I had wandered in one day when we were Freshmen in college. He’d heard about it from a guy in one of his English classes; apparently if we were interested in tabletop RPGS it was the best place to go, and we were, so one weekend we made the trek together and then we basically never left.

Eventually Paulie—Chief Nerd and intrepid proprietor of The Dragon’s Keep—decided that if I was gonna be there all the time anyway he might as well pay me for it, so now I got to sell board games and such for a living. It was a pretty sweet gig even on its worst days. My dysfunctional little nerd family away from home, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I wrenched open the door to the familiar chimes tinkling away above my head and the sounds of a Warhammer model painting tutorial playing on the TV, mixed with the dulcet tones of a raging nerd debate going on right in the middle of the store. Ah, home.

Paulie stood behind the register with his bushy braided Viking beard and his way-too-muscular-for-a-middle-aged-nerd-arms, covered in tattoos and crossed across his broad expanse of chest, all stoically imposing even in cargo shorts and a Star Wars t-shirt. Meanwhile Steven was over by the roleplaying bookshelves half-heartedly dusting, and the two of them were shouting about what sounded like the merits of various Barbarian builds. Because of course they were.

“You’re late,” Paulie interrupted Steven’s rant with his normal booming voice; he sounded angry, but the trick was that Paulie always sounded angry. I knew him far too well to believe it. He had that ever-present twinkle in his blue-gray eyes, so I couldn’t really be in trouble.

And anyway, if he was going to fire me for my appalling lack of time management skills he would’ve done it a long long time ago.

“Guys I’m gonna die alone,” I said instead as I trudged insde to lean against the opposite side of the counter across from Paulie.

“Uh-oh.” He shot Steve a look.

“What happened?”

“Oh, you know, just ran into this super cute girl at Haven. Literally.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” I took a twisted sort of pleasure in confessing my crimes, like I could purge the embarrassment from my stomach by talking about it. “I knocked her coffee into her, fucking latte raining down from the heavens on us both, and then I perved on her chest, and then she bought me coffee while I forgot how human conversation works, and then I finally ran outta there like my hair was on fire.”

“Oh no, Cat,” Steven repeated in a delightful mixture of horror and amusement, and I could practiaclly hear Paulie’s wince.

“It was literally the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone in the history of forever and I want to actually die!”

“Yeesh kid.” That was Paulie’s attempt at sympathy. But at least he tried.

I just moaned in misery, burrying my head into my arms crossed on the counter while Paulie offered me a half-hearted shoulder pat.

“We have got to get you like a wingman or something dude,” Steven said.

“It wouldn’t help,” I muttered at the counter. I was definitely gettling like, face prints all over the glass. Someone was gonna have to wipe that down later. “I’m utterly hopeless, a 100% Certified Lesbian Disaster doomed to die alone in an apartment with like, eighty cats. I’m gonna be that lady. No one will find my body for weeks because all the stupid cats will have eaten me.”

“Morbid Cat!” Paulie gave me a horrified laugh.

“But you gotta admit,” Steve replied, “pretty ironic.”

I couldn’t see his face but I just knew he was giving me one of his stupid little goofy grins he liked to use when he knew he’d made a particularly horrible joke, because Steven was a bad person and I hated him.

“Oh shut up!” I pretended to snap at him in offence.

“Hey, you know what’ll really take your mind off of your romantic failures kiddo?” Paulie asked then, his voice entirely too cheery for the present situation.

“What boss?” I replied reluctantly, looking up and resting my chin on my hand.

“Selling board games of course!” He laughed his stupid bellowing Viking laugh and I rolled my eyes.

“Ugh. Can’t I take a personal day on account a’ all my trauma?”

“Nope, there’s orders to be filled in the back! Go, go.”

And then I was unceremoniously ushered away to the back office, whining the entire short trip around the counter and through the doorway there. I couldn’t help but smile just a bit, once I was out of sight. Paulie tried to project this air of a Gruff No-Nonsense Army Guy, but he was totally just a big ol’ softie under all those layers of nerdy t-shirt and muscle. He cared, about everyone, deeply, and he always had, had cared about me right from the first day I started working here.

The other boys did too; Steven, Walt, Ryan, even Jake, our newest minion. I kind of loved them, even if I would never admit that fact, even on pain of death. Working at The Keep was like working with a bunch of annoying older brothers. Comforting in its familiarity, that way.

I think, as far as first jobs went, I had gotten pretty lucky. It had its days, as all jobs did, but if I had to sell my soul to the institution of Capitalism I was glad to do it in a place that let me wear jeans and curse while I gently bullied a group of hopeless straight boys.

The rest of my workday passed as they often did. There were stretches of tedious nonsense (receiving and logging new inventory should’ve been listed in the Geneva Conventions as literal war crime, as far as I was concerned) mixed with moments of goofy nonsense and nerdy conversations and amusing interactions with our deeply weird customer base, all of it orchestrated to the background noise of board game demos and other related YouTube content playing on our video feed. Sure, it wasn’t exactly life-changing work, but I got to introduce a cute young couple to a few of my favorite two-player games and one of our regulars brought us cupcakes, and that’s a good day in my books.

I got home aorund 5-ish to Greg cooking dinner and Ginj drawing on her iPad at the kitchen table, anime playing on the TV. Whatever Greg was making smelled deliciously garlicky and my stomach rumbled in response. God I loved that he cooked. I mean, the fact that his favorite hobby was looking up fancy recipes from the internet and then trying to make them wasn’t neccessarily the entire basis of our friendship—I had known and loved him far too long for that—but it was definitely a perk.

Greg was, at this point, basically my Platonic Life Partner. We’d been friends since we were literal children, 12 years old, and somehow, despite all rational expectations, he hadn’t managed to get sick of me yet. At this point he wouldn’t be able to get rid of me even if he tried. I wouldn’t let him.

But I did love him, truly. He’d been there for some of the absolute worst moments of my life, and I’d been there for him in return. We had the sacred Lesbian-Gay Boy bond, and when his parents got a little Weird after he came out officially, it was my mom who became his support system. He fought with my brothers as if they were his own, and he had become an honorary member of the Stern clan in his own right.

You wouldn’t think he was the kind of guy who would be my ride-or-die bestie just by looking at him. Greg was kind of an enigma, a walking mess of contradictions. He was all Captain American Corn-Fed American Boy Realness on the outside, sandy blonde hair and blue eyes and a chin that could cut glass, but if you’d talked to him longer than five seconds you would realize that at the end of the day, he was just a really confident, unapologetically gay weirdo, obsessed with Lord of the Rings and deeply obscure anime as much as he was with football and classic rock.

But in a way, I loved him all the more for it.

“Hey Cat,” he said with a casual shrug of his shoulders, that merry little twinkle in his eyes as he flexed his chopping skills on an eggplant.

“Hello Housewife,” I replied with a mad giggle, stealing a slice of carrot from his chopping board and ducking out of range when he tried to elbow me back.

Ginj laughed at us and my heart felt so full, all of a sudden. That warm glowy-homey feeling that I got sometimes at moments like this, struck with the reminder that somehow, against all odds, I had found a place to belong. There was a long stretch of time there where I wasn’t even sure I was gonna make it out alive, that it nearly knocked me over to realize that I had. Where would I be in the world without these two, honestly?

At that point I’d practically forgotten all about The Coffee Girl Incident. There was too much good stuff going on. Everything in that moment was safe and right and good, and I was starting to believe it always would be, which was a rather novel experience to my still clincially-depressed and anxiety-riddled ass.

Until Ginger had to go and ruin it by making a stupid joke about coffee at dinner.

So I pulled her hair and she hit me and Greg threatened to send us to our rooms without dessert. Just a normal weekday dinner, really. And then I was far too busy eating a delicious home-cooked meal with two of my favorite people on Earth to care about silly stuff like spilled lattes and pretty blue-eyed girls.

I mean, I would probably be obsessing about the whole embarrasing incident for the rest of my life, especially when I was trying to sleep, but for now I focused on better things. I wouldn’t let it bother me. And such was the magic of Greg’s cooking, that just for a moment, I almost believed it too.

But of course, Fate wasn’t done with me just yet.

#my stuff #oc talk #if my work has Themes it is this: queer found families using kink as a coping mechanism for trauma and feeding people with love

[twolovelyberries]

love is for mortals and fools….

#this scene still drives me insane #theres something about misa not being alone in there…even though she feels so desperately unloved she is loved! #the way rem tucks a piece of hair behind her blindfold… #anyways i had to draw them too. not letting light and L have all the fun #shinigami rem #misa amane #death note #remisa #rem x misa #death note fanart #my art #tw restraints #tw blindfold #my art 2021

[shotorozu]

encountering a ‘pick me’ girl

character(s) : kirishima eijirou, todoroki shouto, bakugou katsuki (bnha)

warning : PICK ME GIRL, misogyny (?) pick me girl makes an off handed comment about your body but it’s not detailed at all

PART TWO — PART THREE

legend : [Y/N = your name] afab! reader, but they/them pronouns used, quirk not mentioned

headcanon type : fluff, angst if you squint

note(s) : i made 2 versions of this post so,, if you’re reading this— then i probably decided that i liked this one more than the other one i made,, anyways, i used real life examples 💀

»»————-　♡　————-««

kirishima eijirou

i’d imagine that eijirou would have an idea of what a pick me girl is— i mean, there were probably 2 of those girls in middle school

but has he experienced it first hand? nahh.

though, eijirou didn’t think he’d encounter one when he was already in a healthy and committed relationship!

eijirou is practically friends with everyone— and yeah, even the most unexpected. so, he’s bound to accidentally befriend a pick me girl

him, being the nicest one out of all of the characters in this list, will still be nice to said pick me girl, despite wanting to snob them to the core

because really— you can’t really fight fire with fire in some cases

but, he can be everything but lenient when the pick me girl starts insulting you for doing certain things, and for absurd reasons too

like,, how you laugh, and how you take care of yourself (for example— if you wear makeup, or how you style your hair)

which is odd! everything about you is everything but the things the pick me girl has stated so.. he cannot stand by.

SCENARIO

the girl giggles to herself after that snide comment leaves her lip gloss coated lips. eijirou shifts uncomfortably— honestly taken aback by the anything but subtle insult that was thrown at you

“like.. seriously! it’s honestly quite superficial if you look at it like that. who the hell would put that much effort infront of your boyfriend? i’d assume they’d see everything AND everything but.. i guess not.”

you blink. superficial? now that’s a new one. the girl infront of you has been babbling insults sugarcoated in boasts the entire time, and you’re just wondering if it’s about time you guys leave but—

“well that’s unfair,” your boyfriend laughs, “i put the same amount of effort as this cutie right here,” eijirou pokes at your cheek, earning a quick laugh from you— which he can only thank the heavens for that

“but that’s different. it actually looks put together when you’re doing it, eiji.” the certain glint in her smile makes you want to wipe it right off with a dirty mop, “it’s impossible to look put together with expensive clothes, but being built like a—”

the sound of the sliding of a chair is quicker than your actions, and it easily cuts her off.

“i’m sorry, but we gotta go, it’s totally not cool of you to say those things about Y/N!”

“what? but i mean.. it’s true, right? i’m looking out for them! they’re literally out here l—”

“bye!” eijirou waves her goodbye with your hand, dismissing the sour expression on her face— as he dashes off with you

you’d question how he’s just so nice to people like that, but when he turns around, you could see the distaste in his eyes

“so that’s what a pick me girl’s like,” shaking his head, his expression lights up with such a quick manner “i’ll never make friends that are like that again!”

safe to say, eijirou’s friend list has been a a person shorter ever since that incident

bakugou katsuki

oh, so that girl’s bold bold.

if she thinks she could get away with being a not so subtle pick me girl infront of bakugou katsuki, then she couldn’t be more wrong.

it’s absolutely revolting— i mean, he hasn’t displayed any romantic feelings towards ANYONE that isn’t you.

also, they’re quite gutsy if you ask me. so congrats for having guts??

i don’t think he’d be friends with a pick me girl. he’s very selective of who he’s befriending, so it’s probably your friend that’s the pick me girl in this case

he wouldn’t know what a pick me girl would be, but he’d probably know the description of one.

over some time, he’d grow some resistance to insults directed at him, but when someone insults his s/o

oh boy. that’s not good. remember when i said that katsuki was almost like your scary and intimidating dog

this is what i mean

knows he can’t make a scene, so his first option is to be dismissive asf— but if said pick me girl literally can’t get it, he won’t be afraid of shoving some explosions into her face

because his hands are rated e for everyone

SCENARIO

“so you wanna be picked or something, is that it?” he hates how you literally have the resistance of a rock— which is something he always liked, but in this case hated. if it weren’t for you— he would’ve blasted explosions into her sorry excuse of a face until it’s beyond recognition (that wouldn’t be hero like, is what you’ve said in the past, but he disagrees.)

but seriously? ugh. he just wants to leave this horrid place, and make some dinner with you in the comfort of his home. why are you even friends with her anyway? she’s not even trying to be slick at this point.

“p-picked? i’m not understanding, katsu.”

“it’s bakugou.”

“right,” her laughter is like nails on chalkboard, “i’m just watching out for Y/N, y’know? there’s no point in wearing all of that.. on their face.” and she’s obviously referring to your obviously very well done makeup

“it’ll make your skin terrible in the long run! and really— i couldn’t really understand on why someone would wear that much, when you could survive with i dunno.. lip gloss at most?”

you would’ve actually said something as a rebuttal, but your boyfriend is quicker, and a lot more direct than anyone else in the area.

“just say you can’t do makeup and fucking scram,” katsuki’s ice cold glare finally breaks out of the act he’s been trying to hold together for you

“their makeup is fucking bomb as hell, compared to your ridiculous spider lashes, lady. come back when you’ve watched james charles’ entire fucking channel.” he harshly states in similar bakugou fashion, despite the lack of screaming.

and if you squinted hard enough, you could see tears welling up in her eyes. but katsuki tugs your hand before anything else could be said

“let’s fucking go, you need better friends.”

he makes you cut ties with all of them, and he practically scolds your terrible choice of friends— but he goes quiet when you tell him that you’ve been friends with her since middle school

“good fucking riddance. next time, i’ll punch them as soon as they say something outta line, got that?” and next time (hopefully, there won’t be a next time) you’ll actually lash out— or maybe,, you’ll let him loose for once.

todoroki shouto

now shouto might be,, socially unaware sometimes. but he can tell whenever someone’s trying to insult his s/o

like,, right away.

now— you both run into this person after a pleasant date, and she eagerly presented herself as your friend

so, her attitude catches him off guard because who’d have anything rude to say about you and towards shouto’s face? especially when it’s about something normal.

like,, wasn’t she your friend?? why is she even like this?

his hostility is very well known, so they should be scared.

he gets detached from the conversation, and he’ll immediately go cold— and shouto would probably go as far as walking away with your hand in his

doesn’t matter if he properly says goodbye or not— if a girl’s being rude to his s/o, they obviously don’t deserve his usually polite attitude. nope, that’s a luxury.

oh— and what more when they’re seeking for his validation. newsflash! said pick me girl won’t be get any from him.

SCENARIO

shouto couldn’t stop the bitterness bleeding into his mouth, when the girl in front of him continued to babble and take up the valuable time he had left with his s/o

initially, she presented herself as your friend from middle school— but as of now? she seems to be more interested in him more than you, despite knowing you first.

she’d ask him a string of obvious questions with very obvious answers, like ‘is she treating you well?’ ‘is she acting correctly?’ and questions of the sort

“oh, sorry! i’d hate to cut this conversation short, but—” you finally decide that it was about time to leave, while shouto looks pretty,, deadpanned right now, you could tell that he was gradually starting to get irritated by your friend’s words.

“wait. thats.. kind of controlling, don’t you think? do you ever let shou make decisions?”

“uh.. controlling? since when??” you question at the accusation. this girl knows nothing about your relationship dynamic, and she’s already jumping the gun and making conclusions.

your gaze snaps back to shouto, who looks just as surprised as he could possibly be.

“yeah! it clearly looks like he still wants to talk” which is an obvious lie, shouto just wants it out of here “i wonder how you managed to snag such a guy like him,” she comments with a smile that looked anything above suspicion (yet, it makes your stomach churn)

you could see the way her hand gets gradually closer to him— and frankly, you’re not sure about what she was planning to do next, “you wouldn’t need to dress all expensive and fancy, if you’re with a girl with an already classy appear—”

“i think this conversation is over,” shouto grip is firm on the wrist that was attempting to grab his shoulder, shouto makes no attempt to even look at the girl infront of him “i don’t know what you’re trying to do, but it’s not humorous. at all.”

“what?” she stammers, drawing her hand back “i-it’s obvious they don’t know how to take a joke! this is why there are barely any good w—”

shouto’s next actions knocks her speechless, his hand rests at the small of your back, before gently guiding you forward— “love, what movie are we watching later?” he says, making an effort to press a quick, yet intense kiss on your lips

“oh,” you breathe out, surprised by this action. “don’t be so tense, love.” shouto comments on how tense your shoulders have looked, ever since she started running her mouth, “now.. what movie do you want to watch tonight? comedy? thriller?”

“you pick,” you laugh at the quick shift of topic. and when you look behind you, you could see shame and defeat welling up on her face. shouto finally feels like he could smile again, the bitterness dissipating from his mouth

after shouto questions you if that was what a pick me girl was, he makes sure that you guys won’t ever encounter such thing again

“you.. don’t have more friends like that, right? if you do— we could always do another friend list cleansing.” this statement makes you laugh but shouto is anything but joking

but being reminded of his reaction to that ‘pick me’ girl does puts a smile on your face.

»»————-　♡　————-««

likes and reblogs are appreciated, thanks for reading!

i do not own bnha/mha and it’s characters. boku no hero academia/my hero academia belongs to horikoshi kohei, i only own the writing and i do not profit off of my hobby

do not plagiarize, reupload, translate, or use my works for audio readings without permission

#bnha imagines #bnha x reader #mha x reader #mha imagines #bnha x y/n #bnha fluff #todoroki shouto x reader #todoroki x reader #todoroki imagines #bakugou katsuki x reader #todoroki x y/n #todoroki fluff #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x reader #bakugou imagines #bakugou fluff #kirishima eijirou x reader #kirishima x y/n #kirishima imagines #kirishima fluff #bnha headcanons #mha headcanons #todoroki headcanons #bakugou headcanons #kirishima headcanons #mha x y/n

[missmeinyourbones]

CONGRATS ON 1 MILLION MY SWEET<33333 could i get jean + 26 (kisses list) as a treat??

26. giggling while kissing (J. KIRSTEIN) (wc: 750+)

part of L’s 1K event!

You’ve never been one to thoroughly enjoy a party. 

Sure, they could be fun. Perhaps if you were in the right mood or drunk enough not to care about the chaos surrounding you. However, you usually found them to be vastly overrated. Lots of sticky and sweaty people in your personal space, drinks made way too strong with a taste that resembles the sting of rubbing alcohol, the pungent smell of cigarettes lingering on your clothes and hair long after you’ve left. You never truly saw the appeal of a drunken night spent at a cluttered and uncontrolled house party.

Until now, that is.

You spot Jean from across the crowded room, his frame much taller than those around him, making him easy to spot. Though you would have spotted him anyways; you always seemed to be looking for him, no matter the room you occupied or the crowd surrounding you. His eyes find yours and he’s immediately motioning you over with a wave of his hand and a goofy grin—one that lets you know he’s drunk and ecstatic to have finally found you.

It takes you a few moments to maneuver your way through the crowd of delinquents and across the room to him, but you do so successfully. His hand is quick to grab your wrist and pull you into his embrace, close enough to smell the drink in his cup and see the tiny freckles dancing underneath his jaw. He lifts your chin up to face him, to properly greet him, though you’d arrived together and only left just a few moments ago to say a quick hello to Armin. 

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

You slowly gravitate towards his smirk to gently peck his lips. However, Jean has different plans. His calloused palm finds the back of your neck as he hold your head in place against his lips, deepening the alcohol flavored kiss. You can’t help but giggle into his open mouth and he swallows it back with ease, like a shot of whiskey. 

“You look pretty close up,” you whisper, momentarily separating your lips from his to pull back and fully admire his handsome face. Your pointer finger traces the curvatures of his features—down the bridge of his narrowed noise, the ticklish stubble covering his angular and defined jaw, circling and poking the apple of his right cheek. He blushes (from the alcohol or your fluttering touches, you’re not sure) and chuckles into your lips as he draws you back into him. 

“And I don’t look pretty far away?” he fake pouts into your kiss, and if your lids weren’t closed and your mouth wasn’t occupied, you’d be rolling your eyes and shooting a quick remark back his way. But the mix of tequila in your bloodstream and the high of his skin on yours keeps you quiet and smug, settling for a muffled quip behind your smile. 

“Never said that.”

“It was implied,” he quickly returns. 

The kissing war continues. Tiny pecks here and there mixed in between the more heated ones. His tongue swirls in and out of your mouth. He’s everywhere and nowhere at once—he’s overflowing and suffocating all of your senses, yet you still aren’t satisfied.

“You taste like,” you dip in once more to sample his flavor before breaking the kiss in another fit of giggles, “Cheap beer.”

He laughs along at your crinkled nose and displeased face. Makes sense, he thinks, as all he’s been drinking tonight has been distasteful beer paired with shitty liquor. But it does the job. It makes him feel light-headed and dizzy, just like your lingering touches do. The combination of the two is a dangerous one, but it’s one he’s willing to soak in for as long as he possibly can. 

“Sorry, I know you hate that,” he appeases, letting his lips hover over yours. They’re not close enough to actually be touching, but he breathes into your mouth and it instantly makes you feel tipsier than any drink you’ve had tonight. 

“Bad enough to stop kissing me?” he poses eagerly with a raised brow.

“I guess not,” you roll your eyes before pressing your lips to his again. 

You’ve never enjoyed a party like this before, but exchanging kisses and giggles with your equally intoxicated lover feels intimate, like a secret language only the two of you can speak.

“You taste like mango,” he breaks away to breathe out a laugh against your cupid’s bow once more.

“Peach,” you correct him, remembering the peach sangria you’d chugged a few minutes ago. It was light and sweet, just like Jean’s love. 

“My bad,” he feigns defeat before his hands return their place of caressing your face, “Peach.”

NOTE: when she congratulatons u on 1 million 😩😩😩 >>>> thank u cass baby MWAH here is ur treat <3 in honor of our boy’s birthday today (≧▽≦)

#jean kirstein #jean x reader #jean kirstein x reader #jean fic #jean kirstein fic #jean fluff #jean kirstein fluff #jean drabble #jean kirstein drabble #jean blurb #jean kirstein blurb #aot #aot writing #L's 1K event!

[oikadori]

VAL VAL VAL VAL pls can u maybe do more of the zoom call thing w leaving the camera on w oikawa, atsumu & bokuto ILL ADAGHAAJAK I LOVE IT <3

LEAVING THEIR CAMERA ON WHILE BEING SOFT WITH THEIR S/O PART III

⇢ includes: oikawa, atsumu, bokuto| PART I | PART II

⇢ genre// cw: fluff , f!reader // suggestive, atsumu is more teasing than soft sksksksk

��� wc~ 1K

a/n : YESS YESS I’LL DO ANYTHING FOR YOU BBY sksksks i’m glad you like them I have so much fun writing them to be honest!

reblogs are v v cute 

“You look so pretty like that.”

Oikawa’s voice comes from the corridor that leads to your room. He is carrying his sport bag as he shoots a cheeky smile in your direction.

“You mean, when I’m clueless about what is the lecture about?” you scoff after you had deactivated your mic and camera. Rising an eyebrow and pointing at your laptop’s screen where is your teacher talking, you lock eyes with the setter.

“Yeah, exactly when you are completely clueless―”, he chuckles, dropping his bag on the floor with a soft thud before walking towards you, “―it makes me feel smart”

You roll your eyes before he wraps his arms around your shoulders, nuzzling his nose against your cheek and leaving a trail of kisses over your skin, his fluffy hair tickling your neck, drawing giggles out of you.

“I’m still in class, Tooru” you say in between giggles as he covers your face in sloppy kisses.

“But I’ve missed you!”

“We saw each other an hour ago!”

“And your point is?”, he quirks an eyebrow before burying his face in your neck, making you chuckle even harder than before.

“You are an adorable couple, but class is not over yet!”

Your boyfriend freezes, chocolate orbits opening wide, mouth still latched at your skin as he lifts his gaze to face your teacher.

“Shit”, you choke out before desperately searching for the buttons that truly deactivated your mic and camera. Oikawa’s cheeks are a light pink as he lets out a nervous chuckle, straightening up before rubbing his nape.

“Sorry!”

“Oikawa-san~”, A bunch of female voices come out of the speakers and you automatically roll your eyes.

Regaining his confident self, he shows them his charm, smiling as he makes his trademark peace sign, causing the girls to sigh dreamily. But before they can admire your boyfriend any longer, you finally press the right button.

Oikawa immediately pouts, making you frown as he clings again onto your neck, whining.

“What?!”

“You could have showed me off a little more!”

“Doll I need ya!”

Atsumu whines, sitting in front of his desk, dropping his head back on the chair as he looks at your figure across the room.            

“I’m busy” you say not even sparing him a glance, putting a frown on his dark brows. You keep reading your book on his bed as the setter squints his eyes at you, “You are in class anyways.”

“But I have my camera off, we aren’t doing much!”, you lift your gaze, finding his hazel orbits begging at you. You sigh, standing up and taking long steps in his direction.

“What do you want ‘Tsumu?”

“Make me company! Sit on my lap, doll”, he pats his thigh with a sneaky smirk that had you frowning.

You try to gaze at the laptop to make sure there are no unexpected viewers but Atsumu quickly grips your waist pulling you onto his lap, making you grunt.

“There we go, god, you are very prickly!”

“What did you say?” you shriek, pushing his arms away to stand up when a cute laugh slips past his mouth as he tightens the grip on your waist, leaning closer to your face.

“Sorry, sorry,but you look so cute when you are angry”, a teasing grin swirls on the corner of his lips as he erases the distance between you, eyes softening as you pout.

And before you can say something else, he captures your lips, silencing any of your further complains. Your hands travel to his neck, instinctively caressing the back of his head.

“Miya―”

“SO, THIS IS THE REASON WHY I CAN’T BE IN MY OWN ROOM?!”, Osamu interrupts the teacher, his brows bowing up in surprise across the screen as the kitchen counter acts as background. You tense up as Atsumu’s chuckles resonate against your lips.

“You wanted to get caught, don’t you?”

Atsumu’s eyes blink for a moment, staring at your warm face before cupping your chin as his free hand squeezes your hip.

“Not really, but it’s a bonus they got to see how lucky I am”

“Kou, I can feel you staring, you know?”

Bokuto jumps from the small gap he left while opening the door, attempting to sneak silently into your room. You press the keyboard mindlessly, too tired to make sure your camera is actually off as you turn to face Fukorodani’s captain.

“I wanted to surprise you!”, he confesses, thick eyebrows falling but just as quick his eyes shine as he moves his hands excitedly, “I found this cool movie and―

“Kou, I’m sorry but I have to finish this group project first” you point at your laptop where your classmates are yelling at each other before smiling faintly at him,

Bokuto’s face contorts as he sees the way you squeeze your nose bridge with closed  eyes. He moves behind you before leaning down to plant a soft kiss on top of your head,

“Babe, you need to rest too”

“But―”

His big hands travel to your shoulders, putting some pressure on your muscles, giving you a so needed massage that had you letting out quite sighs.

“Feels good?”, he coos, smiling as he hears your cute sounds with each movement of his thumbs over your skin. You lean your head to the side, so your cheek rubs the outside of his palm, making Bokuto blush as he laughs softly.

“Hey, Y/N, are you falling asleep?!!”

One guy says from the laptop, smirking teasingly at the ace, causing your eyes to flutter open and your cheeks to burn realizing you’ve been observed all this time.

“She was finally relaxing, dude!” Bokuto says, frowning, as the other one chuckles in the background. He stands by your side before spinning your chair, so you face him.

“Kou?”

Without a word, he carries you Koala style, completely ignoring your classmates complains from your laptop. His face turns to the side, kissing your cheek as his strong arms hold you tightly against his bulky body.

“Sorry gorgeous but you are taking a nap right now!”

TAGLIST:  @oikadiors @sazunari @hajiswife  @arrogantsonofabiscuit @lemillieon @kenmaki @wak4tosh1 @tobiosbbyghorl l @mjoork @ilovecheese08 @milktyama @putmeinyourdeathnote  @itsmeauedrieee @realityisabitch-blr  @devilgirlcrybabiey @catb6y  @hiyo-its-iyo  @sharkbb @akkeyomi @milkbreadforlife @alina3419 @kg3yama @kenmasonlyhoe @xobabyalina @i-need-entertainment @leconfuseddemon 

#haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #haikyuu scenarios #oikawa x reader #haikyuu x you #oikawa x you #miya atsumu x reader #atsumu x reader #atsumu x you #atsumu fluff #oikawa fluff #bokuto x you #bokuto x reader #bokuto fluff #hqhangoutnet

[wornoutmouse]

Fun fact: demon slayer starts in 1912 and ends in 1927(or at least that's when the Tashio era ends). Using that math Tanjiro (as long as he kept his health good) would very well be alive today at the ripe age of like 78 if my math is correct since he started as 13 in the series. (My math probably wrong asf)

Power imbalance, power bottom reader, knife play,  blood but not blood play...

He hated you.

Your very being irked him more than anything he'd ever experienced in all his centuries of living. You were clumsy, boisterous, and played that arrogant music all throughout your home while walking around half naked. Well in Muzan's opinion you were half naked, he couldn't even begin to describe his disbelief at the trend of exposing skin. 

It didn't help that you had that insignificant filth running through your veins. At first he was unsure, after all this was a completely different country than Japan, not to mention your darker skin and coiled hair. But no, he could smell and recognise the Kamado blood running through your veins just as strongly as it had run through all your ancestors. 

Completely undiluted. 

At the very beginning when you first moved in, you  came to his home. Knocking aggressively on his front door already getting off to the wrong start. When he opened it, you slipped past him and walked into his living room barely even saying hello as you put poorly decorated sugar cookies on his obsidian coffee table. "This is a nice place you got here Mj." 

Muzan's eyes twitched, that joke had long since gotten old since he moved to America. 

Now that you were closer he could definitely smell, the century old stench of rivaling bloodlust simmered just below your onyx skin. At any moment he expected you to attack him in some way or form. "Anyways I'm here to say hello neighbor, my name is Y/n and I'm your new best friend!"

Your happy attitude also agitated him to no end. Even though the knowledge of demons had dwindled down to only a few select families, even basic humans were wary of him as their baser instincts made them aware of his dangerous origins. This fact had long since forced Muzan to only prey on the elderly to survive. You had stayed a bit longer babbling about some nonsense that Muzan never acknowledged as he watched you from a good distance.

"You know you really got to add more to your wardrobe than 1963 suits." You walked from the back of his home, an area that he didn't even notice you wandered to. Finally getting bored, you open his door bidding your farewells. 

Just before leaving you stop and with a cheeky grin say, "If you ever need anything just come on over. We Kamado's are known for our kindness." 

Since then he'd been on edge around you. The point of relocating was for him to keep a low profile but now it seems he'd have to come face to face with an old nemesis reborn. 

Muzan snapped out of his thoughts with a flinch as he pierced his hand with his nail. He watches the dark blood well up from the wound and drip down his wrist. In the end this world had long since lost its hostility dwindling the average human incapable of basic combat. Giving you were no doubt a great descendant, Muzan failed to see you as a true threat.  

But one can never be too sure

🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢🥢

You heard a knock on your door, soft and hesitant. "I don't think I'm expecting company." You checked your watch and peered out of a nearby window. It was at least 8 at night, you were braless wearing sweats with a red T-Shirt and on your way to bed.  In the back of your mind you visualize your two grand-uncles Inosuke and Zenitsu coming over to make you spectate their fights. For two old dudes they still had enough strength in them to do hip breaking nonsense.

You open the door shocked to see your next door neighbor standing before you. For once he wasn't wearing a suit that cost more than your house. His attire was still expensively dressed but in a more casual sense, that being a black dress shirt and slacks. His sleeves were rolled up displaying his pale skin. "Can I come in?" A dazzling smile you had never seen before practically blinds you as he walks past you into your home.

When Muzan walks in his eyes immediately dart to the clear as day Nichirin Blade sword displayed recklessly on your living room wall above your couch. "You like it?" A hand on his shoulder makes him jump, "Got it from my grandpa, he says it's really special but I feel like he's exaggerating. You know how old people are." Muzan shakes out of his stupor. "I don't quite understand what you mean by that, however I do know that it's much more wise to listen to your elders than ignoring…..It could save your life."

Muzan replicates you and puts a hand on your shoulder gently squeezing. This was it, he'd go in for the kill and it would be over, the amount of blood he'd pump into you would be enough to watch you meet a satisfying end of combustion completely untraceable if the police were to get involved. How he wishes he'd be there when your poor grandfather walks along your remains splattered on every surface in your living room. Unable to do a thing as he's finally in his last stretch of life. 

The beauty.

Muzan's finger only twitches in the slightest before pain sparks from his own neck. "The thought of you coming into my own home unprovoked and at night no less, was the most obvious sign one could ask more." You had his hand gripped so tight your veins popped while your other hand held a small pocket knife that burned  brighter than any Nichirin sword he'd ever encountered. He didn't understand, he was quick enough to kill even the best of the ancient Hiroshima. So how did a little foreign girl like you get the upper hand?

It was embarrassing and almost laughable if any of his pillars were alive to tell the tale.

You press the blade harder before bringing your other hand to caress Muzan's cheek,  "Did you think I'd be just an ignorant descendant of an infamous hero?" You clicked your teeth disappointingly. "How naive, you've really become lazy after all these millennia huh?" You walk forward, pushing Muzan back with seductive strength. He allows you to push him into your couch,  I say allow because at any time he could have stopped you.  

Muzan is most definitely not holding me at gunpoint right now. 

The knife never wavers even as you climb into Muzan's lap, pressing it even closer against his jugular. "You do know getting beheaded will not kill me, and I doubt this petty little kitchen knife will get the job done in the first place." Your lips draw into a smirk and you press the knife closer as you trail it down his chest, "That may be true but it's gonna take one hell of a time for you to grow back." Your hand jerks down, popping his shirt buttons open.

Muzan watches with interest, your eyes light up as more skin becomes exposed. The tones of your dark skin contrast strikingly as you caress his pectoral with the tips of your fingers. "For a 1,000 year old grandpa you look decent." Still threatening his life with your blade, you kiss him. It's deep and carnal. Your lustful desires being made known as you grind in his lap. The flesh of your ass snuggly hotdogs the forming outline of his cock. "I've always wanted to be with a demon. You've had to of become a real freak after living this long!"

When you pull away Muzan's thin lips are pink and a bit swollen. He is out of breath despite needing none, "You have a lot of nerve for a mere human." With your free hand you loosen the belt of his slacks, only standing to pull them off, pleased when Muzan voluntarily raises his hips to aid you. 

Don't get him wrong, he was still planning on killing you and ending your wretched bloodline once and for all, he just needed his mind to clear itself. Your scent, your confidence, strung him along like a puppet. His hands grip onto your ass cheeks like a lifeline. Molding them between his fingers, even giving them a shake through your sweats. His nails elongate and puncture the thick fabric as if it was nothing more than a spider web. 

Your sweats are tugged off completely leaving your lower half nude. Muzan moves his hands to hold your ass again but your blade politely makes itself known. You are out of breath and clearly flustered. "Watch yourself, demon, I'm the one calling the shots, don't forget that." Muzan bites his tongue with sharp glare. He raises his hands in surrender, "Of course." 

Muzan can feel your wetness against his leg and it's driving him insane. "Hey…" red eyes refocus on yours, "You ain't got any diseases do you? And you can't get me pregnant right?" Muzan smirks hands enclosing around your ass despite your protest. "I can, however it will cost a lot more than doing it once." The odds didn't seem in your favor but you were in no position to stand down and grab a condom and Muzan knew it.

You curve the blade towards his chin, "If you are lying and give me some ancient unknown disease or I find out you have superman sperm, I will kill you." Muzan links his lips, "Wasn't that the plan from the beginning or have you had a moment of level headedness?" Your wrist is quick and precise, cutting a thin slash along his jawline., not enough to scar and it barely even bled, but the threat was clear.

You grab Muzan's dick and use your thumb to attack the underside with fast strokes. Said man doesn't react outwardly, the only sign being his eyelids lowering by a fraction. "Were you always this well endowed or did you adjust this part too?" Muzan was not amused by your insinuation. Deciding to once again display the true power imbalance this situation had, he loops his arms underneath your large thighs and lifts you just enough to thrust his cock against your hole. 

From there he let's go, making you plop down on his length, making you yelp and allowing him to lean back with a relaxed sigh. You were so warm and tight. Now even though I explained what had happened with great detail,  keep in mind that in reality it all happened within a fraction of a second. 

Your large and in charge persona was cracking.  You gripped Muzan's sides tightly as your pussy spasmed around his girth. "F-Fuck it's too….." you trail off not wanting to give Muzan the credit he was truly due. 

It takes a few moments for you to get your bearings all the while Muzan and his dangerous jaw swayed in the crevice of your neck. A viper playing with its prey. The blade is back against his neck once again making his cock twitch. If he were human this would be a dangerous feat.  Your grip never slacked nor lessened against his neck, slicing into a growing wound that dropped dark blood down his chest and to his abdomen. 

His dick stretched your pussy and made it weap on each downstroke. Muzan's hands grip onto the cheeks of your ass with gritted teeth.  Your insides gripped him ever so slightly.  Sucking him back in as if he belonged there.  He felt used and it felt good.  His black ringlets stuck to his face from sweat and his red eyes grew in intensity. 

He couldn't see much of your body, hell he could barely even touch. In the back of his mind humorous thoughts such as how he knew Tanjiro would lose his sanity if he knew his granddaughter was being bedded by the man he despised. But the more you bounced, the more you squeezed, the deeper you cut into his neck proved that you were truly the one in charge. 

"Oh God you're so deep!" Your deep almond eyes shut themselves with pleasure. Muzan could feel your legs shaking with exertion at the same rhythm your pussy twitched. His balls felt tight after having no action in over a dozen years. "F-Faster." He has no care for your blade, only wanting to cum and feel the sweet ecstasy he knew your creamed pussy would provide. "Come on human, go faster." Muzan locks lips with you, gaze hardened and intent on proving some sort of point.

Tossing the knife you wrap your arms around his neck pulling his head closer. Red eyes target brown ones as his hands take a stronger grip on your ass. He uses his strength to bounce you. The sound of his balls slapping against the curve of your ass is just as disgusting as it is sexy. Your nipples rub against his through your tank-top making you both moan. The feeling blood stains your shirt making you shiver from the cool wetness

The couch you rest on bangs against the wall behind you the faster you both go. Muzan's feet are planted firmly in the ground, his fangs further elongated. He looks feral and it is in this moment where you get a glimpse of the horror many people felt when he took their lives. "Focus little Kamado, you wouldn't want to disappoint me now would you?" 

Muzan's hips meet yours, spreading the tempo. Your juices coat his lap before finally you tense up completely into a cramp inducing stance as Muzan impaled you on his cock one last time. "Ahh.." Muzan empties himself within you with a relieved sigh. 

Maybe the Kamado bloodline could go on.

#blackreader #black y/n #demon slayer smut #muzan x reader #anime smut #muzan smut #muzan x black reader #demon slayer x black reader

[astromaki]

part 3 of second choice ; ceo!shoto todoroki x gn!reader (x ceo!katsuki bakugo) (1617 words)

part 1. part 2. (previous) part 4.

tw ; angst, arranged marriage, toxic relationship, degradation, divorce, mention of alcohol, bad language, slightly suggestive ?

EXTRA INFOS ;; all the characters are aged up obviously (they are 30 here), the point of view of this third part is from shoto todoroki !

confrontation. [7 : 16 pm]

a week has passed since he came home that night drunk. that he had begged momo to stay with him. that he had accidentally seen those divorce papers crumpled by your hands.

momo had seen them too that night, and yet she and shoto had not commented on them. good, he wasn't in the mood anyway.

it had become almost official, even the media had it on their front pages. "one of japan's richest couples on the verge of divorce?", "billionaire todoroki single again?" "y/n, will the heir.ess of their father's company return to being a lawyer?"

he would have liked to say that he cared what you thought about it. if you cried, screamed, were you hurt ? but that would be lying, you were the least of his worries.

and then, wasn't it what he wanted from the beginning ?

that you would end up hating him so much that you would leave him. that he could finally be free of the weight that you represented every day.

and yet his signature was still missing.

"you can't even love your partner properly, and now i hear through the media that a divorce is on the way ? you're pathetic son. i knew i should have married them to touya. " enji's heart-attack voice echoed terribly through the phone, which made shoto sigh. he was even pretty sure he could hear it from across town.

"calm down." shoto said in an annoyed tone. "your marriage isn't a success either, so keep your remarks to yourself. bye. "

"you idiot, don't you dare hanging up on me. i don't care if you can't satisfy your s/o, i don't care if they feel bad about this arranged marriage either. but y/n y/l/n comes from a very famous lawyer's family, so get a divorce and the amount of money you have to give will be huge. "

"i manage them, it will not be a problem. i have to go now. "

the young man finally returned to your room, looking exhausted, his tie loosened and ready to down a few glasses of whiskey.

however, he was surprised to see you. dressed in a beautiful versace dress/suit, you were glowing. well no, he meant that you looked... good.

though, it was the first time he took the time to look at you. to admire you.

the young man finally met your indifferent gaze through the mirror you were standing in front of. that gaze that was so joyful and sparkling at the beginning of your marriage, full of hope to transform this purely financial union into a love marriage.

but that look, devoid of emotion, almost made shoto, Japan's most ambitious ceo, doubt himself. almost.

"i'm surprised you're still using my card to splurge. how much is this one? $1000 ? $2000 ?"

he was tired, exhausted. nut the truth is he was in the mood to be a pain in the ass tonight.

"$ 8,330. plus the $800 pair. " you replied coldly.

your answer was like a slap in the face to your husband. not because of the price, he didn't give a fuck about this.

but this tone right there. it wasn't like you. you were normally so gentle, patient even with the worst of the crap he put you through. that naive kindness that made him want to vomit was completely gone. he didn't expect such a turn of events.

"so you decide to divorce me, but first you want to empty my bank account? you're exactly as I imagined." his look that used to reflect nothing but fatigue was now full of contempt for you.

you finally faced him. shit, he couldn't help but find you beautiful.

"here todoroki, let's talk about the divorce. " you began, quietly walking over to the cabinet and pulling out a stack of documents. "i've signed it, sign it, and i'll take it to my lawyers first thing in the morning.

he snatched them out of your hand and threw them across the room. you didn't even flinch, you even held his gaze. poker face.

a loud silence fell between you. a long silence, uncomfortable and comfortable at the same time. heavy and light. sensible and meaningless.

"what's all this about ? who put you up to this ?"

a wry laugh escaped your lips. your new behavior puzzled shoto. he loved and hated what he had in front of him. a challenge.

"you think i need someone to make me realize that i deserve better than an asshole like you ? fuck, let me laugh. "

your hand went to retrieve a piece of paper from your purse. and it was slammed hard against his chest. bakugou’s business card.

he found your face inches from his, your warm breath gently caressing his cheeks. a scent of whiskey filled his nostrils. you were not sober.

"how many drinks are you on? " he asked quietly.

"so now do you care if i downed a whole bottle or not ? oh please shut up. because now that you mention it, your friend bakugou katsuki may have hired me. to be his company's business lawyer. isn't that funny? "

you turned your back on him, unaware of the state you'd put him in. but damn, it was like he'd just been slapped in the face. nausea took over his whole body, his legs became heavy and weak in few seconds only. and he knew damn well it wasn't fatigue.

so you were leaving him, but on top of that you were going to work for his number one competitor ?

he didn't know what hurt more, the knowledge that bakugo had won one of the most competent lawyers in the field or that you were leaving him for him ? was he jealous ? surely not, it was another feeling that repulsed him. he didn't even know.

"have you lost your tongue todoroki ?"

todoroki ? since when did you call him by his last name ? where are the darlings or my heart that used to annoy him so much ?

you finish getting ready, now wearing your long jacket. he had lost his tongue indeed, he didn't know what to say to you. what to do.

y/n y/l/n, you had succeeded in putting your husband to the wall.

but it was only for a moment. he quickly, too quickly, pulled himself together. his usual irritated expression returned.

"you don't see that he's using you to get ahead of me ? i thought you were smarter than that. "

he took a step forward, slowly but surely. like a predator approaching its prey.

"he doesn't care about you. just like no one has ever cared about you, not me, not him and not your bourgeois family. that's why they put you in a loveless marriage so easily. "

a mirthless laugh escaped from his lips.

"y/n, this bastard doesn't give a damn about you. "

you tried to move towards him, ready to slap him, but the alcohol made you capsize and stumble on your carpet. he arrived just in time to support you with his muscular arms. an annoyed sigh resounded in the large room when your sob reached his ears.

nevertheless, a petty smile stretched his lips. there you were again, the fragile and unassertive y/n finally in his arms.

that bakugo had managed to turn your brain inside out. yet shoto knew you better than anyone else. he knew you. better than you knew yourself. you were that puzzle he had managed to decipher long ago.

"that's not true. kacchan wouldn't do that...", you whisper.

"you know i'm right, sweetheart. you know i'm the only one who's honest with you. my love for you is all you need. "

his muscular hand gradually, peacefully, came to caress your back to take off the buttons of your dress. his lips came to meet yours, to draw you into a long, languid, unsentimental kiss. your lips asked for more, your whole soul asked for more of shoto. more of this man for whom your heart never stopped beating. even if his was vibrating for another woman.

you wanted to feel his lips making love to you sensually, sincerely.

you just wanted him to love you for one night. one fucking night.

shoto was ecstatic. he could already see himself opening a bottle of champagne with his father, to celebrate the divorce that would never happen. tonight, shoto had brought out his best acting skills. millions were at stake. he had brought out his best kiss. he had never touched you like that. so gently, so carefully.

he had never called you by any affectionate nickname.

he has done too much to keep you around.

and you were drunk, not stupid.

you finally stood up, moving away from him, reluctantly. nothing he said was true. from his love for you, to his accusations against katsuki.

awkwardly, you put your dress/suit back on properly.

"i have a meeting with my future employer mr. bakugou tonight. i'll be late. don't wait for me, i'll sleep at the hotel tonight, with your card. "

a red color came to his cheeks. anger ? sadness ? jealousy ?

he had never seen you so determined, so proud. and that attracted him. he was going to lose millions, no matter what. but it was you who was going to escape him. for that bastard bakugou katsuki.

the nice little y/n was no longer shoto todoroki's.

AHHH omg sorry sorry i told you i can't do a fluffy end!! >< (comments and reblogs are appreciated <3)

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