#if they were less of a constipated fool
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Quid Pro Quo
in which you attempt to seduce il dottore in the desperate hope that he will save your life, and come to realize it’s not entirely faked
dottore x fem!reader
word count: 7.2k
reader: afab, leaning fem (no pronouns, neutral names, feminine clothing, pussy/cunt/clit/breast used)
tags: EXPLICIT CONTENT, blood, violence/chopping off a hand (not toward the reader), possessiveness/jealousy, manhandling from both parties, corruption vibes, biting, idk what to tell u man it’s dottore, established relationship but also they’re getting together, chronically/terminally ill reader (kept vague; dottore is treating it), reader is called “pet” and dottore is called “my lord” but it’s not a kink thing they’re just emotionally constipated, heavy petting, fingering, edging, pls don’t be fooled genuinely the smut is so vanilla compared to the rest of these tags KDNFKENF, implied oral (reader receiving) at the end but it’s fade-to-black
“my lord, this is absurd. have i not been dutiful? have i strayed?”
“very different things from devotion and affection, i’m afraid.”
who is he, you think bitterly, to demand those of you? to demand you tell him at all, let alone here and now with so little warning?
“well?” his voice is merciless. it has you panicking, desperate not to disappoint.
“i—” the words catch in your throat. you choke on them, swallow them down before they can ruin you. frankly you can’t even be certain what you’d have said.
dottore frowns, slumping back in his chair and lifting an arm to rest his chin in his hand as he regards you. “pity. i thought you less delicate than this.”
“you’re being cruel,” you say in a desperate attempt to make him relent, but he scoffs meanly.
“i’m a cruel man.”
“not to me!” this time it’s a wail. your lip quivers involuntarily, and even to your ears you sound like a petulant child as you cry, “never to me.”
“don’t pout. don’t—” he cuts himself off with a long-suffering sigh. when he speaks again it’s low, muttered; less to you and more to himself. “damn it all, what you do to me…”
you might find it flattering if you weren’t so riled up. tonight, once your blood cools and you return to your room, you’ll let your mind stray to it—the growl of his voice, the tempered emotion, the way his fingers twitch as if to reach out for you.
perhaps you’d have let him, if he’d done so rather than turn his eyes back to you with a glare and spit out yet another accusation.
When you’d first approached Dottore with a proposal, you never anticipated he’d accept it.
You’d been desperate, alone and moraless, shackled with an illness only curable to those more fortunate than you. You weren’t fool enough, not even back then, to think he’d accept out of pity, or even something as human as lust for you. Even now you don’t quite understand why he’d agreed.
But by some miracle he did, and now you stand here months after you’d thought you would die, bundled up in a heavy wool coat lined with plush fur, dragged out to the main palace just to be ordered to sit and wait until his convening with a number of other Harbingers has ended.
You have no right to complain. Being paraded around like a glass doll—or rather hoarded like a priceless jewel, never left in the company of others long enough to consider abandoning your promise—is the price you pay for who you’ve thrown your lot in with. And you can breathe freely without coughing. You can move without growing weary, you can stand without pain. These are the true luxuries Dottore has given you. You’ll wait for him, even if you grow bored in the meanwhile.
Two guards stand watch over you. For a time they were regular, familiar faces who shadowed you whenever you went anywhere beyond Dottore’s wing in the palace. Then you made the mistake of calling one by name in front of him, and now they change every few days.
“Boys,” you call out to them, louder than you mean in the silent, cavernous hall. “Would you come with me to take a walk? Just in the arboretum, nowhere far.”
They exchange a brief look, certainly debating the chances of trouble from such a proposal, before seemingly coming to an agreement and nodding in unison.
You stand, eager for a change in scenery. What happens next, however, you couldn’t anticipate.
A guard’s hand finds your shoulder. As soon as it touches you realize your mistake; you’d started down the wrong way, headed deeper into the underbelly of the palace rather than towards the grand conservatory in the center. If you had more time you’d turn on heel and apologize sheepishly, and he’d remove his touch, and all would be well.
But a second is all it takes. His fingers brush the thick wool covering you and a moment later you feel a whistling blade followed by the horrifying sound of flesh being severed in a single brutal strike.
You scream, lurching back—the severed hand is still on your shoulder, limp, and the horror of that doesn’t sink in until your sudden movement makes it slide off and fall to the floor with a sickening thud.
Before you can get far, though, an arm slings itself around your waist and drags you back in an ironclad grip. Your shoulder slams into the wall first, and then your back, so sudden and forceful that it knocks the wind out of you.
Dottore has you pinned against the back of a recessed niche. You’re tucked away like this, hidden to all eyes except his, which you’re certain take in your disheveled form greedily though you can’t see beneath the mask to confirm—and your gaze stubbornly remains pinned over his shoulder either way. Your chest heaves, still catching your breath, but the heavy beating of your heart is hardly from terror anymore.
His fingers find your jaw. They’re big as they splay across your cheek, grasping firm to tilt your head upward and force you to look at him. That gloved hand is covered in blood, hot and slick; you can feel it smeared over your face and neck.
“My lord—“
He’s kissing you before you can finish the word, teeth clacking against yours, licking in past your lips before you can close them. On instinct you bite down, but despite the taste of copper flooding your tongue he doesn’t pull back—in fact, he presses in closer, groaning into your mouth.
“My lord,” you try again, voice muffled entirely, “you’re out sooner than anticipated.”
He kisses you harder, drawing an embarrassing noise from your throat. It’s all you can do to keep up, but you attempt to speak more anyway.
“What is this? You—“
The sound he lets out is feral, growling; it stops you in your tracks, throws every word out of your head. But it’s too late. He pulls back fully to look at you, unreadable even to your discerning eyes.
“I return to find you attempting to leave,” he says, low and dangerous. “And another man’s hand upon you.”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “If anything he was stopping me. I only wanted to visit the arboretum, my lord—“
“The arboretum is the opposite way.”
“Yes, which would be why my guard was directing me the proper way. And you cut off his hand for it!”
Too impassioned. Your mistake. Dottore shoves you against the wall again and you wince, eyes slamming shut. This time he goes for your neck, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses down the taut surface as you angle your head to give him ample room. Soon enough they turn even more heated, nibbling at you with those sharp teeth and sucking harshly at the dip of your jaw.
You melt against him, weak-kneed and floating. His lips leave your skin momentarily. He’s still close enough for his breath to puff against your neck with each pant, but he hovers, waiting until you’ve opened your eyes and let your half-lidded gaze meet his own to lean in again and sink his teeth into your shoulder.
The noise you let out is obscene. You have no control over it; it’s wrenched from your lips instantly, something like a yelp that trails off into a breathy moan. All things considered he hasn’t bitten you too deeply—you’ve certainly received worse by his own hands—but he breaks skin with those teeth, and when he releases you the sting is only slightly soothed by his tongue lathing over the mark.
“Lord Second!”
He pulls away from you with a snarl. You’re left panting, legs shaking, relying on his hold to keep you up as you close your eyes and let your head fall back to rest against the wall. It’s Pulcinella who has played savior long enough for you to catch your breath; you can hear his chiding, the annoyance in his tone, the sternness as he demands Dottore let your unfortunate guard leave to get his wound tended to.
“I’m hardly stopping him,” Dottore says dismissively. His hand comes up to your face. You aren’t anticipating it, jolting and opening your eyes when the leather of his glove makes contact. His grip tightens, fingers pressing into your cheeks and pursing your lips. “No need for you to get involved, rooster.”
You can see how he intends to return where he left off before he leans back in. His grip is so secure you couldn’t turn your head to escape his kiss even if you attempted it, but you know better than to try.
“Wait!” you gasp out against his lips. “Not—ah, in front of—“
“Oh, now you’re feeling demure. Didn’t care about your guards, did you?” His hand slides down to wrap around your throat—not quite choking, but undeniably present. At the same time he bites down hard on your lower lip. “A decision for you, then. Would you like me to stop, or to dismiss the boy?”
“Dismiss him,” you say without hesitation, not entirely altruistically. Dottore is always put in a far better mood if you allow him to do as he pleases with you.
“Listen to your companion, Dottore,” pipes up Pulcinella from the other side of the hall. “Pierro would be displeased by this scene.”
“Lucky, then, that he hasn’t stumbled upon it.” Again, Dottore turns away from you to face Pulcinella. Again, you take the moment to catch your breath. “Why are you here?”
“I was sent to fetch you. Lord First would like a word privately.”
Another snarl. This time, however, he seems to understand he has no choice. When he returns his attention to you it’s clear that he intends to pull away entirely.
Beneath that damned mask, his eyes aren’t visible. Still, his grin is sharp enough that you can imagine the wild look they likely hold, the one that never fails to send a thrill through you. The blood on your skin has dried somewhat to become tacky. He leans in once more, licks a long stripe up the column of your neck, lips coming away covered in scarlet. Something settles in the pit of your stomach.
“Go clean up, pet,” Dottore says, low enough that it’s meant for only you to hear. “I can’t stand the stench of another’s blood on you.”
Frowning, you pry yourself from his hold as much as he’ll let you, unfulfilled though you think you ought to be grateful that he’s willing to let you compose yourself. You huff. “We’ll continue this conversation later.”
Somehow, that grin sharpens. He reaches out with a hand again, fleeting—gentle, even—as he crooks his finger beneath your chin to lift it slightly. “As you wish.”
And with that he pulls away. The hand on your back nudges you over towards your remaining guard and then Dottore is gone, with a final keep your hands off growled at the poor man (who assuredly does not need the warning, not with his partner’s blood still staining the floor beneath his feet) before he stalks off to follow Pulcinella deeper into the palace.
Hours later, after a long bath and attendants having dressed you in clean clothing, Dottore summons you to his lab.
Though it’s located in a separate building, it takes you mere minutes to arrive; you know the path by heart, and while there will always be assigned guards and the occasional assistant lurking, few fatui agents linger longer than necessary in the halls belonging to the second harbinger. Such dallying always increases the risk of being purloined for use as a test subject in some fatal experiment or another.
You’ve been told that when you’re not around the place is crawling with segments, too. You know of their existence, of course—have even seen a few from a distance—but Dottore has long refused to let you near any of them.
His lab always runs on the colder side, even for a Snezhnayan facility. If you regularly wore clothing in it you suppose it might be more bearable, but he rarely summons you for reasons which allow you to keep anything on.
You think longingly back to your chambers, made cozy and warm with the help of your personal effects and a number of mechanical heaters in varying levels of prototype courtesy of your eccentric lover. He can be considerate, you’ve learned, when he truly wants to—though he would never willingly admit it. In the case of providing you warmth he maintains it’s merely because he can’t stand your shivering when in bed with you.
You’ve refrained from pointing out that you never shiver when he is there to keep you warm.
Dottore’s office door is open, and you know you can enter without announcement, but you choose to linger in the doorway and reach out to rap knuckles against it twice.
You can see him sitting at his desk across the room. Despite how you’re the only one who would approach him now, he wears his mask, gloves still on, dutifully paying sole attention to his work—or rather seemingly, because he shifts as you enter, and you feel his eyes on your back when you turn to close and lock the door behind you.
The shoes you wear are soft slippers, flat upon the ground. You almost regret not wearing anything with a solid heel; perhaps if your approach came announced by the loud clacking of metal upon marble he wouldn’t ignore you so. Either way, you note how his arm shifts as you elegantly step past his chair, clearly itching to reach out and hold you.
You settle yourself upon his desk, legs crossed demurely, the chiffon fabric of the nightdress you’d been tugged into pooling prettily around your thighs and draping over the edge.
His eyes might be concealed but you can tell by the angle of his head that he’s staring. You’re glad for it—the little show you put on, leaning back to emphasize your chest and angling to draw attention to your legs, should not go unseen. You sigh dramatically, reaching up to pull the dressing gown from your shoulders and let it fall to your waist, and that’s what ends it.
He huffs (you might be so bold as to call it fondly exasperated) and turns back to his work without a word.
Perched on his desk like this, you can easily lean forward and reach out to lay hands on the mask he wears over his eyes. He stiffens, head snapping up, one hand catching your wrist in a harsh grip just shy of aching.
“Did you lock the door?” he hisses, all too used to your insistence of not fucking a masked man to even ask what you’re doing.
You roll your eyes and stubbornly continue on your mission. “Yes, my lord. When have I ever left it unlocked?”
Nobody but his fellow harbingers would dare to interrupt one of his appointments with you, and a locked door has never kept the likes of them out, but you’re not entirely keen on the idea of being interrupted either, so you dutifully turn the bolt every time.
“I seem to recall my last assistant.”
“That woman had a key and far too much nerve for her own good.” It’s true—you had locked the door that night, though you’d also goaded her privately beforehand just to see the look on her face when Dottore gave her no mercy like every other person unfortunate enough to have walked in on you nude.
Dottore’s eyes glint as you remove the mask fully, his mouth tugging into a pleased little smile. “Jealousy becomes you, pet.”
Your scowl does nothing to deter him. As penance you set the mask down on the far side of you. If he wants it back, he’ll have to lean over you to reach—even with his absurdly long wingspan—and almost certainly end up with his face in your lap.
A very bold part of you hopes he does.
For now, though, your annoyance is unquenched. So you tilt your head, letting his eyes fall to the slope of your shoulder, and speak. “If you called me here for anything, tell me or I’ll simply leave.”
He dips his head as if focusing on the papers before him. “And if I merely wanted you to pose on my desk like a pretty little ornament while I work?”
“You think I’m pretty?” you tease without missing a beat. “Truly?”
He doesn’t deign that with an answer, though he allows himself one more lingering scan of your form before turning back to his work.
When he does, you shift and recross your legs. It’s pointed, timed for the moment his eyes flit over to you; an uncross and a shift to the other leg on top, fast and smooth but with enough time to give him a good look of what’s between your thighs.
Or rather what isn’t, because you’d refused the undergarments your attendants had tried to throw on you. The movement bares your cunt to him in its entirety; you see his eyes hone in on it, his mouth slacken, the reaction involuntary and borderline feral in the fleeting seconds before your legs close again.
And then you watch him frown, as if witnessing his very thought process dawn upon his face—the realization that you’d made the trip without anything beneath your nightdress has him irritated.
“Presumptuous thing you are,” he growls. “What if I’d called you here for treatment?”
“You said we’d finish that talk.”
“This,” he gestures at the entirety of you, and you snicker in return, “does not suggest talking.”
“I didn’t choose what my attendants dressed me in.”
It’d been laid out for you when you’d come out of the bath; all gossamer layers and intricate lace, low in the front and short at the bottom and held together by only a satin ribbon. You’re inclined to think Pantalone is the true culprit. Dottore likes such things on you, though he insists he holds no preference, and therefore one of the tried and true ways the shrewd man has come to flatter your capricious lover is to throw luxuries at you—lavish jewels and thick furs and long billowing dressing gowns—and instruct for you to be dressed up in them like some spoiled, pampered lapdog before you next visit the lab.
You can’t say you mind. The dress you wear now is the kind of soft only an exorbitant amount of mora can buy, perfectly tailored and clinging to every curve that should most be flattered. Calling it a nightdress, while you’ve been doing so, likely does it more credit than deserved. The intent is assuredly not for sleeping. With the matching dressing robe it proves modest enough, though not as you wear it now; pulled low and teasing over your arms, the tie fallen loose to give no coverage.
“Your attendants send you off like a lamb to slaughter.”
You shrug. “A willing one.”
“Fair enough. Tell me, then, willing as you are to enter this wolves’ den. You were particularly appalled by my actions this morning—the longer I’ve had to ruminate, the less remorseful I’ve become. He ought to have known better than to lay hands on you. Unless, of course, you encouraged it.”
“Oh, please.” Now you roll your eyes openly, toss your head with the motion just to emphasize it. “My lord, I don’t even know the boy’s name. I simply believe removing his hand was a punishment unfit for the crime.”
“And yet you kissed me. You threw yourself at me, really, despite all those tepid protests. Would you have let me fuck you there, I wonder? In front of your guards, knowing that I would never let them live after?”
Your cheeks heat at the accusation. “No, I—”
“Is this not what you wanted? My infatuation? Don’t tell me you’re second guessing now that you know exactly what it entails—it’s too late. The thought of another man touching you…” he trails off, but you hardly need him to finish. You’re well aware of just what he’s thinking. “Why do you think I never allow my segments to come near you?”
Your brow furrows. “They are younger than you, of course. I assumed their volatility posed too great a risk.”
Dottore scoffs, low and dismissive. “Hardly. The true reason is that the resources required to remake them are so great.”
It takes you a moment to understand the meaning, but when you do it has your mouth parting. Should a segment interact with you, he’s so certain he’d kill it that he’d determined it simpler to keep the two parties separate. A shiver runs down your spine—to your chagrin, you doubt it’s horror.
“Your segments are yourself, my lord,” you attempt again. “They are bolder than most agents, and guaranteed to be attracted to me as you are. You cannot hold the guards you assigned to the same scrutiny. The boy was merely leading me away.”
“What of my poor assistant, then, hm? What is the difference between the boy and the girl? I should passively allow every warm body to touch you and cannot even have a lab assistant? She was a quick one—certainly not at the caliber of my segments but decent enough in their absence.”
“You regret disposing of her, then?”
“No need to sound so bitter, pet. I have no regrets. Your company is far more preferred, and…” Dottore trails off, letting out a low chuckle, voice a purr laced with meaning not well hidden, “I hardly need to tell you that you paid me back thoroughly for whatever loss I might have incurred that night. But my point remains—the boy easily replaced, the girl less so. What difference do you see?”
“That the boy would not have dared compete with you, even if he’d found me alluring,” you hiss. “The girl had intentions that insulted me.”
“Intentions?”
“With you, which you knew, so I should hardly need to say it. I almost pity the poor thing—you intended all along to kill her, you simply decided to have fun with it along the way.”
“Only when I realized just how much I enjoy your jealousy. Truly, I ought to bring another in. Any agent hungry enough for the position would naturally desire an even higher one at my side…”
You frown and, in a motion so fast you can’t really think it through, reach out to hook your finger into the ring of that harness and yank him upward.
The noise he lets out is something between a hiss and a groan, rich and growling and heated. No shock is clear on his face; rather, he stares up at you with a grin that exposes sharp teeth, teeth which part to let a pink tongue run along his lower lip.
When you speak it’s steely. “Few people in this world would find you standable, my lord. I must be touched in the mind to feel for you as I do.”
“Oh?” You’ve stumbled into some kind of trap, you realize by the tone of his voice. “Tell me, then, what do you feel for me?”
“What?”
“Be candid, now.” His grin only grows wider. “Don’t hold anything back. Admit that you’ve come to love me.”
You recoil, yanking your hand away as though you’ve been burned. He falls forward rather than back, arms against his thighs, laughing harshly while you shuffle further away.
“What?” you say again, poisonous in tone. “Where did you—who said anything about love?”
“Is that not what you were implying?” His words are smug, incapable of being swayed. Still, you have no choice but to try.
“No.” You’re stern, leaving no room for question.
“No? You refuse to admit it? Perhaps we ought to revisit our arrangement, then—“
“No!” He raises an eyebrow at the outburst, but you’re far too panicked to be ashamed. “My lord, this is absurd. Have I not been dutiful? Have I strayed?”
“Very different things from devotion and affection, I’m afraid.”
Who is he, you think bitterly, to demand those of you? To demand you tell him at all, let alone here and now with so little warning?
“Well?” His voice is merciless. It has you panicking, desperate not to disappoint.
“I—” The words catch in your throat. You choke on them, swallow them down before they can ruin you. Frankly you can’t even be certain what you’d have said.
Dottore frowns, slumping back in his chair and lifting an arm to rest his chin in his hand as he regards you. “Pity. I thought you less delicate than this.”
“You’re being cruel,” you say in a desperate attempt to make him relent, but he scoffs meanly.
“I’m a cruel man.”
“Not to me!” This time it’s a wail. Your lip quivers involuntarily, and even to your ears you sound like a petulant child as you cry, “never to me.”
“Don’t pout. Don’t—” he cuts himself off with a long-suffering sigh. When he speaks again it’s low, muttered; less to you and more to himself. “Damn it all, what you do to me…”
You might find it flattering if you weren’t so riled up. Tonight, once your blood cools and you return to your room, you’ll let your mind stray to it—the growl of his voice, the tempered emotion, the way his fingers twitch as if to reach out for you.
Perhaps you’d have let him, if he’d done so rather than turn his eyes back to you with a glare and spit out yet another accusation.
“You lie to yourself more than you lie to me—convincing yourself you find me disgusting, telling yourself your interest is faked. But you and I both know you enjoyed that incident this morning just as you enjoyed what I did to that girl. You enjoy me. You want me, so cease this foolishness and let me have you.”
“You have me,” you say automatically, and the scoff he responds with makes you recoil. It’s snarling, animalistic, accompanied by him lunging up from his chair to corner you in the curve of his desk.
“I don’t mean this scheme.” Dottore looms over you, arms on either side of your body. The hard wood of the desktop digs into your ass as you lean back precariously. “I don’t mean your little stratagem, which I only entertained out of amusement—”
“Yes, of course,” you snap in return, suddenly enraged as the shock wears off and you lunge forward, forcing him to reel back, “this shrewd scheme of mine, desperately selling my life to you lest it be snuffed out, which you only agreed to because you found the concept fascinating. Except now you say it isn’t enough to own my body, you are owed my heart, too—and I must serve it to you on a gilded platter because you are too cowardly to give me yours first.”
“I have no heart to give, stupid thing. This is for your benefit.” Still, you see his jaw tense. He returns to his chair, and the movement is heavy; he sinks back as if in a trance.
No heart, he claims, as if he is still satisfied with the arrangement. No, he can hardly hide such things from you. He has become too fond and now burns with the need for you to tell him you feel the same—you know this, know it like you know his touch against your skin and his body easing into your bed next to you during the night.
But you also know how volatile he is, both at his core and, more precisely, when discussing this very topic. This is not something you can push too far; unfortunate for the both of you, then, that you are just as stubborn, especially in the face of inequity.
It isn’t fair. You shouldn’t have to bare yourself if he’s unwilling to do the same.
Crossing your arms, more for self comfort than any determination on your end, you slide yourself down from the desk and make to leave. You doubt he’ll let you, but you’ve made up your mind to try—and sure enough he sits forward, ready to move.
“Come here,” Dottore demands, and tenses when you shake your head and take a bold step away. “You’re not leaving, pet, we haven’t finished this.”
“I have no interest in discussing anything with you if you’re going to be so callously selfish.” It’s a futile attempt, you know, but you try to dart off anyway, leaving your dressing robe behind to flutter down and settle on the floor. He lunges over and catches you immediately.
You struggle against him, really just to make him work for it now, and he meets the challenge in kind, lifting you easily and dragging you back to his chair despite your squirming and incessant protests. Soon enough he has you sideways on his lap, a heavy arm around your waist to deter any further attempt at escape.
“Are you going to stay put?”
You cross your arms again and stubbornly turn your head away. “I don’t suppose I have a choice.”
Instead of speaking, he lets his hand find your neck, scruffing you like a troublesome kitten and forcing you to face him with a thumb and forefinger on either side of your jaw. For a moment he scans your face. Whatever he sees there excites him somehow; his free hand tightens against the dip of your waist, groping at you, trailing down over your hip to the curve of your thigh and squeezing there, too, as he draws your legs even closer.
Initially, when he leans in, you think he’ll go for your neck. Instead he captures your lips in a surprisingly subdued kiss—closed-mouthed, slow, lingering. Something you might call sweet if it came from anyone else. He doesn’t part much when he pulls away; he stays close, foreheads nearly touching.
“If threats won’t work,” he says, lips brushing against yours with every word, “then I’ll simply try a new tactic.”
When he kisses you again it’s what you’re used to from him, all heavy and hot, his tongue delving into your mouth eagerly. You feel the need to gasp for air within seconds, but he never gives you enough, and always leaves your head spinning.
You wish you could hold out and let him work himself up trying to get you to respond. But it’s as if your very bones cry out for him now, as if your blood sings for his attention. You return the kiss in kind despite the lack of air, coaxed into it without him even trying, only spurred on by each sharp-toothed nip to your lips and suck to your tongue. Soon enough, however, your lungs begin to burn, and you tear away from him to pant desperately, lips parted as you struggle to catch your breath.
Never deterred, his tongue darts out to lick up your chin—you’d been drooling, you realize, and your nose wrinkles at the thought that he apparently hadn’t had his fill of your spit even with a kiss like that. Then he nips at your cheek, hard enough to make you jolt in his lap, which in turn causes that hand on your legs to press you down against him, though none of those things give him pause as he kisses down the line of your jaw.
His hand tilts your head back now, or perhaps it falls on its own, baring your neck. Your eyes flutter closed and your breath hitches as his teeth graze your pulse point, the barest hint of pressure, followed by an open-mouthed kiss, both of which are accompanied by his other hand dragging you closer against him.
Dottore’s gloved fingers are deft (when are they not, you ponder fleetingly) as they slide up your thigh to dip beneath the ridden-up hem of your dress. His thumb finds its mark first—he dips it between your folds, trailing up through the wetness there to slick it before brushing higher against your clit. Already that has your breath hitching, the sensation of his leather gloves against you there always odd; when he presses more firmly, in quick little circles, you gasp and squirm in his hold, your hand instinctively flying to clutch at the wrist that disappears under your skirt.
“My lord—”
He turns his thumb just the right way to have you keening, bucking up against him and turning your head into his arm. His hand has moved from your neck to your back, and he uses it along with a grip around your thigh to pull you up until you’re straddling him entirely. All the while his thumb never stops; the motion has pleasure steadily building in your core, golden-warm and only getting hotter. You can feel how wet you’ve become already.
“We’re still talking, pet.” He might be, but if he thinks you’ll say a word then he’s sorely mistaken. “I’ll draw a confession from you somehow. Perhaps if you phrase it as a demand, you so love to give me orders. What do you want from me?”
That free hand slides further down beneath the nightdress, cupping your ass briefly before sliding higher. It drags the dress with it to reveal the entirety of your legs and presses against the small of your back, urging you to grind harder against his hand, sending white-hot sparks throughout your body.
It’s a slow and steady task, working you up to the edge, but he throws himself into it with vigor. Soon enough you feel yourself coming towards it, climbing up so high you can see the peak, almost inevitable.
“What do you want?” Dottore asks again, and you shake your head in mindless refusal. His thumb dips down to slick itself again, sending a shiver through you as the pad presses just barely into your pussy and brushes over your folds on its way back up to your clit.
You nearly lose control over your voice when it returns with a vengeance, hard and fast, just on the good side of painful. He knows your body acutely well by now; can feel every twitch and writhe, hear every bitten-back moan and breathy whimper, rewarding you for them all until you can feel just how close you are to tumbling off into bliss.
His thumb stills. You whine, struggling against him, determined to get that final bit of stimulation and push yourself over the edge, but the attempt is futile. His hold on you is steadfast; you feel the high fading, desperation seeping in.
“What do you want?”
Not enough for that.
“I want you to make me cum,” you demand petulantly, fingers digging tighter into his arms.
It earns you a disappointed little click of his tongue. You’re forced to sit like this until you’re pulled entirely from that precipice, the sensation bringing tears to your eyes as you bite back a wet sob.
He takes the time to release his grip on your thigh and lift his gloved hand up. The black leather shimmers in the light—you hadn’t realized how wet you were—and he takes his time bringing it up to his face to lick it clean with meticulous fervor.
Then he reaches out, placing the very tip of his thumb against your lip.
“Bite,” he commands, so you do, teeth catching hold of just the folded leather over his skin. He pulls his thumb away, tugging his hand free entirely with the glove left dangling from your mouth.
The glove is removed from your mouth to be replaced with two of his fingers. Even you so rarely get to see his bare hands—you have many more chances than most, to be sure, but it’s always a treat—and you open eagerly to allow them entry, sucking, swirling your tongue around them and grinding down against his lap for stimulation.
Soon enough he’s pulling them out to lower his hand and ease a finger into you. If he’d kept up his rubbing at your clit that would have been enough to bring you over, you think miserably, back arching at the feeling. It fills you up so much better than your own. His thumb returns, warmer and softer and so much more intense without the leather.
Already he’s building you up again, starting off harder than before, prodding at the rim of your cunt with a second finger once you stop clenching so tightly. His other hand moves, reaching up to the thin strap of your top and tugging it over your shoulder. It allows him to free your breast, peaked in the chilly air of the room; still gloved, you squirm when he brushes his thumb against your nipple, then pinches lightly. The mild pain makes you jolt—he takes that moment to lean in and suck it into his mouth, at the same time pulling his finger from your cunt and pushing it back in with the second.
Dottore’s arms don’t hold you anymore, you keep yourself balanced on his lap by clinging to his shoulders. His still-gloved hand slides in to squeeze at your other breast as his teeth graze your nipple and his fingers assault your cunt. It’s all too much, too quickly; you throw your head back and he lets out a muffled groan as the motion presses you further into his mouth.
When you’re openly moaning he can tell you’re nearing the end again. With one final nip at the tender skin of the underside of your breast, he pulls away just enough to speak.
“What do you want?” he tries again, but you can hear it in his voice now—the heady lust, thick on every word. His fingers don’t stop their movement at first, not until he seems to remember what his intentions are, and even then they only slow.
Before he can remove them you reach down to grab his face in both hands and pull him up to kiss you. He returns it with the same vigor you give him; his fingers delve back in, pressing deep and full, thumb coming up to rub at your clit again, and you cum hard.
The wave that washes over you has you moaning into his mouth. His free hand leaves your breast to find your back, big and warm between your shoulders, pulling you even closer as you buck into his still thrusting fingers. Your whole body is buzzing, hot pleasure coursing through you.
You go limp against him when it finally subsides, breaking the kiss, boneless and satiated as you tuck your head into the crook of his neck. He eases his fingers out of you; you clench involuntarily as they exit, whimpering a little and receiving a soothing rub from just his thumb between your shoulder blades for your troubles.
For a long moment you let him hold you like that. Panting, shaking in the aftershocks, you cling to him and he rearranges your dress for some semblance of modesty, pulling the front back over your breast even as he continues to leave sucking kisses to every available part of your shoulders and collarbone and neck. His hands trail across your body, greedy and groping, less to calm you and more to take full advantage of how limp and pliant you’ve become.
And perhaps it’s because of that, or perhaps being satisfied has put you in a more agreeable mood, or perhaps you simply want to reward him for being so weak to you (because, certainly, all those many months ago when you’d first come to him cold and desperate, he wouldn’t have been so lenient), but you give in.
“I want you to court me,” you say, muffled against his shoulder. The moment the words pass your lips you feel him relax beneath you, tension fading from his shoulders. Dottore says nothing, however, and so you continue. “I want to be your lover in actuality, rather than because of an arrangement. I want you to give me treatment because you care for me—I want you to fuck me because you care for me, not because I owe you a willing cunt.”
“I care for nothing, you simple creature.” Still, he shifts beneath you, and for the first time tonight you feel him hardening against your thigh, brought on not by you cumming on his lap but by your confession. “Tenderness is beneath me.”
“Yes, of course, my lord,” you tell him smugly, just to be a brat. “You gave in just now because you do not care for me at all. In fact, this entire conversation was initiated by you because you were completely satisfied by our arrangement, and it didn’t make you seethe every time you thought about my affections being faked to avail myself of your—”
He interrupts you by sinking his teeth into your neck, just a few centimeters above the scabbed-over bite he’d given you earlier, and you break off with a wrecked moan as you fall limp against him. You claw at the back of his neck in retaliation; a poor attempt, as it only seems to rile him further. He laps at your weeping wound for a moment before fixing his mouth to your pulsepoint and setting about leaving another kind of mark.
When he finally pulls away you can feel the low throb of blood blooming beneath your skin, his heavy gaze burning against you as he stares. For a beat he’s silent, and then he’s leaning in to lick at your neck more, hot tongue running over every blemish—you’re quite certain more of your skin there is stained than not, angry black and blue and purple beneath the surface. The wide, low neck of the dress gives him ample access.
“I will allow it,” he finally mutters, muffled with his mouth well occupied.
“Hm?”
“I will court you,” he clarifies, low and annoyed at having to say it. “Though make no mistake, it is entirely for your benefit.”
“Of course. You have no desire whatsoever for courting.”
“Careful, pet.” He shifts you now, positioning you more comfortably on his lap. “If my hearing were worse, I might think you were asking me to throw you out and let you return to your quarters alone for attendants to dote on you rather than me.”
“Don’t you dare.”
You expect him to return to his work with you dozing away on his lap—it would hardly be the first time—and wiggle, shifting against him to rest your head against his chest. Eyes fluttering shut, you settle for the many hours to come.
And then you’re jolted back into the world of the waking when he stands, taking you with him.
Yelping, you scrabble for purchase, grabbing at his shoulders as they shake with mean snickers, but he doesn’t go far. A moment later your back is hitting his desk and he’s sweeping his piles of papers aside to lay you out on the solid wooden surface.
For half a moment, Dottore stares. Those eyes drink in the sight of you—chest heaving as you catch your breath after the scare he’d given you, pretty nightdress pooling at the top of your thighs, which are still trembling from the shattering release he’d drawn from you earlier.
“Epsilon is overseeing the transfer of your belongings to my chambers,” he tells you clinically. “You’ll live there from now on.”
“Oh,” you say, all breathy, sounding more than a little brainless even to your own ears; your mind is admittedly still a haze of endorphins and, stupidly, the giddy high from your newfound status. His hand is soaked with your cum, slick as he grips your jaw and turns your head toward him to look at you as you struggle to keep your heavy lids from closing.
“I don’t imagine they’ll be done for quite some time. In the interim…”
He lets go of your face to bring his hands to the hem of your nightdress and shove it up over your stomach, nipping just beneath your navel as he kneels down.
And then his tongue is sliding through your folds, big and hot, and he’s latching lips to your clit in a sucking kiss that has you gasping and your back arching and your hand flying to grab at his hair. When he pulls away the look on his face is smug; his hands pry your thighs from around his head and pin them to his desk with a strength you’ve never hoped to fight back.
“Perhaps I can draw out a true confession if I bring you to completion a few more times.”
With that Dottore buries his face back into your cunt, and you let your head fall back with a soft thud against his desk.
#dottore x reader#dottore x you#dottore x y/n#genshin x reader#genshin x you#genshin x y/n#genshin impact x y/n#genshin impact x you#genshin impact x reader#mine.🌧#fic.🌧 quid pro quo#biting.cw#blood.cw#edging.cw#manhandling.cw#jealousy.cw#fingering.cw#the only head that matters
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Tim's Meeting With Kon (Non-canonical version)
This is in another world where Damian is more open with his emotions and is 75% less emotionally constipated
Tim hesitates, anxiously pulling his wings tighter around him as he followed Damian across the cave.
"What if make a fool of myself?" Tim frowned, resisting the urge to cling onto Damian's cape like a terrified hatchling.
The older bat raised a questioning brow, "When have you ever allowed the opinions of lesser beings to affect you?"
"Jon's a part of the "lesser beings", you know that, right?" Tim comments Damian squinted in embarrassment, “and so is Kathy.”
"Kent and Branden," Damian huffs, "are the exceptions."
Tim rolls his eyes, yelping as Damian flicks his forehead, "HEY! I'll tell Duke you hit me!"
"He'd say you deserved it," Damian says while looking ahead, but the slightest twitch of his lips betrayed the older teen's amusement, "but we both know what Duke would say."
Tim smiles, "Probably something sappy."
"Incredibly sappy," Damian twists his voice to perfectly mimic Duke's, "Don't worry, Tim! As long as you be yourself and do whatever Damian says, everyone will love you!"
The falcon shudders, his feathers bristling with disgust, "Eugh. I hate it when you do that. Its literally so uncanny."
"I love you, Tim!" Damian chirps, still using Dukes voice as they reach the cave’s exit, "I'm Duke and I'm all lovey dovey. Sunshine, Rainbows, I can see light! I go to college! I’m Bruce’s favorite because I LOVE med school! I LOVE being tired and exhausted! Coo coo coo, peace and love and-“
"What are you two doing?"
Tim abruptly stifles his laugh and whips around with a strangled yelp. Damian remains stoic, but Tim could see he was also startled. "Aren’t you supposed to be at college?"
Duke gave the pair an unimpressed look, a plate of Alfred's cookies within his hands, "You need to hurry up before either Jon or Clark calls Bruce, and we all know how he gets."
Tim and Damian exchange matching looks of displeasure, but they had no choice but to get going.
——(~~~)——
"I thought you were a no-show," Jon teased as Tim and Damian landed on the roof of the skyscraper.
Tim twitched as he felt two pairs of eyes pin onto him, and the Shadow allowed a mixture of his Shadow and Gala personas to drape over his features.
Damian leaned slightly toward Tim in a vague show of comfort, "We would've taken longer if not for Seraph's prodding."
Tim glances over the small group of people gathering around. He pursed his lips before turning to Damian, "Shouldn't there be more people here?"
"What, are we not enough for Batman's almighty Shadow?" a voice huffed, and Tim snapped his head up with an irritated expression. He was about to say something, but his words died in his throat.
"Nova," Jon admonished lightly, and Damian tapped Tim's back, noticing how the fledgling had considerably.
"We didn't want to overwhelm you," Superboy, Jonathan Kent, supplied.
"Either way, you will meet the rest of the imbeciles in due time," Damian huffed, "but Superboy insisted on this audiance with Supernova."
"Supernova," Tim tested the name, ignoring how his heart pounded in his chest. That was Kon-el, Conner Kent, clone made from Superman and Lex Luthor, rescued from Cadmus labs by Reaper and Superboy alongside Beacon and the other Titans. Tim hums in consideration, the name fits him. He looks away and mutters nder hs breath, “just as pretty, too.”
As Supernova flushes a deep scarlet, Tim couldn’t help but instantly regret his every decision that brought him up to this point, and the falcon wishes that a villain- or preferably a giant asteroid- would interupt the conversation and slam into his face. Alas, that didn’t happen, and so Tim was left to suffer as Super laughed at him.
The two, red-faced vigilantes found solace in the other as their older counterparts chatted and caught up.
Tim can’t wait to go home.
#Fic: to rest upon benign feathers#tim drake#batman#fanfic#batfamily#bruce wayne#damian wayne#batfam#kon el#conner kent#jonathan kent#superman#wing fic#reverse robins#kathy branden#duke thomas#alfred pennyworth
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This might be a bit untypical but would you be down to write a kaz x reader oneshot with reader gettinf hanahaki disease 👀 i love your writing and i love angst so might as well ask 😭
The Rain- K.B x gn! reader
Okay, this request was really fun because hanahaki has never been something I've ever actually written (I found it intimidating until I wrote this fic) but I had a blast! I too am a lover of angst and I hope that this packs a bit of a tearful punch for those in need of a good cry lol.
Fic type- angst
Warnings-mentions of vomiting/sickness, a mention of a cough, a mention of a concussion (nina threatens to throw kaz against a wall and a concussion is brought up)
It’d started six months after you realized you were in love with Kaz Brekker. Petals would start coming up as you coughed, having developed what you’d thought to be a cold.
You dismissed it at first. You’d thought that it couldn’t be, there was no way that the feelings you felt for Kaz ran so deep, were so intense, that the mere fact that the feelings were unrequited would’ve triggered something like Hanahaki Disease. It just wasn’t possible.
But, over the next few months, it grew worse. One or two petals remained the same, but you grew to see them more frequently. You grew sicker and sicker, coughing up petals every single day, until you couldn’t hide it from the crows anymore.
“I’ve heard of it,” Jesper said with an understanding nod. “Wylan thought it to be interesting. He wanted to find an antidote, and as a result, I’ve been hearing plenty about the disease for the past three months. He thinks he’s close, if that’s any consolation.”
“It stems from unrequited love, doesn’t it?” Nina asked. You were sitting with the two of them across from you, Inej sat to your right, in a booth at the Kooperom. It was early morning, the sun having risen and the day having begun.
You gave a weak nod, and Ninas eyes turned pitiful instantly.
“It’s Kaz, isn’t it?” Jesper asked. “If it is, then maybe your love isn’t unrequited. Maybe he’s just too emotionally constipated to realize that he might just love you as you do him.”
“It’s been nine months,” you said. “I don’t know how much longer I have. I can’t keep waiting for him to realize that he might—I just can’t. The longest someone with Hanahaki has lived has been a decade, and that was only a one off. There’s no cure for this, I have to die in pain because I fell for someone I can’t have.”
Inej took your hand, gave it a squeeze as you rested your head against her shoulder, fighting off tears at the thought of it.
It was true, though. The lifespan for people with Hanahaki Disease could be anywhere from two to eight years. It was less than a thousand days of sickness or barely less than three thousand, and you couldn’t figure out which sounded worse. Dying early and sick or dying with an additional eight years tacked onto your life but having barely been able to function after the sixth, likely being bedridden past the seventh.
“You can try to move on,” she said. “You can find someone new, or you can do what Jesper and I are doing. You can hope that Kaz Brekker is just a fool enough to have not realized he feels the same. You’re nine months in. You have at least another fifteen. Let yourself be hopeful until you’re down to a year left on the minimum scale.”
Nina reached out, took your other hand, and Jesper gave you a sad grin. “Mind if I tell Wylan? Maybe get him to start devoting more time to antidote?”
You gave a wordless nod, took a deep breath in an effort to stop the tears before they came.
“We’ll find a way,” Jesper said.
“I will throw him against a wall,” Nina offered. “Give him a concussion, hope it makes him see sense.”
You managed a laugh, hoping that a cough wouldn’t come from it and swallowing back the the petal you felt come up when a cough came to fruition. You were lucky to have the friends you did. You knew that. You’d always known that.
-
“Yeah,” you said, shrugging as you walked into Kaz’s office. “Sorry. I’ve been sick lately.”
“Nina mentioned it,” Kaz said with a nod. “Wylan was glowering at me when she did, too. I noticed you’ve been looking sickly lately but I figured it wasn’t my place to ask.”
“It’s not,” you said, heading straight to the kettle Kaz had kept in his office. “I mean—you don’t need to concern yourself with it, is all. It was terrible for about a year, but it’s been getting better recently.”
A lie, of course. It was getting worse everyday, and you’d only looked so healthy because you’d called in a tailor and a healer to see what could be done. The tailor had made you look like the person you were before the sickness kicked in, and the healer lessened the effects. You’d gone from vomiting halves of flowers to vomiting a petal or two every few hours, reminiscent of how you were when it started.
“You’ll be useful on jobs again, then. Good to know.” Part of you wanted to punch him in the face, and the other part knew that the idea of a job was exactly why you’d gone to see him. You missed the jobs, the ones you were too sick to take part in throughout that year. The healer had given you another year, at least. Six more months would surpass until you got sick and could no longer work.
“Yeah. I want in on the next one.”
“Consider it done,” Kaz said as you poured the hot water into a mug and added two teabags to it. “Let me guess, you came round to steal one of my mugs, make your demand, and then go?”
You coughed into your elbow, feeling the petals land on your coat sleeve and adjusting before Kaz could notice them.
“Of course I did, Brekker,” you said. “Why else?”
Kaz paused, not knowing what to say.
“Because I’ve—” he’d what? Missed your company? Missed seeing your face everyday, talking to you, listening to the sound of your voice? Missed the sound of your laughter, the sharpness of your wit, the distinctive way his heart flittered when he would catch sight of your eyes in the glint of the sun? The distinctive way his heart flittered, the way which he’d long grown used to ignoring because love was weakness to him? “Nothing. Nothing.”
You scoffed. “Of course it’s nothing,” you said as you moved to leave.
Kaz shrugged, saying nothing as he watched you go.
-
You’d had a lot less time than you’d thought. Three months later, when Wylan had thought he’d finally found an antidote, Inej had found you, sound asleep in your bed at the Slat, your pulse gone.
The first person she told was Nina, and then she made it to the Van Eck mansion and told Wylan and Jesper.
She delivered the news to Kaz last, informing him he’d have to find a replacement for the heist you were due to join them on when the crew left a week later because you’d died of Hanahaki disease.
There was a funeral, of course. It was a small one, just Nina, Wylan, Jesper, Matthias, Inej and Kaz. Your body was cremated, a small headstone placed in the cemetery close to Black Veil, and your ashes blended with soil so that your body could return to the ground and take root in the earth.
The soil was used in the memorial garden Jesper and Wylan had started, the one that Inej visited daily and helped maintain in the dry summers, the one that made Nina burst into tears the minute she saw it through an open window.
Jesper and Wylan had long grown used to seeing Matthias' version of the same, the deflation of his shoulders and sad look in his eyes when he realized that the garden was the one with your ashes
One thing that Jesper noticed about Kaz was that, whenever he was over and the garden came into his sights, he looked remorseful. Like he’d known that you’d died and it’d technically been his fault.
He could never keep his eyes on it for too long, Jesper observed. He would always snap his gaze away after a few moments and would blink rapidly like he was fending off an expression of genuine emotion. It made Jesper scoff whenever he noticed it, but in the end, all that mattered was that you were where you wanted to be.
In a garden, amongst your favorite flowers, soaking up the sun when it came around and the rain you’d loved so dearly when it fell.
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Darth maul be upon ye, the long awaited (probably) Part 2
FINALLY I return to finish my thoughts about the homie maul. Who knows if my writing can all fit, I don't even know the tumblr rules for writing lmao. So this is gonna be like Maul's loving style, and shit like. Mmm. Aat least how I think about it. Enjoy lmao.
Part 2 of 2 (I wrote a lot)
Warnings: None. (I think)
"I'm frustrated that my words cannot accurately describe your allure, the feeling of power that rolls off you in the same way waves crash against a shore, the way… just the way you live and breathe! It's as if the entire universe was meant to bow at your feet and sing your praises. At the end of time, if no soul takes your side, I will.
Know even in your darkest nights and bleakest days that among the stars, there is a heart that beats for you and all you are. No matter what atrocity you claim to be. You told me you were a monster when we first met. Maybe I still need to see it. You still need to show me…
Perhaps I'm a fool, letting my heart bleed for you. But even then in the scourge of your wrath, I would be there to wipe the sweat from your brow in the midst of your misdeeds to the galaxy." -Another bit of a letter about homie Maul. Love writing about this bitch.
Okay so Maul is the KING of slow burn. No fuckin doubt about it. Wanna know why?
Trust.
Trust is the most important thing in a relationship to Maul. He has to trust you, he has to know you aren't selling him out to his enemies. Because maker knows he's probably got a ton of 'em. The Jedi are on his ass, fuckin Palpatine, I mean, you try trusting someone in a galaxy against you huh?
It takes him a while to trust you, and then some extra time to warm up on loving you. You probably won't even notice when he starts liking you because at most he'll probably not be so harsh with you. Maybe he'll use less insults, or won't glare so much at you, but he will definitely hide it behind some 'you are the only one who has not tested my ire' type shit. I mean he's so emotionally constipated he probably won't even know what he's feeling when he's around you and will try to beat his feelings out of his system by training or meditating.
SO I take a pinch of my previous statement back. I have a feeling this guy is hostile (or at least passive aggressive) to everyone at first no matter what the circumstance. So, Enemies to lovers slow burn king. (which is Ironic because I am not good at slow burn skjhdlskj)
When he FINALLY gets over his emotional constipation and gets a brick to the face with realization that he is crushing and crushing HARD, he is going to slowly start courting you. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry but he's a total fucking loser when it comes to romance and it shows. Like his anger may fuel up around you again because he doesn't know how to talk to you, what to talk to you about, or how to get closer to you without seeming weak or you know...anything like that. But like, the efforts he does make are so pathetically obvious and strangely out of character for him (and objectively, it's kind of cute watching him stumble over himself) you can't help but be swayed by his...'seduction tactics.'
But YOU. You have to be the one to ask him on a date. Because he's just. He's too prideful okay? Stooping to such LOWS like...Affection. He grows out of that, don't worry. But like when you do ask him he's fucking floored. Almost literally. He has to keep himself calm and not trip over his word's and he's like "okay, let me choose an adequate location for us to be alone so that it doesn't seem like I'm showing any kind of weakness" Or something along those lines. He might accidentally insult you but please be patient he is legit trying his best.
Outside of that when you finally have him wifed up (/hj) he is still awkward, new to this but trying his best. Don't expect him to be affectionate anywhere outside of his bedroom until he's comfortable with showing off you or this 'new side' to anyone. It doesn't mean he spends no time with you otherwise, it means his affections will be reserved to hushed whispers and small favors. Perhaps this manifests through seeking you out in the corridors, or providing you with little gifts that would appear meaningless to anybody else. It may take a while for his affections to become grander in the open, but one day it would happen. Unless you tried to force it out of him before he was ready then you're probably gone.
He would make a laughing stock out of anyone who claimed affections for another were foolish and made him weak. NO. Hell no. He's soft for you but he can still kick ass. Obviously.
I'm sure he would be rather possessive, I just know he would fear losing you.
He absolutely uses that as a reason to usually be touching you in some way. Pinky fingers linked, his foot nudging yours, etc.
He doesn't want to wake up and find you gone, find that all of this was for naught and dreams and peace really don't exist for him. He would spend as much time as he could learning everything about you. He would be so fucking devoted to you it would make your head spin. He'd know your favorite color, flower, time of day, place to be, things to eat, and he'd keep everything you didn't like away from you. To the best of his ability at least.
Went a little hard with this one, stuffed it full with as many words as I could lol. Hope you enjoyed. Spice may be available later upon request, here's the first part.
Until next time!
Ciao~
-Enigma
#darth maul x you#darth maul x reader#darth maul#maul#star wars clone wars#star wars#maul opress#darth maul x oc#darth maul imagine#star wars maul#maul x reader#maul x oc#gn reader
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MAG12 - First Aid, more review time
GERARD KEAY! HOW DARE YOU HANG OUT WITH THAT CULT! I AM ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED! YOUR ARCHIVIST IS NOW FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK, AND IT'S ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT! IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE, WE'LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT HOME!
This episode may not be scary, but I must say that it's mysterious and it's hilarious. I'll explain in a minute.
Gerard Keay is the Batman of TMA, he would get along with Dean Winchester like a house on fire and he deserves his own movie, hell, a tv show. I mean, he lives in an action movie, what the fuck is he doing in this episode in Christmas Eve??? All he has was a suit, a zippo with an eye on it, a long black coat and was being basically a goddamn hero???
Dude's crazy and we love him for that
Quotes for this one:
Ms Saraki is not a poet nor she's dramatic, so I don't have much to comment from her. Every single paranormal bit had me like "sis, run" at every turn. Mad respect for her.
"There’s obviously a lot to unpack here, so let’s start with what is provable." - Jon "I hate my job" Sims, April 17th 2016
Sometimes I want to stranggle him, wtf you mean "provable" Jonathan???
“Veepalach” might also be a mishearing of the Polish word “wypalać”, according to Martin, which means to cauterize or brand. Admittedly, if Martin speaks Polish in the same way he “speaks Latin,” then he might be talking nonsense again, but I’ve looked it up and it appears to check out." - Jon "You must be proffessional at work" Sims
Emotional constipation strikes again!
"It has not escaped my notice that this is the second time Gerard Keay has turned up in this Archive." - Jon Sims, completely unaware of everything
"(...) and if we’re lucky maybe we already have a statement from him tucked away somewhere in these damn files." - Jon Sims about Gerard Keay
yeah, a statement from Gerry, i know how that would be:
JURGEN LEITNER? STUPID IDIOT MOTHERFUCKING JURGEN LEITENER GOD DAMN FOOL BOOK COLLECTING DUST EATING RAT OLD BASTARD SHITHEAD IDIOT AVATAR OF THE WHORE BIGGEST CLOWN IN THE CIRCUS LAUGHED OUT OF TOWN COWBOY MOTHERFUCKING JURGEIN LEITNER STOP PINNING ME WHEN I TALK ABOUT JURGEIN LEITENER I HATE HIM SO MUCH WHY DOES HE HAVE SO MANY FUCKED UP BOOKS WHY DID HE DECIDE TO FUCK AROUND AND FIND OUT---
"At 03:11:22, it shows everybody in that room, which I personally counted at twenty-eight people, standing up and calmly filing out of the doors. (...) The rest of the staff and patients do not return until 03:27:12, over fifteen minutes after they left, when they walk back in through the same doors. The footage does not contain any sound, and no alarm of any sort was recorded, so I cannot offer any guess as to why they left, or what they were doing in the intervening time." - Jon Sims, scared af
notice how he "personally counted all 28 people", woah, I liked this bit soooooo much.
"There is one other thing that Sasha highlighted, however. At 03:22:52, the feed cuts out for less than a second, and is replaced for a single frame by a close-up of a human eye, staring back through the video feed." - Also Jon
wtf wtf wtf wtf wtf
General overview:
Vibe: great, absolutely great, wtf gerry
Horror: spoooooooooky
Audio: pretty ASMR in general
Humour: just the facts, and Jon being neurodivergent
Score: 10/10
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Accidental Kavetham
I am 70k into my Scaraether fic now, and thought it would be a fun little game to count how many times Al-Haitham and Kaveh forgot that they aren't the main subjects of this fic.
It is - It is a lot.
Excerpts Under the Cut!
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When they step into the chamber, they are not the only visitors present. Aside from the Mahamata, who is standing off to the side of the Grand Sage’s desk, there’s a blonde man in flashy clothes and with a feather in his hair. He stands bent forward, with his hands braced on the desk. Seated in front of him is, presumably, Al-Haitham.
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“Good morning, Panah,” she greets the man in a whisper. “I take it that Kaveh is in rare form today.”
The Mahamata huffs, and then shakes his head in defeat. “They’ve been at it for half an hour already,” he laments quietly.
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“ – cannot expect me to have the place cleaned on my own. I know you don’t believe me when I say this, but I have work to do just as much as you do – And with deadlines, to boot!” Kaveh seethes. “I know I have let this fly in the past, and the timing is questionable, but – ”
“But,” Al-Haitham cuts in, “Now you have the pent up frustration of feeling left out during a great time of change. And you’ve decided to take it out on me. Rather than rationalize everything and find a solution, you have decided to lean on your emotions and use your ideals as a crutch once again.”
Something in those words must have struck a nerve; Kaveh recoils in response. He stands straight and swivels around. Even with a hand covering his face, Abel can see the anger and the hurt that has twisted his features.
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To his credit, Kaveh seems to be rather faithful to his god. Though he still looks akin to a kicked dog, the man nods obediently before stepping away and quietly beginning to count. As he does, Abel and Buer step up to the desk. At first, Al-Haitham’s eyes do not leave Kaveh’s back. Though most of his face betrays very little – Abel thinks he sees something soft and concerned in his eyes.
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Abel has never quite seen himself as a comedian, (even if Celestia might think otherwise); even with his biting sarcasm. But Buer laughs as he shares his honest insights. “The Acting Grand Sage is emotionally constipated and needs to help his husband with the chores,” he tells her. “And Nabil needs to take gods less seriously. I thought he would crumble on the spot while he was speaking with you.”
Tears are in her eyes as Buer says, “You’re not wrong about Nabil, but – ” She chokes on another hiccup and tries in vain to wipe at her eyes. Her cheeks are rosy from all of the laughter. “Al-Haitham and Kaveh are not married,” she explains. “If you asked them, they would say they were not even friends.”
At that, Abel scoffs. “They could have fooled me,” he gruffs. “They bickered like an old couple.”
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Kaveh, dangling from over the banister, smiles and walks away. Aether passes a glance to Cyno, and he asks, “So, he’s in a good mood; how long do you think before he starts fighting with Al-Haitham?”
Cyno snorts, and he says, “Depends on how much wine he’s already had. If he’s buzzed by the time the food arrives, he’ll be far too clingy to be able to argue.”
“They need to just kiss already – ” Paimon grits.
“Paimon – ” Aether scolds. “That’s none of our business.”
“It’s true, though!”
“Give it time,” Cyno cuts in, as they make their way up the stairs. “You could say they mate like sloths – they take it slow.”
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Tighnari, however, is more of a diplomat than anyone would probably give him credit for. “Abel, I’m glad to see you join us,” he says with a warm smile. “You already know Cyno, but have you been acquainted with Al-Haitham and Kaveh?”
Abel is about to answer, when the Acting Grand Sage beats him to it. “We have, yes – though, I imagine his first impression of Kaveh may not have been a good one,” he says with a sideward glance to the man beside him.
“And now whose fault might that be?” Kaveh bites. “Huh, Al-Haitham? I wouldn’t have been so riled up if – ”
Before things can devolve so prematurely, Tighnari clears his voice and says, “Knowing you both – I imagine the blame falls equally between the two of you.” Then, with a chuckle, he says to Abel, “Then I am certain you’ve seen their worst. If you were still willing to come tonight, then that means you’re a better man than me.”
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“My mother sent another letter this week,” Kaveh says quietly. His eyes search the depths of his goblet, as if the wine holds all of the world’s secrets. “She and her husband are considering fostering a child, she told me.” Al-Haitham’s hand finds Kaveh’s back – and perhaps that demonstrates the weight of this, that he will not shrug away Al-Haitham’s touch.
“No mention of visiting, like she implied last time?” Tighnari prods. When Kaveh shakes his head, Tighnari tsks. “Kaveh, I know this doesn’t quite ease what you are feeling right now – just remember that it is a her-problem. You aren’t what she’s avoiding.”
Kaveh lets out a humorless breath. His smile is hollow and pinched when he says, “I know. And I think that’s what makes it feel worse. I’m not enough for her to push through it.” Al-Haitham brushes away the hair that falls in Kaveh’s eyes, after he shakes his head. “It has been years. She said that she – that she was doing better. Why can’t she at least meet me halfway?”
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Al-Haitham and Kaveh are just ahead of them, and Abel watches as they walk together; weight leaned into each other, with Kaveh’s head on Al-Haitham’s shoulder.
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Beside him, Paimon snickers. But Kaveh simply hums. “I ought to bring some flowers home today, too. But what to pick…?”
“You could try something that Al-Haitham will like,” Paimon suggests. She tilts her head innocently and asks, “What’s his favorite flower?”
“As far as I know,” Kaveh scoffs, “he doesn’t really have one. That man has such a questionable eye for beauty.” Absently, he taps a finger to his chin. “Though, he does seem to tolerate Padisarahs the best, when I bring those home. And they’d look lovely with some Mourning Flowers, for contrast…”
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When Abel knocks on the front door to Al-Haitham (and Kaveh’s) house, he half-expects for there to be no reply. It is midday, and he is well aware that the Acting Grand Sage should be working at this time – even if it is a weekend. And Kaveh, for that matter, is often out of the city on days like this one; when the sun is out and there is nary a cloud in the sky. The perfect kind of day for sketching, he’d been told.
So, when he instead hears a loud crash from inside, and a panicked yelp – Abel can’t help the confusion that he feels.
“Nobody’s home!” Kaveh calls out. “Oh – I mean – fuck – ”
Abel rolls his eyes at the absurdity, and he calls through the door, “I was looking for an interior designer, but since there’s nobody home, I guess I’ll just ask Al-Haitham instead – ”
The door flies open, and Kaveh stands in the frame sweaty and red-faced. “Absolutely,” Kaveh pants, “not.” He runs a hand through his own disheveled hair and then says, “Let me get my shoes, and I’ll be right there.”
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Through the chaotic white noise of his thoughts, Abel hears a knock at his front door. He stands to open it, and is taken aback moments later to find Al-Haitham standing before him. “We need to talk,” he says without preamble. “May I?” Abel is too confused to think straight, so he just wordlessly moves out of the way to let Al-Haitham step in. He closes the door behind them, and he watches as Al-Haitham takes in Abel’s new furnishings. “Kaveh did a good job,” he says mildly. “It does look more lively in here.”
“You said we needed to talk?” Abel finally speaks. “I can’t imagine it was only to come comment on your partner’s interior design skills.”
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“May I ask you why?” Al-Haitham presses. “Kaveh is worried about you. He doesn’t know, but he suspects. I have watched him pace and ramble over you for a few days, now.”
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Tighnari and Cyno come with cards and dice, and Kaveh brings with him a cooked meal to share. Al-Haitham has a bottle of wine to pair with the meal that has Kaveh smiling proudly at him.
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After one particularly high-stakes victory, in which Al-Haitham claims the crown, Kaveh cheers and throws his arms around his partner. Uninhibited by the liquor in his belly, he draws Al-Haitham into a deep kiss and giggles against his lips. The song changes to something deeply romantic and energetic. It is an Inazuman melody, one Abel very vaguely remembers from his younger days. Kaveh takes a liking to it, and he pulls a stunned Al-Haitham to his feet with him. They fall into a sloppy dance together, led mostly by Kaveh’s sheer excitement.
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Kaveh cries in a chair nearby, with Al-Haitham’s hand rubbing circles into his heaving back.
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It is hard to tell after that, if Kaveh is laughing or crying, or both. Al-Haitham manages to pry Kaveh away, and doesn’t even flinch when Kaveh latches onto him.
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How do you feel about Boom Shadow? I remember enjoying him but after rewatching scenes involving him a while back, I can't help but hate how they just turned Shadow into a villain for no real reason with no real personality. The dude legit tried destroying the universe just cause. I'm all for a different take on Shadow since this is the Boom Universe but I wish they went a different route (I personally love that one idea of Boom Shadow being a surfer who's surfboard was named Maria).
(This got way longer than I meant for it to whoops)
I totally get how you would feel like that, but personally I find Boom Shadow hysterical. I've read that the writers had their hands tied and weren't allowed to make him silly like the others, because they had to maintain his "cool" and "edgy" reputation. So instead they made him overly serious to the point of absurdity, and I think that was a great choice.
As for his motivations, I see them less as pure malicious villainy and more just being so uptight and emotionally constipated that he simply cannot handle it. In season 1 he helped (sorta) Eggman's cabal because they were so embarrassingly incompetent that he just HAD to show them how to do it properly. And then he was double embarrassed by how equally incompetent Sonic and crew are, because if they can't even build an IKEA bookshelf then how the HELL can they beat me??
Then in season 2 he attacks Sonic because he thought Sonic was dissing him. And when he finds out he was actually manipulated by someone as goofy as Eggman, he's just like, "Okay, shut it all down then." It's just so… idk, Monty Python almost, in the comedic escalation. And he clearly wasn't totally bent on actually killing everyone, because when he's thwarted he's just like, "Actually, whatever. That was pretty slick, and I don't mind losing to someone who's a worthy opponent." He's just very concerned with not looking like a fool, which is very meta and funny imo.
Every time he attacks someone, it's because he's embarrassed and lashing out. He's a piss-baby stupid teen, and I think that fits in with the rest of the gang being their own brands of Stupid Teen.
But to be fair again, I have no prior attachment to Shadow and haven't consumed any other canons involving him. And I'm never particularly interested in angsty, edgy, or anti-hero type characters, so I was never going to be precious about his characterization. So Boom Shadow worked for me, but I get why he wouldn't work for others.
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Loki Laufeyson x Female!Midgardian!Reader: Superman
Summary: As it turns out, there are far more terrifying things in the universe than Thanos--and one of them is Loki’s girlfriend.
Rating/Warnings/Tags: T (post-Avengers (2012); cosplay; Superman references; Supergirl references; comic book conventions; mild sexual content; joking reference to Clark/Kara)
Challenge: “120 Bits of Random” challenge by SugarLandBabyGirl on Lunaescence Archives.
Tag list: @imaginesfire
Superman
Never before had Loki Laufeyson been subject to as many horrors as over the weekend you decided to drag him to a comic book convention. He felt tired. He felt drained. Above all, he felt harassed. You ducking into the restroom was the first chance he’d had to rest since arrival, and he took the opportunity gratefully.
What was it about the convention that made it so energy-sapping? Was it the sheer amount of concentrated nerds? The unadulterated Avengers worship? The fact that some fool had gone out and given Thor his own comic book? Even that last detail might have been forgivable, had they not decided to draw Loki looking akin to a constipated frog-man with antlers.
“I could kill him,” Loki muttered with very little heat.
He knew he would never go that far–why get himself thrown back in prison for a bit petty revenge not long cold enough to enjoy?–but apparently his recently-returned girlfriend did not, because you appeared in front of him with a scowl and a waspish:
“Superman doesn’t kill people!”
He let out something between a sigh and groan. The brief moments where he forgot that he’d come to this ridiculous gathering in costume were the only moments in which he felt less murderous. It was only at your insistence that he had, and Loki did not feel nearly as attached to the mundane illusion as you did. When he did not respond to your rather childish comment, you sighed yourself, adding:
“And fix your hair.”
His eyes crossed as you reached up to tug a lock of hair back across his forehead. “[Name].”
“I’m not [Name]. I'm Kara,” you said, stepping back again to admire your handiwork.
Luckily for you, your costume actually suited you. Come to think of it, how had you got that back on after using the restroom? The cape alone should have caused some trouble. And then there was the part where he knew you weren’t wearing any underwear underneath it. Had he not been so irritated, Loki might have been intrigued.
“You’re insane, that’s what you are,” said Loki. He had had no idea that this “cosplay” ridiculousness had involved such mind-altering behavior. If he had, he never would have given into agreeing to participate. You were still you, and he was still him, whatever you said to the contrary.
“Kal!” you whined.
Probably that was his code name, but you had tried to cram so much information into his brain in the past week since sewing the costumes that Loki could not exactly remember. He didn’t have much time to try. The next second, you grabbed his wrist and wrenched him down to your level.
“Don’t ruin this for me and you might get lucky tonight,” you snarled.
“The characters are cousins,” Loki pointed out flatly.
This only got another grunt of annoyance out of you before you dragged him off to some booth about the upcoming movie his character was in.
Just two more days, he thought as he tripped after you. Just two more days.
#fan fic#straw writes#reader insert#second person pov#ficlet#challenge fic#loki#loki laufeyson#loki odinson#thor#avengers#marvel#mcu#loki x reader#loki x you#loki x y/n#loki reader insert#loki laufeyson x reader#loki laufeyson x you#loki laufeyson x y/n#avengers x reader#avengers x you#avengers x y/n#mcu x reader#mcu x you#mcu x y/n#marvel x reader#marvel x you#marvel x y/n#thor x reader
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Dazai: Wait you like me? For my personality?
Chuuya: I know I was surprised too
#bungou stray dogs#bsd#soukoku#ya'll this would never happen#but a person can dream#if they were less of a constipated fool#and if chuuya wasn't that much of a tsundere#eh we still love him#nakahara chuuya#dazai osamu#this has haunted me for so long#finally out there#source: memezar
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can i request the trend of tiktok “the faster you get to me the more kisses you get!” with tsukishima, akaashi, bokuto and hinata? 🥺👉👈
“THE FASTER YOU GET TO ME, THE MORE KISSES YOU GET” TREND
w/ tsukishima, akaashi, bokuto, hinata & iwaizumi
requests: OPEN
warnings: talk of pee and poop in iwaizumi’s
a/n: of course you can! thanks for the request! 💓 (also the trend is used more as a prompt than it is as the main focus whoops 🤡)
i added iwaizumi bc he was requested in another ask so i just merged the two. my character limit is still four max!
who gave him the right 🥵
the salt lick himself
this dude is annoyingggg
you already knew what his reaction was gonna be,, so why bother?
welll you just wanted to be like all the other tiktok girls 👉🏽👈🏽
you wait until you see tsukki and yama walking out of the club room and towards you
you’re bracing yourself for the embarrassment
“babe! the faster you get to me, the more kisses you get!”
no shit, he stops in his tracks. yama’s just looking at him like ‘what you finna do?’
you know what he does? turns around and starts walking in THE OTHER DIRECTION
you are… baffled
when finally catch up to him, you’re pouting
“dude, what the hell?”
he glances at you, then flicks your forehead dummy hard
you’re triggered, “did you just flick me?”
this snarky mf is now laughing at you
btw yamaguchi is very uncomfortable rn
tsukishima the leans down, bean pole headass, and kisses your forehead
“sorry i don’t do dumb tik tok trends”
“it’s not dumb! you just didn’t want to kiss me”
he looks at you with an unimpressed look, as if saying, ‘we both know that’s not true’
alas you’re still pouting
yama: “haha this is me, see you guys tmmr” *leaves in awkward*
tsukishima knows your not gonna stop acting like a baby until he gives you what you want
he sighs, walks a couple feet away from you, pulls out his phone and starts recording
“say the thing”
“huh?”
“the trend thing. say it”
your eyes light up so much and tsukki smiles a bit
he’s so soft for you uwu
“the faster you get to me, the more kisses you get!”
because he’s a tall boi, it only takes him a few steps to get to you but when he does, he kisses you hard
like damn, okay sir
when he pulls away you’re flustered asf, he chuckles and stops recording
“happy?”
this poor boy wouldn’t know a tiktok trend if it punched him the face
i hate to say it, but he’s a boomer 😔🤘🏽 just like dadchi
he’s at your house picking you up for a date and your sibling is bombarding him with questions
when you come out, akaashi is like ‘oh thank goodness’
you smile at him, then wack your sibling in their side
“stop bothering him you weirdo!”
“what we’re just having a nice lil chat”
you shake your head and start to walk away but your sibling is holding akaashi back, giving him the typical ‘you hurt her, i kill you’ speech
now you know your boyfriend is great when he’s under pressure but.. this is new territory for him
you remember a trend that you saw a while back and decide to do it now
you know keiji wants your family to like him, so he’ll be conflicted between going to you or staying and listening to your siblings speech
it’s perfect really
so you pull out your phone and start recording
“baby! the faster you get to me, the sooner we can go on our date and the more kisses you’ll get”
my guy just blinks, “it is getting late..”. plus he’s not opposed to the kissing part so he starts to walk towards you
“hey! i’m not done talking to you”
‘that’s true, it would be rude of me to walk away mid conversation… if you could even call it that’ he thinks
you laugh slightly, you can practically see the gears spinning in his head
“keiji come on we don’t have all day”
“don’t you walk away from me”
akaashi sighs loudly. the longer he spends talking to your sibling the less time he has with you. if he walks away, he’s at risk of your sibling hating him. he’s stumped.
suddenly he turns to your sibling, “sorry l/n, we can continue this discussion later. y/n and i have a date that’s very time sensitive. i apologize”
he then walks to you and grabs your hand before walking off
“y’know my crackhead sibling was just mess with you right? you could’ve just walked away”
“i figured, but that’s still rude”
ugh we stan boy who has manners
“so.. um, may i get a kiss now?”
omg he’s so cute i love him 🥺
you grin and pepper his face with a bunch of kisses, making him blush slightly
tbh you don’t even need to ask, this dude is infatuated w/ you
he’ll run to you any day of the week
but what had happened was.. y’all were on a date and bokuto went to go get ice cream
but that was like 15 mins ago and you’re just sitting on the park bench looking like a fool
and ngl you were a little worried bc bokuto is so easy to distract you’re thinking he fell into a pond or something
so you go to look for him and tbh it doesn’t take long cause cmon,, it’s bokuto
he be loud asf
n e ways, there he is in all his glory playing with a German Shepard who looked like it was trying so hard not to bite him
the owner looked nervous asf but was probably too nervous to say something social anixety be like that
bokuto spots you and waves at you frantically
“hey babe! look at this dog! it’s so cute!”
ugh bless him
you send the owner an apologetic look and turn back to bokuto
“it is cute but i think you’re aggravating it.. i don’t want you to get bitten. let’s go”
“it won’t bite me!” *to dog* “right? you’re too good to bite me, yes you are, yes you are”
*inhales* this stubborn kid, so now you got to think of a new tactic
you suddenly remember that bokuto is affectionate x1 mil
he would never miss a chance to be smothered in love
this was as good a time as any to do this trend and save your bf in the process :))
you whip out your phone, “hey baby? the faster you get to me, the more kisses you get”
when i tell you his head SWIVELED
the dude is an owl confirmed 🙌🏽
literally almost trips trying to get to you, now he’s looking at you like an excited puppy ready for pats
the owner gives you thankful look and leaves
bokuto is still staring at you, waiting for his smooches
so you deliver 😌 you grab his face and kiss all around and place a final kiss on his lips
bokuto looks so happy, like he’s smiling so wide rn
all hail tiktok it rly be saving your stupid boyfriend
my bby 🥺
he loves you so so so so much
hinata will do anything for you yes anything
and the feeling is mutual, but sometimes you cannot comprehend what goes on in that mind if his
like,, you could not, for the life of you, understand why he ran into MOVING TRAFFIC
let me tell you what happened
so you were shopping with your friends (and just to clarify y’all were a strip where there’s a bunch of stores on each block)
you guys were just casual walking and then your friend pointed out that it sounded like someone was calling your name
you looked around and there was your orange fuzzy bouncing up and down on the other side of the street
“BABY! BABE! Y/N! LOOK!”
too cute i swear
you smiled and waved, “hi baby!”
“wait until i get across this street imma kiss you so hard!”
cue your friends gagging
you giggle and decide to reference a tiktok cause why not?
“the faster you get to me, the more kisses you can get!”
b-but he thought you were serious
so yes he ran into the middle of a busy street
you are traumatized, paralyzed with fear if you will, you thought your boyfriend was going to die right in front of you
when he finally reached you, you scolded him mother hen mode activated
“why the hell would you do that hinata?!”
uh oh, you used his last name.. not good
“but you said–”
“i was joking!”
oh. now he’s embarrassed and sad bc you’re mad at him
at least he thought you were until you grabbed him and hugged him tightly, “don’t ever do any dumb shit like that again, okay? you scared me”
“i won’t,, but since i did risk my life, can i get a kiss?”
“NO.”
i feel like y’all have a relationship where you guys can be mean(?) to each other w/o getting offended
so you guys are at your house watching Netflix together and he suddenly gets up and leaves your room
“where are you going?”
“gotta piss”
istg i hate the word “piss” but IK he says that instead of “pee”
n e ways you resume watching the show but your bf’s been gone for like 10 mins
you go to the bathroom and knock on the door, “hey, you good in there? it doesn’t take 10 minutes to pee”
you hear him groan, “fuck off”
and then,, it all clicks, “are you constipated?!”
“FUCK OFF”
now you’re laughing your ass of bc what the fuck
“don’t clog my toilet nasty”
“y/n i swear to god if you don’t leave me alone–”
“what? are you gonna fling your doo doo on me?”
you finally stop teasing him and go back to your room
you send him a text, ‘still constipated? 💩’
‘breaking up w/ you is looking mighty tempting rn 🥴’
‘rude 🤧 but hey, the faster you poop, the more kisses you get’
this dude left you on read
and didn’t return until 20 mins later
“damn i know my bathroom stinks now”
“shut up and give me my kisses”
you raise an eyebrow, “i– you took 20 mins”
“okay.. did you want me to get up mid shit and come to you?”
you don’t why but that shit had you cackling, you reach up and pull him close to you
you give him a couple of pecks and a deep kiss
aww he’s smiling 🥺
“i love you my lil doo doo machine”
he pushed you off your bed
tanzaniiite © 2020 — all rights reserved. do not repost, modify, or copy. do not plagiarize. thank you.
#tanz writes 【📖】#haikyuu!!#haikyuu fandom#haikyuu imagines#haikyuu x reader#haikyuu tsukishima#haikyuu akaashi#haikyuu bokuto#haikyuu hinata#haikyuu iwaizumi#haikyuu smau#haikyuu smut#tsukishima kei#akaashi keiji#bokuto koutarou#hinata shōyō#iwaizumi hajime#tsukishima kei x reader#akaashi keiji x reader#bokuto koutarou x reader#hinata shoyo x reader#iwaizumi hajime x reader#tsukishima x reader#akaashi x reader#bokuto x reader#hinata x reader#iwaizumi x reader#hq akaashi#hq bokuto#haikyuu headcanons
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“You’re an Even Bigger Idiot than I Thought”
Prompt list that is is from.
Requests are open, please send me something to write so I stop driving myself crazing with this shit.
There will not be a part 2. :)
. . .
Dating Eijiro Kirishima was a dream come true. He was one of the sweetest guys you’d ever met, and was uncannily like a golden retriever. He went out of his way to make you feel special no matter what. Whether it was a thank you kiss on the cheek, or greeting you with one of those big spinning movie-hugs, Eijiro never failed to surprise and enrapture you.
He loved you. You loved him. Everything was perfect. Except for one teensy little thing. Or, more accurately, one huge, blaring, unavoidable problem.
Katsuki Bakugo.
Bakugo had always been moody, but recently his scowl seemed to deepen whenever you were around. He used to tolerate you, at least as much as he tolerated the rest of his class. He never really talked to you, but you never got the sense that he hated you or anything. He didn’t used to glare daggers at you when you got within four feet of him. So what changed?
Eijiro Kirishima.
Eijiro acted as a buffer between you two. He’d be a fool to not notice his friend’s sudden surliness whenever you were close by. He tried to get him to get along with you, he really did. However, the blond time bomb was having none of it.
“Bakugo, c’mon! It won’t be the same without you!” Eijiro whined when he had refused to attend the regular group movie outing.
“No way,” Bakugo growled, his eyes cutting to you for a split second. The side look had not escaped your notice.
You bit your lip, opting to stay quiet. Bakugo was usually stupor about these outings, but he had never put up a real fight about going before. He had never outright rejected an invitation.
You realized an hour later when Sero was complaining about Bakugo being a lame old geezer that the first movie trip he had refused to go to was also the first one since you and Eijiro started dating.
. . .
This is torture.
Mr. Aizawa’s sadistic streak shone through yet again when he had paired you and Bakugo together for a hero history project. He knew something was up between you two, you hadn’t failed to noticed his poorly smothered smirk when he announced the pairing.
The rest of the class had filed out, chatting with their partners about their assignment. Bakugo stayed stubbornly seated in his desk, so you lingered as well, hoping in your heart of hearts that he cared enough about his grade in the class to at least talk about the workload with you.
“Coming, babe?” Eijiro asked, grabbing your hand.
“Not yet,” You hooked a thumb over your shoulder at your unhappy partner, giving your boyfriend a wildly unconvincing relaxed smile. “I’m gonna try to get Oscar the Grouch to cooperate with me. You go on ahead.”
“Okay,” The red-head frowned a little, glancing over to Bakugo. “You want me to talk to him?”
“No, that’s alright. This is between us. It’ll be okay, Eiji.”
“Alright,” He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Text me when you get back to the dorms so we can do homework together.”
“Will do.”
You gave your boyfriend one last false reassuring smile, waving as he followed the rest of the class out. Your shoulders slumped once he left, and you turned to your unresponsive partner, who was pretending he hadn’t been lingering on every word of your conversation. You sighed.
It was like trying to diffuse a bomb, you decided. Not impossible, but risky. One wrong move and he’d blow up in your face. You had to tread lightly.
He was already on edge. His jaw was tight, and his eyes, still glued to his desk were narrowed into slits.
This is ridiculous. You sighed again, this time in resignation. You walked up to the boy, planting both hands on his desk. No more hesitating. You decided to cut a wire.
“Look dude, I don’t know what your problem with me is, but you’ve gotta get over it. You have to talk to me if you want to do well on this, so swallow your pride and get your head out of your ass."
Super risky move. Maybe you should’ve gone for a less dangerous approach, but you were never going to disarm the bomb without a few risks.
Still not looking up at you, Bakugo swiped a hand across the desk, batting your braced arms off of it. “Fuck off. I don’t have to be friends with you.”
You were safe. It hadn’t detonated. Yet. You should stop while you’re ahead, or go and get someone better equipped to disable the bomb. But no. This was personal, and you were starting to get a little angry.
You cut another wire.
“I never said you had to. Frankly, I don’t want to be your friend either if you’re going to be an asshole. What you do have to though, is grow the hell up and at least pretend you care.” You sat down in the desk next to him with a huffy flounce. “I don’t wanna fail this project, and I don’t think you do either. So for both our sakes, please stop acting like a child.”
Bakugo finally looked up at you. For an instant, you worried that you’d pushed him too far, but he didn’t seem to be angry. His brows were knit together in contemplation, and he scrutinized you with pinched lips. He didn’t even seem terribly annoyed with you. Just tired.
“What does Kirishima even see in you?”
The bomb spat and sputtered, startling you, but it still didn’t explode. The question caught you off guard. It was suddenly even more personal. You got angrier. You pressed a button on the side of the bomb.
“What does he- what does he see in you?!” You shot back, your anger bubbling hot in your gut. “You’re the emotionally constipated, egotistical, megalomaniac! I have my flaws, we all do, but I at least try to care about the people around me! Why Eijiro considers you a friend I have no clue, but I try to respect that. I don’t snarl and ignore you whenever you walk into a room!”
Beep.
“You don’t deserve him!” Bakugo snapped, rage sparking.
Beep.
“Who are you to decide that? I love him!”
Beep.
“IF YOU THINK YOU HAVE THE MONOPOLY ON LOVING HIM, YOU’RE AN EVEN BIGGER IDIOT THAN I THOUGHT!”
BOOM!
It was a disaster.
Bakugo was standing. He had knocked his chair over on the way up. His nostrils flared like a wild animal. His scarlet eyes shone with a murderous rage you knew all too well from the months of being his classmate. But there was a glint of something else there, too. Sadness? Regret? Fear? Heartache?
You stood as well, stepping away from the detonated bomb, as if he could explode again.
“Oh,”
You had no other words. There was nothing else that you could possibly say that would suffice. You wanted to keep raging at him. You wanted to tell him that that was no excuse for his behavior. You couldn’t bring yourself to, though. More anger wasn’t going to help either of you.
“I won’t tell him.” You finally said quietly. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Bakugo scoffed. Without another word he slung his school bag over his shoulder and stalked out of the classroom, leaving you standing, stunned and guilty at his desk.
#mha#bnha#eijiro kirishima#eijiro#kirishima#eijiro kirishima x reader#eijiro x reader#kirishima x reader#katsuki bakugo#katsuki#bakugo#katsuki x reader#bakugo x reader#katsuku bakugo x reader#kiribaku#kirishima x bakugo#bakugo x kirishima#katsuki bakugo x eijiro kirishima#eijiro kirishima x katsuki bakugo#mha x reader#bnha x reader
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inheritance scarf scene - diluc’s pov
ahahahaahahhahah ask and you shall receive! for the lovely @chapioca ,,, a reward for drawing me a pic of diluc smiling ,,, :3333 ,,, sorry for anyone who has notifs on and sees inheritance in the title of the post.
side fic to inheritance, my (decently?) long diluc royalty!au series. find the series here if you’re interested!
pairing: prince!diluc x f!knight!reader
word count: 1.8k
plot: diluc’s point of view of the scene in inheritance part 1 where he gives the knight his scarf.
warnings: spoilers for inheritance part one and act two scene 2 if you haven’t read them already.
a/n: haha look at this emotionally constipated dude. the knight should’ve picked kaeya lmao. no beta reader for this one and i havent read over it so sorry for any mistakes!
Much to his behest, Diluc enjoys your company.
The prince has never been one to make such informal attachments to others. Granted, he’s never really been given the chance, but that’s besides the point. For Diluc, the Venn diagram of people he cares about and his family members was a single circle, until, of course, you barged your way in. Sure, he could give a good public relations answer about how Diluc was indebted to the people of Mond for respecting and acknowledging his family’s authority over the territory and allowing his father to lead, but as of now, nineteen-year-old Prince Diluc couldn’t really give a single shit about whether the people of Mond liked him or not.
Of course, Diluc had basic human empathy to wish for his constituents’ needs to be well taken care of, but he had no desire to be viewed as some great savior or leader in their eyes. He wanted to bring honor to his father and be viewed as a righteous man in order to bring the Ragnvindr family honor, but, for himself, he longed not for the praises of his citizens but rather to be left alone. A mutual respect of his boundaries while he respected theirs, if you may.
But you? You had barreled past his walls without him even knowing it, whether it be your smug expression hidden behind a thin veil of stoicism whenever he begrudgingly admitted you were right about something that he had previously asked your advice on (and ignored, of course) or the way you stare at him with steely resolve in your eyes as he challenges you. In those moments, Diluc fails to understand how you don’t have a Vision, as the pools of your irises crackle with the electricity of subdued defiance and you set his heart ablaze with invisible flames.
In the midst of the winter chill that surrounds the both of you, Diluc fails to understand how, even now, you make him feel warm inside. You walk beside him in silence, your eyes looking past him, always looking past him as you scan for threats. Your posture is always on the defense, ready to reach up and grab your sword at any moment. Diluc wants nothing more than to sling an arm around your shoulder and ease the tension within them, to tell you that he isn’t fragile and that it’s okay to drop your guard at times.
However, duty calls your name like a siren luring a sailor and Diluc is left standing at the shore, watching you drift further away from him on the tides. Your back faces him as you swim toward righteousness, a perfect subject of the throne, a perfect potential quee-. The prince shakes his head slightly to clear such intrusive thoughts out of his head and as you look at him out of the corner of your eye, alerted by even the most subtle of movements, he hopes the wintry air gives you a reason to overlook the slight flush on his cheeks.
You do not smile at him and instead continue marching onwards. You’ve always been quiet and Diluc has been the same, never enjoying forced small talk and instead relishing in the silence between the two of you. He was never sure if you enjoyed the quiet moments you shared together or if you were simply counting down the seconds until your shift ended. Diluc wishes he could find the courage to ask what you truly think of him, but he knows that you would simply plaster a false smile and tell him what he wants to hear in your neverending duty to protect the throne. Whether such information would be true or false would fall beyond Diluc’s realm of knowledge, but maybe he just tells himself that you would lie in order to avoid finding out the truth, in order to avoid fraying the tapestry of your relationship with him. Maybe, if Diluc had not been of noble blood, the two of you could have been far better friends than you are now. Maybe, if Diluc had not been of noble blood, the two of you would have-
His gaze pierces into you as you walk slightly in front of him on the defensive. Diluc doesn’t realize he’s staring until he witnesses you shiver, which snaps him out of his morose thoughts. You’re cold. Of course you are. While Diluc is bundled up with a scarf and a proper coat, you’re wearing a thin coat designed for autumn and the armor upon you likely only attracts the cold rather than repelling it. He’s a fool for not realizing it sooner and feels sick to his stomach at the thought of you having gone through unnecessary discomfort for the sake of his own whims.
Diluc has never been fond of the throne but has always prided himself on being a good heir, but how can he pride himself on such things when he makes the woman he cares about most, his most loyal knight, face the winds of winter all due to his own selfishness? He stops in his tracks, which causes you to pause as well and turn around to look back at him.
“Are you cold?” Diluc asks, regretting the way his voice sounds annoyed, but feels too awkward to correct it. You seem to take no offense to his question, yet he sees a nervousness arise in your eyes.
“No.” The word falls from your lips and suddenly Diluc understands your nerves. You were afraid to lie to him, yet you did. Unfortunately for you, the prince was more than willing to call your bluff as he narrows his eyes at you.
An idea hatches in his brain and it’s terribly selfish. Unfortunately for him, Diluc wasn’t afraid to be selfish.
“Take my scarf,” He insists and he watches your eyes widen slightly in surprise and confusion before your neutral expression returns.
“I couldn’t possibly do such a thing.” You insist and he feels his heart rate quicken at your polite tone. Diluc wants to both yell at you and kiss you due to your insolence and your refusal of his orders, even if your intentions are kind. He wants to do something for you and he’s willing to drop onto his knees and beg you to let him do this for you.
“You’re cold, therefore take the scarf.” His explanation is simple, but it is one of annoyance. He doesn’t trust himself to speak any further.
“It’s my duty to ensure your comfort. Therefore, you keep the scarf as you should stay warm,” You explain and Diluc’s inner conflict on whether he should embrace you or scream at you subsides with an odd warmth in his chest. The prince wants to kiss you, he wants nothing more than to warm your face in his hands, to wrap you up in his coat and watch as you walk around in what is blatantly his, a mark of possession that announces to all that you belong to him.
However, you don’t belong to him and Diluc is far too aware of such a fact. It eats away at him at night, it eats away at him as he stares at you when your gaze is turned the other way, and it eats away at him when the two of you are apart. Therefore, he can offer you no more than his scarf at the moment and will have to make do with the more subtle of the options he can provide you at this point in time.
“It would make me more comfortable if you wore the scarf instead,” Diluc insists and he knows he’s coming off as an asshole at this moment, but he would give you the world if you let him, so why won’t you take something as simple as a scarf? He decides this is a battle that he must win and preps the arrow of his words on the bow of his lips and fires, aiming for the bullseye of your pride. “Plus, what kind of prince would I be if I let my constituents suffer on my behalf?”
You freeze at his words, eyes widening in surprise and indignation as you realize exactly what game the prince is playing at. He’s aware that you’re aware of the implication of his words, yet he can’t bring himself to care as he seizes your hesitation to transfer the scarf from his neck to yours. His gloved fingertips brush against your neck and Diluc wonders once more if you have an Electro Vision hidden within your uniform from the way the mere gesture sends lightning bolts rippling through his fingers and up his arms, shocking the butterflies within his stomach into overdrive.
Diluc steps closer to you as he adjusts the fabric around your neck, narrowing his eyes as he does so. You deserve nothing less than the best, so the prince makes sure it looks perfect before stepping away from you, still staring at the scarf. Heat spreads throughout his body at the sight of you in his scarf, but he decides to tear his gaze away from you before the thoughts can consume him whole.
“There. Now was that so hard?” The words come out as a sneer and Diluc doesn’t want to sound so mean, but his emotions are a whirlpool inside of him as his heart beats in overdrive and adrenaline rushes through his veins at the thought of you wearing his clothing. Before his face can fully blossom into the color of a cherry tomato and before Diluc would be unable to blame the red flush on the chilly air of Mondstadt, he elects to move in front of you this time.
He notes how it takes you a moment to scamper after him and he notes your silence on the way back to the castle. Diluc is appreciative of the avoidance of the subject at hand, but when you catch up to him, he notes that you no longer shiver. While his heart soars with pride at being able to get away at such a brazen act of affection, his stomach can’t help but drop at the thought that you likely view it as no more than the chivalrous actions of a prince and not one of a…
Diluc refuses to dwell on the thought, nor does he ask for the scarf back. Maybe, just maybe, if you take a piece of him back with you to your chambers, you’ll think of him in a way that extends past the realms of your knighthood. It’s a hopeless dream, yet one Diluc cannot help but indulge in nonetheless. After all, the prince has always known himself to be selfish.
#diluc x reader#kinda nervous to tag it as that since it's a side fic BUT still it counts#anyways#//diluc#//inheritance#//writing
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Its just skin
Synopsis: Self-love is not something that comes to you naturally. Years of self-depreciation makes it difficult to grow into the habit of loving yourself despite of the scars peppered across your skin.
But with your fiancé, Tooru Oikawa, you find yourself stealing glances into mirrors quite often. It catches you by surprise when you find yourself...beautiful?
Pairing: Tooru Oikawa X fem!reader
Genres: tooth-rotting fluff , a lil bit of angst thrown in
Word count: 2.2k
Warnings: The reader suffers from body positivity issues and insecurities regarding her appearance.
Author’s note at the end!
(p.s. didnt proof read because im ✨lazy✨ might do it later when im feeling cute idk)
“Y/N-chan, can we leave already? We’re getting late for the party” Oikawa whined, tugging the sleeve of your shirt lightly.
“Tooru, stop being so impatient!” You pushed your whiny fiancé away and concentrated on covering up the acne scars and freckles peppered across your face with layers of concealer. No matter how much you tried, you could never make your skin look half as perfect as that of the girls who dominated your Instagram and YouTube feed. Every time you looked in the mirror, the taunting voices of your family members and friends would creep into your mind.
Oh my god! Whats wrong with your face?
Don’t you wash your face properly?
You’re never going to get married if you look like that Y/N! Do something about that face of yours!
Do you want me to recommend a good dermatologist to you?
No matter what the topic of the conversation was, people always found a way to bring up the topic of your skin condition in it. You could be talking about quantum physics for all they cared, they would somehow find a way to bring up the topic of your skin.
But they didn’t know all those sleepless nights you had spent on the internet looking for remedies, they didn’t know how you cried yourself to sleep every night, praying that you’ll somehow find that your skin had magically healed up when you woke up. But miracles didn’t happen in this world. At least for you, they didn’t.
You spent a humongous chunk of your salary buying medicines, serums, anything skincare specialists would recommend to you. But none of it could you fix you. Ultimately it all ended up in the trash and you ended up on the bathroom floor, sobbing as you looked into the mirror, face contorted with disgust and self-loathing.
But then, Oikawa Tooru stepped into your life. The first person who didn’t grimace as he looked at your face. He looked at it with childish wonder in his eyes, as if he was looking at something…beautiful? Every night, when you fell asleep in his arms, his fingers softly grazing your cheeks, you felt an unfamiliar warmth blossom inside your heart. If he could love you despite your flaws, what was stopping you from doing it?
But years of self-depreciation made it difficult to develop the habit of loving yourself. There are still moments when you found you yourself drowning in self-hatred.
Take the present moment, for instance.
No matter how much concealer you caked on your face, it didn’t look half as good as you wanted it to. You let out a frustrated groan as you plopped down on the bed. How could you go to the party looking like this, especially when Oikawa would be by your side? Everyone’s appearance paled in comparison to his flawless beauty. Then how could you, of all people, ever stand beside him as an equal? You knew everyone would be comparing you with him behind your back, their jealousy-tinged voices emphasizing on how someone like you didn’t deserve to be with him. You’d always be an undeserving lover for him in their eyes.
“What’s wrong, Y/N?” Oikawa’s voice was laced with heavy concern. “Do you feel sick? I told you to not eat that expired candy bar last night, but you didn’t listen-”
“Tooru, its not that. I think I look very fucking ugly right now and I can’t bear to look at myself in the mirror. I can’t go to the party right now, not when I’m feeling like this.” You buried your face in a soft cushion and let out a frustrated groan as you turned over on the bed.
“Y/N, did you start putting yourself down again?” You felt him plopping down beside you on the bed, wrapping his arms around your waist.
“Tooru, don’t lie to me, my skin still looks just as bad as ever.”
“You know, sometimes I wonder if astral projections are real.”
“What? Have you finally lost it?” Your widened eyes searched his face, trying to make sense of his words.
“If it was real, then I’d pull your soul out of your body make you look at your face through my eyes. Because there’s clearly something very fucking wrong with your eyes if you cannot see how damn pretty you are.” Tooru huffed, looking at you nonchalantly as if he was stating the obvious.
“Tooru-” you whimpered, turning on your side to face him.
Tooru and his horrible pickup lines.
Gosh, how can I not love him?
His chocolate-brown eyes softened as he pulled you into his chest. The sound of his heartbeat drowned all the cacophony of all the negative thoughts cluttering your mind.
“Y/N, I thought love at first sight was way too cheesy and corny to be real. But then, one day, back in high school, I saw Iwa-chan talking to you. You looked so fucking pretty, you know? The way you’d bite your lips when you were confused, the way you’d look down and let your hair cover your face whenever you were flustered, it was so damn adorable. I might have gone down on my knees right then, if Iwa-chan hadn’t been there. He’d beat the living crap out of me for playing my ‘disgusting tricks’ on his friend.” Oikawa took your hands in his and slowly drew circles on your palm with his thumb.
“Iwa wouldn’t have to beat you up, I’d do it without a second thought if you pulled any of that shit on me. I always found you very bratty, clinging to Iwa with that radioactive sweet smile of yours.”
“Wow, I was head over heels in love with you on first sight, while your first impression of me was that I’m a brat? No wonder you were Iwa-chan’s friend, you both are so mean.” He pouted, looking at you with playful annoyance.
“That was before I got to know you. Your brattiness started growing on me, gradually. Now I’m so used to it, I think I’d forget how to breathe if I didn’t hear your annoying voice every morning.” You chuckled at how his face kept getting redder with every insult that you threw at him.
“You’re used to my brattiness? Are you implying I’m still a brat?”
“Exactly. Looks like you do have a brain.”
“The most amazing setter on this planet doesn’t have a brain, is that what you’re trying to say?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but instead of asking me out on a date directly, you bugged Iwa to set us up on a date until he finally shouted at you in the middle of an English class, saying ‘Alright, Shittykawa, I’ll set you up on a date with Y/N, now stop running that fucking stupid mouth of yours.’ " You stole a glance at his face, savoring his flustered expression. "I’m right, am I not?”
Oikawa’s face reddened to the extent where it seemed that he would spontaneously combust at any moment.
"Tooru, c'mon, we both were emotionally constipated fools who could never ask each other out if Iwa hadn't stepped in." You softly ran your hands over his chest, savoring the warmth radiating from him. "Now stop pouting Brattykawa."
"You and Iwa-cha, both of you can never appreciate me before backtracking, huh?" He ran his fingers through your tangled hair, slowly massaging your scalp.
He knew it always calmed you down.
"Hey, did you really find me pretty that day?" You mind went back to how you looked the day when Oikawa first saw you. Greasy hair stuck to your face, cavernous dark circles covering your under eyes, face swollen as a result of pulling all nighters for a whole week. How could anyone, let alone Oikawa find you pretty when you looked like that?
"Can you not hold a conversation for 5 seconds without putting yourself down, huh?"
" I dont think I can Tooru. It still weirds me out that you, of all people found me beautiful when I looked like such a mess."
"Y/N I think we really need to try astral projections now-"
"Tooru, I'm serious-" You whined.
He chuckled, twilring your hair in his fingertips. "Y/N, after being with you for so long, I've realized something. You look for validation in the eyes of people who couldn’t care less about you. But when finally, someone who really cares for you and sees you as who you are tells you that they are truly beautiful, you brush it off. Why do you pretend that our compliments aren't heartfelt? Why are you so scared of being appreciated?"
Every day, when he saw you stealing glances into the mirror, he noticed how disappointment flashed across your face. He knew how you beat yourself up for not being pretty enough. You were never enough for yourself.
If your mind was a place, he’d waltz into it, shredding the self-destructive thoughts gnawing at you sanity into pieces. He’d untangle the mess inside your head, shattering the walls that bars genuine compliments reach your heart.
Oikawa wasn’t the best with words, not at times like this. But he’d give it his best.
He could feel the wet spots blossoming on his shirt, as you buried your face deeper into his chest.
"Oi! You dummy! Are you crying?"
"To-Tooru I just think th-that I d-don’t deserve your love because I'm not as good looking as-" You choked out in between an onslaught of sobs.
“Hey. Hey, look at me.” He cupped your flushed cheeks and lifted your chin up, his eyes scanning your face in concern.
“Those fucking stupid scars on your face don’t define who you are, okay? Its just skin, Y/N, you are so much more than just…a piece of skin, you know? Honestly, we’re all just bags of flesh and bones if you look at it that way. Do you think I loved you because you were a particularly pretty bag of flesh and bones?” Even though you found his analogy slightly funny, you noticed how his face lit up with passion so you refrained from making any sarcastic comments. He was trying his best.
“Continue, Tooru. I’m listening.”
“I love you because of who you are. I love the way your lashes flutter when we stargaze on the roof every night, I love you how your hair is a tangled mess when you wake up, I love how your puff your cheeks in annoyance when I stop you from over-drinking coffee every night, I love how you whine when you spend hours trying to get your eyeliner right, only to end up smudging it when you rub your eyes absent-mindedly, I love how your eyes light up when I put an extra spoonful of Nutella in your sandwich…gosh, I’m rambling, aren’t I?”
Your grip on his hoodie tightened. He looked at you, breathlessly, scanning your face for a reaction.
Your stared at your reflection in his chocolate-brown eyes, struggling to find the right phrases to express the way his words made you feel. You felt your heart race as if it was beating in pace with a rhythm set in by a drug-induced ecstasy.
What would you call this feeling of warmth that washed over you with every syllable he uttered?
“Thank you.” You wondered if you could’ve said anything better to express how much his words meant to you. God, where were a the fancy words you had learnt from corny YA romance books when you needed them?
But he didn’t need to hear your words to know that you’d been moved by his words. Fancy phrases could never tell him what the faint rosy glow of your cheeks could.
“Stop thanking me for stuff like this. It’s my duty, Y/N. I’m your fiancé for fuck’s sake.”
“You’re such a sap Tooru.” You giggled, squishing his cheeks softly.
“Yeah but you’re hopelessly in love with this sap, so deal with it.” His grip around your waist tightened as he nuzzled his face on your neck, his hot breath fanning across your collarbones.
“Now let me go Shittykawa, we have a party to attend.” You pried his arms off your waist and sat up.
“Babe, we’re about to get married in a few months, you really need to drop that stupid nickname.”
“Hmm, let me think.” Cocking your head to your side, you pretended to be immersed in deep thought. “Nope, not happening.”
“Don’t blame me for what happens next.” Oikawa sat up and tackled you to the bed, pinning your wrists by your side.
“Ooh, now that’s hot, Tooru”
“You know whats hotter Y/N?”
“What?”
“This.” He didn’t give you a chance to respond as his hands slid down to your waist. Your breath hitched in anticipation.
And then he started tickling you.
You broke out in an uncontrollable fit of laughter, kicking him, trying to get him to stop.
Two minutes later, you both lay side by side, panting, faces flushed with breathless fits of laughter.
You caught a glance of your face in the bedside mirror.
Even with your reddened face, tangled hair and smudged mascara, you looked…beautiful.
You felt beautiful.
As you nuzzled your face on his chest, the sound of his heartbeat rumbling in your ears, his words kept replaying in your mind.
“Its just skin, Y/N.”
Author’s note: ahhhhh I kinda wrote this in a flow?? Its a comfort fic/drabble???Idk what this is tbh. This is very self indulgent because I’ve suffered from skin problems(cystic acne ugh🤢) all my life, so I decided to comfort myself through this fic 🥺👉👈 . If only I had an Oikawa in my life 😩✋
N E ways, drink water, get enough sleep(lmao the irony that I’m saying this-) and remember to love yourself because you are beautiful!😤❤️I’ll come for your kneecaps if you put yourself down🤩🔪.
Reblogs would be highly appreciated!
#haikyuu#haikyuu angst#haikyuu fluff#haikyuu comfort#tooru oikawa#oikawa#tooru oikawa fluff#oikawa fluff#oikawa x you#oikawa x reader#oikawa x y/n#tooru oikawa x reader#oikawa x fem!reader#haikyuu x female reader#haikyuu x reader#haikyuu x y/n#hqradiostation
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It's me again lol. Just wanted to ask, would you mind sharing any nice pl bkdk fics you've read? The craving for this ship is sparkles consuming me sparkles
Ragged Edges by Withstarryeyes
Izuku sighs, opening his eyes. Above him is a large crack, slowly dripping water. Izuku watches as a drop collects, gaining mass until its weight drags it down, where it lands on Izuku’s cheek. “Yeah Kaachan?”
“Status report.” The words are clipped, bored. Izuku turns his head, looking at the pile of rocks separating Kaachan and him. He supposes they should have known this was a trap, when the call went out for Ground Zero and Deku specifically. Still, Izuku has always been optimistic, and he really didn’t think villains would be gunning for them this hard before they’ve even graduated high school.
“I’m still stuck. You?”
Or...Izuku and Bakugou get trapped in a cave. Stuck waiting for rescue they play never have I ever, and Bakugou learns things about Izuku he never knew before.
if you can fill the unforgiving minute by the_crownless_queen
Comically, some part of Izuku had always thought they’d end up here. Oh, he’d gotten some of the details wrong — for example, he’d always kind of figured Kacchan would be the one to collapse the building on them in a fit of rage, not villains — but the whole shape of it is still right.
Kacchan and him, trapped under a collapsed building, alone.
It sucks pretty much as badly as in his nightmares.
Like Muscle Memory by anna7130
Five times that class 1-A underestimates Midoriya and Bakugou’s friendship, and one time they all know exactly what's what
spinning out of control by mollE
He can’t scream. He wishes, oh, he wishes he could. He’s already tried. He’s been trying, but he’s stuck in his own head, watching his hands wrap around Deku’s skinny neck and squeeze until his face turns purple and then let go again like he’s toying with him, taking him to the brink of unconsciousness and keeping him there. Deku sputters and coughs, and his chest heaves between Katsuki’s thighs. There are tears running down his face, and it’s not the first time he’s ever cried because of Katsuki. It’s not the first time Katsuki’s ever hurt him.
But never like this.
--
Katsuki joins the 'I've Been Mind Controlled' Club. He wishes he hadn't.
crude matter by Sour_Idealist
“Deku!” bellows, unmistakably, Kacchan. “Are you in there or what?”
“Hey, Kacchan,” Izuku calls, or tries to. It’s kind of a rasp. He does his best to clear his throat. “I’m in here!” Still a rasp.
“Deku?!” Kacchan manages to get even louder. “Answer your fucking door, dammit!”
silence is what i do best by notreally
When Recovery Girl asks him how he’s feeling, Midoriya desperately wants to say that everything’s fine. He masters his best smile and says, cheerful as ever, “Disgusting.”
“I see,” she says thoughtfully, as if this was a very vital piece of information. “Anything else? Bakugou?”
“My head’s spinning like crazy and I can’t focus for shit,” the blond blurts without a moment's hesitation, catching up to that only after finishing a sentence with a pissed, “What the hell?”
“Oh, boy.”
or the one where both Izuku and Katsuki were hit with a truth serum sort of quirk, and things aren't going all too well.
Still I Sing (There'll Howl No Demon Louder) by IncineraryPeriphery
“Hey,” Kacchan says from his nest of blankets a little ways away, flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling like it’s personally offended him within the last five seconds, “I’ve got an idea.”
“About what?” Izuku mumbles into his hand with a yawn.
“Your quirk.” Kacchan says.
take care by Chrome
There are words to say stay safe, I’ll miss you, I love you, but Kacchan has always preferred to leave things unspoken. Izuku isn’t much with languages, but he thinks he’s figured out this one.
---
“Emotional constipation manifested as over-the-top housewifery?” Mina asks. Before Izuku can say that is not what he meant at all, she nods. “Yeah, I can see it.”
accidentally childhood friends by pandacchi
It's not that Ochako forgot they're childhood friends, it's quite literally impossible thanks to the ever-present kacchans, but it's definitely a rare occasion when it's Bakugou the one admitting to it. He usually seems very intent on making everyone forget he and Deku-kun have known each other all their life.
or:
a collection of little moments in which the students of class 3-A are subjected to the weird and wondrous dynamic of their resident childhood friends.
ain't gonna play the fool (you will hate yourself in the end) by Jazer
Your story is not made up of you alone - the side characters, the antagonists, even the main character themselves, they all have their own backstory to tell. Sometimes, you have to learn how to read or, in some cases, how to listen.
A Million Words To Say (and sorry isn't enough) by PotterheadAvengerDemigod
It’s well known that Deku and Ground Zero are friends.
That they used to be anything less, that it took them more than a decade and a half to get to where they are now, only their former classmates and teachers know.
Reliable by dogloser
Midoriya and Bakugou help each other.
Situation: One is recovering from a wound/illness.
Prompt: "Don't tell me what to do."
here's a handful.
#long post#asks#bnha#bnha fic rec#no im not doin my usual rec style bc i cant be bothered. sorry#pl bkdk#bkdk
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post-rok Fushimi teasing yata with romance stuff and fake flirting to embarrass him. Yata's friends tell him it only works cause he reacts badly so he decides to fight back by either going along with the stuff he's teased about or fake flirting back which worked at first cause it caught Fushimi off-guard. Fushimi later uses this to do actual nice/romantic things with Yata but adds some teasing or sarcasm to make it look like it's just pretend which annoys Yata. Everyone else can tell it's real.
Somehow it just feels perfect for these two that they're like sarcastically flirting in order to hide the fact that they are in fact actually flirting and the only people actually being fooled are the two of them. Like imagine post-ROK Fushimi still enjoys teasing Yata but it's much less malicious this time, more playful and kinda like it was when they were in middle school. At some point he starts teasing Yata with romance stuff and fake flirting, like calling him 'darling' in public or getting really close and complimenting him, and then laughing and calling Yata a virgin when Yata gets embarrassed about it. Yata doesn't get why Fushimi's chosen this way of flirting, like maybe Saruhiko's trying to tell me that I should find a girlfriend, and meanwhile Fushimi's like somewhat aware that he's in love with Yata and the fake flirting is the only way he can bring himself to express it because if Yata reacts badly Fushimi can retreat to the safety of 'I was just joking.'
One day Yata's complaining about this to the Homra guys, like he enjoys spending time with Saruhiko but every time that guy teases him about being a virgin it pisses Yata off. The Homra alphabet are much more aware of Fushimi's true sincerity than Yata is and they suggest that why doesn't Yata just turn the tables on him and flirt back. Yata's all you think that would work and they're like yeah definitely, probably thinking that we've finally found a way to get relieve those guys of their emotional constipation. It's somewhat more disappointing when Yata shows up the next day crowing about how he did it, Fushimi called him 'honey' and Yata responded with 'anything you say, babe' and Fushimi got super red and embarrassed, it was awesome. The Homra alphabet are like okay but then what happened and Yata says Fushimi just clicked his tongue and stopped with the teasing, was something else supposed to happen. (And now it turns out that somehow their advice has made things worse because after initially being caught off guard Fushimi is now responding with his own 'fake' flirting and Yata will respond back and it's like how is it that we got these two to admit their feelings and they still haven't admitted their feelings.)
#sarumi#Talking K#ofc at some point Yata realizes he's enjoying this flirting too and kinda wishes it was real#too bad Saruhiko doesn't feel the same way and he doesn't want things to be weird#also it is very Fushimi to do nice things for someone and pretend that it's sarcastic#like nope no feelings here just spite here I bought you flowers
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Arthur Pendragon x Nicknames
All hc’s are dedicated to the hc queen @thatone-nerdygirl for reasons.
Arthur Pendragon. That was his name. It was quite honestly the most boring name in all of Albion (according to the man himself)
There was nothing you could do about his name that wouldn't make him sound like an absolute poshie
(Unless of course you call him Artie, but that just means death...for you)
So Arthur had to go through his life with just that name. Arthur for fucks sake. Uther just wanted it to rhyme the bastard
Arthur's despise for his own name is why he likes to make up "annoying" (read: endearing) little nicknames for people
Leon didn't think you could possibly shorten his name any more than it already was
But when a young little squire of a prince came bounding up to him one day with an adorable tiny "Leo!!!"
Well. Who in the hell even is this Leon person??
Gwen has always had her nickname. Guinevere was a mouthful to say, but Prince Arthur deemed it to be the perfect nickname for her
Until of course, Arthur took her by the hands as a sign of comfort and mumbled a soft "Gwen" that just warmed her heart more than when anyone ever said it
She didn't quite mind Guinevere anymore. Gwen was for soft moments.
When Lancelot and Percival arrived, they were immediately given the nickname "Lance" and "Percy" because obviously.
But, as seen with Guinevere, Arthur's nicknames for people don't necessarily mean they have to be short. No, they have to mean something.
That was why whenever Arthur called for them, Sir Lancelot and Sir Percival never failed to arrive
Gwaine, while mostly called Sir Gwaine, by the princess had a different name he was honored with
As baffling as it may sound, Gwaine was honored to be the "Drunken Fool." He was honored to be at the other end of Arthur's harsh insult and fond smile.
Gwaine may be a Drunken Fool, but dammit he wore that name proudly. A very good king had given it to him out of emotional constipation and he will absolutely take it
Elyan had absolutely no idea he'd get a special nickname different from the "Sirs" of the knights. Maybe it was because he was Gwen's brother and Gwen was like family to Arthur? Maybe it was because Elyan really was just that special
Either way, Elyan will always feel especially smug and proud after Arthur pats him in the shoulder with a "Great job today, Eli."
Morgana had two nicknames. "Morgs" was the nickname Arthur used a lot when they were kids and he kept bullying her.
The other...The other was the name Arthur called out to her whenever she was frightened by another nightmare or traumatized by another killing. The other was the name that could break her down from her strongest shield and darkest hearts. The other was the name that ultimately ended her life as that damn horrid witch she became.
"Gana...please come home."
Who was Morgana to deny the request of the King? Much less the request of her loving brother
Merlin was a special case. The man loved nicknames as much as he did and it definitely showed.
Prat, Idiot, Dollophead, Clotpole, Bone idled toad, Sire, Girl, Girl's blouse, Cabbagehead. There wasn’t one insult in the world that wasn’t used as a nickname between the two.
But that was for everyone else to see.
Because behind closed doors, it was “I love you, my sorcerer” and “I, you, my king”
It was “Mine.” over and over in fits of jealousy or pride
It was “I’m here, Merls. I’m okay”
It was “Good Morning, my husband” and “Goodnight, my love”
But most of all, it was “Merlin” and “Arthur” whispered reverently like a prayer each and every night.
#merlin hc#merlin bbc#bbc merlin#merlin headcanons#why are my headcanons always so long lmao XD#anyway yeah#just gonna drop this right here
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