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becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys · 2 months

Note

routine vibe check: what’s the best starter pokemon and why are you right (pictures and long paragraphs of evidence welcomed and appreciated)

Gonna get a good grade in vibe check, normal to want and inevitable to achieve because I have objectively correct Pokemon opinions and will block naysayers

OKAY LET'S GO

I decided to do, like, a top 5 list or something, because I'm bad at picking a single favourite of stuff. And then even that overwhelmed me, so I found one of those tier ranking list sites and produced this:

It was done in less than a minute, so if I wanted to get really picky, I don't know if I would be fully wedded to it (not sure if maybe Sceptile should be one higher) BUT it did help to highlight the important ones.

So!

5. Bulbasaur

It's. Just. So. Nice.

Like you can find cooler, more beautiful, cuter, fancier... there's a whole bunch of ways for a Pokemon to be great. But you will never ever find a nicer Pokemon than Bulbasaur. It's so lovely. Look at it. Look at its face.

I can't put it higher, because the rest of the line is fairly bland in terms of development. It's good and logical and fun, don't get me wrong, but Ivysaur and Venusaur just look like bigger versions with More Flower and Less Cute rather than creatures in their own right. To be honest, if it weren't a starter requiring a three-stage evolution, you could do away with Ivysaur. Something I don't like about a lot of lazy three-step lines is that the middle step just looks like a transitional mid phase rather than a Proper Creacher, like they were artificially inflating the Pokemon number count. Meanwhile it took us until Paldea to get a Girafarig evo that would actually make the giraffe tall. Madness.

However my first ever Pokemon was a Bulbasaur I called Daffodil, and I have traded him forward onto every single successive generation since. He is, quite literally, my First Ever Pokemon. I love him desperately. I still have him. Not many people still have their First Ever Pokemon. But I do and I love him. So, Bulbasaur gets the fifth spot.

4. Snivy

Again, a victim of the Banal Transitional Middle Evo, but both Snivy and Serperior are incredible, and as Meatloaf took such pains to tell us, two out of three ain't bad.

But Snivy! It's so snooty! I was super lucky with mine, too, because I beat the 12.8% odds and got a female, and I loved her. Normally the initial baby starters are designed to be cute but Snivy has SO MUCH PERSONALITY, she's great. And the design of Serperior is utterly gorgeous. She keeps the expression, but rather than the Animal Crossing-style snooty-cute vibe of Snivy you get this thousand yard withering stare of an empress whose servant (you) has just turned up dripping mud in her throne room and asked her for money. Her green and gold colour scheme is exquisite. Her filigree design, including her high collar, give off the air of wealth and sophistication befitting her immaculate pedigree. And all this! In a simple snake. Incredible design work, 10 out of 10, no notes.

Begone, you miserable peasant. Have him boiled.

3. Torchic

Now I'll be real with you, lads, but Pokemon design hit its stride with Hoenn and then got better.

It's partly a fashion thing, of course - you look at some of the Kanto designs and they are remarkably 90s, because that's when the franchise launched. Others are clearly a product of what the 1990's were capable of producing in pixels on an already over-stretched cartridge medium. Like we like to clown on Red and Green/Blue now, but my god, those game designers performed a miracle with Pokemon. Every single square inch of space was used to make that game, and complex designs weren't going to cut it.

(With that said, there is still no excuse for Dragonite.)

And then Johto came about and its Pokedex sucks ass. It's mostly new evolutions for existing Kanto stars, useless babies to inflate the dex number, or poorly thought out single-evos like the inexplicably short Girafarig and the unacceptably dreary Dunsparce (our greatest thanks to Paldea for fixing both of those).

BUT THEN CAME HOENN (trumpets intensify)

And we get habitats! Biomes! A different regional climate, gifting us a brand new area of Pokecology! And therefore a brand new flush of creativity in Pokemon design across the board; less dated, and more inclined to be unique rather than a rehash of Kantonian stuff.

Which brings me nicely to this lad:

Now, I mean. Just look at him. Fucking hell. Cute starter stage, check. LOOK AT HIM FACE

AND THEN he became, at the time, a brand-new unique typing: Fire/Fighting. I realise that is now the norm for like, half of the Fire starters, but that's because of Torchic, actually. He was super popular. In fact if you ever play Ruby/Sapphire/Emerald and you do what my husband and I like to call a Mynci Dave run (use one Pokemon almost exclusively, meaning it gets all the experience points and therefore over-levels to a terrifying degree, allowing you to sweep the game; so named after the noble Primeape we first did this with, Mynci Dave), Torchic is the PERFECT Pokemon to choose, because almost everything is weak to either Fire or Fighting in that region.

Anyway, Combusken is, again, kind of mid (although props for the inverted colour scheme and the fact that it actually does look like a teenager.) But Blaziken, on the other hand... Blaziken is a six foot ninja chicken with wings for hair whose Pokedex entry describes it as able to leap tall peaks in a single bound, a feat it achieves after strengthening its legs by hoofing Geodudes down mountains like they're fucking footballs

Also an impressive bulge.

My first was called Gilgamesh, and he was fucking great. For a long time, this mad lad was my actual favourite Pokemon, not just starter. Brilliant. Love him. Five stars out of three. King.

2. Fuecoco

It would probably surprise you to know I've not actually used one. I chose Sprigatito, and I do really like Meowscarada, actually. But pretty anthro cat boys have been done in Pokemon quite a bit at this point; cats, dogs and rabbits are over-represented in terms of Poke-taxa. Possibly this is another reason for a toad, a snake and a chicken being 5, 4 and 3 so far (ooh, basilisk ingredients, I've just realised.) They're new and unusual! I like an Eeveelution as much as the next person, but they're a whole family of cat-dog-rabbits, like.

However.

Nintendo has tried its hand at Pokecrocodilians three times (Feraligatr, Krookodile, Skeledirge), and they have gotten so much better at design each time that the three of them are basically a scale proxy for ongoing design improvement. Look, I've made a diagram:

EXCEPT

(Strap in)

This one is that rare thing: a three step line that deserves to be a three step line. Let's talk Fuecoco first:

SO CUTE. It's charming, it's charismatic, it's adorable.

It also has hints of its evolutionary end goal, but not like an undeveloped middle evo. It likes singing. The white face hints at the eventual calavera, and it looks a bit like a lil chilli pepper - a ghost pepper, probably in reference to the eventual Fire/Ghost typing. But the colours and shape right now also look a bit reminiscent of a babygro, because this thing is a cute starter. Lookit them teefs. That tuft. Its lovely smile. Beautiful.

And then, at the point you expect it to turn into just the awkward teenage version of the adult, instead we get Crocator:

Oh boy. Oh there's so much to say. Okay okay:

The region it's from is based on Spain, but this thing is incorporating Hispanic elements from across the board. It's a mariachi in a sombrero, except the sombrero also looks kind of like a ring of Mexican marigolds and kind of like a Catalonian Easter cake called Mona de Pascua that has an egg (or egg-shaped confectionary) in the middle. Body shape and markings look kind of like a piñata. The white face is now on its way to a calavera, with the cheek and nostril markings more defined. And it sings, with its open mouth (also how crocodiles release heat, appropriate for a Fire type) and signified by the mariachi theme.

THAT IS A LOT.

And then it becomes Skeledirge. A Fire/Ghost crocodile.

Now the obvious design here is the calavera and the Día de Muertos theming, which is part of it. But there are also many examples of crocodile figures in Spanish folkloric ghost stories: the Catalonian Cocollona, the Lizard of Magdalena from Jaén, or the Drac de Na Coca, or even the Cuca - that one is Portuguese, but turns up in both Brasil and the Iberian Peninsula including in parts of Spain. It's got a Gaudi vibe (like Barcelona). It's got an alebrije vibe (like Mexico).

And the bird! Nile crocs have a cleaning symbiosis with Egyptian plovers; it also sits at the tip of the snout where male gharials have a sort of bulbous bit to help them make sounds (the singing thing).

But this is what the bird does when Skeledirge uses Torch Song:

youtube

It becomes a microphone, then grows in size and attacks the opponent in Phoenix form. Phoenix: Fire/Ghost. Resurrected from the ashes.

Quite simply, your fave could never.

5. Rowlet

My god. (My god)

gasp

Look at this lovely creacher. He is so round and so soft and so lovely. He looks like that baby Yoda meme. He looks like that cat that someone's landlord said they would make an exception for because he looks very polite. Look!!! At his lil bow tie!!! He is a smartly dressed young man and he is kind and he is... well, a bit vacant behind the eyes. A himbo, if you will. But he is all the better for that. What a lovely owl.

He looks a little like a barn owl, perhaps, and those were imported to Hawai'i, where Rowlet is from. But I think he looks a little like a Pueo owl, and given that he will eventually be a Ghost type, that seems right - pueos are one of the physical forms assumed by ʻaumākua in Hawai'ian culture, as I understand it.

And then, hang onto your tits, lads, because this is another banger - THE MIDDLE EVOLUTION IS ITS OWN DESIGN!!! (confetti cannons)

I said earlier that boring middle evos are like just awkward teenagers of the adults. Here, I present to you, a very deliberate Awkward Teenager, in Dartrix:

IT'S A DANDY

I love him I love him I love him

He plays with his fringe and if you touch it without permission he has a tantrum. God, he's so charismatic. Also, that fringe further suggests the pueo - they have pronounced outer rims around their facial disks like that. Look at his bow tie and tail coat. So smart and handsome

This one is so good that it could be the final evo. This is actually my issue with the Delphox line - Braixen is amazing, and then it becomes the bland boredom of Delphox. Braixen should have been the final stop. Here, Dartrix is much the same - good enough to be a high-quality end goal.

Where they differ is that Decidueye is better again.

IT SHOOTS ARROWS MADE OF ITS OWN QUILLS

Also, fun fact - This line is the only starter to change secondary typing. Dartrix is part Flying; but on evolving a second time into Decidueye, it switches to Grass/Ghost. In this evolution, it's definitely mostly a pueo, so the ʻaumākua reference is IN, but actually barn owls also have their associations with the dead in various cultures.

The crown of feathers around its head are also reminiscent of an ayaigasa - a hat worn by Japanese samurai archers. And yet! AND YET!

It still has its lil bow tie look. Bigger now, more of a cravat; but there it is.

A perfect Pokemon, and a perfect evolutionary line. No notes.

Anyway, thank you for this chance to waste three and a half hours writing this essay

#asks #pokemon #long post #gif

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 months

Text

Dirty Work 2

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: Let me know if you want more. Didn't get too much on Part 1 but I have ideas so...

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Your third week begins in the same place. Before the iron gate, the code unlocking the green maze within. You’re still just as impressed as your first day there. To you, it’s like a fantasy. Entirely unattainable but it’s right there. You can look, but you can’t touch… not beyond cleaning.

You linger outside, not thinking. You admire the tall tulips and the hedge trimmed to resemble some landmark you can’t quite place. You could see a place like this in an Austenian film or perhaps something Victorian. You don’t have an eye for the difference.

You key in the code for the backdoor and continue on. You put covers on your shoes and grab a fresh set of gloves. You’re getting into a pattern, though each client differs slightly. You put your things away and bring your water bottle with you. You bought a cool strap that keeps it against your hip, a small splurge with your first paycheck. The rest went to bills.

As you start on your usual journey through the many rooms of the airy house, you wonder how its sole resident isn’t lonely. Or perhaps he is. He doesn’t seem the type to admit to it. You turn your thoughts back to your work. You try not to think of him, truly, you don’t know much of him.

You take a candlestick and polish it. You move on the small globe; an ivory orb on a silver axes, the outlines of the continent carved into the surface. As you put it back, you notice something. An item you can’t recall being there before. You reach for it but stop as you realise it’s a camera.

You retract your hand and move on to dust the shelf itself. Does he not trust you or was it there before? Of course, somewhere like this would need security. There was a story just the other day about a break-in, but that was closer to your father’s where those culprits dwell.

The second floor is always easier. It seems even less lived-in than below. All but the study and the main bedroom. You flit in and out, checking points off the list until you’re content. You can only hope he will be too.

As you descend, the epiphany tickles your brain. It’s the first shift he hasn’t appeared. It’s easy to assume he’s busy. You don’t expect him to hang around. As if he would supervise you. Besides, that’s probably what the cameras are for.

You pack up and get your single refill of water. You leave the way you came, as you have twice before. The keypad flashes red to signal the lock is in place. You haul your kit higher on your shoulder and tread slowly along the little path along the side of the house.

You look at the gazebo trimmed in hanging ivy. It’s beautiful. You’d like to venture up and sit on that bench. Just sit and watch and smell and feel. You force the thought away and turn back along the stonework.

You’re going home. Not to pollen but tobacco smoke. Not to lush gardens but wilting strands in soggy mud. Not to immaculate floors and pristine decor but to stained walls and broken springs in your mattress.

Home, to another man that makes you nervous.

🧹

Your father is as he always is, smoking on the couch. You say hi as you come in with a bag of groceries, the prize for what was left of your check. He grumbles and flicks through the channels. You go to the kitchen to put away the food.

You’re almost at the end of your first month, a third of the way through your probationary period. Hopefully after that, you can pick up more clients. You shut the cupboard and go back to the living room. Your father coughs into a crumpled tissue. He sounds horrible. You can’t say so, he doesn’t seem to care.

“I got some fresh produce,” you announce proudly, “I’ll steam some veggies with the chops.”

“You get fries?” He growls.

“Uh, no,” you admit, “I thought we could eat something healthier–”

“I don’t like steamed veggies,” he drops the remote and grabs his pack of smokes.

“Oh, sorry, I was only thinking–”

“Don’t lie and say you were,” he snorts as he pulls out a cigarette and taps the end of the pack. “Go on, I’m tryna watch this.”

He nods at the television and you follow his gaze to the rerun of All in the Family. He’s seen them all before. You take the dismissal and retreat up to your room. Like you always do.

It’s always been like this. You don’t hate your father but sometimes it feels like he hates you. You put your kit and your water bottle on your dress and change into clean clothes. You lay in bed and close your eyes, trying to let go of the tension in your muscles.

You don’t remember your mom but he does. You assume that’s why he’s like this. It’s not you, it’s what happened. Tragic. A loss he won’t talk about.

You rub your forehead and let your arms fall to bend on either side of your head. You only ever saw one picture of your mother. You don’t think you look like her. She was pretty. And young. You were always too afraid to ask about her but you could tell she was younger than him. No one could’ve expected her to go so soon.

You close your eyes. It’s a strange sort of grief to miss someone who is only a shadow in your mind. Not even a voice, just this ghost you know by name. Mommy…

You blow out a deep breath in an effort to bid away the sadness. That was so long ago. This is now and you have a lot to worry about.

🧹

The Laufeyson house greets you once more with its elaborate brickwork. It’s starting to feel familiar, like a habit to put in the new code and walk along the winding path around to the back door. Six more numbers and you’re inside; shoe covers, gloves, bottle, and the list.

You always check the new email sent by the agency. There’s always something small and new squeezed into the bullet points. This week, you notice the first task is laundry.

‘Retrieve hamper from hallway. When hamper is left outside door, it means clothes must be washed.’

Easy enough. You go upstairs first and take the tall hamper from beside the door frame. It’s heavy and there’s no wheels to aid in your struggle. The laundry room is downstairs. Your descent is treacherous, one step at a time as you haul the basket down step by step. If Mr. Laufeyson is there, he can’t happy with the noise.

You finally get to the machine and follow the instructions about cycle type and separating colours from whites. However, there is only the bedding to be cleaned. You load the linens in and take a moment to figure out the touchscreen. Your father’s machine has a dial that only works on one setting and gives off a dingy stench.

You leave the basket in front of the washer and retreat to start your usual progression through the urban manse. Mop, sweep, dust, vacuum, polish; hallway, kitchen, dining room, sitting room… Nothing unusual or unexpected.

As you cross the narrow foyer to the den, the sunshine glows a warm orange through the slender windows on either side of the front door. The patterning of the glass reflects prettily on the floor. Despite your best efforts, you can’t help but imagine residing somewhere so brilliant.

You sigh and carry on. You’re sure to open the long drapes to let in the late spring sunshine. It’s not so bad working in the light and you can see where the rare spec of dust is hiding. You go to the tall shelf beside the record player and pull out the albums to wipe beneath them. Music would be jarring in a place always so silent.

You slip the albums back into place, pulling out one to admire the cover; Ane Brun. You’ve never heard of them. You read the track list curiously. You know you shouldn’t be wasting time.

“I don’t believe I’d have anything to your taste on my shelf,” the mocking slither has you pushing the album in line with the rest.

You almost apologise but you remember. You don’t speak. You just clean. So clean.

You glance over at Mr. Laufeyson as he struts in, a book held in one hand as his other is tucked in his pocket. He wears his usual pressed attire; a dark button-up and even darker slacks. You note that he has no tie that day. A single curl dangles by his temple as the rest of his black hair is precisely combed back.

You return to your tasks, gently wiping the cover of the record player and along the stand. You hear the book drop onto the low table before the sofa before his footsteps continue on; closer. He approaches as you get to the next shelf, a collection of EPs in unmarked sleeves.

You wince as he stops near you, flipping up the cover of the sleek record player before stepping back to peruse his selection. You do your best to keep on as he looms. The air is thick and suffocating. Should you go to the next room and come back?

He slips a record free of its sleeve and places it carefully on the players. He moves the needle over and flips the switch, a crackle before the sound drones from the tall standing speakers. Acoustic guitar with a gritty feel to it. The sudden addition of a woman’s voice jolts you; her tone is peculiar but not unpleasant.

When I woke I took the backdoor to my mind And then I spoke I counted all of the good things you are

He backs away without a word. Not an explanation. You finish cleaning the second shelf and dare to glance over. He reads his book on the couch, unbothered by your existence. That isn’t too unfamiliar.

You finish the space but leave the vacuuming for later. You wouldn’t want to ruin the music. You go into what you can only call a sunroom. The french doors peek out onto the garden and a patio set with a large dining set in white iron and glass.

The music drifts in and keeps you company. It almost makes the work easier. You make quick work and go to check the washer to switch over the load. Once you have the dryer figured out, you begin on the second floor.

It’s only as you come out of one of the guestrooms that you notice the silence is returned. You turn down the hallway and near the next door. You enter the study with your usual reverence. Something about the space is intimidating.

The large leather chair with its dimpled back and the even bigger desk; slabs of marble set into polished ebony. Shelves of a similar material, decked out with numerous volumes and the occasional ornament. Some appear even to be genuine artifacts. The rug at the centre is patterned in Persian style.

Behind the desk are a set of doors that open onto a balcony. The drapes are drawn shut. You find that is often the case. It’s a sombre and dark space hidden from the bright gardens without. Your tasks here are minimal. You use the hand vacuum and dust the shelves. You aren’t to touch the desk at all.

A shadow startles you as you drag the cloth along the edge of the bookshelf. Your eyes round and you look over as Mr. Laufeyson enters. You blanch but he doesn’t acknowledge you. He sighs and goes to the desk, sitting in the chair and wheeling it closer. You narrow your sights on the shelves; focus.

You feel a tremble but quickly shake it away. This is his home, he must be able to exist within it, but this feels strange, almost deliberate. Is he trying to make some point? To scare you? You remember the mention of those who came before you. Did they quit or did he dismiss them? Regardless, you can’t afford either.

It isn’t that difficult to follow the rules. Don’t speak? You haven’t much to say. You get closer as you advance along the shelves to the back of the office. He lets out another long exhale. His chair creaks, once, twice, and again.

“Hm,” he rolls back and swivels, an action you observe from the corner of your eye. He tuts and wheels back to the desk, resuming tapping on the keys of his slender laptop. The glow limns his silhouette sinisterly.

You rustle the drapes as you pass them and cross to the opposite shelves. As you brush over the spines of the books, you nearly drop the cloth. His low hum frightens you as he mimics the same melody that played from the speakers below. His tone is deep and sonorous, even delightful.

You squeeze the cloth and pause before regaining your composure. This cannot be a coincidence. The camera and now he’s following you. Or so it seems. Does he distrust you? What reason have you given him?

You are mindful to wipe down the bronze statue of what you assume is a viking warrior. You place it back staunchly, making sure your work is entirely visible to him. You are honest and you like to think you do your work well. Or at least, you try to. Perhaps if he sees that effort, he won’t be so suspicious.

As you head for the door, he quits his humming. His chair squeaks again.

“You are rather more thorough than the last,” he muses.

You stop and turn your head. You nod. He’s baiting you to break his number one rule.

“And you take orders well,” he adds blithely, “that is rare these days.” He taps a key again, “as you were.”

You take the dismissal in stride and flit off to your next task. It isn’t much, maybe only a statement of fact, but it’s something. He isn’t unhappy with your work. So far, neither are you.

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #maid au #marvel #mcu #thor #avengers

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bathomet-writes · 1 year

Text

a view to a thrill

summary: It’s been months since the Kraang attack on New York, and Raph has been acting a little strange lately. He’s been doing something in secret, that much Leo knew. And tonight, his brothers are gonna get to the bottom of it!

relationship: Raph x F!reader

warnings: romantic, fluff, humor, secret dating, forehead kisses, sfw

word count: 4,033

author's note: this is a request for @/snipersiniora!! enjoy!!

It’s been months since the Kraang attack on New York. After all the clean-up and recuperation efforts, the city was mostly back to normal. A new normal, anyway.

Leo sat at the kitchen island, munching on the last slice of leftover pizza as he thought about all the changes he and his family had been going through lately.

They had all talked about and dealt with most of the fallout of the Kraang. It was hard, but necessary. Leo hated having to watch all his brothers live through each of their experiences all over again, every time the subject was seriously brought up. The healing was almost harder than the pain, weirdly enough.

Shaking his head, Leo tries to stop himself from spiraling back down that rabbit hole. He didn’t like how conscious of his own emotions he was becoming. It made him jumpy, on edge.

It also made him a lot more hyper aware. Not just of himself, but of his brothers too. He found himself becoming much more of a helicopter parent of sorts. It came with being the leader, he supposed. Didn’t make it any less annoying.

As he swallowed the final bite of pizza, Leo’s thoughts went to Raph.

“Where is that guy anyway?”

It wasn’t like Raph had to be at the lair the same time every night. He was free to do whatever he pleased! But it was nearly 7 PM, and Leo hadn’t seen heads or tails of Raph all day.

Going out on ‘solo missions,’ volunteering to grab pizza, take out, what have you. Raph had a clever excuse for every time his brothers asked where he was going. Leo noticed that he was taking longer and longer to come back each time, but that wasn’t enough of a reason to be suspicious.

In his lab, Donnie was casually checking in on everyone’s pins during a break from his video game when he saw it. Raph’s little red icon was nowhere on the map. Was his tracker glitching out or something?

“Not possible,” Donnie seethes. “My tech is immaculate.”

He zoomed out to get a wider view of the sewers. It was only a 10 mile radius, but surely Raph was somewhere around.

Nothing.

He zooms out again, looking at a 15 mile radius.

Zip.

“What…?”

He didn’t usually keep tabs on his brothers like this, but Donnie was starting to get worried. Quickly, he taps into the city’s surveillance systems and gets a complete view of New York. Far off on the other end of town, near the docks to be precise, Donnie saw a red dot blinking away.

“Ah. He’s probably busting up a mafia ring or something. Yeah!” Donnie nods to himself.

Couldn’t be anything else.

Suddenly, the blinking stops. Donnie scrambles to the edge of his chair to grab at the computer screen. Raph turned off his GPS…

“Okay, that’s it.”

In the rec room area, Mikey had been pacing around for a while. With board games and phone in hand, he was starting to panic. Tonight was supposed to be family game night, and Mikey was the only one who showed up. Even Splinter bailed on him, having accidentally passed out on his bed after dinner.

“This is so not cool. I had the games picked out and everything!”

Right as Mikey drops the box of Scrabble and the container of dominos, Donnie storms in.

“This is ridiculous.”

Mikey spins around, equally exasperated. “You’re tellin’ me! Can you believe it?”

Leo had sauntered in as well, his curiosity piqued when he heard the commotion all the way from the kitchen. Crossing his arms, he leans up against the entryway.

“It’s so frustrating. Is it so much to ask for a little communication? A little honesty?”

Donnie and Mikey approach, nodding their heads furiously along with their brother.

“Right!”

“Precisely!”

The three of them stand there for a second, in total silence. Leo slowly blinks his eyes open.

“What are we talking about? I mean, I know what I’m talking about.”

Donnie points at his wrist. “I’ll tell you: Raph, our brother, has just turned off his tracker. How did he even do that? It’s subcutaneous!”

Leo clears his throat with a furrowed brow. He was just going to ignore the fact that Donnie somehow managed to implant tracking devices inside all of them. For now.

“He couldn’t have chewed it out. Mine’s all the way back here!” Mikey spins around, grabbing pitifully at the back of his neck. “Dang, almost.”

“Wait— He what? Lemme see that.”

Leo grabs at Donnie’s wrist, scanning over the map display. “You didn’t happen to—“

“Near the docks, I already committed it to memory.”

Donnie gives his brothers a haughty grin as they applaud his excellent memory.

“Impressive!”

“Very sneaky,” Mikey smirks.

Then, Leo brings them all in for a short conference.

“Okay, it’s clear to me now that Raph is most certainly hiding something. He’s not in trouble, or else he’d be calling one of us. Right?”

Mikey whips out his phone and dials Raph. “Let’s see…”

They watch with bated breath as the line rings. Raph wouldn’t ignore a phone call from his youngest, goodest brother, would he?

“Hey, you’ve reached Raphael! I can’t come to the phone right now—“

“HYAH—!” Mikey tosses his phone against the wall. “Not the voicemail!”

This wasn’t like Raph at all, they wonder to themselves.

Surely he, of all people, would want to keep his loved ones close after the invasion. He didn’t have to stay put in the lair all the time, but he could have at least had the decency to keep his tracker on. Leo nods, making the executive decision.

“Then it’s settled.” He pulls out his portal lying sword and slices through the air. “C’mon.”

Leo calmly walks through, with Mikey and Donnie following close behind.

Raph’s been doing something in secret, that much Leo knew. And tonight, his brothers are gonna get to the bottom of it!

—

Quietly, Raph hops in-between shipping containers. He was running late, so he resorted just to using his ninja skills to get him to his destination.

He didn’t even check his phone when he felt it buzz.

“No time! Can’t talk!” He speaks to the inanimate object before stowing it away.

Finally, he sees it. Albeartoland!

Raph zeros in on the silhouette of the roller coaster in the distance before flash-stepping. It wasn’t like he would be breaking in, there weren’t exactly any security around the place, but Raph tried to creep in as stealthily as he could.

It was never in great shape before (the Mad Dogs made sure of that when it first opened), but Albeartoland was officially closed after the invasion. The NYC Clean-Up Project just didn’t have it in the budget to refurbish a dilapidated amusement park.

The rides were all mostly destroyed, the main roller coaster barely being held together. The ferris wheel was somewhere in the ocean below the pier, most likely. But what didn’t rely on electricity was still intact.

Carnival games, abandoned food stands, and walkable attractions. It wasn’t ideal, but Raph hoped to himself that they would be enough entertainment for tonight.

Once he finally made his way to the entrance, he quietly surveyed the area.

“She must have left already…” Raph sighs to himself.

“Nope, still here.”

Suddenly, Raph twists around to see you standing just behind the front gate. You smile, giving him a small salute. “I wouldn’t give up after only…15 minutes of waiting?”

You glance down at your phone, checking the hour. “Plus, you actually gave me enough time to find the breaker. Maybe you can use your brute strength to kick it on and we can see if this place has any juice left.”

His spirit lifts immediately as he brings you into a spine-breaking hug. “You’re the best!”

You weakly fight back against his hold, blushing as he places a couple of smooches on the top of your head.

“I know! Now put me down before you break something.”

He gives you one last kiss before setting you back down. His face was starting to heat up as well.

“You’re right, you’re precious cargo.”

Chuckling, you lead him over to the power breaker in the center of the park. You didn’t really have any knowledge about circuitry, but most of the wires were either torn out or fried. Couldn’t hurt to try it anyway.

“After you. I’m pretty sure you won’t get electrocuted…” You shrug, moving to the side to allow him to pull the main switch.

“Pfft, I’m sure it’s fine.” Raph spits onto the palms of his hands, rearing up to grab ahold of the handle. “Stand back, wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

You back away, putting your arms up defensively. “From the sparks?”

“No, from the gun show.” He smirks, flexing his impressive arms.

You ogle him from afar as he pulls the switch up. With a loud mechanical sound, the power kicks back on and the park slowly begins to light up. You get momentarily distracted from Raph as the twinkling lights blink on around you.

“Not bad, Red. You better start charging me admission.” You slink back over to him, letting your fingers walk along his toned muscles.

In the distance, you swear you hear something. Maybe it was all in your head, but you swore you just heard someone vomit.

“Hm?” You look behind you.

Nobody. Weird.

You feel Raph begin to pull away from your touch, flustered at your compliment.

“Ahaha…” He smiles goofily at you. “Why don’t we take a walk around? There’s probably a game that isn’t completely trashed.”

You glance back one more time before going to catch up with Raph. “Yeah, right.”

For a while, the two of you busy yourselves with trying out various attractions. The sledgehammer bell game instantly caught your eye. A test of strength would be the perfect thing to impress Raph, you thought to yourself.

With a bit of swagger in your step, you make your way over to the game. “Check this out, stud.”

Lifting himself out of a toppled food cart, Raph looks up at you with a piece of funnel cake in his mouth.

“Dude, how old is that?” You grimace as you lift up the hammer.

Swallowing the rest, Raph wipes away the crumbs. “Tastes pretty old.”

He giggles watching your face twist with disgust.

“Whatever. Prepare to be amazed!”

You lift the hammer high over your head before bringing it down. The rubber collides with the sensor, causing the dial on the machine to shoot up. It bobs a bit near the top before dropping to the middle, right around the ‘weakling’ marker.

You stutter, feeling sheepish. “That…that one didn’t count.”

Before you know it, Raph walks up behind you and politely offers his hand. “These games are all rigged. Here, let me.”

Raph gives you that warm, confident look that always fills your stomach with butterflies. Blushing, you hand the hammer to him.

“Well, you’ll probably just break it anyway. Go ahead.” You scoff.

He squares his legs to about shoulder-length apart, almost like he’s about to tee off at golf. Raph takes his sweet time getting ready before finally hitting the sensor.

Gingerly, he brings his arms up and taps the hammer. “Boop.”

You throw your head back, rolling your eyes. “Okay, wise guy. How ‘bout you try for real now?”

Raph tosses a snarky look your way, his fang poking out of his mouth.

“If you say so.”

In a flash, you watch as Raph summons his mystic powers. His red, glowing arms expand out to grab ahold of the hammer. It was dwarfed by his large hands, but his grip remained tight. With a boost of speed and power, Raph reels back and practically smashes the sensor.

The dial on the game goes much higher this time, unsurprisingly. Just when you both think it’ll hit the bell at the top, it sinks back down to the lowest marker.

You blink, stepping forward. “What does that say…? Wimp?”

Smirking, you hear Raph shuffle next to you.

“No. That can’t be right!”

“Oh yeah, you’re right. It actually says ‘Shrimp.’ My bad.”

Raph’s face breaks out into a deep red color before he shakes his mystic fist at the game. He sure did like to talk to inanimate objects a lot.

“Callin’ me shrimpy, huh? You wanna go?” He growls.

Then, he leaps up high into the air, locking his fists together. If the hammer wasn’t enough to prove his strength, his fists certainly could.

You nonchalantly walk back a safe distance, watching him relentlessly smash the sensor with his massive hands. He moves on to just destroying the rest of the game in a blind rage, flattening the bell with a resounding crunch.

With a dry chuckle, you walk back up to him after his mystic energy disappears.

“You sure showed it who’s boss.” You kick at the remnants of the game.

Raph pouts, folding his arms across his chest. “Serves it right.”

You have to stop yourself from ‘aww’-ing at his angry face. He was just too adorable! Thinking on your feet, you skip away from Raph.

“Hold on!” You shout.

You look around at all the nearby booths, digging through the rubble and debris. To your disappointment, there really weren't any carnival prizes left. All the plushies were either taken by young delinquents raiding the park or destroyed in the Kraang invasion, apparently.

You nearly give up before you walk past the last booth. There was exactly one Albearto plush left, hanging sadly on the side of the counter. You snatch it up and quickly try to dust it off.

You tip-toe back up to Raph, plush hidden behind your back. He was still sulking, but he had moved to sit at the edge of the dock. His beefy legs dangled off the pier.

You smile cheekily, poking his shell. “Since you did technically hit the bell, I think you deserve a prize. The law of the amusement park demands it.”

Raph peeks up at you, still scowling. “Whaddaya mean?”

You present him with the Albearto plush with a flourish. “Ta-da! I know you hate kinda hate this guy, but…”

Before your slightly embarrassed ramblings can go on, Raph takes the toy from you. His eyes go wide and watery at your kind gesture.

“F-For me?”

You and Raph stare at each other lovingly.

“You don’t need a carnival game to tell you that you’re literally the strongest dude alive.” You wink, moving closer to scratch underneath Raph’s chin. Right where he liked it.

In the background, another voice calls out. It was…cheering?

There it was again! You spin around toward the source of the noise. Was someone following you?

Raph’s contented sighs of happiness soon drown out your errant thoughts. You were just paranoid, you thought. Facing him again, you give Raph a couple more scritches.

“That’s so weird.” You whisper.

“Mmm…what is, baby?”

His cute pet name sends a bolt of lightning straight to your heart. You think it might actually stop beating for a second.

“What did I tell you about calling me that?” Your eyeball twitches, trying to reign in your emotions.

Raph sighs, lumbering to stand up. He moves your hands away so that he can slide his up to your face.

“You said that you’d probably have a heart attack and die. But I think you were lyin’ to me.” He smirks.

You tuck your head into your shirt collar, feeling positively bombarded with affection. Raph knew that whenever he called you that, you melted into a human puddle.

“Stop! I’ll push you off!” You joke, playfully slapping his hands away.

Raph laughs, moving away. “Okay, okay. Do you think the carousel still works—“

The wood plank Raph was standing began to creak and whine under your combined weights. Maybe the park was in worse shape than he thought. Suddenly, the edge of the pier shifts, the weather-worn wood snapping.

All Raph can do is stare dumbly into your eyes as he starts to fall. Even his ninja reflexes weren’t quick enough to catch him.

“Raph!” You shout, reaching your hands out to somehow catch him.

Without even thinking, your body launches forward on instinct. You knew you didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell, but you knew you had to save Raph. Even if it meant dislocating your shoulder.

Your hands shoot out as you fall to the ground. The wood was weak, but it had you up. The splintered edge dug roughly into your stomach, but you didn’t care. You grit your teeth, feeling your hands grab onto something.

Somehow, you manage to grab a hold of Raph’s wrist.

Raph gulps, his voice shaky.

“I thought you were kidding.”

You quickly grab him with your other hand, trying with all your might to pull him back up. It didn’t help that Raph weighed…well, as much as an insanely jacked mutant turtle weighed.

“Shut up and get back up here!” You groan.

You don’t even pay attention to the sound of something landing behind you.

Raph strains a bit, but swings his other arm up. He catches the edge of the pier with his index finger and slowly pulls himself back up.

“Thank God I didn’t skip arm day,” he hisses.

Finally, you pull Raph all the way up. Dragging you both over to the prize booth nearby, you pant and try to catch your breaths.

“T-Thanks,” He wheezes, grabbing his chest. “I almost took a swim.”

You bend down and lean onto your knees, shooting Raph an apologetic frown.

“Don’t thank me. You did most of the work.”

“You’re probably right, but your bravery was commendable. Well done.”

A nasally voice echoes behind you, giving you a half-hearted clap. Donnie walks forward, cocking his head to the side. He was sizing you up, analyzing your face.

“Woah, who’s the babe?” Leo pops his head over Donnie’s shoulder, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

You feel yourself start to sweat under their scrutinizing gazes. You definitely knew Raph had brothers, you’ve seen their blurry images on social media. But you’ve never officially met them. Raph and you have had many conversations about it, whether or not he should tell them about your relationship. You both came to the conclusion that, at least for now, it’d be best to keep it on the down-low.

With the blue and purple-clad turtles eyeing you up and down, however, that might be a little difficult.

You gulp. Time to make a good first impression.

“Hey, isn’t there an orange one?”

Well, maybe just an impression.

“That’s me!”

Mikey slides in and places an arm over your shoulder, bringing you into a friendly side-hug.

Soon enough, the three brothers crowd into your personal space, trying to get a better look at you. Their heads press up against one another, making you snicker.

“Uh, hello.” You take a step back.

“Wait—!” Raph marches over to stand in-between you and the others. “What are you bozos doin’ here?”

Taking the lead, Leo pushes himself forward.

“We’re just here to check up on our dear older brother. We didn’t look up your location and follow you all the way out here to snoop, because if you’re thinking that, you’re dead wrong.”

Raph narrows his eyes. He looks over to a meek looking Mikey and Donnie, waiting to hear their excuse. They didn’t even try to lie, simply shrugging to him.

“You turned off your tracker. Could you blame us?” Donnie sighs.

“And, you missed family game night! We were gonna do our domino rematch like you promised.” Mikey’s lip quivers, giving Raph big puppy dog eyes.

“That was tonight? Ugh.” Raph slaps his forehead.

He did feel like he was pulling away from his brothers a little bit lately, but he was always sure to keep his schedule straight. There was family time, and there was you time.

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t…”

Raph looks back at you, politely standing off to the side.

You didn’t want to interrupt, or accidentally say anything stupid. This seemed like a more personal matter between brothers, so you just kept to yourself. When Raph looks back at you, eyes searching for the right words, you bite at your lip.

Quickly, you introduce yourself to Leo, Donnie, and Mikey.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take your brother away from you guys.”

Your heart was pounding in your chest as they looked at you curiously. You don’t know how else to behave in front of them, so you just bow. It’s a formal, almost awkward way to greet them. But how else could you react to meeting more of the people who basically saved the entire world from alien invaders.

“Thank you for saving New York. Not just from the Kraang, obviously…” You chuckle, looking at the ground. “But for all that other stuff.”

Suddenly, Leo breaks out into laughter.

You straighten your back, looking even more awkward. Did you say something wrong? Did your bowing offend them somehow? Your mind raced as Leo continued to guffaw at you.

Suddenly they all realize, in their own unique way, that Raph had a girlfriend. A real, flesh-and-blood girlfriend!

Leo was a little surprised, but proud nonetheless. He was just relieved that Raph wasn’t hiding some deep, dark secret about moonlighting as a vigilante or something.

“Holy shit! This one’s a card! Nice going, brother.” Leo playfully slaps at Raph’s back.

Donnie hangs back, seemingly trying to do endless math equations in his mind. If his brother had been dating, surely he would have seen all the signs? How did Raph manage to evade his expert perception for months?

“For no reason in particular, could you give me all of your personal information? Phone number, work place, social security number.” Donnie approaches you, notepad in hand.

“I’m gonna go with ‘no.’” You smirk, pushing him away.

Mikey was nothing but ecstatic! He jumped forward, wrapping you up in a big, cuddly hug. He was a little miffed at Raph for skipping family time, but how could he stay mad knowing that his big bro had finally found love?

“Welcome to our messed up family! Our dad’s a rat!”

You stumble a bit when he crawls onto your back, but you give his hand a friendly pat. “So I’ve heard.”

Raph watches with slight disbelief as Leo walks up and greets you as well. You all exchange your names and get all the pleasantries out of the way.

Was it always going to be this easy, you meeting all of his brothers? Suddenly, Raph felt pretty bad for being so nervous about introducing you. Not that he didn’t trust you, or that the others wouldn’t, it’s just that he didn’t know how to navigate that part of your relationship yet.

Then, Raph feels a pang of love deep in his gut. He knew that as long as he had his brothers and you, he’d be okay. He’d be more than okay.

“I didn’t know how else to react, okay? What, did you want me to say ‘thank you for your service’?’” You joke.

“Yikes, that’s worse.” Leo scratches the side of his head and laughs along with you.

Raph silently approaches, moving to stand behind you.

“Sorry guys. I know I’ve been kinda—“

“Ah-ah. Say no more. We know.” Donnie waves him off with a lazy smile.

“Yeah, you’ve only been dating for a couple of months. You were just taking your time!” Mikey flashes Raph a bright smile, giving him a thumbs up.

Then, you look back to Raph, quirking up an eyebrow.

“Should we tell them?”

Raph chuckles, a sweat drop running down his face.

“A couple of months, a year, what’s the difference?”

The five of you stand there for a second. You could hear a pin drop.

“WHAAAAAAT?”

Leo, Donnie, and Mikey collectively scream, attacking Raph and tackling him to the ground.

You cackle watching them playfully fight with each other. Your life was bound to become a lot more messed up now, but that was just fine with you.

taglist: @saspas-corner

#rottmnt x reader #raph x reader #rottmnt raph x reader #raphael x reader #tmnt x reader #sfw #requests

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honeeslust · 6 months

Text

Katsuki Bakugo | Pro Lover

🖤 WC a little under 2k

🖤 AGED UP‼️

🖤 I'm thinking about an inexperienced Bakugo whose hung to the gods but never learned how to properly use that deadly cock and so you decide to teach him...

Its like you're in grade school all over again. Him, picking apart everything you do just to have an excuse to talk to you. You'd call him a childish loudmouth to his face and one of the hottest partners you've ever had behind his back.

And what you couldn't know was that behind every insult was a need. A need for you, your and your smart mouth, your touch, your kisses, your everything. Every night, this mounting frustration would have Katsuki tugging at his engorged length to the thought you you on top of him.

He thought you were sexy as hell whenever you would manage to take him down. He loved it so much that he'd live in that memory of sparring with you. Plush thighs around neck, squeezing until he tapped. He closes his eyes, recalling your pretty face as he strokes away the tension until his tight abs were decorated with thick ropes of cum as he called out your name.

The more you carried on like this, the more frustrated you yourself became. Always wanting to punch him his dumb face when he mocked you and then wanting to kiss him when ever you'd catch him eyeing you from across the room.

Fast forward to the end of the ever so epic will they won't they bs and everything comes to a head. More than enough harsh words about why you both couldn't give less of a fuck about the other are exchanged before you slapped the shit out him. Your body trembles, the fire burning in your veins for him making you want to lash out in a different way. Whether he saw it in your eyes or he himself just needed a reason, —any reason at all to act on the feelings for you that he had stifled for so long, it didn’t matter. Either way, it was maddening and you were too irresistible to keep pushing away.

Not a moment after your hand makes contact with the hardened jaw, your foul mouth is met with his own. An agile move to restrain you, he claims your wrist, arresting them behind you and pulling your small frame to his immense one. His perfect lips meet yours and his tongue pushes its way inside. A second of thought is all you can manage before you're own is entangled with his and fighting for dominance.

You thought of every time he pinned you with his rough and calloused hands, his powerful grip keeping you from breaking free until you yielded to him. But this time, you weren't fighting to get free, instead your chest was heaving against his broad and impeccably swollen one. Your racing pulse mirrored by his as you both pour every ounce of frustration into the hot and heavy lip lock.

His tongue is immaculate, slipping against yours like he savors the taste of you. Your teeth clamping down on his lower lip exacts an unexpected whimper from his blissful lips into your mouth. His grip on your wrists release and smoldering hands begin to explore the unknown terrain that is your body. You're instantly weak in the knees for the way he possessively palms your ass like it had been his to claim all along. Impatient to feel more of him, you pry yourself away from the hungry kiss, licking the taste of his mouth from your lip as you reach for the hem of your shirt.

Katsuki can't hide his excitement when you strip from your top and eagerly assist him in peeling your body out of your tight shorts. When he comes out of his muscle tee, your teeth cut into your lip at the sight of him, every tight muscle, glistening with his sweat and dying to be licked. A delicate placed tongue to his neck has him making that same sweet sound, and then again when the slippery appendage rounds his ear.

He's burning red, never having made that sound before and what's worse is he liked it.

His hands find your face to pull you back into a kiss, afraid he would make more of those pathetic sounds. Too bad for him, you like the way the hot headed menace succumbed your touch. It was power you planned on yielding over him to the fullest.

Pushing him to the wall, You kiss him on his neck, blowing softly over the wet trail you left behind, your fingertips ghosting the inside of his arm. Your slow and methodic touch so torturous that he can't help but fall slack jawed calling out your name as if to question why your touch left him this powerless.

Needing to overcome what you were doing to him, he moved, forcing your body to the bench behind you so he could return the favor. As he lay you there, his lips placed heady, feverish kisses down the side of your neck and chest until a skillful tongue flitted around your nipple, forcing your body to arch in pleasure.

Impatient, you grab for his waistband, inviting him to skip the pleasantries of foreplay. You wanted him now. The shorts and boxers would come off and his endowment would make you clench instinctively as if your nana was reaching out for him. He towers over your body, that heart shaped spear throbbing and taunting you as he hovers over your entrance, spreading the slick between your labia. With gleaming eyes, that first little push has your toes curling and your hands flying to his abs, almost asking him to ease up a little.

His smug expressions turns to one of ecstasy as he plunges deeper, not giving you a chance to welcome him. Again he's almost crying, loving the way your walls strangle his dick as he starts to move.

He takes off, pumping you full of him, fucking up your tender cervix. Again, your hands fly to his stomach, forcing him back to give your poor little cunt some relief. He stops immediately, flushed so red as he asks if your ok. - to which you panted hunni, take your time, where the hell are you going so fucking fast?

Giving you a shy and confused look he tries to save face. Too big for ya' he laughs half heartedly worrying that he blew his chance. You smile, telling him it's ok while pressing a small kiss to his lips. Lucky for him, you're patient. Too many people let good dick go to waste, being to proud to teach. Your smirk was met with his infamous scowl. Not my fault you're so tight. To which you interrupted him. Says the fucker who couldn't stop whining a minute ago. Just shut up and and listen. You can follow instructions right? Dangling a delicate ankle before him your tell him, take my leg. He glares at you but obliges. Kiss it. He does, dotting little pecs to your inner calf making it tickle. Like you mean it, Katsuki. He obeys, sucking softly, nipping here and there, before placing it over his shoulder. He grips harder, earning your soft moan of approval. Yea just like that.

An audible sigh leaves his lips as he feels the little fluctuations between your legs. There you go, now move, move—ahh, slow, just like that. Good boy. Your praise makes him weak in the knee and he squeezes your thighs, pumping slow, muttering how good you feel. I know you say slyly as he continues. Mmm-hmm, keep that pace, just like that you whisper to him spreading your legs to welcome his movement. It was such a pretty picture, him disappearing inside as the whites of his eyes glittered, looking down at you like he had found a little piece of heaven inside you.

His rythym sets in, much to your satisfaction, eyes softening on his crimson ones, the definition of every muscle leading down to his sex rippling with each pulse. How do I feel? You say encouraging him. At first he can't even answer, he only bites his lip, he grabs a handful of your waist needing to tether himself to some sense of control. Feels like, your pulling, ahhh, pulling me in. Mmmhh.

Ahh yea?? you say as your eyes start to roll. What else?

You're soaked, mmmm, sss so- so wet baby. So goddamn tight.

Yea, you say digging new grooves into the enameled wood beneath you. He fights to hold on as long as he can. Powerful callused hands squeeze your waist as he rocks a little faster, finally finding the motion he needs to get you wet enough to take the way he was about to murder that pussy.

A sweet smile parts your lips just as you were ready to taunt him, but he bucks, fucking you harder, your body bouncing with his thrust. The vice his powerful hands have you in make it hard for you to hold back your pleasures moans. This hold keeps you steady so he can fuck you deeper. He's aiming to please now, willful thrusts meant to make you feel how much he'd held back from you, how much you drove him crazy just by existing.

Lustful eyes meet yours once again, a hint of desperation behind them earning a tight clench from you. Feeling the friction stroking at his ever hardening cock, he drills into you. It still hurts but you take it all, the gummy warming of your walls meeting his rigidity so perfectly that you welcome every blow. Now it was your turn to whimper for him as he kissed that sweet spot inside. Yyuhh- mmm- yer, gunna make me come. He would already know it, the tight grip of you was proving to be to much. God you're fuckin perfect he hisses through clenched teeth. Your arch, a spur of your wetness making the most illicit sounds as he continued his onslaught of blows until he had to force himself to pull back. Ohhh fuck, He grunts, shooting his hot and sticky essence on to your stomach.

When the world stands still again, your eyes lock onto his, Leaning over you, his scarlet eyes almost glowing with satiation, he kisses you. It's slow, it's warm, it's mesmerizing. He smirks hands clamping down on your thighs and giving you butterflies in your stomach. Maybe you can teach me something after all.

From the honey pot 🍯

#katsuki x you #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki #spicy headcanons #smutxanime honeeslust #blackgirlswhowriteanimesmut #teach me #smut writer #smut oneshot #smuts scenes

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coveteddilf · 9 months

Text

— EYES ON ME + reo mikage x afab!reader (18+)

synopsis — while taking yourself on a fancy dinner, you run into pro soccer player reo mikage at the restaurant. he decides he wants you as his entertainment for the night, and you agree, even if it is in an unused staff room. afterward, he gives you an offer you can’t help but accept.

✿ content — aged up characters (20’s), afab!reader, pro player!reo + soft dom!reo + body positive!reo, heavy smut, pet names (bunny, baby, sweetheart), fingering, unprotected sex (pls use condoms guys lol), inappropriate use of ties, reo is big on consent in this one guys, nsfw + minors dni

✿ words — roughly 7k

✿ rating — explicit (18+)

✿ notes — this was written with my best friend ( @seehaven ) in mind. i’ve owed her about 10 fanfics for around 2 years, so this is my first to make it up to her lol this is not beta’d in any way, and i didn’t even re-read it (i really wanted to get it out before reo’s birthday ended), so if there’s any glaring errors, let me know. otherwise, eat your hearts out. happy birthday you purple-haired bastard.

( requests open @ofbarou! )

Rarely do you get to go out and spend time at a restaurant as fancy as the one you and your friends made reservations for tonight. Stepping into the extravagant entrance alone makes you feel like you’ve stepped into another world, with the plush red curtains and chandeliers made of diamonds and gold. Things are expensive in a main city like this one - high rise buildings and penthouses that boast wealth on top of stories and stories of infrastructure. You’re sure that the cost of the meal you’re about to eat will cost more than you usually spend on groceries in a month.

But it feels good to get out of the apartment; it feels good to slip something sexy on and take a night out on the town, even if it’s with friends you don’t normally see. Maybe that’s part of the appeal itself, being a different person for a night.

Even seated at your table, you can tell no money was spared in making sure the atmosphere and the quality of product was correct. The burgundy polyester napkin that the waiter draped across your lap makes your toes curl in heels you typically don’t wear. If you weren’t feeling luxurious in the little black slip dress you’d picked out, you certainly do now, when the waiter returns with a glistening bottle of wine.

Your friends engage in little conversations across the table, and the three of them seem to be keeping up with the social expectations here pretty easily. While you’re in awe of the place, you’re a little…bored, sitting stagnant at the table, bouncing your feet beneath the cloth-covered surface. You’d much rather be looking at the art sprawling over the walls or the opulent architecture that makes up the building.

When you’ve all placed your orders, the waiter takes the menus from you, compliments the lavender shade of your nails before he walks away. It warms your cheeks, and you can’t help but push a stray piece of hair behind your ear. You got them done just for this dinner. It was nice to treat yourself sometimes - you work hard for your money and spending it on making yourself feel good should be more of a priority.

You smile to yourself after thinking that.

People in your life are often telling you to be less-cautious, take more chances, to be less afraid of the unknown. You know that you’ve missed out on some good things by not taking leaps of faith more often.

You excuse yourself from the table for a moment, make some excuse about using the restroom, and fold your napkin nicely on the table before you go. While you’re not normally so meticulous, you want to keep up appearances in such an immaculate place, one where there’s not even a single item in disarray on the main floor.

Taking this time to look around, you find yourself drawn to a local artist’s work hung neatly on the wall. It certainly appeals to the general vibe the restaurant tries to make come across, and you almost want to touch your fingers to the dried paints of the feature. There’s a long moment where you hold the tiny little purse slipped over your shoulder a tad too tightly, fighting the urge to actually give into the impulsive thought.

The woody notes of an expensive cologne bring you out of your thoughts a breath or two later - you spin around with a sharp inhale when you realize someone is right next to you. Your face heats, and your body clenches in surprise, and you let out your gasp like a relieved sigh when it doesn’t seem to be someone who works here coming to yell at you for gawking at the painting for minutes on end.

Instead, it seems to be a soccer star that you’ve only seen on television and youtube interviews.

Somehow you hadn’t realized that time had slowed since the Reo Mikage stepped into frame, because when it speeds back up, you feel out of breath. Frazzled, you hurry to make apologies, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! Am I in your way?” You step away from him instead of closer, despite the fact that your body is screaming at you to do the exact opposite for the love of god. He seems to think you being flustered is either funny or endearing because he laughs, and it’s like hearing the chorus of your favorite song again for the first time in years.

“You’re fine,” Reo says in English, and it’s magical. He gives you this cocky little smirk that would look annoyingly smug on anyone else, but it just makes Reo look unbearably handsome. “I saw you get up from your table, and I figured I’d come find you.”

You’re not sure what he means by that, but the words make your stomach flutter in a good way. You attempt to ask ‘why?’ but when you open your mouth, nothing really comes out. You’d known when you walked in that the VIP section in the south of the room had been occupied, the area secluded from the other tables in the restaurant, and filled with pretty important-looking business men. But you can guess that maybe that was where Reo had been hiding. You would have noticed the shock of purple hair and magenta eyes.

His suit looks expensive (and tailored, if the way it hugs his muscled arms and legs is any indication - you’d hate to see him turn around and catch you staring at the other thing the clothing was clinging to), and the grey jacket and navy tie do wonders for accentuating his features. And now that you’ve spent too long gawking at him again, Reo looks like he’s letting out a relieved chuckle. “For a second, I thought I’d lost my edge - now I can see you’re just embarrassed.”

Reo exudes confidence, and for just a moment, you want to bask in it. You’re still not sure why he’s talking to you, but you’re taking advantage of every second you can get with him.

“You have a beautiful smile,” He starts, taking one step closer over polished marble floors that are so damn clean that you can almost see your reflections in them. The space between you dwindles when he copies the motion a second time. You’re in a corridor off the main dining area that would elude to more privacy, but there are still plenty of wait-staff meandering around. You don’t want them to get the wrong impression. “I wish I had been the one making you blush like that, but I guess I can correct that in the future.”

The man’s tone oozes something that warms you from the inside out, and suddenly, even in such little clothing, you feel like you’ve been enveloped by it.

And that’s when it hits you: Reo Mikage is flirting with you.

“You could start right now?” You say, and it’s like something has possessed you for a moment, because in no other context would you ever say something like that to someone like him. While you’re generally not bad at talking to people, you’re never outright flirty with someone who makes your heart thump like a hammer to your rib cage, and so blatantly.

Seemingly, Reo likes the remark though, because he’s throwing his head back for a much fuller laugh, and it makes his cheeks pink too. “Yeah? I guess you’re right. Beating me right to the punch.” By now, he’s backed you both into more of a corner behind the wall, the original painting that had caught your eye some fifteen, twenty feet away. Your attention has been stolen by something far more important.

“I’ve been told that your non-dominant hand is stronger than your dominant one, watch out for my left hook.” You tease. Reo must delight in it because the words seem to change the light in his eyes; it’s shifted into something competitive, teasing, excited.

And while you’ve definitely known that he’s taller than you, it’s much more noticeable with him towering over you like this, a large hand slowly moving to wrap two large fingers around your much smaller wrist.

It feels as if you’ve entered another world with him.

You can still hear the muffled sounds of the restaurant through the corridor some feet away, but it’s more like white noise when all you want to focus on is the sound of Reo’s voice and the way his laugh reverberates through you.

“You know, I almost believe that.” Reo tilts his head, smile still staining his cheeks amused, “I’m here for a business meeting that’s gotten so boring that I want to gnaw my own arm off. I’d much rather entertain myself with you.”

The words are so blunt that you don’t hesitate to answer quickly after he says, “What do you say?”

“Yes.”

You both look at one another for a moment, tension palpable, before Reo breaks the moment with a pleased laugh. His fingers tighten around your wrist and he tries to pull you along down the corridor. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say. And to think, I almost called those idiots to come grab me after sneaking out of the back of the restaurant,” He says a little more to himself.

“Lucky me,” You murmur under your breath. You follow dutifully, heels clicking on hard floors, and you’re both at a speed-walk by the time Reo seems to find where you’re supposed to be going. A door marked ‘STAFF ONLY’ in a golden plaque and little detail.

He notices your unease after reading the door and shakes his head, “Don’t worry.” He lets go of your wrist momentarily, and calls for one of the nearby floor staff. They talk for a moment out of earshot, and there’s a flash of a second when you seem to come to your senses.

‘What the hell am I doing?’ You think. A series of unwanted thoughts about how crazy this all is, how someone, somewhere has to be joking with you. You don’t just run into a pro soccer player that you’ve admired and supported for some time at a restaurant far too rich for your blood. Something in the universe must be playing a trick on you, because why on Earth would Reo Mikage want—

As if sensing the mood change, Reo quickly sprints back to you. Obviously he would be fast, considering his profession, but you hadn’t realized what that would look like up close. “Hey, eyes on me.” He says, and you can’t do anything but listen. You wouldn’t take your eyes off of him ever again, if you could help it.

He soothes your nerves as he pulls you into the now-unlocked staff room. Reo says something about his family knowing the owners that you don’t quite hear, the blood roaring in your ears now that you’re alone with Reo in a much smaller space. The room must be somewhat soundproofed, and it looks like maybe it was a previously used break room, based on the sturdy wooden table and the miscellaneous items like paper-towels and cleaning supplies on a table in the far corner of the room.

You blink at him as your eyes readjust to the new lighting. Whereas the previous room had been a dim, soft white glow, this room had more of an edgy, blue glow to it without the main lights on. The only light source hung on the wall in the corner of the room, much more modern and much less oppulent than the decor outside of the door. It adds a striking splash of color to Reo’s angular face and bright hair, and you wonder how one person could be so handsome.

“Can I still spoil you, or do you want to keep playing i-Spy with the decor?” He teases, slipping into your space again. While his tone is playful, you can see the widening of his pupils, like he’s got something in his sights that he wants to consume. You remember from Reo’s time at Blue Lock that everyone called the group of people from the program ‘egoists’. You can certainly see now how they got their name.

Reo moves with the confidence of someone who gets what he wants, and while it makes your mind spin, he apparently wants you.

“Do something interesting then,” You play back, reaching for his hand that’s come out to rest on your hip. “I don’t want to have to call some friends and slip out the back door.”

The words barely leave your mouth before his lips are capturing yours with a growl. Reo kisses like he has something to prove, and maybe he does. Maybe he wants to prove that he can make your brain melt out of your ears, or maybe he wants to convince you that you’re crazy because never in your wildest dreams did you think something like this could actually happen.

You’ve always been a passive sports fan - soccer is fun, it’s engaging, and the players like Reo work hard to make their dreams come true. You’ve admired many of them over the years, but you’ve always had a soft spot for the man with magenta eyes and ladder to climb. Mikage is a household name at this point, and you’re glad it’s not just for the business-aspect anymore.

He presses harder with calloused fingers into your hips, and you shudder and shake in his grasp, mouth opening in a gasp at the sudden sensation. Reo takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into the warm cavern waiting for him, groaning at the taste of you. Warmth pools in your belly, and it’s much different from the previous kind that made your chest tight as Reo complimented your smile.

One of Reo’s hands curls possessively over the side of your neck, and it makes you feel small. You’ve always felt like too much - too loud, too emotional, too everything, but simply by existing, Reo’s managed to coax the roaring inferno of your anxiety into ashes. You find yourself relaxing into his touch, tongue meeting his as it skims across your teeth.

Your breaths mingle as well as the taste of too-sweet wine and dry bourbon where your mouths meet. Backwards, Reo begins leading you toward the steady wood table in the middle of the room. There are no chairs around it, so it must not be used very frequently, you think. You nearly stumble back and Reo holds onto you a little more closely now.

The heat of him distracts you enough that you almost don’t hear him speak, “Don’t tell me you’re a klutz.” It’s clearly a tease, but if you’ve learned anything in your short time interacting with him, it’s that Reo loves to be teased too.

“What, don’t want me falling for you?”

The smile he presses to yours is answer enough, but when he whispers a soft, “Wouldn’t be so bad,” you nearly lose your footing entirely.

Luckily, he manages to catch you, lean you down on your back over the surface of the smooth wood beneath you, and nestle himself into the space he creates between your legs. The little black dress you’ve chosen tonight wasn’t very long to begin with, and Reo seems to pick up on the fact that it slides easily up your thighs at the angle he’s keeping your legs.

He catches sight of the small number you’re wearing beneath it and whistles, pupils dilating. “Were you expecting someone?” His voice sounds dark, a little more on-edge than it had previously. If you had been in less of a whirlwind mindset, you might have even thought the man was jealous.

“No,” You start, cheeks stained red and hands splayed over the wood beneath you. For a moment, you try to close your legs, embarrassed, but his sturdy frame halts any progress you might have made there. You try not to bring your hands to cover your underwear in your nerves, “I just like to feel cute. Is there something wrong with that?”

And just like that, his expression softens. “Nothing wrong with that at all,” He sees your panicked expression, the warmth in your cheeks and says a hot, “bunny,” against your lips before he’s following the same design from before. You try not to react too harshly, but the pet name makes your thighs squeeze around his hips where he holds you open, so it must be kind of obvious.

Your hands pull at his clothing and Reo sits back enough to help you gain some progress. He makes quick work of the suit jacket and tie, and it gives you ample opportunity to rove your gaze over his body. His fingers undo the buttons of his dress shirt quickly enough that it’s obvious he’s experienced in the motion, and you can’t look away when his skin is exposed to you.

Soccer players train their bodies in ways you couldn’t imagine firsthand - build themselves up and break themselves down. Blue Lock’s broadcasts years ago had proven that they go through so much, and Reo was no exception to the rule. He’d completely changed from his beginning to the end of his time in Blue Lock - every interview he’d given made that clear.

You feel a sense of pride, seeing him stand so confidently in front of you, even with as turned on and disheveled as his appearance is now. “You’re beautiful,” You say before you can stop it. Reo’s eyes grow wide and his face heats rapidly.

He stutters out a flustered, “Y-You can’t say those kinds of things that casually!” He leans back over you to place his mouth over yours, presumably to shut you up. There are blotches of pink over his collarbones, his chest. You wonder how many people have wished to find out what that looked like in-person, and now you get to experience it. “I’m supposed to be making you frazzled, not the other way around,” He grumbles into your mouth, scraping your tongue with his teeth a moment later.

But something in the atmosphere changed, like Reo is a little more himself, less the persona you see on the covers of magazines or in front of a camera. He cups your face with both large hands and steals your breath away.

When it seems like his patience has run out, he stands back up to his full height and strips himself from the waist down too, toeing off polished dress shoes and kicking slacks and designer belts to the floor. His dark briefs leave little to the imagination, and your tongue desperately wants to follow the inseam of the only clothing item keeping you from seeing him bare. The outline of him bulges at the stretchy material. He likely wears them because they decrease panty-lines in his suit, but you can’t help but admire how fantastic they make him look.

He holds out a hand, and you take it without a second thought. When Reo sits you up, he begins to pull the dress already hiked up past your waist toward your chest, over your head. It feels odd to be laid so bare, just a lacey little number covering you from such an intense look, but it does little to deter your arousal.

It should be embarrassing, how wet you are already, and you’re thankful the panties you picked out are a shade of charcoal. You’d thought they look great on you, and clearly Reo agrees by the low pitch of his voice when he says, “Let me get a look at you.”

You’re confused at first, until you realize your hands have come up to hide your chest. You never wear a bra with a slip dress, and now you’re fighting the urge to cover yourself from his gaze. His approval would mean the world to you, and you’re not sure why you’re doubting how he likes what he sees when he’s looking at you like a starving man at a feast.

Slowly, you put your hands down to your sides, leaning back on the table. There’s a little shake to your muscles where you have to fight the nerves, the impulse to cover yourself back up in case Reo says something that would absolutely destroy your self-esteem, but no comment like that ever comes.

Instead, you’re greeting with a groan, like the soccer star has been punched in the gut. “Oh my god, you’re gorgeous. And you’re over here giving me compliments.” Reo huffs haughtily, hands hesitantly slipping over your neck, down your shoulders. He gives you a look before touching. “This alright?” His voice is gruff, like he’s barely holding himself back from just giving in and doing whatever he wants.

Like he’s always gotten it as soon as he’s asked for it.

It seems like this time is no different, because something creaks in your chest, unbidden and soft and full of warmth at the thought that this man, who anyone would die to get their hands on, would ask permission to touch you. His thoughtful nature despite being someone who usually takes life by the horns splits you in half, makes you spill out the sides of your person and rearrange yourself into something different.

Reo is just a man, too. He’s eager and excited, and his hands immediately find purchase as soon as you give him a quiet ‘yes’ on sensitive skin. He leans over you, cups the creamy skin of your thigh with one hand, the curve of your breast in the other, mouth falling to yours for a moment, then guiding its way toward your neck.

You open your mouth to beg him for a mark, but he beats you to it, the blunt points of his teeth on the junction of your shoulder, your collarbone. It sends shocks through you, and your legs tighten around his waist where he’s managed to make a home for the second time.

The girth of him presses against your folds where he lays his weight, and you feel the kick drum of his pulse where his cock throbs in an effort to get closer. “Reo,” Your voice sounds unlike you, breathy and full of want, and your fingers pull at the small ponytail in his hair, letting the purple locks free. They fall over his shoulder, make the cut of his jaw that much sharper when he looks up at you, meets your eye as he sucks a bruise into the jut of your breast. You’ll be covered in imprints of his teeth for days, at this rate.

That shouldn’t warrant the gush of slick that leaves you at the thought, but there’s no way he’s missed it, pressed this close. He spreads your thighs wide with his hands as he takes your nipple into his mouth, rolling the bud with his tongue, feeling the goosebumps break out over your skin at the sensation. You gasp, and it sounds an awful lot like his name and the word ‘please’ mxied together.

You’re overwhelmed with sensation, and the silky softness of your panties give you no friction, even as he ruts against the hot line of your folds. You squirm, needy and restless as he takes his time with you. It’s almost unbearable, by the time he’s switched to the opposite one, then pressed kisses down your sternum. He’s not a needy grind away from you anymore, now that he’s moved his hips back to get at your chest from a better angle, and you find yourself grabbing hold of his hair, pulling his face back to yours.

“Please?” You breathe against his lips, voice shaky and eyes dark when they meet his bright ones.

“How can I deny you when you ask like that, bunny?” He nips at your lip, then slithers one hand down to the core of you, rubbing slow circles over your hole through the silk of your underwear. “Do you feel how wet you are right now?” Reo’s voice meets arousal and amusement, maybe a tinge of awe, if you could concentrate enough to parse it all.

Some sort of shame floods your system at his words, but it seems to be the good kind, if the way your hole clenches at the promise of his fingers seems to be any indication. Reo notices, of course. You almost want to damn his impeccable ability to read the room, but it does get you a firmer press of his fingers to your heat, so you can’t complain too whole-heartedly. Your hips press into the motion, and the tacky wetness begins to leak over your thighs in the overflow.

You move a hand to shield your face from his gaze, but he quickly pulls it away, face stern. “I want your eyes on me, sweetheart. Don’t look away.” His ego rears its head, but it doesn’t stop the pulse of want that echoes through you at the words. You’d do anything he asked, you think.

“O-Okay,” You swallow thickly, wetness creeping on the edges of your vision the moment his fingers dip below the fabric of your panties. He grazes the smooth, wet edges of your folds, and sinks a single digit into the heat of you. A shuddery yelp leaves you, and you can’t tell if your body wants to push into it or get away. The sensation is overwhelming, but it leaves your body feeling hot and too-sensitive.

“I should have known you would be a cry-baby. The ones with the prettiest smiles cry the easiest,” Reo soothes as he swipes a tear from your cheek where it falls as a betrayal. You try to protest, that you’re not crying because you’re upset, but he shushes you with a quiet, “I know, baby, I know. Feels good. It’s okay - just feel it.”

And rarely do you just give into that urge - just feel something because you want to, because you deserve to. You’re not being too much, according to Reo, who seems to eat up every sound that escapes you as he curls his finger inward, then adds a second. You’re practically panting at this point, and you’d try to feel some semblance of pity for yourself if the wide stretch of two, then three of Reo’s fingers didn’t feel like one of those coming-to-god moments.

“Please - please, I’m so ready,” You whine, and Reo laughs, even as the words make him palm his cloth-covered cock with his free hand.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” He tries, crooking his fingers, letting your slick drip down over the meat of his palm. “Although, I’m not sure that it’ll be much of an issue.” He still sounds cocksure, and there’s a part of you that wants to disarm him as much as he’s disarmed you.

You’re distracted by him pulling his fingers free. Reo wipes them over your thigh while he sticks his tongue out, and you both laugh a little at the childish behavior. It’s nice to be able to laugh during sex - you know plenty of people who take it too seriously, and Reo is just the right kind of charming to keep the mood light.

When he finally shucks down his own underwear, the jut of his heavy cock is prominent where it slaps messily against his abdomen. There’s a pearly slick at the tip of him, and you can’t help but huff out a quiet, “You were making fun of me for being wet?” He has the decency to look at least a little sheepish as he pulls off your underwear for you, throwing the garnment to the ground like it personally offended him despite his previous praise for its aesthetic.

“You can’t blame me after hearing the noises you’ve been making,” He gripes back, and it’s like you have a routine despite hardly knowing one another at all. The easy feeling floods you as he finally presses the tip of his cock to your sopping hole.

Reo’s gotten distracted with the way you’re spread out for him, your legs held wide by his large palms, the way you’re trying to suck him in as he passes the outline of his dick over your wet labia. He presses the very tip of his dick to your clit, uses a finger to hold you open as he gently rotates himself in circles over you. An overstimulated shuffle happens and a long whine leaves you when he doesn’t stop the motion.

When it seems like he’s had too much, he closes his eyes, ruts inexpertly into the wetness of your mound and coats himself with your juices. “You gonna let me fuck you, bunny?” He presses, voice deep and achy with arousal. It’s the first time it hits you that he wants you just as badly as you want him right now. It makes you just as impatient as him.

Your nod is all he needs.

He guides himself to your hole, spreads your thighs with his own, and angles himself down as he presses into you with one long thrust. Gravity does most of the work for him. It’s not long before the meat of your thighs and ass are meeting his pelvis. It’s sticky and warm between you, and you’d be shy about how wet you were if Reo wasn’t keening at the feeling of being fully sheathed inside of you.

Reo’s eyes are wide and full of emotion - he’s overwhelmed too, it seems, but his mouth gapes open slightly when he gives a gentle roll of his hips inside of your wet warmth. It feels a little like he’s spearing your guts, being bent in half the way he has you, but the incredibly full-feeling is welcome.

Large hands hold onto your legs, hold them closer to your chest as Reo leans more of his muscled weight on you. It makes his cock feel deeper, wider as he fucks into the core of you with a steadily building rhythm. The first few slaps of skin are so wet that it brings tears back to your eyes. The glide of skin on skin is easy this way, and your cunt tightens each time Reo pulls out and shoves his way back in.

He’s like a storm - the force of him receding and then plowing back in tenfold. You know your cries are loud each time he slams home, pressing delightfully against sensitive spots you weren’t even aware you had, and it’s only confirmed when he reaches for his tie still slung over the corner of the table beside them. “Open your mouth, babe —“

The words are somewhat slurred, like maybe Reo is a little cock-drunk too. He’s panting over you, hips unable to stop moving, even as he deems this little interaction a necessary interlude to your current scenario. You’re not really listening though, just clenching around the intrusion inside of you, milking his cock by rocking your hips back and forth to meet his.

He hisses like a cat when you hit a particularly good angle, it seems, because not only do you feel the tightness in your abdomen grow, but you also feel the way his body clenches, the way his dick throbs inside of you. Reo leads a thumb into your mouth, presses it against your tongue. Like second nature, your mouth opens wider to let him in.

Reo groans, hips stuttering at the warm-wet of your mouth, and he wishes he had all of the time in the world to use you. You know that look - and the fact that it’s directed toward you sends you reeling, hips shoving against Reo’s with more force. Breathless, takes the end of the tie and presses it to your mouth. “Bite down on this bunny - they’re gonna hear you if we’re not careful,” He whispers, and you follow his orders.

It’s nice to let Reo take the lead; you despise making the decisions all of the time, so it’s a welcomed change of pace to have someone who so dutifully picks up the reigns and apparently fucks you into a sex-induced stupor. You whine around the fabric of his expensive tie and try not too feel too badly about the fabric slowly but surely becoming wetter and wetter as you are around Reo’s dick.

His hips piston a little harder, at little more of an angle, and the next thrust has you seeing stars as he shoves in just that tiny bit more. Reo catches on based on the increased volume of your need, moans spilling out left and right, each a different rendition of ‘Reo’ and ‘please’ and ‘more.’

Holding himself above you with one hand, the other slips down to rub messy, wet patterns over your clit. The tightening of your pussy, the way your thighs seem to tremble around him as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge, it all seems to be undoing him. The sweat on his temple makes the edges of his purple hair a deep eggplant, and there’s a waging war between the pleasure and the fierceness in his eyes.

Your eyes widen when the stifling heat of your orgasm rushes like a tital wave to the forefront of your mind. Your moans become more babbling, nonsensical things, but Reo can hear that it’s supposed to be his name, doesn’t take the time to think about how you knew it without him even telling you.

He really puts his back into it, the echoing slaps of skin-on-skin filling the room, along with the wet squelch of your pussy wrapping around him. Reo’s groaning too, thighs shaking as he speeds up his thrusts. “Come for me, bunny. I want you to cum for me.” His voice is commanding, but there’s this tinge of sweetness that undoes you.

It only takes one thrust, two, three - before you’re legs are clenching around his hips like a vice, and his only choice is to rut into the heat of you while you ride it out. His own whines are loud without a tie to muffle his voice too, but you’ve never heard a sound that turned you on more in your life. No need to hide how much he wants you, how good you’re making him feel. You feel powerful. You feel important.

And you feel a little special, the way he’s grinding into with needy little thrusts and clenching his jaw so hard he might break something, repeating, “Yes, bunny - yes,” as he pulls out suddenly, leaving you empty and distraught about it. You try to whine, but it’s quickly shut down as he comes across your stomach and chest with a few quick strokes to his cock. The tip is so pink and its throbbing in his hand where he can hardly seem to touch himself, oversensitive and pleasure-filled. You remove the tie from your mouth.

“Fuck,” Reo shudders, eyes closed tightly as he comes down from his own high. There’s a moment where you’re both panting, bodies full of tremors and happy hormones, and then he’s laying his body over yours, careful not to squash you under his weight.

He presses a kiss to your cheek, your jaw, your chin, then oh-so gently lifts your mouth to his. Without hesitation, you wrap your arms around his neck and hold him to you. Your frantic heartbeats are slowing down in time together, and you feel incredibly connected now. Reo murmurs how amazing you are against your lips, a slew of other compliments, and it makes your chest tight, your heart fuzzy.

When the moment has begun to pass though, you both cringe at the cooling, tacky feeling between your bodies. Still, it helps you both laugh. “Hold on for a second,” Reo murmurs, the first to be able to use his legs again as he stands and holds his spent dick in his palm. He waddles over to the paper towels on the opposite corner table, runs one or two through the water in the small sink hidden neatly beside it, then waddles back.

He’s perfunctory in his cleaning job, but you can’t really say you blame him when your legs have forgotten how to work too.

When you’re both as clean as you’re likely going to get, he tosses the paper towels in a small trash can against the wall. Reo lets out a sigh of relief, looking more relaxed than he had all night. There’s a swell of pride at the thought that you are the reason he looks like that.

A small smile welcomes your face and he eagerly kisses it, humming with affection. “You’re amazing,” Reo promises as he pulls away.

You both get dressed as well as you can. Your dress seems fine, although you’re not really sure you’ll be able to wear your underwear now that they’ve been stretched out as much as they have around Reo’s hand. Something must show on your face because Reo says, “I’ll buy you a new pair. Hell, I’ll buy you 10 new pairs.”

It makes you laugh. You don’t know Reo that well, but you have a feeling that there’s less joke to that statement than the average person would think there is.

When you’re semi-put-together, Reo says, “I had the waitstaff tell your friends that you weren’t feeling well. I have to get back to my meeting, but there really is a car out back that will take you home so that you don’t have to try and walk home like this,” He huffs, disgruntled at how much he’s taken you apart, like he didn’t enjoy every second of it.

“Sorry about the underwear. I really will replace them,” Reo holds his hair tie in his mouth just a mere foot away, sloppily putting the hair at the back of his head up into a messy little ponytail. He looks…disheveled too. You don’t really feel bad. “Do you like soccer?”

You nod, and he smiles, “Come to my next game. I’ll fly you out, all expenses paid. And if you miss any work to be there, let me know. I’ll give you your yearly salary for any of the time you miss.” The grin he wears now is sly, confident. “My driver will give you as many tickets as you want. Sell them, give them to your friends - whatever. Just keep one for yourself.”

Reo steps close again, drawing you into him. It’s a last kiss, of sorts. There’s a stab of panic at the thought of saying goodbye, but you really don’t want to be in the way when he’s got business to attend to.

Still, when he pulls back, the look he gives you is reassuring. “Don’t forget, okay? I’ll be waiting.”

He unlocks the door, hands you the small bag you’d carried in with you, and looks around for something in the hall. When he apparently finds what he’s looking for, he points in the direction of the back of house and guides you outside of the door. One of the waitstaff smiles politely and gives you a quick, “This way, please.” You look to Reo and he smiles encouragingly.

“I’ll see you soon, right?” You nod. You say a quick goodbye, somewhat embarrassed, and he cackles, saluting you with a wink and a childish poke of his tongue from his lips. That soft little thing inside of your chest thuds painfully against your ribs.

He watches you the entire way out of the restaurant and into the car from the long hallway. The last thing you see is him wave when the back door closes, and when you get inside of his fancy car, the driver nodding his hello to you, you realize the meal you ordered earlier has been remade and is in a small container for you.

The note on top says, “Thought you might be hungry after that. xoxo” And then a phone number. Your face stays beet red, even as you open the container and begin to eat your food. He must have planned for things to go well in advance, enough to have the kitchen make your order when you left. You want to be annoyed at his presumptuous nature, but all it really does is make you want him more. You smile around your fork.

#blue lock x reader #blue lock smut #bllk x reader #bllk smut #reo x reader #reo mikage x reader #bblk x you #reo x you #bluelock thirst #blue lock imagines #grimmjaws #afab reader #fem reader #grimmjawswrites

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pstelwitchcraft · 7 months

Text

My Scene-By-Scene of the new CR intro (Part 2)

(Part 1)

- the split second cut to delilah?? Absolutely immaculate. I gasped! It was so so good

- also so tragic to see her as the little doll... eugh

- always want to know more abt their little pact

- is laudna stuck with delilah or the other way around? Guess it depends the way you see it

- second little laudna/imogen moment and???

- these girlies make me ILL

- So, so adorable seeing their protectiveness and devotion for each other shown in the intro

- like its jumping into each others arms mid fall, fighting beside each other, bringing literal fresh breath and life to the other's existence or i dont want it at this point

- the outfits also make me think this was probably storyboarded before they got together?? They're meant to be

- no one's doing it quite like them 💜🖤

- then we get all my babies in their little sun tree cuddle sesh

- they are so incredibly precious to me and I love that this little scene made it in

- fearne/orym and fcg/ashton cuddle buddies! The sheets they stole from castle whitestone 🤌🤌

- the whole FCG section is just BRUTAL

- not that i was expecting less from sam's new extremely traumatized lil guy

- seeing their absolutely massacred group as their eyes turn red?? The fact that you can see Pussy's buzzsaw thrown in the dirt??? And Dancer without an arm passed out right by it??Take me now

- and then the split second he's about to use the same buzzsaw to hurt Ashton before Orym intervenes? So so good, i need to smoke this, i need it in my bloodstream yall have no clue

- Orym using his seedling powers to deescalate the situation and them all hugging abt it?? Adorable!

- specially adore the little detail of ashton's steady hand on their arm, there's just so much love in this little D&D party 🥺

- fearne stealing from ashton AGAIN.

- also peep laudna's hand on imogen's shoulder 🥺🥺 at this point I'm convinced dani was in the writer's room for this

- or possessedbyhorsegirl!Laura

(part 3)

#critical role #cr spoilers #cr3 #critical role spoilers #bells hells #critical role c3

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philliam-writes · 1 year

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you are in the earth of me [03]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: no warnings apply

Summary: A hand catches your wrist. Warm fingers brush against the slip of skin where your glove ends, sending an electrifying shock up your arm. You start. Lockwood lets go and pulls back. “Like it or not, we are in this together,” he says quietly. His voice drops to a low tremble, gaining a quality that feels like a solid caress on your skin. Heat crawls up your neck. “And as with any proper team, there are no secrets, and no holding back valuable information. Deal?”

Notes: [01] || [02] | [04]

Words: 4.3k

A/N: A shorter chapter, but I still hope you'll enjoy it! Thank you so much again for all the support! ♥ If anyone new wants to join the taglist, just lemme know!

03: wring those embers

back then, i was dauntless and dawn could never know and my weakness made me weep less than i would ever show you — The Amazing Devil: The Calling

Indeed, at Rotwell everyone works hard to solve the Problem. It is quite impressive how immaculate they look while doing it—as though in addition to the highly sensitive Psychic Talents every Rotwell agent possesses, they secretly train to perform under stress with no fold in their jackets, no holes in their pants, no grime smudges on their faces. Seems as though your invitation to those seminars got lost on the mailing route.

You slither by the countless other agents in their splendid burgundy jackets, aware you stick out like a sore thumb with your torn coat and muddy steel-capped boots. After the night you had, it is hard to plaster on the charming smile that is Rotwell’s USP. Every winning smile sent your way by your colleagues is too bright, too clean. They look very new and fresh and shiny, like someone has popped them out of a plastic case this morning.

The glittering glass building rises on Regent Street with its smooth-fronted edifice of glass and marble. Snarling lions, holding rapiers in their forepaws, have been inscribed into the glass of its sliding double doors. Outside, a line of the desperate and ghost-haunted stands, waiting to get inside and petition the company for help. You squeeze past them inside the spacey foyer, a wide room with gold-fringed red carpets leading to the different departments laid out before a row of neat receptionists sitting at their tidy desks. Right at the room’s centre, in front of the white-marbled wide stairs leading to the upper floor, stands Tom Rotwell’s marble bust with its forever-frozen, blank expression passing judgement over his legacy. You feel very small under his scrutinising gaze, and duck along the marble pillars towards the maintenance apartment on ground floor.

Someone barks your name. There goes your plan to head in unnoticed and get cleaned up before any of the adult supervisors catches you. But when you turn, you recognise the scrawny boy heading your way: Aleck Gorobec, an agent from the Domestic Hauntings Division. He’s always had this habit of chewing on something—right now, he’s working a toothpick between his front teeth as though he’s trying to make a gap as wide as the Grand Canyon. “Hey, Crawford wants you in his office.”

The relief vanishes in an instant. If you had to chose between spending the afternoon in Daniel Crawford’s office or doing a tango with a Wraith, you’d be already on your way to put on your best Sunday dress.

“Like, right now? ‘Cause I really need to get a new jacket—”

“NOW now,” he says. “Better not keep him waiting, he seemed prety pissed. I think he got into a fight with his wife. Again.”

Even better. He’ll chew you, spit you out and feed your remains to that little rat of a dog he owns.

You will find no support in Aleck; now that he has relayed the message, he turns and saunters back to his little group of half-sized lackeys with identical hair cuts, leaving you to your fate.

So you make your way towards the staff elevators and think about faking a heart attack so you could skip seeing Crawford. They wouldn’t let someone with a weak heart deal with something as harsh as work regulations, would they?

The lift brings you up two more floors to the deputy sector. Each floor is lined with heavy crimson carpets you know for a fact are steam-cleaned every night when the majority of agents set out for cases. Employees on this floor have their own canteen and coffee shop regular agents aren’t allowed to use—you have a feeling a cup of coffee or tea they serve up here costs half of your rent compared to the one they sell downstairs that is delivered by the local Starbucks.

Muffled voices drift through the rows of closed oak doors. Somehow, the smell always reminds you of a teacher‘s room; stuffy but comforting in a way, the sleek couches and spartan cabinets in the small waiting areas and lounges have absorbed the coffee smell over the years.

Crawford’s office is at the end of the long hall. You were hoping he would be caught up in a phone call as well, but when you knock, there’s an immediate “Come in!”

Andrew Crawford is a small, stocky man with little to no neck depending on his mood for the day. Apart from making it his life ambition to harass every even slightly successful agent under the age of 25, his other hobbies include collecting every type of Little Trees Car Air Fresheners on the market. As far as you know, he doesn’t even own a car.

“Took you long enough,” Crawford grumbles. His little hairy moustache twitches in annoyance. “Take a seat.”

You prefer to stand. Somehow you don’t think that’s what Crawford wants to hear. So you make your way across the office, slowly sinking into the hard plastic chair. Deputies’ rooms are all furnished equally: marble-topped desks, chairs, bins, filing cabinets and a few plants. You count ten, eleven, twelve of those air fresheners hanging from a single yucca plant.

Crawford finishes abusing his plastic keyboard, throws a glance at a large-scale street map of the Strands, his area he’s responsible for, takes a swig of cold tea and turns to you for the first time.

“Wait, where’s your damn jack—” Crawford stops, takes you fully in: the tears and holes, the grime and ectoplasm smudges on the once-splendid red. He grunts, and leans so far back in his swivel chair it creaks loudly in protest. “Almost didn’t recognise it. Say, Rotwell is one of the best employers anyone with Psychic talents could ask for, don’t you agree?”

You hate questions like this. “I, er—yes?”

Crawford looks at you. Then looks some more, as though he’s just waiting for you to realise what this is all about. He clears his throat and leans forward, puts his massive arms on the table as though he’s just having a chat with a close pal in a pub after work. “See, thing is, I was informed you were seen with unknown operatives from other agencies. And last time I checked—” He turns to the monitor to his left, slams his thick fingers on a few keys—“you were not on a job that required assistance from external agents.”

You start fidgeting with the hem of your gloves. “Well, no, but sir, I was attacked—”

“I heard that happens from time to time when engaging ghosts.”

“No, I mean by a man. Someone alive.”

Crawford eyes you suspiciously with his tiny, dark eyes. “When did that happen?”

“In the early morning hours. Three, four a.m.”

“And what do you want me to do about it now?”

You open your mouth, and close it. One of Crawfords few talents is successfully making you feel as though you are the problem. What if you were? What if you’re overreacting? An agent’s life tends to be dangerous, what of it? “Well, the culprit is still out—”

“Do you have a name? Did you see his face?”

“No, and I didn’t, but—”

“Then what exactly do you expect from me? Clearly, nothing serious happened to you, you got off with just a few scratches. The real issue is that due to what recently transpired, further employment might be a problem.”

You grit your teeth against a groan of frustration, feeling your body burning with anger, your blood boiling with rage that threatens to spill over. “I have worked here for five years, without any complaints, no breaches of contract.” You ball your hands into tight fists. “I am an exceptional agent, you know that. And you’re letting me go just like that?”

Crawford sighs wearily. “Trust me, this isn’t easy for me either. I am aware you are one of our more lucrative agents. But lucky for you, we are not letting you go. I merely suspend you for conducting unauthorised work with an external agency. Until your suspension is lifted, all benefits are revoked. That includes using certain facilities and access to equipment for field work. You can leave your jacket here.” Crawford reaches forward and taps a spot on his desk with two fingers, before returning to the paperwork in front of him.

It takes a moment to stir from the ice-cold grip that has taken hold of your body and heart. Your mouth is dry and a fist-big chunk of anxiety is lodged tightly in your throat. “I was not working with anyone. This is all a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding or not,” Crawford replies calmly; something has caught his attention on the monitor, he isn’t even looking at you, “we’re just taking safety measures to ensure the confidentiality agreement wasn’t breached on your end.”

“But I—”

He looks up at you then, and blinks as though wondering why you are still wasting his time. “And where is your rapier?”

“Still at ho—the dormitory.”

“All right. No need to bother. We’ll send someone later to clear out the room. If you need help finding new accommodates, there are a few establishments offering lodge for little money in Lambeth I heard.”

The aggressive typing resumes. You are clearly dismissed.

Wrenching out of the jacket, you make no effort to hide your anger and frustration. Crawford gets a balled-up knot of dirty fabric thrown on his desk, but he seems to care little for your tantrum safe for raising a single bushy eyebrow at the flickering screen.

You stomp outside the room, slamming the door shut behind you hard enough it rattles the golden-framed paintings of rolling hills and slithering lakes on the wall.

You’ll show him. You’ll show them all.

When you catch a glimpse of yourself in the polished glass window on your way out—no wine-red jacket, nothing to identify who your employer, no former employer was; just your tired face yet eyes bright with determination, for the first time since a long while, you look like yourself again.

At the Lions Den, it isn’t just the cleaning crew mingling near the entrance. DEPRAC vans park in front of the main doors. A few officers are lost in a deep conversation about the intricately interwoven iron railings decorating the windows on the first floor. Two very tall, very sturdy Rotwell agents stand guard, self-important and with their chests puffed out as though they are guarding Buckingham Palace itself.

There is no way you’ll be able to get inside through the main entrance—even if you did, you have a gnawing suspicion security has been tripled inside since yesterday. They must have figured out someone has broken in, otherwise why would DEPRAC be here?

You duck behind naked rhododendron bushes and sneak towards the iron door leading to the back garden. Many residences in Chelsea have garden terraces; this one is a courtyard between several buildings. Slim paths wind through the back and disappear behind shoulder-high hedges. The trees, their leaves turned gold and russet with the late fall, are strung with chains of white lights, and stylish ghost lamps scattered between them that give off the familiar green glow at night. A small fountain plashes musically in the centre of the yard.

Minding the pebbles crunching under your boots, you gingerly make your way across the lounging area, past the small tables and cushioned three-piece suites—until you catch the swish of a black coat disappearing around a corner.

Just great.

You hurry after it, hearing the crunch of stone under heavy work boots somewhere behind you. DEPRAC, or worse, Rotwell agents.

The two are hiding behind a bench facing the back entrance. Before whoever strolls behind you can round the corner, you grab Lockwood by the end of his coat, and Lucy by the back of her collar, and yank them behind the trunk of an elm casting long, dark shadows on the building.

“What are you doing here?” you hiss; all three of you are cowering so close together your knees almost touch.

Lucy looks as though she is still recovering from being grabbed like that—by considering if she should swing at you or not. Lockwood on the contrary has already collected himself and put on a diplomatic smile. Yet you can see the steady, fast hammering of his pulse against his throat.

“Why, Lucy has never seen the infamous Lions Den, that’s why I took her up on a little sightseeing—” Lockwood begins.

“We need to get inside,” Lucy hisses back. Straightforward, to the point, like an arrow aiming true. You can work with that.

“Not sure if you noticed, but Rotwell dormitories have a strict jacket-only policy,” you say. You feel their eyes on you like a pair of red-hot coals.

“Where’s your jacket then?” Lucy asks.

You draw your shoulders back. “I quit. This morning. Afternoon. So, no jacket for me.” What’s a little lie if they will never find out the truth. Whatever shrapnel of self-respect you can hold, you will staple it on you as though it is the last leaf whipping on a barren branch during a cold winter storm—the last remnant of the previous season where everything was warmer and cosier.

There is silence. You can hear the soft electrical hum of the lights and ghost lamps turning on above your heads as dawn sets in, the water plashing in the stone fountain in the centre of the courtyard.

Lockwood and Lucy exchange looks—it seems like a glance, but you recognise a full blown conversation governed by face muscles and eye narrowing; it is the same whenever you and Kipps argue about something without wanting a third person to understand the topic. Kipps’s teams calls it your ‘sibling conversation.’ Lockwood and Lucy look a lot like that right now, conjuring full volumes with shared glances only.

“Just follow me,” you mumble, and duck behind a juniper tree before they can reach the conclusion of their argument. “And keep your heads down.”

You lead them away from the agents strolling down the path you’ve been on just a minute ago. Lockwood and Lucy immediately stick to your heels, careful their heads don’t poke over the hedges.

The three of you sneak around the east wing, through another iron gate and pause to listen for voices. Only a couple House Sparrows chirp in the trees above your heads. This could be a graveyard for how frequent visitors stroll by.

Finding your apartment isn’t hard. Bright, neon-yellow DEPRAC tape marks an X where the full-height window, smashed and gaping, leads inside the rooms. Glass lies strewn across the grass. The entrance to your apartment is like a dark mouth, the broken glass still sticking to its frames standing out like jagged teeth.

Again, you listen for voices. Again, only silence answers. You look back at Lockwood and Lucy. “I’ll go check things out. You stay here and keep watch. If anyone comes, let me know.”

Not interested in any disagreement or otherwise unsolicited opinions, you turn to slip inside. A hand catches your wrist. Warm fingers brush against the slip of skin where your glove ends, sending an electrifying shock up your arm. You start.

Lockwood lets go and pulls back. “Like it or not, we are in this together,” he says quietly. His voice drops to a low tremble, gaining a quality that feels like a solid caress on your skin. Heat crawls up your neck. “And as with any proper team, there are no secrets, and no holding back valuable information. Deal?”

You wrestle with what you should say. You have never been skilled at putting things delicately. Frankly, you’re better off on your own than having to worry about those two—and yet. If Lockwood and his agents had not let you stay and patched you up, what use would have your confidence now?

Not trusting your voice, you nod.

Glass shards crunch under your boots when you step inside. The whole room is demolished: furniture overturned, the cupboards have been completely and methodically emptied. All the drawers are missing. What remains of your desk is splinters and broken leftovers. Your clothes have been ripped off the hangers and thrown on the ground, some even torn. You don’t want to think about how you would have met the same end if he had gotten you into his hands.

The wardrobe’s door barely hanging on its hinges squeals when you carefully pull it open. You find your duffel bag at the bottom, and meticulously start throwing whatever intact clothes you can find inside. A few shirts, something you can wear to sleep, underwear, a few jeans, your favourite turtlenecks, sweaters. A package of unopened gloves. Your library pass that grants you access to every Archive in London—the one you thought you’d lost a week ago and technically should return to Rotwell.

An old, outdated kit with a few zip fasteners missing hangs from a hook. Whatever leftover equipment from missions you’ve hoarded over the years—salt bombs, iron fillings, hands-sized lavender packages, one canister of Greek fire, a slightly rusty iron chain—you pull out from the back corner and cram inside the kit. There’s also the last model of a layered leather harness with small pockets and buckles to hold equipment that you prefer to the standard agent belt around the waist.

It should be enough to manage simple cases as a freelance psychic operative until you find your bearings and build a reputation. Type Ones should be no problem, and most non-agents can’t tell the difference between grocery-bought salt and the extra grainy and purified salt from Sunrise Corp. You’ll have to drop by at the Thames Embankment at some point, where a lot of the cheaper merchants ply their trade under the brick arches of Hungerford Bridge.

But your first job will be making sure no one will get hurt over that stupid key ever again.

There is one more thing. On the door, tapped against the wood, is an old photograph. Matthew, Kipps, you. Age eighteen and thirteen, the boys crowd you and pull grimaces behind your beaming face as you proudly present your shining new rapier and the Fittes Manual to the camera. Seven years, but it feels like a lifetime.

People always used to say that you two have the same eyes—everything else is different like night and day. His blonde curls shine like a halo in the setting sun stealing through the curtained window in the back. He has a half-smile on his face, and his head tilted towards Kipps as though he is just on the verge of turning and telling him something. You see the same dimple on his cheek that you have when you smile, and when you squint you can make out the small smudge of pasta on the corner of his mouth you guys had earlier to celebrate you achieving third grade.

You fight the urge to touch his face on the picture—the only comfort during the first months without him. Even though you know he won’t come back, sometimes you wished an echo would reverberate, something that connects you to him apart from the memory of the last day spent together before he died. You take the picture and fold it neatly before putting it into your back. Grief can try and catch up later when you’re too busy to give it more thought.

As you get your stuff ready, something glinting on the ground catches your eye. It is a small, polished coin, flat on one side and engraved on the other. Depicted on the bottom is an infinity sign, and above is a double cross. You brush your thumb against it, but of course there is no psychic echo attached to this item. Because it belongs to a living person—that living person who must have lost it when he destroyed the interior.

Beneath your gloves your palms are slick with sweat. You stare at the symbol for some time, unblinking. The bitter taste of a certain word spreads on your tongue, closing your throat.

Unwrapping this revelation will have to wait. You move swiftly to the hallway and stand before the umbrella rack that holds your rapiers. Most of them are a little too fancy not to link them back to one of the bigger agents with their jewelled handles, but there are two with simple designs, so you decide on the 17th Century Italian Rapier.

“Take the Solinger Rapier,” comes Lockwood’s voice from behind you, startling you. You shouldn’t be surprised he doesn’t listen to orders, still you throw a glare at him over your shoulder which he promptly ignores by giving you a bright grin. “More balanced.”

“So much for being a team. Scared I’ll just run off with the evidence?”

“Ah, so you did find something. Well, we at Lockwood and Co. hold teamwork to the highest account. It is only polite I help.”

Any reply gets stuck in your throat when loud steps thump on the other side of the apartment’s door. Lockwood and you look at each other, eyes wide.

You throw your kit at him without a second thought so you can go after your other bag, and to his credit, he catches it effortlessly and bolts for the smashed window. Before you follow, you quickly snatch the Solinger Rapier and fasten it to your belt.

With your duffel bag in hand, you join Lockwood and Lucy outside. The sun is already behind the horizon, the sky a pale grey-blue, the colour of tempered steel. You take your kit back from Lockwood, ignoring his satisfied grin like a cat in the sun when he notices which rapier model dangles from your hip, and lead them back through the gardens out on Dovehouse Street.

Everything is going so smoothly. Too smoothly. Since the universe can’t have that, just as you close the iron gate behind you and set out down the street to where you guys can call a cab, a familiar voice calls out your name—a voice that always has your fight-flight-response kicking in, tending towards fight the moment you turn around and see Sebastian Vernon’s self-satisfied, arrogant grin.

Sebastian Vernon, a fellow Rotwell operative at the height of his career: he’s recently turned 19, he managed to luck out a Jack of all Trades regarding Psychic Talents and sports an impressive, sharp jawline many girls you know swoon over. The Golden Boy, The Pride of Rotwell. Of course he developed an ego as big as an inflated balloon with nicknames like that.

“Did you get my note this morning?” His voice jolts you from your thoughts. “Great drawing, isn’t it?”

“So it was you. I almost couldn’t tell; it looked like a five year old drew that.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw, his smile cools down to freezing point. “I heard they kicked you out,” he continues. “What was it this time? Botched a job? Set a customer’s house on fire?” He strides towards you with his hands behind his back, his cologne trailing like a cloak. His hair is pinned up fashionably, expression arch. He has always possessed a regal bearing. You can’t understand how he manages to look down his nose at you, even though you are one head taller.

You have crewed with him sometimes during the years, and neither have warmed to the other. You try to chalk it up to personality conflict, but deep down, you know that it is mutual dislike. Sebastian always finds ways to make you feel less-than with the barest twist of inflection or a carefully chosen word slipped like a knife between the ribs, so sharp you don’t notice the wound until you look up from a lapful of blood. And you aren’t above a blunt riposte, even if it often comes far too late.

When he’s close enough to stand in front of you, he whistles. “Like what you did with your face. Gotta compliment whoever gave you that shiner.”

“Jealous they managed that within a day when you couldn’t do it in the last five years?”

His smile turns arctic. At least that’s something you can always hold against him: kicking his ass in every in-house rapier duel since joining Rotwell.

“Always with that big mouth,” Sebastian seethes. “Whoever rearranged your face should have done us all a favour and shut you up for good.”

“I would appreciate,” Lockwood says in a conversational tone, making you startle—you have completely forgotten him and Lucy, “if you do not threaten my agency’s associate.”

He holds himself leisurely, relaxed. His long, slender fingers curl around his belt—not outright resting on his rapier handle, but close enough that he could reach it with one swift, quick movement if he wanted.

Sebastian blinks. “I’m sorry, am I supposed to know who you are?”

A corner of Lockwood’s mouth twitches. His voice is deceptively calm, his smile wolfish. “Lockwood from Lockwood and Co.”

Sebastian’s pale blue eyes widen. He looks at you. “You’re telling me you’re working with Andrew Lockwood? From the Lockwood and Co.?” A sort of deranged laugh escapes him. “I know it’s bad, but I didn’t expect it to be that bad! Surely, even you can do better than Lockwood and Co.!”

You throw a quick glance at Lockwood. He regards Sebastian in silence, and his face can be hewn from marble in its impassivity, which you realise now makes him all the more terrifying. His gaze sharpens like a hound on the scent.

“Why not ask your ginger boyfriend if he can get you a position at Fittes’s?” Sebastian’s smile crooks into a cruel half-moon. “Or has he already reached his expiration date?”

You open your mouth—and to your surprise Lucy shoulders past Lockwood and wrenches one of your bags out of your hand. Her eyes are blazing, red blotches of rage spot her cheeks and neck. “His name is Anthony Lockwood. And Kipps—Quill Kipps has a name, too! If you don’t have anything nice to say to your fellow—former colleague after everything she’s been through, then best keep your mouth shut.”

She whirls around and marches off, like a sudden autumn storm sweeping through the streets. Lockwood and you share a look; you notice his eyes glint with barely contained mirth and pride before he dashes after Lucy.

When you glance at Sebastian, he keeps his face blank, but the emotion behind it becomes unsettling and dangerous, like a vague whiff of burning plastic from an electrical outlet.

You hurry after your two new companions. Sebastian’s voice trails after you like a shadow. “Careful you don’t get your new team killed. Again.”

You draw up your shoulders, take your doubt, ball it up, and crush it into a fuel you can use.

“So,” you say when you caught up with Lockwood and Lucy. You’d offer to take your bag back, but Lucy holds it as though she can’t wait to use it as a weapon and bludgeon someone with it. “Kipps has a name, too. Nice one.”

“Shut it. I just can’t stand haughty guys like him,” Lucy grumbles, impatiently swiping hair out of her eyes.

“Funny,” Lockwood notices brightly, “how you sometimes use that same voice with me.”

Lucy rolls her eyes, but some of the tension in her shoulders dissipates.

“I gotta admit, good teamwork so far,” you say. “I guess I can let you take a look at this.”

You flip the coin between your fingers and present it with the symbol up on your open palm.

Lockwood wastes no time plucking it from your hand, his fingertips brushing against your gloves. Even through the fabric, you feel the warmth of his skin. You put that information into a box, close it up, and shove it into a far, dark corner where you’ll hopefully forget it and it can collect dust.

“Fascinating,” Lockwood mumbles, inspecting the coin from every angle. “Does anyone know what this symbol means?”

Lucy glances at his open palm. “No.”

He said so earlier. No secrets, no holding back information. Yet this is something you can’t share yet. The fact that somehow, this symbol seems … familiar.

“No,” you echo, eyes fixed ahead on the road. Black clouds, like slabs of onyx, gather at the horizon, rolling over London. “Never seen it before.”

taglist: @helpmelmao, @simrah1012, @chloejaniceeee, @fox-bee926, @frogserotonin, @obsessed-female, @avelinageorge, @quacksonhq, @wordsarelife, @bilesxbilinskixlahey, @che-che1, @breadbrobin, @anxiousbeech, @charmingpatronus, @starcrossedluvr, @yourunstablegf, @grccies, @sisyphusmymuse, @ettadear

#lockwood show #lockwood books #lockwood & co #l&c #lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood x you #lockwood x y/n #lockwood netflix #lockwood and co reader #reader insert #lockwood reader insert #l&c reader insert #phill.l&c

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sungbeam · 9 months

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧

prince!ji changmin x f!reader (slight juyeon x reader)

1.0k words, my emotional support royalty au, high-key historical au, lots of not-dialogue, literally i don't think swan song will ever fully see the light of day but i love it a little too much to keep her buried

a/n: this is serpent & dove's partner,, except i set the stage for a villain arc bc who doesn't love a villain arc

The moment Ji Changmin stopped wishing to be a part of the family was the one wherein you made your debut into society. There were rules to the royal court, rules that Changmin had long since been schooled in. There were boxes he was placed within, boundaries he was not meant to cross, but there were few invisible, unspoken hierarchies that were always enforced that he had to pick out on his own.

He was only eighteen when he found your familiar eyes, shining in glazed-over discomfort, as you curtsied low at the top of the stairs and made your descent. An official had announced your arrival at the door, and he already spied the dance card dangling from your wrist.

Unspoken Rule One: Bastard children never got first pick.

The main ballroom of the palace was decorated immaculately for this year's debutante ball. Heavy silks embroidered in fine, gold thread were draped from the crystalline window panes; the chandeliers glistened with beads of light like fiery embers; the dance floor was polished and his suit was tight. He couldn't remember tying his tie on so tightly, but the way you looked tonight made him want to break form and loosen the grip of his collar around his neck.

He had never seen you in such tightly laced garb, and he had never seen you so nervous. You, Yn Ln, beloved middle child of the phoenix-represented Ln family—the phoenix a symbol of how generations of your family long ago had risen from the ashes of destitution to the mighty lordship of its current day and age. Your good name automatically thrust you into the limelight, whether you liked it or not.

You were eighteen years old, same as Changmin. You had asked your handmaiden to lace your corset up a little tighter, opting for the one that was made specifically for occasions such as these. It had not been your choice to don the dark, blood red brocade for tonight's festivities—it had been your mother's. You hadn't realized your family even cared to show off their middle child, but you supposed if they could ship you off as quickly as possible, it would be one less daughter to pay attention to.

Unspoken Rule Two: Daughters never got to choose.

It was difficult to not meet his eyes—the pair that you recognized so easily from the academy. The pair you often found yourself staring into as they laughed, as they pondered, as they brooded. He was beautiful, the kind of strong that wasn't brutish, but softer. He was a snake amongst wolves, perhaps the predator that no one ever saw coming.

Your dance card was empty, but his name seared itself into each slot, stealing away each dance like he had stolen a bit of you after all this time. (Or maybe all of you. You wouldn't have minded if that were the case.)

It wouldn't have been appropriate if he left his place from the dais first. It definitely would not have been appropriate if he had left the dais before every other girl was introduced. The room was full of chaperones and young men eyeing their prospects as they filed in, one by one.

(A room of hungry wolves encasing the pack of sheep who had waltzed in, bedazzled and smiling.)

You knew the game though, and you figured two negatives would have to make a positive. Right? That was how it could work. That was the loophole you and Changmin had concocted all those late nights spent in the academy library, tucked away in the corner of the myths and legends aisle, huddled together, conspiring a way to come out of this alive.

Not just alive, but together.

Unspoken Rule Three: Watch out for the wolves.

You were already on your way toward his side of the dais. The half prince was beautiful, but he was only second in line. He had half the blood of royalty; how many would seek him out first?

And there was a spike of hope in your heart. It singed through your glazed expression and made the corners of your cherry-stained lips turn upward in that sickening feeling of hope.

Eyes pinned to the other, you could see the glee in his own expression. It was going to work. This would work how you'd planned, how you'd hoped, how you'd schemed and mapped. You two knew the food chain better than anyone else—it simply had to.

But the room fell quiet as a form stepped before you, blocking your view of the second prince. He was just as beautiful as his half brother, the gold crown seated upon his raven locks a beacon of pride and power. He had kind eyes, a pair you weren't as familiar with, but knew well enough. His suit was tailored perfectly to his body, his smile gracious and almost shy.

"Lady Yn," Crown Prince Juyeon said to you as you dropped into a curtsey and he, a bow, "may I have the honor of stealing your first dance?"

The room was silent. You swore your heart beat thundered against the golden walls of the ballroom.

You couldn't say no. Not to the crown prince. Not in front of everyone.

Perhaps there were things you and Changmin hadn't taken into account.

Unspoken Rule Four: The Crown Prince always gets what he wants.

By some miracle, you found your voice and fitted your quivering, gloved hand into his. "Of course, Your Royal Highness. It would be my honor."

And as Prince Juyeon led you to the polished marble dance floor, you stole a glance behind you at the dais. The second prince stood frozen on his platform, his form never having broken. But in the split second you looked back at him, you couldn't mistake the flash of a promise in those dark eyes you'd fallen so deeply into all these years.

It was a promise… at least, that was what you had thought, as you plastered a smile on your face and let Juyeon lead you through dance after dance. But you should have known better than to think so little of Ji Changmin.

a/n: me taking back my blog bc i can post what i want right :')

tbz m.list

permanent taglist: @flwoie @vatterie @seomisaho @hqrana @ja4hyvn @tinkerbell460 @kaaimins @hyunjaespresent-deobi @otterly-fey @zzoguri @floatingpluto @winterchimez @ethereal-engene @gyulfriend @polarisjisung @jaehunnyy @shakalakaboomboo @loveliestfelix @sodafy @zhaixiaowen @leaz-kpop-life @amourdsr @pxppxrminty @kqyutie @sseastar-main @kxthleen14 @fluorescentloves @mosviqu @justalildumpling @jaerisdiction @super-btstrash-posts @jundundun @http-gyu @mvvnsseul @outrologist @vernonburger @maessseongs

#bjnet #deoboyznet #the boyz x reader #ji changmin x reader #q x reader #the boyz fanfic #the boyz drabbles #the boyz imagines #the boyz oneshot #the boyz scenarios #ji changmin drabbles #ji changmin scenarios #ji changmin oneshots #ji changmin imagines

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angelicalchaoticabyss · 5 months

Text

(Shadow and Light Demon Fnaf Au) Moon x Reader

A monster in the dark,

That’s what lived in your house, it always lived in your house. From the time you were a child you knew it was there, when the shadows proceeded it would follow your quick steps upstairs to escape the boogeyman. It would hide under your bed, in your closet, in any dark depth it could find. The red eyes that would stare and whisper if you didn’t go to bed under its gaze. No one would believe you when you talked about it, they all thought it was just your imagination turning the shadows into something scary yet harmless.

Little did they know how real it was. Over time you became less scared of it, by the age of 10 you had gotten out of bed and approached the shadow.

“Mr Boogeyman…do you wanna be my friend?” You asked in your innocent little voice.

And that’s how it started, you were no longer scared of the mysterious shadow, it became your friend. The friend that would follow you through the darkness no matter what, who would tuck you into bed and comfort you from your nightmares. When it’d come into moonlight you could see what Mr Boogeyman really looked like, glowing red eyes, a crescent moon for a face, sharp teeth. He looked like a weird clown, wearing bells on his wrists and pointed shoes. Starry pants and a starry night cap, he looked a lot less scary when he wasn’t hidden.

You remember all the times he cradled and shushed you when you had bad dreams, when he listened to your stories and imagination. When he cared where your parents didn’t. You even learned his real name. Moon. Mr Moon.

Over time you stopped seeing him, he appeared less and less at night. You missed your friend but eventually he disappeared altogether. You do remember WHEN he started to disappear, it’s when your parents started bringing your church’s pastor to the house every week where he’d recite verses from the bible and leave crosses around the house. Maybe he and Mr Moon didn’t get along? Is that why your friend left? When you asked your parents about it, they dismissed Moon as your imagination just like they always had.

Eventually, you and your parents moved out of that house. You lived your life like normal, made friends, had fun, but you always felt like you were missing something. Your dear friend Mr Moon. You were beginning to wonder if it really was just your imagination, that you stopped seeing things as your childish mind grew and expanded. But even so you missed your imaginary friend, you were impressed that your tiny brain created something so…immaculate. So scary yet friendly and nice. So sweet and caring, soothing from the terror the dark could bring. You wondered if you could replicate it.

Finally, you were on your own, now an adult, you found yourself living in your childhood home. You got it extremely cheap, hearing funny rumors that it was haunted when you don’t recall it being so. You chuckled to yourself.

“Mr Moon, I’m back. Do you remember me?” You asked, of course, to no answer.

You got all your things settled and when night rolled around you turned off all the lights, beginning your trek upstairs. That’s when you felt something staring at you. Turning your body to scan the darkened room, you obviously saw nothing, so you continued upstairs. Getting yourself into bed you tried to sleep but couldn’t kick the feeling of something looming over you.

Opening your eyes, you screamed as a shadow did indeed stand over your bed and stared down with glowing red eyes. The moonlight entering the room cast on this being, revealing a crescent moon face.

“Mr Moon…?” You questioned, and a grin spread on his face.

He nodded, confirming your words.

“Hello Starlight, so good to finally see you again~.” He let out a little giggle.

You smiled and sat up, giving the tall being a hug he gladly returned. You missed him so much! Here he is! Proof you weren’t making things up! In fact, now you can finally ask him what happened and why he left. Which you did, Moon’s face changed from happy to a mixture of anger and sadness.

“I was…banished from this house for a while. By that pastor of the church, you see, I’m a demon and I didn’t like everything he was putting in the house. I’m…sorry. But I would never hurt you! I don’t want your soul or anything like that!” He was quick to say that last part.

You thought over what he said, so your little monster in the dark was a demon all along. Well, he was a very nice demon, he never brought harm to you after all. He cradled and cared for you! So, you smiled.

“Don’t worry Moon, I know you won’t hurt me, I trust you.”

Moon once again got that big grin on his face, very pleased at your words.

You decided not to tell your parents that the demon they worked to get out of the house was now back and living with you. They’d demand you either leave the house or exorcise him again. Both of which you’d never do, Moon was your friend, and you’d never leave him again…even if it meant you might just will lose your soul to him.

Moon helped you throughout your daily life, and you felt rather happy with him around. He would help you cook, clean, rest, etc. He even helped when a toxic ex had come back to hurt you, you didn’t see what Moon did to them, but you had a feeling you didn’t want to know. Either way, he was YOUR special demon, your best friend, your care giver. Now you couldn’t imagine a life without him, y-you’re not in love with him of course! He’s just your friend, yes, just a friend. A monster in the dark.

He’s YOUR monster in the dark.

#x reader #fnaf #fnaf x reader #five nights at freddy's #five nights at freddy's x reader #fnaf security breach #fnaf security breach x reader #fnaf moon #fnaf moon x reader #moon x reader #fnaf daycare attendant #daycare attendant moon

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todderwodders · 26 days

Text

WIP WEDNESDAY

I didn't miss it bc I haven't gone to bed yet

“Madam,” Oskar Fevras, rising man in the world, says to the Pictone Rose, a woman whose station has been set in stone by marriage to a lord.

“Do us both a favor and eat enough cadmium to keel over before referring to me as anything but ‘Lady Gortash’,” says the Rose, who is wearing such … simple things today. An overflowing tunic and skirt, silk and cream colored, what must be her husband's own sash tied around her waist in a cord that emphasizes the … open nature of her bosom. Her bare feet are kicked up on a stool stapled with velvet, a plush red to complement the soft white-blue of the soles. She has not even put the small book in her thin little hands down once, has not even looked up from its pages.

The Rose would look lovely like this - reposed, her curling horns polished lovingly with shea and oil - if only she were a year or two younger and perhaps less round in the belly.

“Of course, Lady,” he says. It is enough to make her pause mid turning of the page, eyes flicking up. Gone is her sharp smile, gone is anything related to her lovely, dew fingered charm. She snaps the book shut, tosses it to the side as if it is not the most recent edition of Volo’s Guide and a valuable treasure to most. Oskar knows because his Lady has wanted her own volume, and complained sorely when she sent the house boy to find it and he had come back that very evening empty handed, having walked to every bookstore within the Upper City and being informed of the same thing: I'm sorry, little sir, but it's been sold out.

The Rose stretches. Motherhood has robbed her of her willow frame, made her broader as she sits straight and pivots her once slight waist just so. She seems stronger now, not simply flabby, as most girls do when they become mothers. He can see chords of muscle as she cracked her knuckles with a jeweled thumb, her wedding band gold and red jeweled in the sunlight.

She does not stand, instead reclining back so she may study him, a hand pressed to her chin. The girlish flower pink of her stained horns and matching tattoo is gone now, made as red as her marriage ruby. Her eyes are hard on him, as if unsure what to make of him before her mouth tugs ever do slightly downward.

Dare he say it, Oskar considers that the madam may have missed him.

“Lady Gortash,” she says, checking over her immaculate nails - they lacquered a soft green.

“Lady?” He asks, suddenly feeling something inside of him squirm in discomfort. “I'm sorry?”

“My full title, Fevras,” The Rose says, sliding her hair over one shoulder. “I am a wife now.”

“Lady… Gortash.” He repeats. He remembers himself a little, thinks of his position and her own.

“Enver will be done with his meeting soon,” she says, “you'll be painting in this room-” the western facing parlor, with wide windows facing the white sails that clutter Gray Harbor. “And you will be done by dinner each day. No wine–”

Oskar feels his eyebrows arch.

“No smoking–”

Well that was fine, he abhors the habit, even if it is inescapable.

“No loitering with the staff.”

He thinks of the whirl of fine young faces that passed him as he had been shown through the estate and feels himself sour. Oskar had not expected that.

“I expect you here just after lunch, which is typically around noon but sometimes may edge past that hour, give or take. If time runs over you may feel free to dine with us, but I'd rather you didn’t. I know how inept you are when it comes to remembering your light sources so you may as well forget coming in the morning to attempt to play catch up if you fall behind schedule. I won't feed you at all and you will have to wait anyways, Enver has already moved several important meetings and one inventory assessment for you and they all begin at sunrise now.”

“Well Lady,” he begins, sees his error on her pinching face as she begins to rise from her seat, and adds: “Gortash, I might always paint you in the morning, if you'd like. I never did send a wedding gift.”

“Lady Jannath sent me a lovely ermine wrap,” she responds immediately.

Ermine. Ermine.

“That is very gracious of her.”

“Your patron is a very good lady.”

“That she is.”

#my writing #tavtash #faltash #enver gortash #oskar fevras

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litcrazh · 2 years

Text

if mlb was a more… mature show and realistic AND THE CHARACTERS WERE OF AGE! it would be sooo much better

like here are some headcannons

ladynoir??? hooked up 100%

marichat??? SNEAKY LINK!!

ladrien… don’t get me started. HOOKED UP

adrienette but u alr know they go ham imagine new york scenes and they like sneak into each other rooms and stuff but i’m not talking about the devils tango!! no no no!

and like more realistic parts

like fucking gaberial being a little less controlling, marinette ACTUSLLY being able to speak to adrien without dying, THE FRIEND GROUP and high school parties bc adrien and nino are 100% a dynamic duo that drinks so much that alya and marinette think they are going to have to get there stomach pumped but then they are back at it again next friday

also there group dynamic?????? immaculate

nino and marinette have been friends since diapers so they have a platonic- sibling like relationship i’m just going to pretend that nino tried to go on a date to make alya and adrien jealous

alya is a sworn #adrienagrestehater but ofc they are best friends, so much so thst in interviews adrien will praise alya for her work ethic and in the same breath say how he hates her more than hawkmoth. adrien just loves how alya is so real with him bc he’s so used to being worshiped.

alya and nino are obviously “so grossly in love i want to jump off a cliff” - marinette and adrien at some point- while adrien and mari and low key FWB

adrien specifically is low key a douche, playboy chat noiry but in the best way possible. like he flirts RELENTLESSLY with marinette after they become close, but MARINETTE FLIRTS BACK LIKE THE LEGEND SHE IS. she finds out what makes him blush and become bashful and stuff and goes OFF. they both are complétive so sometimes you would just walk into this type of conversation.

“- i thought you said you wouldn’t fall in love mari, but this blush of yours is telling me different,”

“maybe i’m just thinking of last night, hot stuff”

“what did you do? dream about us?”

“wouldn’t you like to know,”

“cmon baby, you know curiosity killed the cat. i know that i was dreaming about us,”

“who did i do, sunny. asking the wrong questions, but don’t worry! a blond head of hair was always in my mind”

“blond hair? what hot guys have hot hair?? oh? didn’t know you had a thing for chat noir,”

“you have said on national television how much you like ladybug, but ive always had a thing for lea-“

“guys we aRE RIGHT HERE”

also, the FRIEND GROUP all hate LIELA. like guys… CMON. alya is a investigation journalist and nino is the bestest friend like ever. but no one, and i mean NO ONE hates lila as much as adrien, especially if she fucks with mari.

*before class, adrian and mari and joking about something sitting rather close!! and lila walks in, seeing this, and wants to ruin it”

“wow marinette! i’m suprised adrien would be so close to you after last night”

adrien and marinette look at each other in confusion, and adrien tries (and fails) he best not to laugh at her

“what happ- PSHH- what happened- mari i rea- what happened last night lila,”

(marichat was in full effect last night)

“i saw marinette with chat noir last night on her balcony, doing less than appropriate things on the balcony”

at this point both of there cheeks burst red- because oh shit she’s not lying, well some parts at least- and people are gathering around, and some are believing her, meanwhile our two superheroes are trying to figure out if it was ACC true

adrien in his head, no doubt: did i kiss her last night? we watched that american movie and i kissed her forehead, but not mari also in her head- I WISH HE DID GIRL.

but some people in the class are dumb so they are like

“wow mari that’s low”

“didn’t know you were such a player”

“like she could pull him, ridiculous, utterly ridiculous”

mari starts to get a little stressed, her breathing picks up and adrien being adrien notices and causally slings his arm around her, a smug smile on his face

“trust me” he whispers in her ear.

“not possible”

“and how would you know?” lila has no longer trying to woo adrien, because tbh he’s so loyal it was too hard

“because i was with mari last night”

“well- well uh i was really late at night, like 2 am,”

“no no no lila, all night”

she scoffs

“and what were you doing last night,?”

“what do you think two tennagers who are very attractive and hot would be doing at 2 in the morning lila”

and that shuts everyone up real fast, and no one dares question it because his smug face with mari hiding in his chest beat red tell the whole story

“way to really tone down the situation,”

“my specialty darling,”

sarcastically she adds “nice ‘hot’ addition, btw”

he just laughs

imagine ms bustiers suprised walking into that class a minute later

also, tik tok love THE GROUP and lb and cn themselves. i imagine adrien having 10.2 mil on insta, alya 2.4 but the ladyblog 8 mil (she LOVED THAT SHE HAS MORE THEN ADRIEN combined “pucker up and kiss my ass buttercup”) nino’s producer acc has like 15 mil bc he collars with top artists like kanye, frank ocean, tyler and kendrick lamar and mari having 6.8 mil.

everyone thinks mari and adrien are ducking and post edits/ proof videos as to why.

adrien does in fact post thirst traps

mari had them all saved and downloaded.

adrien has some of maris too

they all have secret accounts where they post the funniest shit ever and comment on tiktok’s about them like “adrien i didn’t know you and mari have a child???? why didn’t you tell me!!”

don’t get me started on lb and cn on tik tok

*edit of chat being hot*

@ chatnoirfanpage : omg wow he’s so hot @ ladybugoffical you should definitely see this and marry him and have his kids

— @ ladybugoffical : omg chat get off your phone your late for patrol

#mlb #miraculous ladybug #mlb headcanon #chat noir #ladybug and chat noir #tales of ladybug and cat noir #marinette dupen chang

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sentinelpri · 1 year

Text

Of Pride & Conviction

Hermione Granger is beautiful.

It’s a fact that Draco Malfoy doesn’t mind admitting to himself. He didn’t mind admitting it to himself back then, either; back when they were in school together at Hogwarts. The real issue was getting him to say it out loud, which he never would. His pride held him back from doing the right thing, just like it always has. So, he was mean to her instead.

They’ve since graduated. It’s been about ten years. He still sees her regularly. She’s the Minister of Magic while he’s simply one of the aurors who serves her and the head auror, Harry Potter. It was admittedly worrying to have Hermione in charge of him at first, as it gave her ample opportunity to get revenge for all seven years of torment that he put her through, but for whatever reason, she chose to be merciful instead of taking advantage. Hermione treats Draco like any other employee of the Ministry of Magic. It shouldn’t bother him, but it does.

Then again, there’s a lot of things that bother him about Hermione that shouldn’t bother him at all. For example; the fact that she’s engaged to marry Ronald Weasley, or the fact that he tries his best to get her attention with his work every day, and most importantly, the fact that he’s been in love with her since their fourth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

There’s nothing he can do about it.

The two are stuck together in Hermione’s office, drafting some paperwork. Something about legislation to better the treatment of house elves… Or something. Draco doesn’t know. He hasn’t been paying enough attention to have any idea what’s going on. Hermione’s rambling, which he normally listens to rather intently when he gets to hear it, falls upon deaf ears. Hell, he doesn’t know why Hermione wanted his help in the first place, to be honest. He isn’t educated in legislation regarding magic, let alone house elves. He’s much less qualified than her to review such a matter. She should’ve picked Potter to be here, if anyone. But for some reason, he’s here instead.

Hermione’s office is about what you would expect. It’s clean and immaculate, a little bed for her cat in the corner and a large cage for her canary in the center of the room. While the orange cat she owns lies lazily in its bed, fast asleep, the bird is settled on a floating perch set up by the windowsill. The floors are made of dark wood and adorned with a gold and red rug, while the walls are painted crimson and lined with bookshelves that are stuffed to the brim with different magical texts. On Hermione's desk is a large lamp that bathes the room in an ambient warmth, as well as a framed picture of her, Weasley, and Potter.

“So, what do you think?” Hermione asks, snapping the auror out of his daze.

Draco blinks.

“I, erm,” Draco catches himself before he can stammer too much, clearing his throat. He knows that Hermione is intelligent enough to see through his facades, but he makes an attempt regardless, lest he have to admit that he wasn’t listening to a thing she was saying. “I think it sounds good.”

“You weren’t listening to me at all, were you?” The brunette sighs and shoots him an exhausted glance.

Her big brown eyes pierce straight through him. Draco shifts uncomfortably where he stands by her desk. There’s a chair across from hers, but he’s never been comfortable enough in Hermione’s presence to sit with her in her office like they’re equals. They’re most certainly not, and it’s something he has to remind himself of frequently.

“I was not,” He confesses, steely eyes avoiding her coffee brown ones like they’re the plague. The first thing that catches his attention is her hands, which are intertwined with each other. Her elbows are resting on the desk. Something looks different, though, and he spends a few seconds trying to figure it out before it finally clicks. Hermione isn’t wearing the gold band with the large ruby stone that Weasley proposed to her with. Her engagement ring is gone, nowhere to be seen. Draco hopes that they’ve ended things, but he suspects that she’s not wearing it for a different reason. Perhaps she needed to get it resized or altered somehow, or maybe she decided not to wear it to work anymore in fear of it getting damaged. Hermione and Weasley have been together for more than a decade. There’s no way that they broke up… Right? “You’re not wearing your ring.”

“Well, Malfoy, I’m not engaged anymore. If I’m not engaged, I don’t need to be walking around wearing an engagement ring, now do I? I’d hate to give anyone the wrong idea,” The brunette says with a tight smile and a matter-of-fact tone. Draco’s heart drops and he’s not sure why. Hermione being single is an opportunity he’s fantasized about for a long time. Now that it’s happening, however, he’s struck with a pang of unshakable guilt. No wonder Hermione appears so exhausted; no wonder she’s asked for his help today. She probably figured he’d be the one person who wouldn’t care to ask about her personal life, as his romantic feelings have been the one thing he’s successfully hidden from her over the years. “Now, let’s start again. This law will require anyone who owns a house elf to only have them work a maximum of ten hours a day each day for five days a week and to pay them a minimum of two galleons per hour. House elves will be given a system where they can report any violations through aurors that will visit them once a week and ask them about their working conditions, and anyone who has a house elf that isn’t following these guidelines will have their privileges revoked if they’re found to be in violation more than twice.”

“I don’t think the board will pass that,” Draco sighs, though his mind is as far away as possible from house elf rights. His mind is on Hermione, who looks pale and tired and a little lighter than before- whose soft red dress is unusually wrinkled, whose hair appears unwashed and even more unkempt than usual. “People have been using house elves for centuries and no one is going to want that taken away or drastically changed. You should start smaller; a maximum of twelve hours instead of ten, seven days a week, at a galleon per hour.”

“That’s not-”

“I know, it’s not fair,” Draco cuts the minister off and rests a palm flat on the desk. He takes in a sharp breath through his nose. The room reeks of alpine and butterbeer, no doubt from the lit candles that line Hermione’s office shelves. “No one except for you cares about whether or not things are fair, Granger. Not everyone is as morally righteous as you. I guarantee you that ninety nine percent of the population doesn’t give a damn about house elves.”

“You-”

“I’m not saying it’s right. I’m just telling you that’s the truth. You can’t get everything you want all at once. Pass the altered version, then once that’s settled, give it some time and alter the law to make it however you want. People need time to adjust, and compromise is imperative.”

“Fine, I’ll amend it,” Hermione relents and casts a spell to erase the written words on the paper. Draco watches her start to rewrite them with steel grey eyes full of confusion and uncertainty. She doesn’t look okay. Why the hell is she working if she’s just gone through a break up with Weasley, her boyfriend of over a decade and close friend of nearly twenty years? “Thank you for your input.”

“Granger… Are you-?”

“Don’t,” Hermione insists with a pained look and a shake of her head. She won’t even look in his direction, pretending to focus on the magic legislation even though she stopped writing a solid thirty seconds ago. She sets her pen down and holds her head in her hands. Draco wants to reach out, to take her into his arms and make it all better, but he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t want her to snap and push him away like he knows she should were he to do such a thing. So, Draco stands there, frozen, unable to remove his eyes from Hermione’s now-shaking form. “Have a pleasant rest of your day, Malfoy.”

“You as well.”

With that, Draco nods and excuses himself.

‘What a day…’

When Draco goes to Hog’s Head Inn in the middle of Hogsmeade later that evening, he’s surprised to see no other than Hermione herself, sitting at the counter with a cheap-looking glass of butterbeer clasped between her delicate hands. She’s still in the same wrinkled dress that she wore in her office even though it’s freezing cold and disgustingly dry outside. The dress appears to have no tights underneath and is a simple short-sleeved garment. Though the Minister of Magic looks gorgeous in everything, Draco’s worried about it not being weather appropriate.

Most of the time, were he to see Hermione in public, he wouldn’t talk to her. One, he doesn’t think he deserves her attention or her affections. Two, he knows- or at least strongly suspects- that she’s smart enough to avoid any relationship with him outside of work after everything he’s done to her. Three, and arguably the most important thing, he has no idea what to do or say and doesn’t want to make a fool out of himself in front of Hermione, whose opinion matters more to him than life itself. Tonight is different, though. Hermione appears to be struggling for once and now that Draco has developed a conscience, he wants to help if he can.

So, he makes the approach. He walks to the counter at the bar, sits in the stool right next to Hermione’s, and looks over at her.

The engagement ring is still gone.

She doesn’t spare him a glance.

He talks to her anyway.

“Granger, I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“I can’t say I was expecting to be here tonight either,” The brunette sighs and shakes her head, seemingly at herself. Then, after what feels like forever, she looks at him. “What do you want from me, Malfoy?”

“...I don’t know,” Draco shrugs, unsure of what he wants as well. It’s understandable that Hermione would be frustrated with him. Still, he can’t help feeling somewhat bitter about it. “I’ll leave if my approach is that much of a bother to you.”

Draco starts to stand up from the stool, only for Hermione to put a hand on his shoulder and interject. Her touch on his clothed skin practically makes him shatter into tiny little pieces on the bar floor.

“Wait, you can stay… If you don’t mind. I’ll even front you a drink. What would you like?”

“Hm,” Somewhat uncomfortably, Draco sits back down on the stool he was sitting in before. He struggles to keep his posture straight underneath the weight of his nagging anxiety about this whole Hermione thing. Lectures from his mother about how a ‘good Malfoy’ should sit up straight with their elbows off the table ring through his ears incessantly. “I suppose I’ll take a daisy root draught.”

“Very well,” Draco hums and dares to rest his elbows on the table. His eyes remain on Hermione, who awkwardly raises her hand to get the bartender’s attention so she can order for him. Draco isn’t sure how he feels about that. “One daisy root draught for this gentleman, please. Put it on my tab.”

“Thank you, Granger.”

“We’re not at work and we don’t despise each other anymore,” Hermione points out with a roll of her coffee brown eyes. Draco finds himself slouching a little. Apparently, even after all these years, Hermione has no issue calling him out. “Why do you still insist on addressing me by my surname?”

“It’s only fair,” Draco responds casually as the bartender serves him his daisy drought. He hadn’t thought about it before, but he figures calling Hermione by her last name is just another defense of his. If he keeps up all the walls of formality between them, she won’t be able to see his true feelings for her. “You address me by mine.”

“You’re not wrong,” Hermione sighs into her class of butterbeer and finishes it in one solid swig that makes Draco’s steely grey eyes widen.

The name thing bothers her more than Draco would’ve initially suspected. He can tell by the bright red dust that blooms like roses across her cheeks, by the downcast look she focuses on her empty drink.

“Hermione,” Draco murmurs between sips of his daisy root drought. It’s a little sweeter than he usually prefers it to be, but he doesn’t complain. “You may call me Draco.”

“Okay then, Draco. Are you happy?”

“Are you?” Draco asks with a quirked brow, more in reference to her mental state following whatever happened with Weasley than anything. The offended glance he receives as an answer has him backtracking quickly. “Ah, never mind.”

“I should get going. I’ll see you tomorrow, yes?” Hermione’s voice wavers. She refuses to look at Draco any longer, simply standing, grabbing her brown purse, and slamming a handful of money on the table- more than enough to cover their tab and a decent tip. “I need you in my office again first thing in the morning.”

Briskly, Hermione walks away. Draco stands up so he can follow the witch and catch her by the wrist before she exits the building.

“Ah, wait, are you walking?” Draco asks and lets go.

Hermione looks back at the blond and answers.

“Well, yes. I’m not drunk, but I really prefer not to try and use magic when I’ve had even the slightest amount of alcohol.”

“It’s late,” Draco points out with his eyes flickering to the clock on the wall of the bar. It’s almost ten o’clock at night, and while Hermione is more than capable of taking care of herself, it’s freezing cold and there’s tons of people on the street. Draco doesn’t feel comfortable with her walking alone. “I’ll accompany you.”

“I don’t need that,” Hermione replies and exits the building with Draco following close behind.

“I know you don’t need it, per say, but I’m offering. Will you accept my offer or not? I don’t care either way,” He snaps even though he does care, a little impatient.

Hermione is just as prideful and just as stubborn as ever. Though unsurprising, it has the wizard disgruntled.

“I think you do care. I think you’d rather be with my company than without it, and I think you’re feigning indifference to protect yourself,” Hermione calls him out.

“Well, you’re thinking incorrectly and making baseless assumptions,” Draco tilts his nose up at the brunette as they start to walk in pace with each other, side by side, perhaps a little closer than two people who are merely co-workers should be.

“Is that any way to talk to your boss, Draco?” Hermione laughs, which has Draco looking at her with wide eyes. She’s never pulled rank on him like that. Before he can say anything, however, Hermione offers a dismissive wave and continues. “I’m just kidding. I’ll accept your offer.”

“I didn’t know you had a sense of humor.”

“And I didn’t know you cared enough to walk me home.”

“It’s cold. For you to not wear another layer within your office is one thing, but it’s far too chilly out here for you to be in a short-sleeved dress and heels with nothing else,” Draco points out and shrugs his coat off of his shoulders. He’s cold, but he tries not to pay it any mind. He offers Hermione the heavy green garment. “Here. Take my coat.”

“I don’t need your coat. I feel just fine.”

“You won’t feel fine two days from now when you catch a cold, so take it. I’m not asking.”

“And what happens if I don’t meet your demand?”

“Nothing, really,” Draco responds, and to his surprise, Hermione takes his coat and slips it on over her body. It’s a little too big, but not ridiculously so, though it clashes with the dress she’s wearing quite horribly. He doesn’t mention that, instead furrowing his brows when Hermione suddenly stops in front of a home he doesn’t recognize. “Is this it? Did you move recently or- oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, then…” Draco awkwardly trails off, standing just off the edge of Hermione’s porch. He watches her unlock her door. “I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, Hermione.”

“You best.”

Draco turns, ready to go back to Malfoy Manor. Before he can get very far, however, he’s being grabbed by the wrist and whirled around. He’s chest to chest with no other than Hermione, who gently rests her hands on his face.

They’re close. Too close. Despite the panic that ensues from the Minister of Magic holding his face like he’s made of some sort of fragile glass, Draco has a moment of clarity. Hermione, even with her know-it-all, temperamental nature, is bright and warm like the sun. She is what inspired him to become a better person, to live a life beyond the death eaters and the dark mark- beyond the fact that he’s a Malfoy. Hermione is nothing less than enlightenment itself, and Draco could not be more enamored by her.

Obsessed with her.

In love with her.

Hermione’s touch melts the icy cold that has been nipping at his face since he left the bar at the same time that her lips adorn his with the taste of rich butterbeer. She’s kissing him. She’s kissing him in a way that’s soft and sweet, lips moving gently against his. Draco freezes initially. What if his breath is bad? What if his lips are too chapped? After a little too long, he decides he can’t throw this opportunity away. It’s fleeting. So, he wraps his arms around Hermione’s waist and tilts his head to deepen the kiss.

Then, as fast as it starts, it ends. Hermione is pulling away and turning to go inside her home. Draco objects with an awkwardly outstretched hand. He wants to reach out for her desperately, to wrap his arms around her and pull her back.

“Wait, I-”

“Do you mind if I keep this for now?” Hermione questions in an unreadable, even tone that makes Draco think he might be going insane as she pulls at the coat on her small frame.

Did the kiss even happen, or did he just imagine it?

He licks his lips to remind himself of the taste of butterbeer and honey chapstick.

It was definitely real. Hermione Granger kissed him and is now choosing to pretend that it didn’t happen. For now, Draco follows suit.

He blinks, then answers.

“Not at all.”

“Alright, then. Thank you,” Hermione nods and takes a step back. Draco’s outstretched arm falls to his side. “Goodnight, Draco.”

“Goodnight, Hermione…”

The next morning, just as he was instructed to, Draco shows up in Hermione’s office. He isn’t sure what to expect.

An apology? A love confession? A pink slip?

None of it happens. When he walks in, Hermione looks better than ever, almost as if she hasn’t both suffered a terrible break up with her best friend and partner of over a decade, moved houses, and kissed her former enemy within the span of one week. She’s dressed in a striped pantsuit with her hair tied up and her face full of energy again. It’s almost as if none of it happened- the break up, the bar, Draco. If Draco hadn’t worked so hard to burn the image of what occurred between them last night into his occipital lobe, he would swear the whole thing was a dream based on the way Hermione is treating him- so nonchalant, almost as if it didn’t happen.

She dares to smile and invite Draco to sit across from her, but he doesn’t. He does what he’s used to and stands across from the Minister of Magic, twiddling with his thumbs.

“So, today I need your help with-” Hermione starts, to which Draco cuts her off by placing his hands on the front of her desk and speaking.

“Are we not going to talk about what happened last night?” Draco demands.

Unsurprisingly, Hermione ignores his question and continues what she was trying to say before Draco interrupted.

“-this proposal I’m working on for the board of magic-”

Draco debates whether or not he should allow this to continue. On one hand, Hermione seems pretty determined not to talk about the kiss. On the other hand, Draco can be determined, too, and after a sleepless night resulting from what happened between the two of them, he’s determined to get to the bottom of this.

“Seriously, Granger- Hermione-”

“-for a new policy that will-”

“You kissed me,” Draco finally raises his voice- loud enough to make Hermione finally look him in the eye but not loud enough for anyone outside of her office to hear him. “Why in Merlin’s name did you kiss me?”

Hermione’s eyes flicker to the floor, then back up to Draco’s face.

“Did it upset you?” She asks.

Draco blinks.

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Did that offend you?”

“No, I’m just… Dumbfounded. Are we going to talk about this or not?”

“I suppose we can if it’s bothering you that much,” Hermione relents, then stands up from her chair so she can stand in front of Draco, just inches away.

“I have to ask this first, how long has it been since you and Ron separated? What even happened?”

“Six months,” Hermione states plainly, as if it doesn’t matter.

“Six months…!?” Draco manages to whisper out the words between the gasp that falls from between his lips.

Six months. Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley have been broken up and separated for nine months, and somehow, Draco had no idea of that until now. For whatever reason, Hermione neglected to make it apparent until this week. Almost as if she’s reading his mind, Hermione explains.

“I’ve only made it known in the past couple weeks to anyone who wasn’t Harry or immediate family, so it’s understandable that you’re shocked, Draco, but as the Minister of Magic, I have a reputation to uphold. Breakups don’t look that great, so I was putting off the inevitable for as long as I could. Ron and I split mutually and amicably; he got the home we bought together, I took most of what was in our savings account since I’m the one who contributed the majority of it, and we went our separate ways.”

“But- but why? Everyone always said that you two were perfect-” Draco argues, to which Hermione interrupts once again.

“Well, we weren’t. He apparently needs someone less bossy, less stubborn… Less powerful,” Hermione murmurs. She leans back against the front of her desk and taps her fingers against the wooden surface. “And I need someone who can take care of my needs and listen to what I have to say without whining about it. We should’ve stayed friends, to be honest. I don’t have any ill will towards Ron, and he will always be a good friend, but we weren’t ever meant to be anything more than that.”

Draco doesn’t know what to say. He wanted to talk about the kiss initially. Now, he’s getting information about Hermione’s break up, too. Though he’s the one who asked about it in the first place, it’s proving to be overwhelming. He doesn’t know much about Ron or about their relationship struggles. Really, it’s not his business. He knows he shouldn’t ask anything else, but he doesn’t want to just stand there silently either.

“I’m sorry.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and then-

“I don’t know why I kissed you.”

Draco pauses. He isn’t sure of how to respond. He opens his mouth to speak, only for nothing to come out until he forces two words off of his tongue.

“You don’t?”

“Well, I suppose I do, logically. Part of me has always had a spark for you, and I think you feel the same way- you kissed me back, after all,” Hermione starts to ramble. “But back then, I couldn’t say anything. You were my childhood bully, it would’ve been humiliating to put my pride aside and tell you the truth, only to get rejected and made fun of. I didn’t think I had real feelings for you, anyway, I just assumed that I was so enthralled by you because you were forbidden and exciting, but even after all these years… I thought that the friendship Ron and I had was true, romantic love. I thought that you would never amount to more than a fling, even if I did act on the feelings I harbored for you. Somehow, though, with all this time that’s passed, Ron and I have fallen apart, and my feelings for you have only grown stronger.”

“So, you love me… And you’ve loved me for years,” Draco slowly talks as he puts the rest of the piece of this complicated puzzle together. Meanwhile, Hermione nervously paces around the office, walking circles around Draco. “And that’s why you kissed me last night.”

“I suppose that would be the case, yes.”

“I’m not just a rebound for Weasley?”

Hermione firmly shakes her head with a furrowed brow.

“Absolutely not.”

“Do you really not hate me?” Draco asks, just to be sure.

Hermione stops pacing to look Draco in the eye and shake her head once more.

“I don’t.”

“After everything I did to you, I don’t deserve your love. You should hate me,” Draco reminds her.

“I know, but I don’t.”

Admittedly, Draco is insecure, untrusting, and terrified. He expects to wake up from this dream any moment now. He expects for Hermione to laugh in his face and tell him that this is some sort of cruel scheme she’s concocted to get revenge for everything he did to her back when they were in school, that she never loved or even liked him, that she’s still engaged to Ron and doesn’t plan on changing that any time soon. He expects Hermione to get scared, change her mind about all of this, fire him, and demand that he never speak to her again.

After all these years, Draco still expects Hermione to loathe him. Yet, she doesn’t.

“Would you not be embarrassed to be seen with me? Draco Malfoy, the vain, cruel, narcissistic, death eater, trust fund baby?”

“No, I wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen with Draco Malfoy, who has changed quite a bit since he attended Hogwarts,” Hermione answers in a very matter-of-fact tone without so much as skipping a beat.

Draco gulps.

“Very well, then.”

“What does this mean for us?”

“As if I have any idea?”

“You seem much more sure of yourself in this situation than I am,” Hermione huffs and moves to sit on the front of her desk.

Draco, daring to be bold, takes a few steps forward and slowly takes Hermione’s hands in his. She doesn’t object- rather, she intertwines their fingers. Both of them stare at their locked hands, then at each other’s faces.

“Hermione, I don’t think you understand. I’m falling apart from the inside out right now at this- this idea that you could love me, that to you, I’m somehow lovable after everything I’ve done.”

“As prideful as you are, I thought you’d have more confidence in yourself,” Hermione says with a small chuckle.

“The pride is a shield. You know what that’s like, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Then let’s stop pretending.”

“Let’s.”

Draco lets out a sigh of relief. All of this- the kiss, today’s discussion, their laced fingers- it’s proof that this is very much real and that Hermione is genuine in these feelings that she has for him. He has so many more questions to ask, so much he wants to know.

“Is that why you’ve been calling me in here to help you with paperwork? Because you have feelings for me?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you worried about what people will think about you having moved on within weeks of making your break up known?”

“Of course. Just not worried enough, you might argue.”

“Certainly.”

“Where do we stand, then?” Hermione stares up at him, her coffee brown eyes burning into his steely grey.

“I think we should take things slow and keep this private considering your circumstances, but… Would it be wrong of me to say we’re officially dating now? Or is that too fast?”

Hermione just smiles.

“Not at all.”

Then, she’s kissing him again. This time around, it’s much warmer. Draco immediately allows himself to lean into it, whatever worries he may have about this chased away by Hermione’s lips molding into his.

#harry potter #hp #hermione granger #draco malfoy #harry potter fanfiction #hp fanfiction #dramione #dramione fanfiction #oneshot #oneshots #drabble #drabbles #past hermione granger/ron weasley #don't @ me for writing harry potter i hate jkr i JUST like the worldbuilding/characters #this is not directly supporting jkr so if you don't like me writing it feel free to block/unfollow

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kissagii · 2 years

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𝕘𝕠𝕠𝕕 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘 - 𝕛𝕖𝕒𝕟 𝕜𝕚𝕣𝕤𝕔𝕙𝕥𝕖𝕚𝕟 𝕩 𝕞𝕒𝕝𝕖 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕣

currently thinking about wholesome domestic mornings as jean's fiancé... this has been sitting in my drafts for like a month lol

pronouns: he/him

warnings: small mention of burning (just the food lol)

fem-aligned readers dni

Jean woke up at exactly 6:30, his internal clock immaculate. The earliest rays of sunlight were just barely peeking through the curtains of the room he shared with Y/n, his fiancé. He was still fast asleep, clinging onto Jean with a deathly tight hold. When Jean attempted to move, Y/n mumbled protests. Well, he wouldn’t be heading off anytime soon.

Jean lay back down, wrapping his arms around the smaller man. He looked so adorable. Not that he didn’t look adorable anyways, but something about his peaceful expression was endearing.

“Morning sweetheart,” Jean said quietly, morning voice rough. Y/n began to open his e/c eyes, giving Jean a grin in response. “Can you let go of me? I need to make breakfast.”

“No,” Y/n mumbled in reply, tightening his death grip and smushing his face into Jean's chest. Jean took that as a no. Not that he minded - a few extra minutes of cuddles wouldn’t hurt anyone. “I love you.”

“Love you too sweetheart,” Jean wrapped one arm around Y/n’s waist, pulling hiim closer. The other hand ran through Y/n’s soft hair.

“I can’t believe we’re getting married. It feels like just yesterday you were the scary angry guy that sat across the café. And now you’re my giant teddy bear,” Y/n smiled up at Jean, the area around his eyes crinkling softly.

“One thing hasn’t changed - you’re still the handsome man I’m smitten with,” Jean responded, causing a flush of red across Y/n’s cheeks.

“Aww babyy,” Y/n buried his face again.

“But it’s true,” He planted a kiss on Y/n’s forehead. “Can I go now though? I’ll make you pancakes,” Jean whispered, hoping that the promise of his favorite breakfast would be enough of a bribe.

“Pancakes?” Y/n’s eyes lit up. Jean wormed out of the bed and headed for the kitchen, not bothering to put on a shirt. Pajama pants would be good enough. Right as he was beginning to mix up the batter, Jean felt a pair of arms wrapping around him. So Y/n was awake after all. He placed his head on the honey-haired boy’s shoulder, peeking over at the counter.

“Where’s your shirt?” Y/n asked, innocently.

“Don’t pretend you haven’t seen me in less,” Jean teased, coaxing a red flush from Y/n. He turned, leaving the batter to rest for a minute.

“I mean… it’s not like I mind or anything. You’re hot,” Y/n said, looking away shyly. Still shy, after all this time.

“I could say the same about you,” Jean said, pressing a kiss to his fiancé’s forehead yet again.

“I like it when you’re nice,” Y/n said sweetly, leaning his head against Jean's chest.

“Am I usually not nice?”

“Well… you’re just… a little prickly. Like a cactus. I like cacti. And I really like you baby.”

“I love you too, sweetheart,” Jean gave Y/n another kiss on the forehead before turning his attention back to the pancakes. Y/n didn’t let go, even as Jean walked across the kitchen. “Are you going to let go? Or do I have to make breakfast with you clinging onto me like a koala?” Jean joked as he poured out the first few pancakes.

“Need hugs.”

“Alright then,” Jean said, turning around to face his h/c-haired partner and pressing a kiss to his lips. Y/n kissed back softly, sweetly, not awake enough for anything else. It was nice, though the gentleness was a stark contrast to Jean's usual passion. But something about messy-haired, bleary-eyed, early morning Y/n coaxed out the young man’s gentle side. He would have been content standing with Y/n all morning, giving soft kisses and whispering sweet nothings. He almost did.

And then Jean smelled something burning. He whipped around, shocking Y/n, to find that the pancakes had started to burn. He flipped them quickly, trying desperately to save them.

“Sweetheart, you made me burn the pancakes,” Jean protested.

“Morning affection is more important than food. But you get the burnt ones,” Y/n teased. Why did he have to be so adorable? Jean really was smitten.

#{🍄 - mushrooms}#i continue to not know how to spell this man's last name #jean x reader #jean kirschstein #jean kirschtein x reader #jean kirstein #jean kirstein x reader #jean x male reader #jean kirstein x male reader #jean kirschtein x male reader #attack on titan x reader #attack on titan x male reader #aot x reader #aot x male reader #jean fluff #jean kirschtein fluff #jean kirstein fluff

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belit0 · 9 months

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Killer - TobiIzu (part 2)

Okay, so a comment from EyesofNeptune8004 on my ao3 collection made me re-read chapter 28, and I decided it was way too good as to finish it there.

My past self, the one who created this shi, was rly rly gone when she did it, so im not sure about having the yandere-psyco-crazy touch anymore, but i wanted to try cause this one is truly interesting.

ao3 collection - chap 28

Madara knocks on the door of Izuna's apartment for the tenth time, standing in the complex's corridor and carrying a bag of groceries in his hand. He brings with him a little bit of everything, food, cleaning products, bathroom essentials. He has seen his little brother a couple of times since he was found in that cheap motel, and is worried about the state of mind he might be in.

The scene was heartbreakingly clear, and he blames himself for not paying attention. Izuna has been in the field for a while, working in the trenches and with hard cases, but throwing him in headfirst to deal with the worst serial killer they'd had in years wasn't the wisest thing to do on his part.

He thought he was ready to take on a case as important as that one, and had no hope of getting any breakthroughs on it. The only thing police knew about the murderer was his name, and only because he allowed them to find it out, serving it to them on a silver platter.

Tobirama had appeared overnight and did not take long to make them understand he would keep on acting until they found him, but the crime scenes he left behind him were so clean, immaculate, no evidence could be extracted beyond what could be seen with the naked eye.

Victims of any age, children and adults, men and women, all marked by 3 red cuts on the face, and a note on the chest with a word written on it, "Tobirama". They suspected it might not even be his real name, having searched the database a million times without coming up with a match. Or maybe the man was so meticulous to the point of having wiped himself off the face of the earth, eliminating his persona to operate at ease.

The officers nicknamed him "the white demon," based on the few testimonies they had collected of his multiple acts, all reporting a white-haired man near the scene prior to the attack.

Whatever they were dealing with, Madara had no hope of solving it soon or even finding anything to help them move forward. Bodies continued to turn up everywhere in the city, and police hope was dwindling.

His younger brother had been complaining to him for months because Madara only assigned him simple situations, small kidnappings way too easy to solve, overly obvious murders, stupid robberies, so he thought giving Izuna an unsolvable case would be just what he needed.

He wanted a challenge? He would give him a challenge.

Madara saw far too many cases less serious than this one being shelved for lack of evidence and figured he'd assign it to him just to make his brother feel important.

Big mistake.

He knocks on the apartment door again, and raises his voice to break through the piece of wood separating them "Izuna... I don't want to have to use the key, please." Sure, his brother left him a copy when he moved out of the house, an emergency key in case he lost his, but Madara tries to assess the situation differently.

If the younger Uchiha manages to get out of bed and open the door for him, not everything is lost. He has visited him since that night, but he can never get this one to get up.

"I'm coming in..." he whispers more to himself than anything else, taking the key out of his pocket and opening the door. All the windows are closed, curtains covering the glass, and it looks like there hasn't been sunlight in the place for weeks.

Several empty food containers are visible from the entrance, scattered all over the floor and reaching into the room. Izuna is probably still in bed, not having gotten up except to go to the bathroom or eat.

Madara makes his way through all the trash surrounding the floor, kicking things to get to the kitchen in order to leave the groceries he bought for his brother in the fridge. When he opens it, puffing in distress, he is greeted by a terrible stench, something probably rotten that has been there for a good few days.

There are tears in his eyes, and he doesn't know if it's because of the strong smell or because of the image that rotten meat brings to his mind. Izuna told him, a few days before everything happened, he would prepare a special dinner for him as a celebration for having solved one of the most controversial cases of recent times, that of the red-eyed assassin. Madara, in charge of the investigation department of the police, had been working with all his concentration on catching the ruffian who was terrorizing the local park, and perhaps that was what made him stop paying attention to what his younger brother was doing with the white demon's case.

He didn't even know about the special clue Izuna received.

He holds his nose and tries to close the refrigerator tightly, the door jamming with the trash on the floor and unable to close all the way. He ends up slamming the appliance, venting the anger he feels about the whole situation and wipes his wet eyes with the back of his hand.

This is his fault. He could have prevented it if he hadn't underestimated the situation, if he had paid attention to his brother's wanderings.

It's his job, to coordinate all the detectives in the department and make sure they do a good job, but he lost sight of the one he most cared about, and threw him into the lion's den without knowing it.

The white demon had broken his modus operandi with Izuna, tracked and investigated him, marked him, and took him where he wanted and how he wanted. He had complete control of the situation from start to finish, and made the Uchiha act as he wanted, handling him like a puppet. He guided him to a secluded place, using clever words and manipulating him not to alert anyone.

Lacking experience, Izuna fell for his scheme. He’s lucky to be alive.

Why is he alive?

He had been found passed out in a motel room, his pants off and his shirt unbuttoned, his face red and wet from what appeared to be tears. The position in which his body was discovered denoted sexual abuse at first glance, with marks all over his rear area and even some blood between his legs.

The policemen who first arrived at the scene did not dare to go in until Madara was there, and it was he who came face to face with the image, covering the exposed body of his younger brother with his jacket, and carrying him in his arms to his own car.

The examination at the hospital was the most difficult part, and the younger Uchiha had to be sedated so as not to attack the nurses trying to conduct the abuse assessment. Izuna was unconscious for the next 24 hours, resting at Madara's house, but upon regaining awareness, he demanded to return home.

The way he cried to go back to his apartment, the violence with which he insisted his older brother listen, the urgency with which he communicated his need to get there, was unnatural. He would not allow anyone to touch him, nor would he allow them to take his cell phone to investigate possible breaches in the system, ways in which the killer could have gotten to him. Madara didn't have the heart to contradict him, feeling too guilty to deny him anything, letting him keep the phone and going home.

From then on, Izuna refused to leave his apartment, taking refuge within the four walls of his house and seeking comfort in solitude, not getting out of bed and having trouble eating. He began to forego mundane tasks, necessary for human functioning, and the older Uchiha had to assist him with the simplest of things. Bathing, combing his hair, eating. Between his long work shifts and the demands of an entire department, Madara tries to find time to visit him, to help him, but life doesn't wait. Doctors gave him a barrage of medications for his mental state, but he refused to take even one.

Izuna withdrew into himself.

Consumed by anger and resignation, he walks through the garbage to get to his brother's room. It pains him to see the mess his home has become, and he can't help but remember the pristine state in which he kept his place before this happened. Izuna was always a man of neatness and tidiness, always groomed and well dressed, perfumed, ready to conquer whomever he wanted. The state in which his apartment is at the moment only reflects the inside of his head.

Now everything seems to have changed, and if someone were to see the situation without knowing its background, they would probably think it was the home of a hoarder. Where once there were beautiful decorations and family photos, now there are only empty soda cans and unlit cigarettes. The floor adorned by a beautiful carpet now lies covered with dirty clothes and empty food containers, a few full trash bags here and there.

Heartbreaking.

On the bed, an amorphous figure is visible under several quilts and blankets, and a head of matted hair peeks above the mess. Madara approaches slowly, not wanting to startle him, not knowing if he is asleep or awake, "Zuna...? Are you-" he jumps back in surprise, raising his fists reflexively as his younger brother lunges at him with a knife.

He brings him down before he can hurt him, trapping him under his arms on the bed and disarming him with experienced movements. Izuna was always the more agile of the two, but the one who least evaluates his moves before executing them.

"IZUNA! IT'S ME!" Exorbitant eyes stare at him intently, and he knows his younger brother must be trapped in a terrible loop of flashbacks and bad memories, horrible enough to sleep with a knife under his pillow. He concentrates his gaze on Izuna and can appreciate how different moods and reactions travel across his countenance, ending in heavy tears.

The younger Uchiha was never one to cry, but it seems to be the only thing he can do lately.

He disarms beneath him, freeing his hands and turning on the mattress, covering his face and refusing to confront him, "I'm sorry" is all he dares to say, repeating it over and over again like a mantra.

"It's okay, it's okay, you're safe..." He helps him up and hugs him tightly, hoping his arms can give him comfort, some sense of relief, his perfume helping him out of this horrible mental place he finds himself in.

Between words of encouragement and caresses on his back, Madara manages to lead him to the shower, preparing the water to a nice warm temperature, going to look for a bottle of his favorite shampoo among the groceries he bought for him. Helping him undress as one would assist a small child, he can't help but tear up inside at the fragility of his younger brother.

Izuna is just a hint of his former self, pale and consumed by anguish, skinny to an unhealthy level.

Once underwater, Madara estimates he has about forty minutes of productivity, using the time to clean up the mess all over the apartment. He bags piles and piles of garbage, mostly cans and plastic, clearing the floor at least enough for him to walk without stepping on objects as he goes.

He wipes down those shelves full of cigarettes, washes the dishes, and picks up a thousand trays of food scattered on the ground. He even has time to swipe a damp cloth on the mirror the younger Uchiha likes to use to dress himself.

Izuna finishes with the bath just as his older brother attends to changing his sheets, entering the room already clothed and with a towel wrapped around his hair. "Are you done? Need help with that?" The police chief points to the abandoned comb on the dresser, and when the other nods wordlessly, takes it and attacks the tangle he's had in his hair for days.

Madara likes to imagine each knot he manages to untangle is one step closer to getting his little brother back, working the hair patiently and restoring it to the neat look he enjoyed wearing.

"Look at you, all nice and tidy..." There is no reaction under his hands, and he knows not even the smallest gestures will be able to pull him out of the hole he fell into. No matter how much he helps, his efforts seem to be in vain. "I was wondering about taking your phone for investigation now...? I brought you a new one, new number and all, just to be safe."

Madara still hoped his brother would eventually come to his senses, regain his innate police thinking and understand it was necessary to hand over the device for research. There's a chance it could be the biggest breakthrough in the whole case, but the elder Uchiha didn't want to impose his rank and seize it without permission.

Maybe he should have, because days go by and Izuna doesn't hand it over, yet this is his younger brother, not just any victim.

There is no way of knowing if the white demon infiltrated his life through technology, not knowing Tobirama's age and capabilities. The biggest possibility is that he tracked him by his cell phone, intruding into his private life without the detective even knowing.

"No." Is all he replies, not moving from the spot despite Madara being done with his hair. The police chief snorts with indignation, but refuses to give up the fight so easily. "I got the contact information from that therapist Itachi used when he needed it, remember? He's a great guy, they say he's really good at what he does... I made an appointment for you to see him." He grabs the phone he brought for his brother as a replacement for the one that might be tapped, and hands it to him.

Izuna, unmoving, doesn't even look up, nor does he hold the device when it is passed to him.

"His name is Hashirama and... where is it, Izuna?" He asks looking in all directions, searching with his eyes for the phone. and remembering not seeing it when he tidied the room. "Where did you hide it-" A buzzing sounds in the bed, and the pillow lights up slightly. Having changed the sheets, the Uchiha is surprised he didn't notice it, and as he opens the cover, he tries to understand why his brother is so stubborn about keeping that damn phone with him.

An unbecoming attitude of Izuna, it seems he is trying to hide the device, not to see it.

The Uchiha, like any young adult, finds that smartphone a must-have, always carrying it with him everywhere he goes and never letting the battery run out. The typical person who takes thirty pictures of food before eating, now keeps the phone buried in the bed, as if trying to ignore it or make it disappear.

It doesn't make sense.

The screen lights up again when he finds it between the pillow stuffing, with 10% battery remaining and a message from an unknown number just delivered to his inbox. He can't read the contents of it since the system doesn't recognize his facial structure, but something doesn't sit right with him about the situation.

"I don't need any therapist or any medication I-"

"I'm not asking you, I'm simply informing you. You will go, it's a fact, this can't go on like this. Why did you hide it there? What are you not telling me?" Madara gives no room for argument, taking the old phone and stashing it in his coat. He doesn't bother with an evidence bag, having broken the usual protocol since he found Izuna at the motel.

"If you check it, there's no going back Aniki." He replies slowly, in an almost imperceptible tone of voice, not daring to look at him. There is something in his words that unnerves him and puts him on alert, as if his younger brother is premonishing something.

"Maybe it will allow us to move on. I'm going to catch him, Zuna, promise. I brought you food, please eat something." He assumes it's about his trauma, reliving that terrible moment once the team manages to discover information on his phone and finally have material to track him down. Madara is convinced this little device has everything he needs to stop the assassin, and he will not rest until he has sentenced him to death.

Izuna does not answer, but seems to want to say something. He looks up and appears to deeply admire him, as if he wanted to engrave the image of his older brother in his memory. He is about to speak, but Madara's personal cell phone buzzes, the ringtone flooding the room.

He looks at the screen before answering, "Obito" reflecting back on the phone, and gives him a kiss on the crown of his head before leaving. "I have to get back to the station, but call me if you need anything, yes?" he strokes his wet hair, and whispers a small " I love you" to which he receives no reply. He makes sure to lock the door once outside and carries in his hands all the garbage bags he gathered in the apartment.

That's the last time he sees his brother before everything goes to hell.

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