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bakugosgothhoe · 10 months ago

Text

You made reader a different kind of hero.

It's beautiful.

— CAN'T WE BE SEVENTEEN? ; shoto todoroki ; 焦凍

summary: he's loved you since he was seventeen. pairing: f!reader x pro hero!shoto ; reader was a 1-A student tags: mutual pining, heavy make-out, thinly veiled sugar daddy shoto, reader does not go pro, touya might be a dick but he's a hero now, shoto is bad at feelings wordcount: 5.6k a/n: i do not fucking know what came over me, enjoy your food my little todorokinas. yes the title is what you think it is. no i will not elaborate.

You never did go pro.

Truthfully, you thought there would be more pushback when, in your senior year, you announced your plan to pursue a degree in early childhood education with a focus on non-conforming quirk development.

The War changed a lot. It changed you, your classmates, and the world. But, through it all one thing stuck with you:

What if someone helped Tenko Shimura?

How different would his life have been? How different would history have spun?

You graduated at the top of your class and joined the faculty at Chiba Prefectural Preparatory School for Quirk Specialties two years ago.

Chiba Prep was opened eight years ago in response to a societal cry for more infrastructure around what was dubbed "non-conforming quirks": a nice way to say quirks that can injure, maim, or kill. Maybe even all three on a bad day. Some parents still see their child being labeled as a non-conforming quirk user in the national database as akin to social suicide.

You see it differently.

Your quirk allows you to manipulate emotions — anger, sadness, betrayal, love, hatred. If you can feel it, you can sink it into another's psyche deep enough to drive them to act. You can even imbue things with feelings. For example, a cup of warm milk can transform into more than just a simple comfort, now it can hold the feeling of home and safety, or even exhaustion strong enough to put even the biggest foe to rest.

You could easily use your quirk with nefarious intent.

You could steep hatred in someone's bone so deep it drives them to harm themselves. You could sew fury so solid into someone's mind it drives them to violence.

Just a touch and you can control others with something so intrinsically personal it only exists within themselves: their feelings.

What makes you any different from little Asuke, a shy little girl with a quirk that allows her to see people's greatest fears, and then manifest and control them? You're convinced she can use this for good, if only with practice. In your mind, her future is bright and glimmering. Perhaps she will become a therapist, focusing on exposure therapy? Or, maybe the most prolific horror novelist in their time?

Or, bright and sunny Tao — a transplant whose parents sought out Chiba Prep's specialized education — whose heteromorphic quirk makes his bodily fluids, namely saliva, eat through nearly anything but his own biologics. A sneeze is quickly the most dangerous thing in the world for the cheery, lizard-bodied class clown.

He's just a boy given a quirk that needs more care.

He isn't a villain-in-training.

None of them are.

It's important to teach them that young — and as their teacher for Year 3 of their elementary schooling, you aim to hammer that in as much as possible. They deserve to feel normal. To feel loved and supported. They aren't scary, they're children.

So, you take it upon yourself to insist on pushing for privileges like field trips. There aren't many public spaces that welcome the classes of Chiba Prep with open arms. Over the years, there have been plenty of incidents. But, a day trip into the city to visit Tokyo's Hall of Heroes is green-lit with bubbling excitement from both faculty, the children, and their parents.

You usually keep your history as a graduated member of Class 1-A quiet.

After all, you never did go pro.

And even still, Shoto Todoroki never stopped thinking about you.

He remembers that weekend everyone moved back in for their last year before graduation. He remembers you smiling at him, and helping him drag up a duffel of luggage from the common room to his dorm. You made a joke about how you're sure he got taller over the summer, and how his hair is longer now. You said you liked it.

It was the beginning of the end, then.

His crush was a silent, smothering thing. It made it hard to think. Shoto had enough on his plate thanks to Touya's acceptance into the Villain Rehabilitation Program and his father's insistence on staving off retirement. Not to mention his parent's divorce — no matter how amicable, it was still a separation. Add on training, tests, studying, finals, and j-term classes... And a desperate, writhing, burning crush on the nicest girl in class?

Touya's elbow digs into Shoto's side.

It drags him back to reality — to the stifled quiet of the historical Hall of Heroes.

Suddenly, the doors to the wing squeak open, and a tour guide ushers in the elementary school class. The buzzing excitement and wonder are visible on each of their faces as the attendant — one of the HoH's lead tour guides — excitedly explains the newest, in-progress addition to the Hall:

Endeavor's wing.

There's a whisper of awe that ripples through the children as their teacher and co-teacher follow, and as the class moves through the large, open space. They're staring up eagerly at the gilded statue in the center of the room. It's larger than life and intimidating. Years ago, Shoto might have had to fight the odd tremble in his knees at the reminder it brings: to be small in his father's shadow again. But, things are different now.

Very different.

Touya scoffs. "I thought this wing wasn't open to the public yet."

"They're just children," Shoto hums, turning his back on the gaggle across the way to inspect the large mural winding along the back end of the installation, "I'm sure it's—"

"Oh, ho, no way!"

Shoto quirks his brow at his brother's outburst. His elbow digs into Shoto's ribs again.

"Ain't that the pretty girl you never got the balls to ask out your senior year?" comes the rasped drawl of his older brother's voice. Touya is clearly amused, his white hair hanging in his eyes as he leans forward to squint, "She is cute, Sho'—"

"Shut up," Shoto grits, turning his head over his shoulder; he tries to bite back the flurry of nerves that ignite in his gut, "Stop talking."

It is you.

You look... good.

Happy.

You're crouched by a small, timid girl in the back of the crowd. Your hand is in hers, and you're pointing upwards at the large paneled screens replaying Endeavor's most historic fights. You're explaining something to her, your knees bent as you squat. You look... the same. As if in the six years since they graduated, you sat still in time.

For a second, it's like he's seventeen again.

It's his senior year, and he's stuck at the corner of the gym's edge with a half-empty glass of punch in his hand. The lights are low, and there's slow music playing. His tie feels too tight. Bakugo keeps telling him to 'ask her to dance already', and Kirishima is considering bashing his head through the wall. Even Midorya is trying to persuade Shoto.

"It's prom, man! C'mon, this could be your last chance—"

Touya is about to be a real pain in the ass — his favorite pastime — and make some comment about your ass, but when he turns to lob the one-liner at his baby brother, Shoto's gone.

Shoto is on the move.

The crescendo of gasps draws your attention first.

Then, the cry of "WOAH, IT'S SHOTO!" leaves you dumbfounded. The rippling murmur of excitement bleeds into the children as their eyes — and the eyes of the tour guide — widen at the sight of the approaching Pro Hero.

Shoto Todoroki.

He looks... good.

Really good.

He's a bit older, and a bit more filled out than when you were both teenagers. You can see the strength in his arms and shoulders — it's a distant echo of his father's physique, though Shoto is so much more elegant and much... prettier. He's always been.

For a second, you're seventeen again.

It's your senior year, and you're sprawled across Momo Yaoyorozu's bed.

They had finally wrangled out of you who your crush was: something they hadn't been able to do in all their years as classmates.

There's a sticky, Miss Midnight-themed face mask clinging to your expression as you try to flip through the large magazine in your hands as nonchalantly as possible. Mina's voice, as she paints Ochaco's nails a bright pink on the floor, is sweet and saccharine as she looks up at you.

"I think you and Shoto would be, like, the cutest couple ever."

You're still crouched when the tour guide nervously — like she was caught doing something naughty — introduces The Pro Hero Shoto to the already-aware crowd of elementary school students and their teachers. It's like igniting a match; the uproar of excitement leaves you laughing as three of your boys push forward to bombard him with questions about his quirk.

Asuke is smiling shyly, now. That's a small win. She's intrigued by the appearance of a real hero, not the "scary statues" — and her big, fat tears stopped rolling the moment you laid a gentle hand on her to quell her anxiety over the new environment with a push of comfort through your quirk. She unhooks her pinkie finger from yours as you guide her towards your co-teacher.

"Boys," you call with a crisp air of authority as you stand and lead Asuke toward the bulk of the field trip group, "What have we learned about personal space?"

"It's fine, really, Insight," comes Shoto's voice; as warm and placid as you remember.

"Insight?" mutters your co-teacher at the presumed hero-name; a look of confusion plasters itself on her face, and her big, feline ears perk up. She leans in to whisper in a way that borders on conspiratory, "Do you two know one another?"

"Old classmates," you confirm, not daring to get into the finer details.

Shoto's attention is entirely rooted in the way you manage the kids. There's something beautiful about the ease with which you handle the bouquet of students; you quell the excitement into a manageable decibel like it's as easy as breathing.

"Shoto," you start as you gesture to him, "Has a very special quirk — Toyamai, he has ice like you. And, fire like Tojiro. He can regulate his temperature. Can anyone tell me what that means?"

There's a wave of hands shooting up, a few me, me, me's rise from the gaggle.

You're using him as a teaching moment.

Shoto's smile is soft.

You nod at Ogomi, excitedly nodding as the reserved child speaks up. Normally, he hates public speaking. But, recently, he's started working with the speech pathologist during lunch. The boy bounces a little as he answers. "He doesn't g-get too hot, or too c-cold."

"Exactly! Isn't that cool?" you grin at the lazy attempt at a pun, "This is why it's important to learn about our quirks as much as we can!"

Touya thinks this whole thing is just too cute.

You're different than he remembers — but, granted, things were sorta different last time he saw you. He was a little too busy tryna kill his old man and lil' Shoto. He's different now, too. A changed man! A real licensed hero. Support items and all.

He hangs back.

He... I mean, he is a jack-ass but he isn't gonna ruin this for Shoto.

...It's kinda cute.

Just about as cute as Fuyumi said it was.

Apparently, Shoto had opened up to her and Natsuo about his feelings after graduation — about how he regretted not doing anything about it. Fuyumi then told their mum, who then off-handedly mentioned it to Touya... and well Touya dug in because, duh, he is a whore for good gossip. He might be the family's black sheep, but Shoto is the glue that binds.

And he deserves to be happy.

Your co-teacher is ushering the kids to the next installation — a viewing of All Might's Legacy, a new documentary following the retired pro's teaching career. It will be a good wind down for them, in comfy seats and the dark. It's hardly the sort of content an elementary school student would find riveting, but it is All Might. And they love him.

You hang back.

Shoto's heart is hammering in his chest.

"Hey."

"Hi," you greet back, closing the door to the theater and stepping forward as you weave your arms around you, "Long time no see."

"Yea," Shoto breathes, his hands in his pockets as he meets you halfway across the museum's marble floors, "I... I see you're teaching."

His eyes are as pretty as they were back then. Slate grey and piercing turquoise. "I'm in my second year," you confirm softly, fiddling with the material of your sweater, "Congrats to your old man."

You gesture up at the statue, then wave around to the rest of the installation.

Shoto inhales, then nods; he's staring at your face, blissfully realizing you're just the way you were all those years ago. Kind. "I'll pass it along."

"How's he handling it?" you ask, your eyes raking across his expression and trying not to stick to the sharp slope of his jaw, or the bob of his Adam's apple, "Retirement, I mean."

"He's happy, I think. Touya and I are working together and... things are... good."

Last month, Endeavor finally retired. He cited his age, and his dedication to passing his legacy to his two sons: Shoto and Touya. Shoto has planted himself firmly within the Top Ten in the last year or so, and shockingly, Touya isn't far behind. People love an underdog's redemption story, you suppose.

And the underdog in question can read a room.

This is getting a little too sexually tense for even him.

"Heeeeey, girl," he rasps out, staggering backward with a thumb over his shoulder, "Nice t' see ya. I'll let you two catch up, yea? I'm gonna go pop my head into the theater, see how the kids are handling the snooze fest on screen—"

You jump.

How long has he even been there?

"Hi, D— Touya," you strain, wincing a little; the rehab'd villain doesn't seem to mind.

"Hi, teach'. That cool with you?" he asks, wobbling his thumb and quirking a pierced eyebrow; it's comical, like he's trying to disarm you with humor, "Don't want you thinkin' I'm corrupting your youths—"

"It's fine," you breathe, ignoring the sting of age-old mistrust. You know better. Shoto wouldn't be here, with him, if Touya Todoroki hadn't changed. Endeavor wouldn't be entrusting his legacy to the ex-League of Villain member if he didn't believe in his capacity for good, "Just don't be disruptive."

Casting judgment on someone whose life was nearly destroyed by his own non-conforming quirk would go against everything you taught the kids anyway.

"Touya's whole thing is being disruptive," Shoto grits as his oldest brother slips silently through the doors, "I apologize for him—"

"No," you wave him off, laughing a little, "Don't. It's... nice to see you two together."

Shoto's expression is soft as he wanders a little closer. "It took time — and a lot of therapy — but we've all managed to come out the other side."

"That's great to hear, Shoto," you breathe, your eyes flitting across his face, "I'm really happy for you."

There's a long silence, then — and you can't help but ignore the roil of butterflies in your stomach. The eye contact is heavy with some unspoken thing, and both of your tongues are weighted by secrets-never-turned-confessions.

It's like finally this dance you've been doing around one another for years breaks — and the two of you throw caution to the wind at the exact same moment.

"Would you like to—"

"Are you free—"

Hesitant, slow grins bloom on both your faces.

"Dinner?" is all he manages after a sweet moment of soaking up your soft smile, "If you're available...?"

You make yourself available.

Yaoyorozu almost dies when you call her that night — winded from tearing through your entire wardrobe. You explained you had nothing to wear a-and you needed something nice, and you only have an hour to get ready, because Todoroki — yes, stop screaming, Todoroki — is picking you up at 8pm.

Little bro is nervous. Touya can tell.

From his spot on the sofa, the white-haired ex-degenerate scoffs. Natsuo is digging around for some cufflinks in Shoto's dresser.

"Seriously, Sho'? A suit?"

"It's a nice restaurant," his brother says tightly, adjusting the collar of the black button-down, "I booked the upstairs dining room for privacy."

"Who the hell told you t' do that?" Touya quirks a skeptical brow.

"Father was the one who suggested it."

"...That old dog."

Natsuo rolls his eyes at the exchange before throwing his hands as he emerges from the closet. "Do you have any links that aren't emblazoned with U.A. High School's crest?"

The ones in Natsuo's hands have his graduation year on them.

Shoto winces.

"Want me to ask dear ol' dog of a dad?" Touya snarks from the corner, his posture becoming less and less upright as he scrolls on his phone.

"Already did," comes the soft voice of Fuyumi; she's smiling, padding into Shoto's room with a velvet box, "He offered up his nicest pair. He also says not to screw it up with Insight. He likes her."

Of course, he likes her. You worked under Endeavor for a brief work-study period during your third year. Shoto remembers hearing grumbled praise over dinner one night about your talent for de-escalation.

"You told him who I was seeing?" Shoto asks incredulously, taking the box and working the cufflinks on. He's starting to feel exasperated.

Fuyumi nods, popping down beside Touya.

"He asked. I'm not gonna lie to him."

"Did y' tell ma?" Touya rasps, peeking up over his phone to inspect Shoto's outfit. Not half bad, honestly. He looks good in all black. A man after his own heart, "M'sure she's gonna be real excited—"

"Yes," Shoto grumbles, "I called her earlier—"

"Chiba Prep is a really good school, y'know," Natsuo buts in as he tries to find a tie that matches Shoto's outfit. Ultimately, though, the middle brother decides against it and tosses the options over his shoulder, "They're, like, on the leading edge for quirk therapies."

"Hey, nerd? Quiet down. The big kids are gossiping," Touya shirks, turning back to Shoto, "What did mum say?"

"She wants me to call her after—"

"One, you're gonna call mum the morning after," Touya raises a finger, "Because if you don't get laid, I'll be so fuckin' disap—"

Fuyumi slaps Touya's chest. He lets out a pained yelp at the solid smack.

"Uh, ow," he rubs his sternum. "An' two, take a deep breath. You look like you're gonna shit yourself. Those are my pants and they're expensive."

Shoto lets out a long breath.

Fuyumi's smile is sweet like honey. "Aw, Sho'! It's gonna go great. You two have known each other for such a long time, and catching up is going to be amazing. Just be yourself! Confident and kind—"

"—Hold the door open for her, and pull her chair out," Natsuo adds as he adjusts Shoto's collar for him, "Car door, too—"

It's Touya's turn. He's dead serious. "—And do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night. I swear to god."

Easier said than done.

You never did go pro.

Those years of hardened battle instincts have lost their edge. You try to remind yourself this is just Shoto, not The Shoto — but you're a little lost in the whole celebrity of it all when he picks you up in a very nice, sporty little car with ENDVRplates.

You answer the door and he forgets how to breathe.

He has flowers for you. They're blue and blooming and beautiful.

Fuyumi's contribution.

You settled then you were going to kiss him at the end of the night.

The restaurant is... nice. Really nice. The sort of nice you could never aspire to experience on your teacher's salary. Even the valet is a concept that has your head spinning. But, Shoto handles it all with cool ease. The entire time, his hand is settled on your lower back.

It feels like you've been lit on fire.

You're glad Momo was able to create a dress fitting for the occasion. It's sleek and black. Comfortable, too. Not much can be said for your heels on that front, but it's fine.

Somehow, Shoto managed to book the entire upper floor of this place in all its glimmering glory — it's just the two of you alone in a sea of tables.

The waiter is pouring you a glass of the chef's suggested pairing of sake.

You thank him, smile, and take a sip as Shoto unbuttons his suit jacket and watches you.

For a second, you're seventeen again.

Sero and Kirishima were always in cahoots when it came to parties back then — somehow, between the two of them, they always managed to smuggle enough booze onto campus to obliterate any semblance of promised sobriety from even the most stoic members of 1-A.

You remember one night, after a lot of hounding, you finally gave in and joined a few of your classmates on the back lawn for a few drinks.

A few beers turned into a cup or two of wine, and then another big gulp of whatever deranged jungle juice concoction Kaminiari managed to cook up. It tasted terrible, but you were too drunk to really care. Shoto was no better. He was nursing his fourth drink of the night — a rarity he was even drinking at all — and seemed completely fine with the way your arms brushed as the two of you sat close in the grass.

He was always so nervous around you. Now, he just seemed... happy.

"I can't believe there is only one week left until graduation."

Graduation day was the last time you saw him.

Until this morning, that is.

You smile into your drink.

"What?" you ask when his eyes never leave your face.

His fingers twitch towards his own glass. Shoto blinks, then rolls his jaw. He was caught staring. He clears his throat, looking a bit shy. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" you press playfully, cocking your head to the side.

"You..." he starts, then bawks. You're stunning, and it's making it hard to even think straight. He thought these feelings might have mellowed out over the years but seeing you again has just reignited everything. He feels like a hormonal teenager again, "You look beautiful."

Your expression falters into something lovesick. You chew your lip. "You're not so bad yourself, Todoroki."

He manages a half-smile. "Touya had me worried the suit was a bit much."

The idea of Touya offering him advice on his outfit strikes a chord in your heart. It makes you smile even bigger than before. "Well, you can tell Touya that I like it. A lot."

You rake your eyes up and down him. On purpose.

He notices.

Shoto's face feels hot.

He tries to shake the bone-deep want that has swept his entire body up in its grip, but it's difficult when every single word out of your mouth reminds him just how in love he was with you back in school. You explain, excitedly, why you chose to teach at Chiba Prefectural Prep and catch him up on where you've been living since graduating. He's pleased to learn you're still in the area, living in the city, and decidedly in love with the commute to the school.

Shoto's always been a good listener — but you can see how much he's changed when he begins to speak about his career. He seems so much more sure of himself than he was all those years ago. It wasn't that he was... unsure... but, no. He was shy. Quiet.

Now, less so.

It's adorable.

Dinner comes and goes with conversation over sushi that is far too good for you to even process. It's easy talking to him. It was easy talking to Shoto back, then, too but... Things are different. You're both different. Not in a bad way, but in a way that feels like coming home.

While you both wait outside for the valet, Shoto shrugs his jacket off and puts it over your shoulders without a single word. Suddenly, you're cradled in a warmth that's very Shoto — his cologne clings to the collar and you bury yourself a little deeper into it.

Shyly, you step closer and steal his hand. It's calloused and warm. He laced his fingers with yours as if practiced. You bite back a grin. You give his hand a little squeeze when you spot the car coming around the corner.

His silence is calming — and he squeezes your hand back. When you look up at him, you realize he's already looking at you.

His face is close. It's so... intimate. Very. Nearly better than a kiss.

But, you've wanted to kiss Shoto Todoroki since you were seventeen.

The valet driver interrupts the moment with a respectful call of Shoto's name and offers the keys with a shake of the hand. With a little bit of hesitancy, Shoto remembers the thing Natsuo said — the car door, too — and moves around the passenger side to open the door for you.

It's sweet.

Really sweet.

The car ride back to your apartment is punctuated with easy conversation — you ask him about Bakugo and Midorya, and you're pleased to hear they're both doing well. He asks about Momo, and if you still keep in touch with Mina and Ochaco. He smiles to himself when you admit you did call Momo for help with an outfit.

"She did a beautiful job," Shoto breathes, a palm moving from the gear shift to brush over the dress' fabric on your thigh.

His hand settles there.

Your stomach does a flip.

You chew your lip, swallow down a sudden burst of nerves, and let your hand rest over his. You squeeze it. Shoto tries to focus on the road. His gaze drifts for a moment at a red light, his heterochromatic eyes dancing across your figure.

Keep it together.

He isn't seventeen.

He's twenty-five. He's a Professional Hero. One of the Top Ten in all of Japan. He's more than capable of keeping it together in the face of physical touch from the woman he's dreamed about for years.

...Right?

Green light.

His hand is still on your thigh when he pulls up to your apartment.

The touch is relinquished in favor of putting the sports car in park.

It makes your chest ache.

Shoto swallows thickly.

Do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night.

He'll never forgive himself. But, admittedly, he's bad at this. He's not good at reading body language, or even knowing himself enough to realize he looks mildly terrified as you blink up at him in the passenger's seat. His heart is hammering a mile a minute.

What if you don't want to kiss him?

When would he even kiss you? Now? Or at the door?

Why does he feel like he's going to die?

"This was really... Shoto, are you okay?" you ask as you unbuckle your seatbelt; you pause, your brows knitting tightly.

"What?" he asks, blinking back to the present moment. The look of fear disappears, "Sorry. Yes. I'm fine."

You're working his jacket off your shoulders, gently leaning to fold it neatly in your lap. Your voice dips low, into something playful. "You didn't look fine..."

"I—" Shoto clamps his mouth shut as he leans an elbow on the center console, "Sorry. I suppose I'm just nervous."

"Nervous?" you grin, a little giggle punctuating your words as you wriggle in the red, leather seat, "Why?"

Your expression makes his expression crack. He ducks his head as he huffs out a laugh. You continue to egg him on via expression alone. "I... Stop it."

"Stop what?" you push some more, your back pressed to the door as you face him in the car, "You're the one being weird—"

"I'm not being weird—"

"Then what's wrong, Shoto?" you tease in a sing-song voice.

"I'm nervous because I want to kiss you."

His words are punctuated by a slow look that takes in every inch of your face. Butterfly wings kiss your stomach walls. And your knees. You feel a little tremble in your chest.

It feels like someone has sucker punched you square in the sternum. Shoto's no better. He isn't entirely sure what the expression on your face means. Is that... good? Are you happy?

Your voice is a little quieter now. You duck your head and fiddle with his suit jacket as you lean back against the seat, a little closer now.

"You don't need to be."

Shoto's breath catches at that.

So, he makes his move.

His hand comes first — his calloused palm settles nicely against your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone as his pointer finger brushes the underside of your jaw. Shoto is slow. Methodical. It's like he's trying to ground himself in the moment.

Truth be told, he thinks he might be blacking out.

Your eyes flit up his wrist — a dark leather band around his wrist with an expensive watch face, a dark dress shirt with glimmering cufflinks, strong arms and a broad chest, and you can see the dip of his collarbone where the top two buttons of his shirt remain undone.

He looks so damn handsome with his sharp jaw, pretty eyes, and his trademark white and crimson hair. Even his scar is beautiful.

The touch pulls you in like he's got his own personal orbit.

Your elbows are braced along the center console, your eyes flicking across his face as his fingers continue to brush along the soft expanse of your cheek. You wring your fingers together.

Then, his eyes stick to your lips.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispers, his breath fanning across your face.

You never did go pro.

But, Shoto did.

It shows.

Because, at this moment, all you can do is nod feebly before you're swept into the sort of kiss people go to war for. It's the sort of kiss that sticks to your ribs, that feels like warm, fresh food. It's the sort of kiss that would drive you to the brink, that would make you nod and agree sure, let's get married and have three kids, let's name one after your father, and paint the house blue like your mother's favorite flower—

His mouth is eager, but not in an overbearing way. It's gentle. Slow. As if he needs to remind himself this is real and not some midnight fiction that leaves him aching and alone. Shoto reminds himself to be tepid, pliable, and easy, which is easier said than done when somewhere deep inside of him there's a seventeen-year-old screaming in victory.

It's better than anything he could have ever imagined.

And then you whimper.

It's a sound tied between bliss and relief and it's muttered against his mouth as you lean in and let your fingers brush the fabric of his dress shirt. The tips of your fingers brush his abdomen and he flexes, the feeling foreign and warm. It warrants his other hand to drift to your face and you break for a breath; he doesn't care that there's lipstick smeared across his mouth. He's kissing you again — this time a little bit more feverish, a little bit more aching.

You melt against him, this time your hands trembling to grip his wrists.

He needs to slow down.

He is not having sex with you in his father's car.

That's shameless.

He needs to slow down.

He has to, or he'll lose himself in this and he refuses to fuck this up.

Shoto's breath is ragged when he finally peels himself away, his lip parted and eyes half-lidded. His grip on your face is still so soft, so gentle. It's very him.

You're glad you didn't do this when you were seventeen.

It would have permanently altered your brain chemistry, you're sure of it. How could you ever kiss someone else again after that?

He's rubbing your cheek with his thumb. You swallow, and try to level out your breathing. It's hard when he's still so close, when he's so... perfect.

"I've wanted to do that," he murmurs against your cheek, "Since our last year at Yuei."

A well-kissed smile breaks across your face. You reel back, your nose wrinkling as you shake your head in disbelief. Shoto is smiling. A real smile. The sort that's so rare you can count on one hand the amount of times you've ever seen it in person.

"Are you serious?"

"Very," he says, chastely pressing another to your other cheek as he leans back.

"Me too," you admit shyly, "Can we... do it again sometime?"

Shoto's eyes widen incrementally. Then, his smile eases back onto his face.

"Are you free this weekend?"

"I can be," you reply easily with a honeyed look, "And I will be. For you."

"I get off patrol on Saturday around seven," he explains before asking timidly, "We could... do dinner again?"

"Works for me," you breathe as you move for the handle of the car door, "After all, I never went Pro. Weekends are free."

Shoto scoffs.

Then, as you open the door and swing a leg out:

"Oh, and tell Touya I thought the suit sexy."

Shoto's laugh is dry. You leave his jacket on the seat and scurry into your apartment with a lovesick wave. He swears he sees the silhouette of a familiar ponytail greet you at the door, but he doesn't dwell on it. He waits until you're inside and the lights to the front door are shut off.

Then it hits him. He has another date with you this weekend.

Not so seventeen anymore, Shoto Todoroki.

#this was so fucking incredibly well written I am in awe #holy fucking shit it's been a long time since I've read something so...so fucking perfect #nostalgic romantic but present and it tells the whole tale from beginning to end and gives you snippets of backstory and fun little details #touya is such a shit and i love that you reformed him but hes still intrinsically HIMSELF just a healed version and ugh i love that #i love how absolutely utterly kind and gentle you made reader and how that comes across so effortlessly in all her actions #hell *I* fell in love with reader and its supposed to be me #this is the kind of writing that pulls you in immediately in the first few sentences and then GRIPS YOUR SOUL for the entire post #I literally could not look away and kept reading... I wasn't just reading I was DEVOURING it whole and imprinting it on my heart #this was just utterly gorgeous and you painted a picture of a world I would want to live in #thank you #you have immense talent for storytelling and I thank you for sharing it with the world #BNHA #Shoto Todoroki #shoto torodoki #todoroki shoto

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saltwaterburns · 11 months ago

Text

pairing: logan howlett x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ SMUT - read at your own discretion, fingering, slight spit kink, daddy kink, overstimulation, kind of mean!logan

a/n: i very much disliked the og deadpool movie (please hear me out guys i liked the plot and characters and most of it but i cannot STAND torture filled backstories </3) but i loved the new one!!! And there's just something about condescending!logan that's got me so ... ALSO !!! MY FIRST EVER SMUT pls im so terrified i would love feedback on what i can improve ily guys

LOGAN HOWLETT who swore he'd never go for a sweet, innocent thing like you, but somehow one night finds himself two knuckles deep inside of you. He's got you pressed up against the wall, mouth hungrily nipping at the supple skin of your neck, leaving a trail of deep purple marks in his wake. His moans that could almost be mistaken for growls are vibrating against your neck, his stubble painfully dragging across your skin as he continues to practically maul at you, the pain of it so exhilarating it's only making you wetter. His mind is hazy with carnal need to devour you, fuck you stupid like the little dolly you seem to be while his senses are clouded with the scent of your arousal. You were absolutely soaking wet, soiling your cute little panties before he even got to lay a hand on you, and now as his fingers are pumping in and out of your weepy cunt, he can feel your juices drip down his forearm. He uses his thumb to press down on your clit, the action making you mewl. The pleasurable pain startles you, making you throw your head back and in the process, hit your head against the wall with a bang. You groan softly and Logan stills all his movements, chuckling at you, his tone borderline mocking.

"Aww, pretty honey hit her head, huh? Am I fucking you stupid? Are you unable to think with daddys fingers buried deep inside your cute little pussy?"

"Please, Lo...didn't mean to, please keep goin'," you mumble back, your eyes half lidded. You shift your hips, taking his fingers even deeper, your mouth falling open as the pads of his fingers brush against that spot inside you that's making you see stars.

He chuckles, but to you it sounds like another lighthearted growl and something about it fills you with absolute primal want. You want to press your mouth against his in the filthiest kiss possible, where your tongues are tangled together and he's doing that thing where he suckles on the tip of your tongue and it's so wet and nasty that your spit mixes together, dripping down your chin and down to your tits that are peeking through your little blouse.

Before you manage to tug on his hair and do exactly that, these thoughts alongside his thick fingers pumping inside you and his thumb that's doing sharp flicks against your nub becomes too much, and before you realise what's happening, you're creaming all over his digits.

The orgasm catches you off guard, knocking all wind out of your chest. Your cunt clenches and clenches, your cum dripping all over his arm thats the same size as your thigh, now slick and shiny.

You hope that he's gonna slow down, ease his fingers out so he can fuck you properly now that you're all wet and stretched out for him, but he only seems to pick up the pace. The afterglow of your orgasm fades away and the way he's flicking your clit and massaging your g-spot starts to hurt.

"Logan, stop, no more...please, it hurts. Want you to fuck me now, need you in me," You whine softly, trying to squirm away from him.

He only laughs and grips your hip with his large hand, pushing you harder against the wall so you have nowhere to go.

"We're not stopping, doll. Did I say you could come? Disobeying won't go without punishment. We're only getting started. You're giving me two more, baby"

#logan howlett #logan howlett drabble #logan howlett smut #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett x y/n #logan howlett imagine #logan howlett fic #logan howlett fanfiction #wolverine smut #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #deadpool and wolverine #wolverine fic #wolverine x y/n #wolverine drabble

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sunseed-fandump · 4 months ago

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I need more backstory on bad batch wizard!! What do you mean my baby boy was almost devoured 😭

(Also totally not cus he's my fav and im biased to want more content of him no wayyyy 👀💧)

(An old picture sits in Vampire Cookie’s desk drawer. A reminder of a happier time, back when he and his sister used to live in a place very far away…)

Tell me, what are you willing to do for the sake of survival?

When Wizard was first baked, he was lucky he got away when he did. The life powder in his body had kicked in very late. When he awoke, it wasn’t to crackling flames, burnt cookies, and oven walls; he woke up on a plate, the only cookie in his batch to have come alive at all, stuck under the weight of inanimate dough. He didn’t even fully comprehend what was going on until the entire pile had shifted from the Witch taking one of the cookies from the top, offering him a wonderful view of her biting off its head.

He panicked, kicking and flailing in an attempt to free himself and run. The hard porcelain beneath him, the crushing weight above him, and the looming threat beyond that was all too much. He didn’t even know his own name yet and he was already afraid of losing what little life he had.

His struggles had caused the pile to shift slightly, gaining the Witch’s attention. Before she could discover him, the sound of glass shattering and the cat screeching heralded the arrival of a blessing in disguise. With the Witch preoccupied, Wizard was able to wiggle his way out from under the pile and flee to safety.

Like I said, he got lucky.

He wandered the Castle alone for a time, piecing together an identity for himself as he went. However, he didn’t discover his love for knowledge until he stumbled across the Witch’s library. With every book he read, (and he taught himself how to read very very quickly) he understood things a little bit better. The world around him suddenly seemed less scary. Those stringy things in the tunnels? Just cobwebs. Strange-looking shadows? Just a trick of the light. The thunder that crashed beyond the castle walls? A by-product of lightning from the expansion of rapidly heated air. Simple!

Then he found the magic books and Wizard discovered a whole new thing about himself.

He loved magic. He loved the very concept of it. He loved the idea of being able to use it. He wanted to shoo away the cobwebs by conjuring a gust of wind. He wanted to illuminate the shadows by creating light from nothing. He wanted to call the lightning from the heavens and have the thunder clap at his command.

(He wanted - needed - a shred of control over his own fate, lest the Witch find him.)

So he studied, and he practiced, day in and day out, using twigs and common quartz as foci. They weren’t strong, and would break if he tried anything too advanced, but he managed.

Then he met Alchemist Cookie.

At first they didn’t think much of each other. Wizard preferred the Arcane Arts while Alchemist stuck with her potions and elixirs, both considered their chosen path to be superior to the other. Yet, after a few encounters, the two found companionship in one another. It was refreshing finally being able to meet someone just as passionate about magic. It was thrilling to engage in academic discussion and not have to be met with blank confused stares. They became friends.

She introduced him to other castle residents who were just as passionate about magic. She was willing to share her lab with him so he could practice in a safer environment. She showed him the safest paths through the castle walls and all the settlements to find the best reagents. He was very lucky to have met her.

And then came the day his luck ran out.

If you were to ask the two of them whose idea it was to sneak into the Witch’s Lab that day, Wizard would blame Alchemist, while Alchemist would blame Wizard. The truth is, neither of them remember, and by this point it doesn’t matter.

The rarest reagents and best supplies in the castle could be found in that lab, but while Alchemist had plundered the cabinets, Wizard had found something of interest in a display case. A staff, relatively simple in design, with dragon wings carved from amethyst, and a small flickering azure ember hovering above it. Despite his better judgement, despite knowing the Witch would notice such a thing going missing, despite the red flag of repressing runes surrounding the artifact, Wizard Cookie took the staff.

The minute his little hand lifted it from its display, the tiny ember burst into a strong flame and a bright blazing eye slid open. Wizard had been scared at first, almost putting the staff back, but then it spoke to him. It thanked him, it told him it had been trapped for so long, its last master had been killed and it had been waiting for a new wielder worthy of its powerful secrets ever since.

It asked if Wizard would like to know those secrets…

But before the boy could give the staff his answer, Alchemist Cookie had returned from the cabinets. She scolded him for being so reckless and told him to return the staff where he had found it, but Wizard refused. After all, if this staff was as powerful as it boasted, perhaps it could be used for the good of the cookies back home? Besides, the other scholars would probably love to study it. It was such a good find!

Alchemist eventually relented, and the pair left the lab, reagents and staff in hand.

They didn’t know that they were being followed.

When they had returned to the settlement nestled in a crawlspace, the two were wholly unaware of what else they had brought back with them until it was too late.

The Reaper, one of the Witch’s faithful servants created from a hollowed out pumpkin and vines, had followed them back home. She, like the other familiars, had been tasked with capturing the sweetest creatures they could find, especially Cookies. She descended on the town with ruthlessness, spreading seeds that grew into brambles and swinging her scythe with deadly grace.

The town was in complete chaos. The militia scrambled for control, spells did nothing as The Reaper grew back whatever damage was done to her plant-composed body too quickly, nobody could escape because the town had been sealed in by the thorns. That did not stop Wizard and Alchemist from trying to find a way out or helping the other desserts hide while searching for Alchemist’s brother, Vampire Cookie, to make sure he was safe.

Unfortunately, the Reaper found them first.

Two of the many vines that made up her body had caught them, plucking them up like a fresh harvest.

“Oh goody, more cookies!” The Reaper had said with a cackle, but then paused and raised them higher for closer inspection. “Wait... Oh, I know you two! You’re the little thieves I followed! I’m sure The Witch will reward me handsomely when she finds you on her plate tonight!”

Now, as a plant, the Reaper had no need for real food. All of her sustenance came from planting her roots into soil and absorbing whatever sunlight filtered in through the castle’s windows. Because of this, her large empty head was used as a prison for whatever creatures she caught. It was a perfectly harmless holding space. Wizard knew this, of course, because he had done extensive research into as many of the Witch’s minions as he could. (Unlike the cobwebs, shadows, and thunder, the more he learned, the scarier they became.) Despite this knowledge, however, when the Reaper had raised him to her mouth in order to stash him away inside her head, Wizard felt a terribly violent spike of fear for his own life.

His first memory had returned to him, unbidden. The vision of the Witch biting the head off of a cookie flashed in his mind, and that combined with his fear, caused the irrational thought of “I am going to die. She is going to eat me.”

And then the staff, still clutched tightly in his hands, spoke to him once again.

It told him it could save him. It told him it knew a spell that could stop the Reaper once and for all. He needed only to ask, and it would happily whisper the words into his ear. After all, it would hate to see Wizard wind up on a plate like its last master.

All Wizard had to do was listen closely…

The words of the spell felt vile on his tongue, but the Azure Flame Staff assured him that he would get used to it. He was mere inches from the Reaper’s face when the blue flame at the top of the staff burst.

A massive inferno consumed the Reaper and soon the flames spread to the brambles. The force of the explosion had shook the foundation and support beams, causing the old castle stones to collapse which resulted in a cave-in that buried some of the town.

It was complete and utter devastation.

Wizard and Alchemist had been flung from the Reaper’s grasp when she flailed around in a desperate attempt to put the fires out. The azure flames ate away at both her plant-like body and the magic that fueled her life-essence. It was a weirdly beautiful sight, though Wizard didn’t have a chance to see what became of her as he and Alchemist crashed into a fountain, the water just barely broke their fall.

They hauled themselves out of the fountain, soaking wet and trembling, but alive. They were alive. Wizard had done it. He finally had the power to change his fate however he wished. He’d done it!

Laughter had bubbled out of his chest at the revelation, the hand that wasn’t clutching the staff had flown up to his hair. (He had lost his hat in the fall. Pity.) All the stress and fear melted into an emotion he couldn’t quite describe, but it gave him butterflies in his stomach and a lightheaded feeling that just made everything suddenly seem so funny. He could barely contain himself as he leaned back against the edge of the fountain and released all that pent up emotion through cackling laughter that could only just barely be heard over the sounds of crackling blue fire.

“I did it!” He had said with joy in his heart. “We’re safe, Alchemist, we’re–!” But his joy melted into concern when he looked over to his friend. Where he had been expecting her to be just as relieved and happy as he was, he saw fear.

It took him a moment to realize that it was directed at him.

“Alchemist?” His brow furrowed.

“Wizard…” Alchemist began slowly. “Put the staff down.”

The staff almost seemed to hiss at her suggestion, and Wizard found himself clutching it tighter. “Why?”

“Please, I just need you to trust me, okay?” She slowly got to her feet, approaching him like one would a scared animal.

With the Reaper no longer an immediate threat, the townscookies had begun leaving their hiding places in favor of getting the inferno under control. The square was suddenly full of noise, cookies shouting orders and rallying others to shift through the rubble. Wizard didn’t hear any of it as he stared at Alchemist with confusion.

“But, Alchemist, it’s fine. See?” He held it up and she cringed away, as if expecting him to cast that same explosive spell at her. Why did she think he would hurt her? They were friends!

“Th-That’s great, now put down the staff.” Her insistence made annoyance flare up in Wizard’s gut. They had just escaped certain death and this was what she was focusing on?! He wasn’t a threat, so why was she acting so weird? She knew he’d been looking for a strong foci for a while now, so why was she trying to take the staff away from him?

Wizard narrowed his eyes. “... No.”

“What?”

“We finally have a means of defending ourselves against the Witch and her minions and you want me to just let it go?” The boy rose to his full height, taking a step forward (and ignoring her taking a step back).

“Wizard, that thing is dangerous!” She flung her arms out to the side, gesturing at the burning town all around them. Wizard scoffed.

“I have it under control!” He didn’t, but that wasn’t important right now.

“You call everything that just happened control?! You just killed one of the Witch’s familiars and buried half the town!” Alchemist was getting visibly hysterical, but Wizard was too angry to notice. She was treating him like a child! He knew what he was doing!

“I just saved your life! A ‘thank you’ would be nice!” He put a hand on his hip, offended at the lack of gratitude.

“Thank you? You want a thank you?! There are cookies buried under there, some of them might have even crumbled, and you want me to THANK YOU?! My brother is over there and–!” She stopped short, as if surprised by the words that had come from her own mouth. The color drained from her face as realization set in, her eyes were wide and she spoke with a soft trembling voice, “Vampire Cookie….”

She had spun on her heel, anger towards Wizard forgotten in favor of fear for her brother. “VAMPIRE COOKIE!”

“I’ll help!” Wizard’s own anger simmering into concern over the lax cookie’s well-being. Yet he was stopped by a spear impacting the ground in front of him.

“I believe we’ve all had enough of your ‘help’,” spat the militia-cookie who had gotten in his way before he extended a hand toward the boy. “You’re under arrest for use of dark magic. Come quietly.”

“Wha–?!” Wizard jumped back, looking from the armored cookie to Alchemist Cookie’s back. “You-You can’t be serious! You’re joking, right? It was just the one spell, how does that make me a criminal?! Alchemist, tell him he’s wrong! Alchemist!”

The girl said nothing for a long moment, refusing to look at him. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. When she finally spoke it was a whisper, “Leave…”

Wizard cringed as if he had been struck. “B-But–”

“I said LEAVE!” She whirled around on him, tears and fire in her eyes. “THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!”

Wizard Cookie felt numb. This couldn’t really be happening could it? He had just defeated the monster attacking the town, and now they were treating HIM like the monster! All he did was cast a spell! A spell that saved them from the Witch’s dinner table!

“HAS EVERYONE GONE CRAZY?!” Wizard snapped. “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU–AH!”

A stone had gotten thrown at his head, and it was only now he realized the scene had amassed quite an audience.

“The only crazy one here is you!” shouted one of the cookies in the crowd.

“What were you thinking?!” cried another.

“This is so much worse than what the Reaper would have done!”

“Get out!” Another stone was thrown, which Wizard was able to avoid this time.

The boy began to feel overwhelmed. Despair settled in his gut and made it feel like heavy stones had been tied to his feet as he looked around at all the cookies who were angry at him. He gave one last pleading look to Alchemist, who stared at him with a cold look.

Without another word, she turned her back to him and left.

Wizard scrambled back when a few more militia-cookies began advancing on him. Outnumbered and heartbroken, he fled. The militia probably would have caught him if the staff hadn’t whispered a teleportation spell into his ear, which he used without a second thought.

And the minute he left town, the azure flames blew out.

Wizard was on his own for a while after that. The experience made him bitter, especially when word spread throughout the castle of a cookie of his description practicing the forbidden arcane. A menace, a mad wizard, a twisted child who could destroy a whole town and laugh about it. He hated those rumors. He despised the vile things everyone said about him, especially since most of it wasn’t even true! But nobody asked for his side of the story. They only ever pointed and called him a monster!

And after everything he’d done for them…

Did they expect him to have just let himself be taken and eaten by the Witch? Did they want him to just rely on luck like everyone else? Did they want him to just accept whatever fate the Witches designed for him?! No, he refused. He wanted to live. He wanted to learn. He wanted to paint his own destiny and leave a mark on the world that no one would ever be able to erase.

Wizard Cookie did not want to be lucky, he wanted to live.

So, I ask again.

What are you willing to do for the sake of survival?

#ask #sophszzz #bad batch #my art #wizard cookie #alchemist cookie #cookie run #cookie run kingdom #crk au #crk fanfic #fanfic #fic #this got very out of hand LMAO #but i had fun writing it regardless :)#au

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tehrevving · 3 months ago

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Submissive Dante is Praised and Teased until he Cums in his Pants.

My first original anime inspired fic!

Dante x Reader. Praise Kink. Dirty Talk. Experienced Partner. Inexperienced Dante. GN!Reader. Grinding. Dry Humping. Biting. Slight Pain Kink. Slight Choking.

This can be read as a standalone but is set in my series. For backstory, ‘You’ know an older/different Dante, and have been sent through universes and have met the anime one. You know alot about Dante’s life, and how to *cough* Pull That Devil Trigger!!

Read on Ao3

You’re watching him out of the corner of your eye. You hide it well but Dante knows you’re always watching, his senses are enhanced and he’s always watching you, most of the time anyway. He’s curious, your backstory strange and unbelievable, but somehow you have the knowledge to back it up. You do know him, some other version of him. He’d never met you before the other day, but you clearly know too much about him.

“Thinking about charging for the view,” Dante hums as he stretches on his office chair, pulling his arms up behind his head and making the hem of his shirt ride up. He knows that your eyes are going to dart straight to that small, exposed sliver of skin and that you’re going to stare at it like you want to devour him. He wants you to. You’re reluctant but he knows he can wear you down, he knows you’d be able to rock his world.

Your eyes dart away at his words but there’s no embarrassment in your gaze, you just chuckle. “You can’t handle me, Cowboy.”

Dante flexes his shoulders and rocks his hips slowly, your eyes snapping back to him. “You’re just a human,” he muses, “and I’m a strong, invulnerable half-devil. I can handle anything you throw at me.”

You shake your head. “Five minutes with me and you’d be making a mess of your pants.”

“Doubt it,” he taunts back, but he’s not actually sure. He doesn’t have that much experience, and you definitely do.

You sigh. “You’re not gonna give up on this, are you Dante? I told you, I don’t want to fuck you up by doing this with you, but, if you’re not going to let it go, then fine, you can have a taste.”

“Jackpot,” Dante grins but there’s something dark and hungry in your gaze that makes his smile falter. You walk over to him, hips swinging and Dante swallows heavily. He plants the legs of his chair back on the ground and pulls away from his desk, tapping his fingers on his lap with a growing, smug excitement.

You straddle him, sinking straight down into his lap like you belong there. Your palms press against his chest for support as you settle against him. You’re so fucking warm and even though you’re hiding it well, his enhanced senses pick up the slowly rising beat of your heart. His hands move to grip at your hips and hold you steady.

“Is this alright?” you ask, voice soft and full of something warm and comforting.

Dante nods, eyes flicking between your face slightly above his and your chest, perfectly positioned at eye level. “More than okay Sweetheart.”

You give a small sigh and then reach out, hooking your pointer finger just underneath his chin. You pull his face up, making his eyes meet yours. Your eyes are dark and full of desire.

“Can I kiss you?” you ask softly, eyes fixed on his lips.

Dante nods eagerly. “Mhmm.”

You kiss him, softly at first, a warm press of lips against lips. You move carefully, easing him into the heat of your body before you start deepening the kiss. You lick across his lips and he opens up, eager for a taste. Your tongue pushes into his mouth, rubbing against his. He pushes against you, trying to deepen the kiss in his own way. You bite down on his tongue to stop him and he gasps, pulling back.

Your fingers are on his chin, digging into his skin as you direct his head. You pull him to the side, dragging your lips across his jaw. You kiss him, biting and twisting suddenly too sensitive skin between your teeth from his lips all the way to his ear. Heat pricks at the base of Dante’s neck as arousal begins to swell in his blood.

“You smell so good,” you whisper, lips pressed to his skin. “You always smell so good.” You lick him, warm saliva cooling against his cheek. “Good enough to eat.”

Dante’s breath leaves his lungs in a rush. He hears you chuckle and then your hand is suddenly in his hair. Your nails prick at his scalp as you kiss him again, lips rough as you wrench his head back and take control.

Dante is at your mercy, head held still while you kiss him like you’re trying to devour him. He wants you to. He tries to chase your lips when you pull away but you yank him back by the hair. He wants more and growls his reluctance as prickling pain washes down his spine.

“Don’t you growl at me,” you scold him, nails digging into the back of his neck. “If you don’t behave then I’m going to need to punish you, Dante,” you purr, lips moving by his ear. “Bad boys get spanked, and you don’t want that, do you?”

A half growl, half moan leaves Dante’s throat. He does want that, not right now, but he wants it, he wants everything you’re willing to give him.

You bite down on his earlobe hard and he shudders, the pain searing. “Bad boys get spanked and naughty boys get their asses fucked. So behave.”

Dante’s eyes flutter shut. Oh fuck he wants it. His head is swimming, thick with arousal and submission. All you’ve done is speak to him and barely touched him, and it’s too much. He’s suddenly too hot, an overwhelming heat radiating from his body, he wants his clothes off. Your hips lower slightly, brushing the bulge of his erection in his tight pants. He groans as you ride him for a moment, then whines when you pull away.

“Good boy Dante,” you praise, “you’re almost there. Just a little bit more.” You kiss at his jaw as your words throb through his cock. You kiss down his neck, biting for emphasis. You tug on his hair, guiding his skull in every direction, pulling the skin of his neck tight so you can suck deep marks into it. Your tongue brushes over his frantic pulse and his breathing quickens, the heat of arousal and <i>something else</i> rising behind his eyes.

“You’re being so good,” you whisper, praising while Dante swallows heavily. “You’re behaving, I knew you would. Your heart is beating so fast.” You lick his pulse to emphasise your words. “What are you thinking about?”

“Y-you,” he stammers.

“Be more specific,” you chuckle, the sound taunting him as you bite at his neck. He tries to speak but your hand moves to his throat. Your grip tightens, pressing, not cutting off his air but hinting that you could.

His devil craves it with a deep, throaty whine that echoes from deep within his chest.

“You’d let me do absolutely anything, wouldn’t you?”

Dante nods, hips bucking, desperately trying to get friction. His pants are so damn tight, the ache of his cock dividing his attention.

You rock your hips downwards and he groans, head falling forward to rest on your shoulder. He can feel your heat even through too many layers of clothing, maybe he’s just imagining it but he doesn’t care. He wants to take control, to push you down and take what he needs, but your hand in his hair stops him, your grip on his throat makes his devil quiver in anticipation instead, wondering what you might do.

“Ah, there we go,” you purr, rocking against him. You don’t remove your hips this time, you grind down on him instead. Dante groans, the friction and heat on his cock forcing his hips to buck.

You shift your grip on him, the hand on the base of his skull moving to the back of his shoulder. You dig your nails in, pressing hard enough through his shirt that he thinks you might be drawing blood. He likes it. He wants more. You squeeze gently at his throat, cutting off his air for a single, desperate moment before your fingers brush across his jaw to just behind his ear. You yank his head to the back and side, stretching out his neck.

You lean down and start licking over the spot where his shoulder meets his throat. He shivers, it’s sensitive there, so much more sensitive than it should be. You’re grinding against his cock and the heat and pressure is addictive. He wants more, but he doesn’t want to push you, he wants to see what you’re going to do.

“Don’t fight it Dante,” you urge him, voice clear with intent.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to not fight, but he can’t nod his head to respond so he just exhales sharply instead.

You press your lips to his skin and then your teeth, adjusting the angle until his whole body starts tingling with a sudden, desperate heat. You grind down roughly, hips pushing against his bulge. Dante presses up into the friction with a groan. Your nails dig hard into the wounds on his shoulder, the pain somehow only making his cock harder, throbbing with need. You bite down hard enough to break the skin, hard enough to take a chunk out of his shoulder. Dante shouts, the pain giving way to a searing, desperate pleasure as his vision fades to a sparking, all consuming white and his entire body erupts with electricity, cock spurting uncontrollably in his pants.

#dante #dante x reader #dante sparda #dmc #devil may cry #dante x you #devil may cry netflix #dante x y/n #rev writes #my writing

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mocchii-writes · 5 months ago

Note

hii!! i love your work! i would like to request head-canons with a reader who is an ex cop (could be from the same reason as jun ho, as they failed to investigate the mysterious island) but this time, they’re actually able to infiltrate into the games. you can do separate characters for gi hun, in ho, dae ho, thanos, and nam gyu?!

Squid Game Boys if You Were Undercover in the Games

Paring: Seong Gi-hun, Hwang In-ho, Kang Dae-ho, Choi Su-bong (Thanos), Nam-gyu x fem!Reader (Separate)

Warnings: Drugs

A/n: I hope I understood this correctly, Anon, it's a very cool one! ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

~🍡🍡

Hwang In-ho:

This would be very interesting indeed

Since he's also an undercover spy-esc. type, he might not even notice if you act suspicious in that type because he's covering up himself

but he also seems smart enough to figure it out

he would admire your bravery, if so, and originally planned to shut you down once he thought you'd had enough fun

but there was something about the way you looked at him sometimes that made him pause

it took him a while to realise he actually liked you, and the thought didn't exactly comfort him

you guys would play a game of tag in the dark, jumping around the fact that you're on opposing sides of a growing war

and you'd both pretend you knew nothing so you could be friendly guilt-free

he wouldn't hesitate at the chance to save your life, unlike he would for many other "friends"

he's very protective and defensive of you anytime anyplace

if anyone even thought of hurting you, pray for them fr

he's almost ashamed to admit to himself that he cares about you, but the thought hardly crosses his mind when met with false hatred for you instead.

(or what he calls hatred)

Seong Gi-hun (s2):

You knew he could use all the help he could get, and he seemed almost too kind to be in this place

and you knew you could use all the help you could get as well

so you didn't have to think long on it to decide to tell him what you knew

he trusts you, for sure

he's also protective of you, trying his best to ensure your safety even though that's a hard ask

and you protect him too, to the best of your abilities

you both have a common goal, too, and that helps with the bonding

speaking of

you two would bond pretty well imo, sharing your stories and fears with each other at night

he's not very confident in terms of romance, and he'd probably miss most of your hints because he's so used to people never glancing his way

but eventually he would understand

if not your feelings, then his own

and he would probably confess to you by like either exploding a bunch of words out of his mouth that are hardly understandable, or very quietly and clearly, like he's sharing a secret with you

Kang Dae-ho:

If you told him he would be so impressed, let's be honest here

literally star-struck, because an undercover ex-cop is the sickest thing ever??

and not to mention he definitely already admires you

he wants to know everything about your investigation and your backstory

he feels very safe with you, but still holds himself to the standard of defending you if he needs to

you'll probably have to make the first move unless you can boost his ego a little more because like I said, he thinks you're way too cool for him

you would do your best to help him, and he does the same for you

which really makes you two a crazy power couple because when you guys really link up you're unstoppable

I just know yall would devour in the riot omg

he loves loves loves you, and he loves talking to you about all the police stuff you do and his time in the military

Choi Su-bong (Thanos):

It's an understatement to say you were wary of him, and even more wary of telling him your reasons for being here

but it's not like he would notice anything weird, so you'll be alright

you were trying to keep a low profile, but Thanos didn't intend to just let a pretty girl like you get away

He tried his usual charms, and whether or not they worked is... irrelevant... 🤭

anyways

you joined his group because you thought it gave you safety, but that didn't stop Thanos from trying to win you over

after your suspicions died down, he seemed pretty genuine

so you told him your story, and he listened

he told you he'd try to help you, but neither of you know if he could really help that much

but he definitely respected you more after that

and nobody dares to mess with Thanos's girl, but if they did, you know he'd handle it

he thinks of you as a close friend as well, and he trusts you more after you tell him you're undercover

he would want to tell Nam-gyu, but he wouldn't if you didn't want him to

he would think it's hot lmao

he'd be like, "So you're a super secret spy? cool, cool. Where's your earpiece?"

"bro"

"Hm?"

it overall wouldn't really affect how he treats you, but your relationship would sift, probably for the better

Nam-gyu:

Depending on how you met, he would be really gentle with you imo

he's really nice with thanos (though he claims it's for the drugs)

so I think if he liked you he would really like you

we know he's very touchy and probably protective of you

but when you tell him your real story, he's flabbergasted

I mean sure, it makes sense, but what??

his perfect wife? (he's known you 4 days)

he's very proud of it

will probably yap to everyone about it, sadly

you'll really have to hold him back, if you can

he'd say he wants to hear about it but hed probably lose interest lmao

but he'll ask you late at night, and you two will talk for a while about your lives

he'd say he's ashamed of his life currently, and that you have so much more potential

you'd have to comfort him and tell him it's okay

also, please comfort him when he takes drugs from thanos because they make him pretty anxious sometimes

and he just wants to be with you, so hold him ♡

protects you but also knows you can handle yourself, just give him this

Sorry, I'm posting really slow but all the req will be out once I get on that grind ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

~🍡🍡

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slowd1ving · 2 months ago

Text

IWAUSBTIDAWRIANWATSIARHNAFTFTWOADP ✦ . SUNDAY

I was an underpaid salaryman but then I died and was reincarnated into a new world as the strongest in a reverse-harem novel and forced to follow the whims of a deranged pope??? headcanon/drabble thing idk before I recommit to my baby pendulum art creds: noredemptionarc on x pairing: pope sunday + male reincarnator reader warnings: none, just some obsessiveness ig and violence wc: 4k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

✦ . Each person has their own unrealistic daydreams about things they want to experience: a day with unlimited money, exacting revenge on a particularly insufferable coworker, or perhaps the advent of superpowers. Paltry things, naturally, in response to the endless mundanity and strife present in a vast world.

✦ . Naturally, you’re no different: an overworked corporate pawn that fits uncomfortably in the statistical median. Each ambition of yours is imprisoned in a charcoal suit, and your only solace is escaping to other worlds to forget this one. That’s your daydream, wrapped neatly in a bound volume of novels and the cracked screen of your phone.

✦ . Apocalypse, martial arts, romance—you devour each and every genre. Horridly predictable clichés, trash storylines and badly written characters: they pile up, catalogued in your reading history with carefully curated reviews. There are gems that you wouldn’t mind ending up in; with those, you plan cautiously your ascent to a comfortable, entertaining life—an office worker versus the pixels on your phone.

✦ . Alas, you wind up in a cliché of your own: entering an eternal slumber from overwork and reincarnating as a side character in the shitty b-rated romance novel your coworker recommended. Scratch that—not even a side character but an extra. It’s a karmic jab at the scathing vitriol you left buried in the comments, engaging with the work only to argue with people beneath each chapter about the god-awful plot devices and utter vapidity behind the character choices. Like, come on, a harem based on how ‘interesting’ the female lead is? Seriously?

✦ . Except, the situation is very serious now. Shoved into the body of one of the male leads? You could’ve dealt with that hand. Reborn as the villain responsible for the situations that inevitably ended with each male lead getting closer to the heroine? Sure, you’ve read enough of those that you have a comprehensive, cited manual on how to turn around your fate. But… being born as a commoner in a fantasy setting, a good twenty years before the story actually starts, in a village that would likely be stricken by the plague or wiped off the map as a plot device? You’re screwed.

✦ . Or that’s what you might’ve thought, if the plot wasn’t so predictable.

✦ . You’ll set yourself up for life if you play your cards right—following each cliché like a trail of breadcrumbs to find each magical artifact or whatever, unlocking a magical core probably along the way, finding every obvious foreshadowing Chekhov’s gun style. Training to be the underdog knight who ends up as a second male lead? Pshh—that’s amateur stuff. You’ll make a name for yourself, journeying through the lands of Argo to steal the main characters’ glory.

✦ . It’s simple. You wait for an inevitable war with demonic hordes that probably contributed to a tragic backstory in the main cast, and do your best to get recruited by the grizzled veteran who conveniently spots you training with a stick in one of the fields. Either you die and leave this stupid world, or you get lucky and rise up in the ranks—a win-win situation, really.

✦ . It hurts. The magic sword that you found located suspiciously in the forest looks into your soul and determines you are not in fact pure of heart and will wallop you until you are, thus the golden-haired Southern Duke’s heir Gepard Landau misses his opportunity to acquire the legendary Harpe, and you get to be beaten up in his stead. You don’t complain though—this is all part of the convoluted process that is mentioned once (never in detail) that creates a stupidly overpowered character.

✦ . It hurts. The veteran who noticed your far-too-enthusiastic movements knows his stuff—in true cliché fashion—and you are molded into the perfect little soldier, bruised within an inch of your life. You learn various footwork techniques and the basics that shape your swordwork into something to be feared, that cuts down demons like wheat under a sickle.

✦ . It hurts. Magic circles brand the tender walls of your heart when you’re thinking about the physics degree you started but never managed to complete, and you pass out a few times as they stabilise—but it’s fine. Pain is temporary; those sweet gains will be your plot armour.

✦ . Guilt might have wracked your heart if you were one of those irritating protagonists that firmly believed they should stick to the plotline no matter what, but you aren’t. If it’s truly a fictional world you are in, then your actions won’t matter; and if it’s a real world, then your actions merely represent a parallel divergence in this universe, and the world actually doesn’t revolve around the main cast.

✦ . You are the first to find the demonic stone that is meant to be absorbed by the Duke of the North, Yingxing—one of the more disturbing male leads—and consume it to catalyse the formation of additional magic circles around your body. He’s just some guy whose demonic heritage and extensive training created a ridiculously strong and edgy lead who is fixed or whatever by the sunny protagonist.

✦ . It is when you accidentally-on-purpose stumble across the statue of an old goddess Idrila that your ripples culminate into a tidal wave of change. Within the subtle planes of the stone, a mythical being slumbers—meant to be the driving force behind the knight-turned-second-lead Argenti’s actions, yet will now be used to your full advantage as you drip your blood into the offering plate. No, she doesn’t grant wishes, but she does give him a pretty neat technique that creates a water-tight defense.

✦ . You may have gone too far. The paltry details you’ve robbed from the story—mere plot devices that only accelerate the male leads’ growth—have forged you into a war hero, practically capable of standing toe-to-toe with the Demon Queen herself. Well, not really. You won’t push your luck, even as you’re being awarded a medal of honour and a title for turning the tides. It’s a viscounty—far more than you expected, but you’ll take it, even with the whispers in high society about you. A commoner turned noble. Oh, the scandal—the horror. Truly, you could not care less as you return to the battlefield to find even more spoils—except, you almost crash into a herald on your way and stare incredulously as he delivers the king’s edict.

✦ . Guard His Holiness.

✦ . You were fine dealing with the murderous stare garnered from the Northern Duke as you politely bowed to the protagonist, fine with interacting with the two more rational male leads (though it was a controversial case when it came to Sir Argenti, if you were totally being honest), but His Holiness? Now, this wasn’t a plotline you could have predicted. If memory serves you correctly, mad dogs of the battlefield are, you know, kept in the battlefield slaughtering demons—not, you know, on guard duty. Is the king being for real?

✦ . He is, in fact, being for real. Part of you wants to take the rolled up parchment from the herald and bash it over your head, but another part of you appreciates the unexpected nature of the request. Or perhaps it’s expected, as the natural enemy of demons is the Church of Order, and they will likely be targeted by the hordes next. Except, you’re not quite sure why the most dangerous of the male leads, Sunday, needs protection. Of the unfortunate quartet, he is the most obsessive—the papal figure of Ena the Order, with his deluded faith coming only second to his absolute devotion to the heroine.

✦ . Though, on second thoughts, heading to the church might be the only plausible course of action—you know, consult with whatever god is running this place, get some answers to the questions that have really been bugging you, like the logistics of this world, and perhaps why this feels far too like an easy mode on a video game with all the clues laid in front of you. You want a real head scratcher, now that everything’s fallen neatly into place: your wealth, title, and sick powers.

✦ . Except, as you’re kneeling before a statue of Ena and fervently wishing for some explanations and perhaps an answer for why things continue to be easy mode, a sickening chill spreads over your body—almost as if THEY are laughing at you. Easy mode? THEY seem to scoff, before the feeling fades away and you stand up, feeling dread pool in your stomach.

✦ . You’re just some guy. You took this job and didn’t run away to the neighbouring kingdom, purely for the reason that your soul is about as clean as pond water—much like all the other people who frequent the temple—and Sunday views these ordinary people, these sinners, with a benevolent sort of sympathy. Nobles and commoners alike are lumped in together as the ‘lambs’ who require salvation—including you, of course. The pure-hearted main character is a general exception to this rule—somebody who in his eyes, absolutely embodies light. She’s far purer than he is, which ironically serves as the sun to his wax-adhered wings—catalysing his imminent destruction and advent as someone who’d do anything for her. The Sunday you’d read about with mild fascination will inevitably grow distant to the plight of people—which is perfect for you, either way, as you will be reduced to white noise, befitting of a mere guard.

✦ . Well, it’s not like he needs a guard, regardless. If you had to pick one positive of that novel, it would be evenly distributing the power levels of each male lead—meaning that Sunday was comparable to the other three in his own right (or he might even be slightly stronger, considering your hijacking of key level-up materials of the other three). And in true novel fashion, he’d likely just dismiss you as soon as you announced yourself.

✦ . Which he does. He’s not necessarily a tall man, but the way he dresses pristinely and talks in that clipped manner makes him exude a certain type of presence that makes you wary of numerous facets of his character: the almost-too-angelic image he presents himself with, the dark expression he wears when nobody can see him, and finally, the uncanny way he spots lies within someone’s words. Of course, you’re not necessarily important enough to exchange words with, therefore it’s not like he can glean lies from your brief greetings when you come to fulfill your duties each day and are promptly dismissed from your post.

✦ . You’d be pretty annoyed about this blatant waste of time if it weren’t for the fact that it gives you access to the theological works located in the library—ample time to research the exact cliché that led you here. Though you’d wished for such a reincarnation to take you from Earth, it feels artificial almost, when you’re pre-cognisant of what will happen based on the tried and true arcs of each repetitive novel you’ve read.

✦ . There’s no way of telling what point of the story you’re in. With how many things you’ve screwed over, it could be over for all you know—or there could be a parallel story culminating from all the butterfly effects you’ve unleashed. Ah, whatever. You’re strolling through the well-maintained courtyard with a divine treatise in one hand and the constant droning of Harpe in one ear, attempting to find a nice little shady nook to lurk and read in, when you see it—the protagonist, presumably meeting the papal figure of the Order for the first time. The slight flutter of the wings by his face that denote him as part of an angelic race confirms it, and you turn on your heel abruptly, leaving them to talk.

✦ . Except, the protagonist is far too friendly for her own good—and hasn’t in fact forgotten about a commoner-turned-viscount who met her properly like once. She waves at you cheerfully, calling out your name, and you turn around slowly—like you’re in some horror movie, which you probably are.

✦ . “I didn’t know you got transferred here!” Each time you see her, you’re reminded of the interns at your company—friendly, not yet crushed by the depressing reality of corporate life. It makes you feel bad for her, but then you’re reminded of who exactly stands next to her when you politely take her hand and bow your head over it in a perfunctory greeting.

✦ . “Yes, as per His Majesty’s orders.” You’re laconic in your usual state, which seems to cut you some slack with Sunday, who observes each miniscule shift of your emotions like some damn psychologist—the general apathy you feel to the both of them, the yearning to go somewhere else (anywhere but here). You can feel the intrusion, and it’s a double-edged sword. If you succeed with this, you can successfully convince him you’re not a threat.

✦ . “What are you reading?” She spotted the book you’re half-heartedly keeping tucked by your side, and you can feel the intensity of Sunday’s stare increase. Shit.

✦ . “Some of the interpretations made by the Prophets.” You mutter truthfully, feeling as though you’re being interrogated. You hesitantly show the worn cover—wanting to be anywhere but here, under the Pope’s intense scrutiny of his guard.

✦ . “Oh, really? That’s—” “The manuscripts in the library aren’t meant to be taken out of the building.” Sunday’s cool voice interrupts her, and you practically wither.

✦ . “My apologies, sir. I was unaware of that.” It’s best to smooth things over instantly: pathetically bowing your head to the Pope. “It’s Your Holiness, viscount. And it’s unseemly for a guard of mine to be unaware of two such crucial pieces of knowledge.” As expected, he’s meticulous about everything pertaining to his image—so unbelievably fastidious that it might’ve irritated you had you not had so many years of working under irritating superiors.

✦ . “Yes, Your Holiness. Then, I’ll excuse myself to return the treatise.” There’s not a trace of annoyance in you—rather, a profound relief at him providing the convenient excuse for you to exit. It was probably on purpose that he did so, hoping you’d take the hint and leave, but it works very well for you.

✦ . “Wait— is that the ancient language of ◼◼◼◼◼?” There’s a brief pause, before you stare at the book again, prompted by her curious words. It’s not in the fictional language of this place, but the ancient tongue had always been denoted in the novel as square brackets around the original English of the text for convenience, which indirectly manifested it as English when you reincarnated here.

✦ . “I suppose,” you mutter. It’s rare to find clergy who can both read and speak it well, and even rarer for a regular layperson to do so. It’s far too time-consuming to learn with the current alphabet of this place, and the pronunciation isn’t intuitive at all based on how the words are constructed, considering the language here. It makes you wonder at the sloppy linguistic developments of this world, further supporting the hypothesis that you’re still in a fictional world.

✦ . [You’re fluent and not just loitering about to waste time?] Sunday speaks, maintaining his even tone and crisp cadence—though they’re tinged with some Argonian ways of speaking. The protagonist’s head swivels between the two of you, and you sigh internally at the prolonged disruption.

✦ . [Yes, Your Holiness. If I wanted to waste time, I’d beat up your knights templar. But as it stands, it’s not like you’re letting me perform my job regardless, therefore I am in a state of loitering perpetually.] You bow your head once more, feeling a strange sense of vindication. [Now, if you’ll excuse me.] Then, you leave—particularly refreshed after the little spat.

✦ . That is your first mistake.

✦ . The second comes from having befriended the Saint, Robin. Though formally, she’s meant to be in isolation—guarded in her tower save for days where she descends to the realm of mortals—you’ve felt sorry for the faceless girl and her quiet complaints, so you’ve taken to spiriting away sweet foods from the outside and leaving them on her windowsill—using the special footwork arts you’ve trained in for such paltry purposes. As it turns out, Templar knights are more than willing to leave guard duty to a war hero, which means you become more or less a constant in her terribly lonely life. You feel horrible. Her voice has been blessed by the gods, and thus she’s been reduced to a songbird—shackled to a birdcage by the corrupted elders of the church.

✦ . Yet, she can’t even escape, for the hold they have over her brother makes her unable to leave.

✦ . You only realise what a horrible mistake it is when the two of you end up bonding over literature—on one side of the table, a veiled Saint eats some of the strawberry cheesecake that you baked after sneaking into the Temple kitchens at night, while on the other, you sit with a cup of hard coffee to knock some energy back into you. Well—it’s not exactly then that you realise you fucked up. After all, you’re enjoying a pleasant conversation on the most mundane of things: the birds that fly past her window and occasionally stop by to bring her flowers, the weird sort of stiffness that the priests move with outside, and the unique taste of the cakes the pâtissier in the village makes.

✦ . You don’t bring up your past, nor her situation. It’s the only respite she gets from her solitude, and it’s the only respite you get from your own—two misfits within a strict hierarchy.

✦ . Yet…

✦ . “Explain exactly what you are doing here.” Cold fury vibrates through Sunday’s voice as he stands in the stone doorway leading into the Saint room. You freeze under his yellow-eyed, boreal glare; every second stretches into an infinity, and the cake on your fork wobbles in tandem with your hand.

✦ . Shit, isn’t this breaking some kind of taboo? The veiled Saint pauses, then places down her fork too—yet, she’s not shaking in her boots like you are.

✦ . “Don’t yell at him.” You’re staring at her incredulously, and your fork clatters against your plate as you drop it. Sunday’s gaze swivels to her, and his brows furrow.

✦ . “And you—what have I told you about being careful?” It’s not exasperation in his voice, but something else that you can’t quite put your finger on. Concern? Nah—can’t be.

✦ . “She’s not at fault,” you argue. But upon reflection… “Neither am I, actually. I’m fulfilling guard duty whilst being her friend.”

✦ . Friend. You can tell her eyes are fixed upon you from beneath her veil—though you can’t tell they’re brimming with some emotion. Sunday only scoffs at your words—his unmoved mask wavers in the face of the Saint, it seems. “Guard duty? You’re flagrantly disobeying protocol, again, while being a bad influence on the Saint. What are you doing here in the first place?”

✦ . “Stop it, Brother!” Her words send a shocked shiver down your spine—and she’s pulling off her veil, showing you a face and wings that are practically a carbon copy of her brother’s. All angry and red and yelling, and you’re left staring at two siblings squabbling over you. “He’s one of the only things that have been keeping me sane in this misery. I’m old enough to distinguish who I can trust and befriend—”

✦ . “Robin…” he murmurs, wings agitated and flattened against his face. His lips part and close once more, before his eyes swivel to yours in a renewed glare. “And you—”

✦ . [Follow me.] His icy tone clearly translates into the tongue he switches to, and you’re essentially marched out by the ear. You haplessly look back at Robin, but all she mouths is ‘I’ll see you later’. It’s barely an assurance that you’ll survive the encounter, but at this point, you’ll take any assurance you can get.

✦ . You get your answer when he practically slams you down into a chair in his office, wiping his dove-grey gloves off as if you’re dirt reincarnate, and you scowl.

✦ . “Answer me honestly,” he demands, and you nod with a swallow. You can feel the familiar intrusion rooting around in your mind, drinking in every change in emotion. “Are you seeking to harm Robin?”

✦ . “No, I’m not.” You hold his gaze. There are two sides to his personality—the apathy he feels towards everyone, and the care that he bequeaths onto those close to him. It’s been like that in the novel throughout the duration of his arc—this new, irritated side to him is one you’ve never seen.

✦ . “I would’ve thought a war hero would have a spine, but you’re far more pathetic than I thought.” It’s a cutting remark, but honestly, you’re marvelling at the change.

✦ . “All due respect, Your Holiness, but you’re my employer and this is a feudal system,” you reply neutrally, gazing at the floor as if it’s captivating you. The glare focused on you intensifies.

✦ . “I changed my mind. Report to me each morning—I’ll put you to work.”

✦ . He lives up to his words. Rather than guarding him, you’re entrusted with translating manuscripts into this world’s tongue—a task that had previously been split between him and two other cardinals, yet has now been unceremoniously delegated to you. You’re paid, naturally, yet not for the damn job that you were meant to do.

✦ . “Pour me some tea.” It’s another flippant side to him that you only ever witness when you’re alone with him. If anyone walked in, all they’d see after politely knocking would be a paragon of hard work—Sunday—and his aide. That’s what you’ve been reduced to from a mad dog of the battlefield.

✦ . “What am I, a maid?” you mutter under your breath, and his yellow eyes hone in on you in the precise glare that makes your spine prickle.

✦ . He only softens when he sees his sister—inviting himself to the designated ‘tea times’ the Saint has set for you, and merely staring at you whenever you speak, never deigning to reply to you but only Robin when she speaks to him directly.

✦ . “I think you’re the closest to a friend that he’s ever had,” she tells you one time, when he’s busy with the inevitable duties that come with being the pope. You don’t say anything, laughing off her words internally. You? A friend? To Sunday? The maniac obsessed with divinity, the Order, and the protagonist? It’s ridiculous. He challenges you to a duel that very night—and you think it’s over. He’s never shown his hand like this in the novel; those who witness him fight might as well be dead.

✦ . His divine power manifests itself as thorns—looping and weaving in dangerous ways you barely manage to block with Harpe and Idrila’s defense, crashing into the secluded ground of the Templar knights’ training hall.

✦ . “What’s wrong?” he taunts. “Didn’t you say you could beat templar knights? And here you are, struggling before a mere member of the clergy?”

✦ . You don’t fall for his provocations. No, actually, you do. A magic circle activates. Another halo appears around his head.

✦ . It’s a narrow victory, you think, but he’d claim it as his—two bodies lie heaving in the sand, surrounded by the rubble of a training hall.

✦ . “You know magic. Fix it,” he pants, looking down at his sweaty body in mild disgust. To be in such a state—you read his thoughts amongst the affronted flutter of his wings.

✦ . “Isn’t divine power better for repairing things?” you comment sardonically. “I think I’m all spent.”

✦ . “Should I report you to the king for lapsing in your duty?” he glares, sitting up.

✦ . “You could,” you settle your hands beneath your neck contentedly. “If anything, I’d simply be fired and sent back to the battlefield. I’ve got armies to command, don’t I?”

✦ . There’s a crack, before a pillar (that had been precariously canted at an angle) comes crashing down against the billowing grime of the hall. You startle, and whip your head to gaze at Sunday, who merely looks at you placidly.

✦ . “Is that so?” he murmurs. There’s something buried deep in his eyes—something implacable, as though he was the one that caused the pillar to snap in a fit of anger. Anger over your impudent words, most likely, and nothing else—right? Right?

#slowd1ving #res ･ﾟ writing #x reader #honkai star rail #male reader #hsr #hsr x reader #x male reader #sunday #hsr sunday #sunday x male reader #sunday x reader #sunday hsr #sunday honkai star rail #peak #sunday hsr x reader

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