#all this over tags that are clear headcanons

[rjthirsty]

H For Handicap

I've created an ABC list for Ikemen Prince ranging from humorous crack-fic ideas to the smutty, with a dash of drama and angst. 26 letters of the alphabet x 13 characters / 12 months = 1 year of drabbles, headcanons, and creating with these men in mind.

Tags: Angst, Disabilities, Post Canon, GN!Reader,

Chevalier

Chevalier stands from his throne, waiting for you to hook arms with him. The two of you have gone through this routine many times, it’s so natural at this point for him to escort you out of the throne room once you’ve finished the petitions and visitors that came for the week. He can hear you moving, and a moment later he feels your hand slide through his waiting elbow. As regally as ever, he descends the stairs in measured steps. Nine stairs. Twenty-three to the door. No one is left in the room save for Sariel, he always could feel the presence of others very well, even Four Eyes.

The feel of the floor changes under his boots. Through the palace the two of you stroll. Most people will move aside for the King of Rhodolite, so it is of little consequence to move less carefully in the hallways than the social gatherings full of nobles and other public functions where he continues to pretend nothing had ever gone wrong. The last ball you two attended, he danced across the floor cleared for just the two of you. You’d never know he had an impairment with the way he managed to lead you around the room. Then again, that was the point.

One-hundred-forty-two steps and you two came to a stop. The room he had designated for his own office was in front of him. Easily he reached for the handle and pushed the door out of the way. One person sat inside. Chev could tell from his faint cologne that it was Clavis, he could smell the products he used to tame his bedhead.

Confidently, Chev moved into the room and around the desk, fingers touching the edge of it to keep him aimed in the right direction. Eight steps. Two steps. Two steps. Without your help, he found a seat - his seat - where he would field visitors inside the palace. You took yours beside him where you managed most of the work he was unable to perform these days.

Clavis knew. Everyone in his closest circle knew, but the maids and other workers on the grounds didn’t. It was kept secret to keep the peace. If the world found out he no longer had his vision, there would be people aiming to use that to their advantage. It was easier this way. He didn’t need to see to be aware of his surroundings, or to use his intelligent mind.

Papers shuffled. People spoke. He heard most of them approaching before they entered and announced themselves. He often held documents that had no purpose for him to rifle through. Five pages. Seven pages. Two pages. You were the one that looked over them, or Clavis, or Sariel, even Leon when it came to domestic affairs. He had to trust all of you to be certain his standards were maintained, but through the brief overview any of you made, he could determine the best course of action without seeing the words.

Anything requiring a signature would be seen to at a later time, when no one else was around to witness the way you guided his hand to the place for him to mark his name. He had never looked warm when he looked at anyone but you, so no one can tell from his uninterested stare that he can’t actually see them. It’s easy enough to tell where they’re located, people make an exorbitant amount of noise just existing.

The day finally draws to an end. Sixty-seven steps to the staircase taking the two of you to the next floor. Twenty-two stairs. One-hundred-eleven steps to your shared bedroom. Nothing moves inside this room. Everything is kept in exactly the same place so that Chevalier can manage his own routine without the need of baby-sitting. That is how he feels. He knows he should be grateful for your compliance, but he can’t help but feel resentment for himself and his need for you.

You read to him. It’s a much slower pace than he used to read silently to himself, but hearing the words come from you makes it more than tolerable– it’s pleasant to listen to your slower cadence. He misses the faces you’d make when you read, the emotions that would cross without you even realizing it. Gently, he cups your cheeks and finds your mouth through the measure of his touch.

He misses your bright, clear eyes. It’s only darkness now. You’re not as easy to read anymore. It’s more difficult to judge how you’re feeling. You have had to become more honest with him in order for him to continue to feel connected, because otherwise he just knows you exist in a capacity nearby. He knows you’re there, but what was it that your smile looked like again?

What was the face you’d make when the blush would crawl across your skin as you two made love? He can hear your sighs and your moans, and they’re as lovely as ever, but when was the last time he saw you intoxicated with lust? If he had felt like he was fumbling before with physical intimacy, he was even more clumsy now that nothingness existed in the spaces between you and him. Groping in the dark only to bump into your form in a place he hadn't predicted.

[reigningmax]

Sorry, not a fun ask 😭! Only adding to the discourse so I understand if you don’t want to answer but honestly a lot of people in this fandom need a reality check on Accusation.

Don’t like a certain driver?? Oh so you’re RACIST. Do like a certain other driver?? Oh so you’re DEFINITELY racist. AND a fascist just to be sure. Oh you find a driver attractive (because they ARE attractive, by the way, subjectively, objectively, ejectively) and you have objective headcanons about his 19yr old self that you share within a fandom space? That’s an INSTANT pedophile passport!

But, like. You can’t just throw shit like that around with a serious tone at people who have displayed none of the traits? Sure, use them as jokes within close friendship groups, probably not the most morally correct thing to do but at least that’s in a closed space with people who understand it’s not serious and will not take offence - the impact is not lingering.

Saying it on a public platform though, accusing someone you know almost nothing of value of? Lines are crossed there. Especially without anything concrete to back it up, especially with something as flimsy as headcanons. Go out, say that in the real world to some stranger who simply observes ‘y’know, he looks like a fuckboy’ and see if you’re clapped on the back or stared at with heavily questioning eyebrows and a few angry ones too, maybe. Same with many other accusations you can find in f1blr.

So, sorry you were accused of something as serious as pedophilia, Ray. That was not right at all. And as a side note, I’m glad to have you as part of the fandom experience, headcanons and all.

No exactly to all this. They're not even accusing me of that, they're just keeping tabs on me enough to know who my friends are and going to them to start shit? If you have a problem or think something I said in tags are SO bad, then have the guts to come say it to my face. And the way they kept changing their tune and what the issue is?? Come the fuck on lmao

[akito-shinonome-daily]

🎤 day 169 🎵

➥ today’s akito is a card redraw by me of akito’s “well-known big shot” 1☆!

➥ i apologize…for creating this….

➥ when i realised a My Art Monday™ would be coinciding with day 169, i figured i would do a redraw as a nod back to day 69. i’m going to be real with you guys. i know at least one of you is a drawfee fan and will understand when i say that i had this one in me. it has an Energy that i’m not entirely sure the origin of. but it sure happened.

➥ including the sketch on this one cause I think that’s truly where the Energy was

[deadqueernoldor]

Thinking thoughts about those from Cuivienen and how they later treated the Valar, especially after Cuivienen was destroyed.

I imagine a foundation of sorrow and a layer of betrayal and pettiness. They had promised safety. And how did it turn out? Kin of Tata and Tatie their first leaders, slain in Valinor by the Dark Hunter from which the Valar promised protection in Valinor.

And then, the War of Wrath comes and with it the destruction of Cuivienen.

If any of those were re-embodied in Aman, I wonder if they make it a point to always turn their back to Valar and Maiar. I wonder if they only speak in the tongue they had first devised all those millennia ago and spoke in Cuivienen before time and different kindreds changed the tongue, not Sindarin or Quenya from the Great Journey's time or later. I wonder if they sing songs in their ancient tongue, songs about the beauty and unsullied health of Cuivienen every time any of the Ainur are near.

I wonder if the Valar feel any shame when those who they once looked upon in wonder and love gaze back at them with indifference or disgust.

[espectres]

i love Shou's mom. i hate Shou's mom the anime paints her as your sunshine cant do wrong anime mom from your protag's sad anime flashbacks but i hate that lmao. she's full of flaws she's genuinely terrible at times despite meaning good she loves her son but she doesn't know him, she's only beginning to know him, she wants to do better and she's learning how right while shou is with her and it's all trial and error and it's difficult!! it's so ugly sometimes!! that's a mother-son relationship of nearly 4 years apart!!! and shou was a KID when she left and shou is STILL A KID!! his mother has been away while he's been raised by his father's fascist behavior and his father's ppl and the good and the bad and everything in between, and now his mother has to deal with the result ( shou and everything about him ) and it's hard to take in sometimes it's hard to swallow, becuz her son is violent her son was surrounded by criminals her son doesn't care abt the law her son nearly died too many times and she left him there!!! she left him alone to deal with all that!!! and she's so full guilt and grief for those years, but she's trying to do better she really is!!!

[burinazar]

((mildly discoursey. also old/repeated thought)) insane to me belavue is the one that like three ppl have tried to start fights with me over the presumed problematic-ness of when it'd be easier to bullet-point reasons wabe is cancellable and i openly enjoy that one quite a bit too lol

just incomprehensible to me that this is the one single ship people have ever started shit with me for

it's basically a Freyang tier of sweetie pie 4 sweetie pie

[always-just-red]

A multi-headcanon request please. How the boys react when they discover their s/o has been hiding a wound from them because she had it under control and didn't want to give them something else to worry about

Hi! Thanks so much for the request and all the support! Have written a little fic for each of the guys, starring... - Xavier, Deepspace Hunter extraordinaire ✨ - Linkon's worst best baking partner, Zayne 🍪 - Drama queen Rafayel 👑 - King of self-care, Sylus 💅

Putting On A Brave Face

L&DS Boys x Reader

Summary: Sometimes, a certain hunter likes to say things are fine when they definitely aren't...

Genre: A lil bit of angst, mostly fluff + comfort!

Warnings/Additional tags: female reader, established relationship, swearing, canon pet names, some injury details/blood mentioned, teeeeency bit of suggestion (I'm looking at YOU, Sylus...)

| Word count: 4k (1k each!) | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Xavier ⭐

This is bad. Not ‘end of everything as we know it’ bad, but definitely ‘an obscene amount of paperwork’ bad.

You clutch one of your pistols to your chest— deep breath— and you listen carefully, your head leant back against the rock you’re using as cover. Your mind latches on to every sound: each growl, each rumble of earth that marks the movements of the Wanderers that have trapped you here.

You’ve fought worse odds, but then again, you don’t usually have to do it with a broken leg.

Or maybe just sprained? You shift a little, trying to move, and the pain that sears through you settles the debate in an instant. Your teeth sink into the back of your hand to keep you from crying out.

You hope Xavier’s ok. You sent him your co-ordinates minutes ago, and the lack of response has worry gnawing away at the deepest parts of you. You check your hunter’s watch.

Still nothing.

Another deep breath, and you readjust your position as much as you can. Balancing on your good leg, you manage to peer over the top of the rock to get a visual of your surroundings.

There’s four, no— five Wanderers. Stupid no-hunt zone; you’re never not outnumbered.

You can see your second pistol, abandoned in the middle of the clearing where you’d dropped it. There’s flickers of movement, too: further in the woods. More Wanderers. Shit.

You duck behind the rock you’re starting to think might be your new home. Then your watch flickers, broadcasting a map of the area, and there’s the co-ordinates of another hunter, closing in fast.

Something flashes in the clearing, lighting the dark of the forest like a stutter of lightning. Then again. Then again. There’s a blood-curdling roar, and it ends— abrupt— with another flash.

Everything goes silent, save for a familiar voice calling your name.

“Xavier!” you call back.

You peek over the rock to see your partner jogging towards you, dead Wanderers littered behind him. “Are you alright?” he asks, his voice soft as always, but his sword is still dripping blood.

“I’m ok.” You clamber up, using the rock as a seat when the small effort almost breaks you. “You?”

Xavier draws close— his gloved hands on your face, cupping your cheeks. His thumb grazes over a shallow scrape on your brow. “Yeah,” he answers.

“Did you find that weird Wanderer?”

He shakes his head: no. Steps back to check his watch. “It’s probably moved on to a different zone by now.”

“Then we should look for it,” you say, standing up. All of your weight is on one leg.

“Ah,” Xavier ponders, rubbing his neck, “really? I thought we should maybe head back.”

“No need.” And what’s the plan here, exactly? You can’t walk. You definitely can’t fight. Maybe you can wait here while he— no. He’s never going to leave you. “I told you I’m ok.”

“But you’re not.”

“I am,” you assert. You’re determined to convince him and your own, useless body. It’s just a sprain. It is just a sprain. You take a step forwards and stumble, your bad leg crumpling beneath you.

Xavier catches you, strong and solid, and he's holding you like you’re something delicate. He sets you down on the rock again. The pain is making your vision swim.

“You’re hurt,” he reasons gently, even though the truth of it is a knife that’s twisting in your heart. He seems to sense your reluctance: “There’s no shame in admitting that. It happens. Let’s go back.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m slowing you down, Xavier!” you gush. Your heart is split open and it has to bleed somewhere. “You have no idea what it’s like… being your partner.”

He’s looking at you with so much guilt and gods, you wish that somewhere was anywhere but his hands. “What do you mean?” he asks on a shaky breath.  

“I love working with you.” Soften the blow. “I love being with you, but you don’t need me. You’re this incredible hunter. This figure of legend, of everyone’s stories. You can do so much on your own and I just don’t know how to keep up. I mean, look at me— I can’t.”

You feel sick. Empty. “You shouldn’t have to hang back for me,” you finish limply. “You’re you, Xavier. You can fight like a hundred Wanderers and still come out unscathed.”

The blue of Xavier’s eyes has grown understandably more turbulent, though it settles a little. He seems to relax. “Yeah… about that,” he mumbles hesitantly.

He turns around and your mouth drops. A savage cut drapes like a crimson sash down his back, splitting the white of his uniform. It’s not deep enough to be fatal, but it’s not good, either.

“Wha— Xavier!” you exclaim, trying to surge forwards, but your pain keeps you rooted. “You said you were ok!”

“So did you,” he frowns, bewildered. “Can we get out of—”

“Yeah, yeah.” You let him take your arm and help you to your feet.

He leads you through the clearing and into the forest, supporting your weight as you hop along beside him. There’s a murmur about how he should carry you, but you’re quick to reassure him he’s doing enough. You’re both hurting; you both just need to survive the short walk out of the no-hunt zone, where a med team can take over.

“You don’t slow me down, you know,” Xavier says quietly, after a minute of silence. “You’re the reason I can keep going.”

You squeeze his arm affectionately, mustering a smile even though you’re nauseous with pain and the idea that he’s been dwelling on your speech this whole time. “Well,” you chuckle through gritted teeth, “you’re gonna have to learn how to get by without me.”

“Huh?” He gives you a curious look.

You glance down at your leg. “Zayne’s gonna kill me...”

Zayne ❄

“I’m a doctor.”

You stop what you’re doing to fix Zayne with a questioning stare. “Ok…?”

“I’ve published dozens of research papers. Pioneered new surgical techniques. My work on Evol-based regenerative properties still has lasting implications for my field, and I’ve the accolades to show for it. The Starcatcher Award. The Linde Award, too— I was the youngest ever recipient.”

None of this is news to you, and you can’t help chuckling at this change in your usually-humble physician. You humour him: “The youngest ever recipient, huh?” There’s a crack as you split an egg on the side of the bowl in front of you. “That’s very impressive.”

“Is it?”

Zayne stands from his seat at your kitchen table: you hear the chair draw back. You feel his presence arrive behind you as you continue to stir your soon-to-be cookie dough. “Yeah,” you lilt with a smile.

“Really?” he pushes again, and his arms wrap around you as he bends to speak into your ear. “Because someone seems to think I can’t even recognise a—” he nips at it— “sprained ankle.”

His breath is warm on your neck and you let out a giggle. “Keep speaking to me like that and these cookies are never making it into the oven. Or your stomach.”

The man relents. He releases you, not returning to his seat but opting to lean against the kitchen counter instead. You glance up at him; he stares back, waiting for an actual answer.

“My ankle is fine, Zayne.”

There’s a sigh as he crosses his arms.

“It is,” you insist, even though you did sprain your ankle at work today, it does hurt like hell, and you do just want to sit down. You reach for the flour you’d measured out previously, tipping it into the larger bowl. “If it wasn’t, would I really be here— making you cookies?”

“Yes,” he says plainly.

“You’re delusional.”

“Ok.”  

Well, that was a little too easy. Don’t overthink it, and definitely don’t read into the fact that he’s standing there oh-so-smugly, like he knows something you don’t. You finish stirring the flour into the mixture, then add the last of the ingredients. Just a pinch of salt, and then…

Where did you put the chocolate chips? You glance about yourself but they’re nowhere in sight. “Hey, Zayne? Have you seen the—”

“This cupboard,” he indicates with an upwards nod of his head. His eyes are relentless. “Top shelf.”

Ah. That’s ok. You’ve totally got this. You move beneath the cupboard, opening it and gazing up into the contents. You can see the pack of chocolate chips. You can get up there somehow, right?

“Would you like me to—” Zayne starts, but you cut him off:

“Nope.” You put your hands on your hips. “Please— if I can climb the back of an alive, awake, and very angry deluge wyrmlord to put a sword through its skull, I think I can make it onto the kitchen counter in one piece. Lemme just…”

Your knee lifts. You make it about a centimetre from the floor before Zayne’s hands are on your waist, grounding you. “Stop,” he instructs, and it's not a tone that allows for any rebuttal. Satisfied by your silence, he brings the chocolate chips down to you.

“Thanks,” you say quietly as they’re placed on the counter.

“You’re welcome."

Sheepishly, you spill a generous amount of chocolate chips into the cookie mixture. Your throat hurts in the way that keeps you from saying anything more. You already feel like an idiot, and your eyes are watering, threatening to make you look like even more of one.

Zayne’s hand appears in front of you, hovering over the bowl. You laugh in understanding: giving the half-empty bag another shake so chocolate chips fall into his palm.

“You… don’t have to explain yourself,” he says as he lifts them to his mouth. His next words are muffled: “But you can tell me anything, my love. I never want you to feel as though you can’t.”

You chuckle again; you can’t help yourself. Look at him: your oh-so-serious doctor shovelling chocolate into his mouth. He raises an eyebrow at you, his lips still on his palm.

“I know I can tell you anything,” you smile, the ache in your throat receding, however much the rest of you hurts. “I did sprain my ankle. It’s not that I wanted to hide it from you, it’s just—” you stop stirring the mixture— “it’s just that your whole life is taking care of people at the hospital. You should get a break from it. You should get to be Zayne, here… at home. Just Zayne, not Doctor Zayne.”

Zayne’s hazel eyes have taken on a hue of regret. He pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, buying himself a few seconds as he contemplates. “Are you a doctor?” he asks after a moment.

“No?”

“And yet, here you are, taking care of me.” He reaches for the abandoned packet of chocolate chips. “Tell me, does it feel like work to you?”

“Yeah,” you tease, drawing the packet away from his stretching fingers in explanation; you’re both grinning.

“Well, it never feels like work to me. Just Zayne likes taking care of you. And right now? He wants to bundle you up on the sofa and finish these cookies for you.”

You purse your lips: that’s some dubious wording. “Zayne, hell will freeze over before I leave you and this cookie dough unsupervised.”

He shushes you, pulling on the cord of your apron until the bow at your back comes loose. Before you can protest, he’s wearing the apron himself.

“Zayne, I’m not kidding. I know what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna get rid of me, and then you’ll—”

“Shh,” he coos again, whisking you carefully off your feet, because it’s time for a taste of your own medicine. “You’re delusional.”

Rafayel 🔥

“Mmhmm. Mmhmm.”

“Raf, who are you—”

He holds out a finger to shush you. “Mmhmm.”

You cross your arms impatiently. Who is he even talking to, anyway? His lilac eyes are locked on you as he continues humming away, apparently very invested in whatever the person on the phone is saying; you’ve never seen him go this long without talking.

He narrows his eyes at you. You narrow your eyes right back.

All around you, guests of the exhibition are milling about, all dressed to the nines and minding their business, however much they want the attention of the man in front of you. A few of them linger as they pass him, like they want to say something, like they’re going to say something…

But they don’t.

It’s a wonder that Rafayel stands out in the crowd as much as he does. You’d seamlessly located him, back from your third trip to the bathroom to check on the bandages you’ve managed to conceal beneath this dress. He’s still holding your purse for you, his phone in his other hand, except—

That’s your phone. That’s your phone! “Rafayel!”

He shushes you again. “I understand,” he says solemnly, notably not to you, “thanks for letting me know.” The call is ended. He takes a deep, collected breath, then looks at you. “I knew it!”

“Knew what? Who was that?”

“Zayne.”

“You called Zayne?”

“Like I had a choice!” Rafayel retaliates. It is true; he’s spent the entire evening trying to get you to admit something was wrong, and you had no intention of giving him that pleasure. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital! What kind of idiot breaks out of the hospital?”

The lack of irony in the question almost breaks you. “Umm… you?! Like every other week?!”

He shrugs. “That’s different.”

“Rafayel, I swear, I’m gonna— ah!” you gasp in pain. You’d stepped forwards too quickly— maybe to strangle him, but that’s neither here nor there— and the wound on your side is clearly on his side. It stings like hell: punishing you, and you know the pain is self-inflicted.

Rafayel frowns in concern, maybe even guilt, and that’s why you didn’t tell him. “C’mon, we should go,” he insists gravely.

“It’s fine, Raf. It doesn’t even—”

“Stop lying! You said you wouldn’t hide stuff like this from me. You promised, remember?”

You’re losing track of all the promises you’ve made to the Lemurian, but you do remember that one. Guilt has its teeth in you, too. “I know,” you grumble, “I’m sorry, ok? I just knew—”

“What?”

“That you’d act like this! You’ve been working on this exhibition for months, Raf. Tonight is supposed to be about you. Not me— you. And I want it to stay that way. Everyone’s here to celebrate you and your work, and that’s how it should be. That’s what I want. To support you. To be here for you.”

Your voice has gone timid. You finish meekly: “Can’t you let me do this for you? Please?”

Rafayel’s eyes are wide and still the prettiest things you’ve ever seen, even in a room full of masterpieces and jewels you could never afford. They shine with uncertainty, but soften as he smiles, full of fondness and affection. “That’s sweet. But also? Really dumb.”

“Raf—”

“The only— and I mean only— reason I’m here tonight is because you are. I don’t care about what anyone thinks about me or my paintings. Just you. And you can see this?” He gestures around the gallery. “Anytime. My life’s your private exhibition, cutie. Exclusive access, 24/7, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

He steps closer to you: close enough that he can see the tear that’s made it halfway down your cheek. He wipes it away with a chuckle. “Plus,” he adds, “I know you know I’m amazing. You don’t need these old sourpusses to tell you that, do you?”

You laugh tentatively. “No, I don’t.”

Your injury protests as you use the lapels on Rafayel’s blazer to pull him closer; you have to stand on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He’s still grinning as he draws away, a light blush on his cheeks, but the sweetness of the moment vanishes as his gaze drifts lower.

“My eyes are up here, Rafayel.”

“Yeah…” he concedes mindlessly, but then he points: “you know you’re like, bleeding, right?”

You glance downwards to where the red of your dress is turning darker. There’s just a small splotch, but it’s growing. Shit. You must have reopened the wound.

“Thomas?” you hear Rafayel call, and then he’s stuffing a silk handkerchief into your hands— helping you apply pressure. “We have to get out of here,” he explains as a figure joins you.

His agent folds his arms; this is not dissimilar to stunts you and Rafayel have pulled before. “Fake blood, guys? Really?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You can’t leave, Rafayel. I can just see the headlines tomorrow…”

“Dashing artist selflessly flees exhibition to save devoted bodyguard,” Rafayel concurs with a nod.

Thomas groans. “That’s not what they’re going to—”

“Help me out with this, cutie?”

“Yes, sir,” you mock salute.

A moment later, Rafayel has scooped you up into his arms. Your hero; he gives you a conspiratorial wink before glancing about frantically. “Quickly!” he cries out. “Everyone out of the way, please!”

“For the love of—” Thomas starts.

“Oh, gods!” you shout in agony. “It hurts. It hurts!”

Heads turn. Cameras flash.

Tomorrow morning, half of Linkon will be talking about one of their favourite celebrities and his long-envied bodyguard. A news article will pop-up on her doctor’s phone, and he’ll see the pictures and sigh.

Sylus 🩸

“It’s not too late to back down, sweetie,” Sylus sneers.

“Aw, but you got all dressed up for the occasion.”

Your eyes rake over the outline of the man’s abs, courtesy of the tank top he’s wearing, and it does take the sting out of the fact that he’ll be trying to hit you. He holds his wrapped hands before him, ready to defend, ready to attack. He’ll probably attack, right?

“Last chance,” he growls.

“Is it, though?” This is the third ‘last chance’ you’ve been given in the five minutes you’ve been teetering on combat. You beckon him with a curl of your fingers. “Come on, Sylus. This is getting old.”

He scoffs: “How do you think I feel?”

“Like you’re about to get your ass kicked?”

“Alright, enough.” His hands drop and it feels like you’re back at the academy, about to be scolded for not taking something seriously. Sylus turns his back on you. Moves to the edge of the boxing ring so he can retrieve a stool from outside of it and sit down in a huff. He starts peeling the wraps from his knuckles, and— wait, is he mad? Like, actually mad?

“What’s wrong, Sy?”

He laughs as though you’re missing something dreadfully obvious. Maybe irony.

“Sylus?”

“You really are heartless, sweetie. You know that?”

The words steal your breath away, if only for a moment. Yours is a relationship of pulled punches, but he won’t meet your gaze and that one was real, wasn’t it? He wanted it to sting. “Why—”

“I could have hurt you,” he snaps, his dishevelled, snowy hair falling to cover his eyes. His discarded wraps slide from his hands, pooling by his feet like blood. “You were going to let me hurt you.”

He looks at you, finally, but it’s not in the way you want. His gaze is cast low, trailing over your body and making you feel every bruise, every closed cut that wants to reopen and every ache, rooted almost to bone. You’d done your best to hide it, even going so far as to press make-up hastily over your purpled skin.

That Wanderer really did a number on you yesterday.  

“You should have told me,” Sylus says, since you’ve made it onto the same page. “Honestly, kitten. Why would you—”

“Because Luke and Kieran told me, ok?”

Oh, they’re going to kill you. It was supposed to be a secret, and here you are, spilling like a fresh wound because you can’t stand the thought of Sylus being upset with you. You step closer, scrambling to dissect what you’ve done right in front of his eyes— holding it out to him: this is why. This is why. “They said you had a rough week. Some deals of yours had fallen through or something. And I’ve been too busy. I haven’t called, I haven’t even texted, and…”

You need him to understand, but the truth is a mess in your hands and how do you even start to explain it to him?

“You wanted to do something for me,” he finishes for you, and you don’t have to explain a thing.

“Yeah…” you confirm, bittersweet and still sad. “You do so much for me, Sylus. I just wanted to do what you wanted, for a change.”

Maybe it’s a round of boxing. Maybe it’s a dozen illicit dealings where he needs you to play enforcer— it doesn’t matter. As long as he’s happy.

“Come here,” he orders gently.

You close the rest of the rift between you, letting him reach for you and pull you closer. His knees have spread so you can slot against him, and his arms circle around you— trapping you— as he nuzzles into the warmth of your stomach.

“I’m sorry I called you heartless,” he speaks into you, his voice muffled as he gives you a chaste kiss. He then cranes his head upwards, resting his chin against you so he can profess more clearly: “I do worry about you, kitten.”

“I know—” your hands move to his head— “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have lied to you.”

“Mmm,” he hums in accordance, maybe even forgiveness, and his eyes close as your fingers card through the soft of his hair. “I lied too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he confesses on a contented sigh. “I didn’t want to spend today… boxing.”

“What do you want to do today, Sy?”

His eyes flicker open and his hands find your hips. “What I really want…” he contemplates, as his thumbs slip under the hem of your shirt to rub circles on your skin, “is to take care of you.”

There are lifetimes of need in his gaze.

“Won’t you let me take care of you, sweetie?”

…

“If he finds the terms so disagreeable, then he’s more than welcome to take his business elsewhere. Although—” Sylus’s voice is cold— “he might find his other options less… amenable than when he saw them last. Less communicative, too. You can tell him I said so.”

He ends the phone call. Smiles. “Sorry about that, sweetie.”

“Are the boys ok?”

The smile widens, even though you can’t see it. “They’re fine.”

Phone set aside, Sylus carries on with the important business Kieran’s call had distracted him from. You’re half asleep, your head in his lap as he brushes your hair: rose-scented and soft from the bath he’d drawn for you, hours ago. Every bandage is fresh and clean. Every ache has been dulled with a lazy massage and more chaste kisses, for good measure.

“Perfect day,” you mumble blissfully.

“Perfect day,” Sylus agrees.

[textmel8r]

[ DRABBLE ] 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 ! ( ninth installment ) in which you are forced to plan a corporate event with your office enemy .

୨୧˚ part; one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight. nine. ten. eleven.

୨୧˚ incl; kento nanami

୨୧˚ cw; profanity , alcohol consumption , inebriation , sexual harassment , violence , vomit

୨୧˚ an; i love nami kempo (dis shit like 4k werdssss) ALSO i’ve been getting comments that my tag list isn’t working for me dumb someone help me pls tell me what im doing wrong

୨୧˚ join my discord server ! we share headcanons, fanfic recs, color roles, and more drooling emoji

“Why am I here?” Nanami thinks out loud, glaring pointedly around the unlit dive bar. It’s unglamorous, walls garbed in eclectic music paraphernalia, references that go right past him. Flurries of reds and yellows and oranges in the decor cut brightly, shining through the dim atmosphere. Seriously, would it kill them to switch a light on? It bustles with life; university kids, Nanami is subjected to think based on the… unique fashion sense present in the room. Street wear, torn jeans, crop tops way too short to be considered shirts anymore. He cringes, feeling entirely too dated to be hanging amongst this kind of crowd. His leg bounces restlessly under the ledge of the bar, and he turns to look at you. “Why are we here?”

You’re smiling—actually smiling—flagging down the bartender. “You knew we were coming to a bar,” you cut yourself short, holding up a single finger to him whilst you relayed your order to the older gentleman behind the bar. A rum and coke, you asked politely before glancing toward Nanami. It took a moment for him to realize what that look meant. 

“I’ll have scotch, neat. Thanks.”

“As I was saying,” you steal back his attention, “I made it clear we were coming to a bar. What’s the problem?”

There was a hint of an attitude catching at your words, and Nanami felt his brow twitch in frustration. “You failed to tell me that we’d be in…” He grimaces, peeking back over his shoulder to the sea of youthful patrons slinging over nearly every stool and booth. “ . . . Mixed company.” God awful pop music fizzles through the speakers, twisting and crackling with pops of static; fuel to the billowing flames of Nanami’s overstimulation. “I was expecting something a bit more sophisticated.”

“I can tell,” you’re laughing as you give him a once over, and he gets a shiver of Deja Vu from the coffee shop where you pulled the same exact move. You tweeze at the expensive cotton button down, plucking the bunched fabric of a sleeve at the crease of his elbow. “Thought we said no more fancy clothes?”

Tonight he threw together a plain white shirt and a pair of slim fit khaki pants; the quintessential dad outfit, sure, but fancy? Nanami didn’t think so. “I’m dressed down.”

“Nixing the suit jacket and tie didn’t do much. You still look stiff, man.” Two glasses are brought over, one placed before either of you respectively. Nanami stares down into the glass, a foggy, brown abyss. His alcohol looks watered down and piss cheap. “You stick out, it’s kind of embarrassing.”

“Oh please, you’re too kind.” Nanami rolls his eyes, hunching over the bar and downing a swig from the scotch. Yeah, It was definitely watered down. Fuck this place. 

Your hand slaps his back. “So dramatic. I was kidding Nanami, you look fine.” A cheeky laugh reaches his ears before you tack on, “very handsome.” 

Now he knows you’re messing with him. 

You grin into your cup. “Stop sulking. It’s not so bad here.” Nanami would beg to differ. A debate that isn’t worth having because frankly, it’s a Saturday night and he doesn’t have nearly enough energy to draft a list of all the cons that this joint has to offer. “We got booze,” you raise your glass. “Booze makes everything better.”

His forehead wrinkles. “That’s a horrible mindset to have, Y/n.”

Your boisterous laugh outweighs the ambient chatter, and you take a hearty gulp. Nanami follows suit, albeit a bit awkwardly, tipping more spirits down his throat. You look surprisingly comfortable, slinking against the bar counter with a hazy smile that welcomes strangers in. This time, you weren’t wearing a flowery dress; instead, a low cut shirt and jeans, both equal parts dark and tight. The neckline plummeted deep, exposing slivers of your bra cups and entirely too much cleavage. By God, was his self restraint something to write home about. 

It was easy to fall into comfortable conversation. All in all, Nanami enjoys talking to you now, even if once upon a time the thought of engaging with you evoked such dread that he’d outwardly avoid your presence around the office. Passing along orders specifically meant for you to other colleagues and entrusting them to deliver the message, lengthening the conveyor belt of relation simply because you got him in a tizzy. Back then, all Nanami could see when he looked at you was that cowardly girl in the bathroom with smeared lipstick and a trembling pout. How shameful, he thinks, that it took him this long to see past that terrible first impression. 

“So there I was, balancing ten cups of coffee, shaking like a little bitch,” you laughed as you shared an anecdote from an internship in your university years. Nanami listened intently, head propped up on his fist as he watched your theatrics. Your cheeks flushed with the evidence of alcohol, eyes lidded, smile wobbly. Nanami was feeling the edge of his buzz coming on too, an amazing revelation considering the diluted alcohol this place served. “And I’m walking up ten flights of stairs–”

“Ten flights?” He gawks, feeling looser and matching you with melodrama. “What, did your office not have an elevator?”

You laughed. “It was out of order.”

“Your luck astounds me.”

You flip him off playfully. “I finally get to the last stair and my heel catches on the floor and I eat total shit in front of the entire room!” Nanami can’t stop his own tittering, cupping a palm over his grin. “Spilled the coffee everywhere, twisted my ankle, too. I probably laid in that puddle for ten minutes.”

“That’s why you don’t wear high heels anymore?”

There’s a grimace on your face when you nod, topping off the rest of your glass. “Mm.”

Nanami swaps his own story, of a time when he was in his third year of college and his work laptop got stolen. “I think I cried,” and you guffawed at his misery. “I’m serious, I really think I cried. Alone, on the floor of my dormitory. It was finals week, and I had written my dissertation on that laptop.”

“So what did you do?”

“I pulled an all-nighter in the library on campus and rewrote my entire thesis.” Merely remembering that chaotically stressful night had Nanami huffing a sigh of anguish and dragging an exasperated hand down his face. 

The bartender slides you another drink. Gosh, he was lagging behind. “I would’ve dropped out.” You spoke over the rim of the glass.

“Trust me, I was really close.” Nanami’s eyes narrow, gaging the swell of your throat as you knock back a few swigs. “How many have you had?” 

“A few.” Your answer was blunt, and from that Nanami could gather that his question had rendered you the slightest bit irritated. He understood why; you were a grown woman, who was he to regulate how many rounds you decide to have? But even with this understanding, the man couldn’t shake his concern. “More than you, old timer. Keep up.”

He shakes his head, scratching at his cheek. “This is my last for the night.” Any more, and Nanami would wake up the next morning nauseous with a pounding headache. He took precautions to avoid breaching his limits, he really disliked that hungover feeling. 

You gawk at the declaration. “How lame.” Then you hiccup.

“You can call me lame now, but which one of us will wake up tomorrow not in pain?”

You wave a hand through the air, brushing off his very astute observation. “Hush, that’s for future me to deal with. Present me doesn’t have a care in the world.”

You’re immature, but it’s amusing, so he doesn’t offer any rebuttals. The way you are so insistent on living in the moment is fascinating, almost inspiring even. Nanami feels as though he’s ever crushed by the impending future, always so concerned with what the next day, next week, next month, next year brings. He thinks ahead to a fault, and because of that, forgets to enjoy the little things. But you always stop and smell the roses. It’s admirable. 

“Bartender!” You wag a finger in the air, slamming down your empty glass. Fiending for yet another drink. 

Okay, maybe your ability to live in the now is to a fault as well. Nanami holds a hand up, signaling the barkeep to halt. “Sorry,” he apologizes politely, “she’s all good for now, thanks.” Ain’t that the truth. Your face looked tacky with sweat, pupils scarily dilated. Your words come out dimly slurred, and your gestures uncoordinated. As your business associate, he feels obligated to intervene at this point.

A hand slaps his down. Your hand. “Hey what gives?” You’re upset with him. “Just because you’re done doesn’t mean I am.”

“You’re three sips away from throwing up on yourself,” Nanami deadpans, unphased by your drunken outburst. Unbeknownst to the two of you, another patron had taken up the stool opposite of you. To be expected; the bar was decently crowded, that being said neither of you paid much mind to the man. He was younger than Nanami for sure, his hair unkempt and shaggy, swept back by sweat and something that looked like grease. He was smiling, probably on some brand of dope that Nanami was unfamiliar with. The stranger interrupts, leaning over with his elbow planted on the countertop. 

“You her father or some shit?” He speaks without any warning, catching both you and Nanami’s attention. 

Father? Nanami internally grimaces, jaw tightening. Just how old does he think I am? Trying not to be offended by the inquiry, he corrects the man. “Just a concerned friend, that’s all.” You have yet to speak, still a tad caught off guard by the unexpected company. 

The stranger’s grin widens, reaching shit-eating status. “Then hop the fuck off her case, man.” He shoots a pair of lidded, droopy eyes toward you, eyebrows jumping in a manner that is entirely too suggestive for Nanami’s liking. “If the lady wants another drink, then let her have another drink.”

Nanami feels the awkward tension thicken the air between this interaction. For all the shit you talked about getting hit on in bars, he would have never expected you to act so timid when put in a position like this. Nanami fully expected you to side with the latter party, to order another round of vodka-whatever and then leave with your newfound knight in shining armor. What actually happened: “No, er, my friend might be right actually,” followed by an incredibly strained chuckle. Your shoulders stiffen, Nanami can practically feel the way you harden up beside him. “I should probably take it easy.”

The man feigns grief. “Aw, c’mon. You seemed so eager before. Let me buy you another?”

“She just said—”

“I was talking to her, not you.”

Nanami was utterly shocked by the sheer gall this young man possessed. Was he trying to intimidate him? It was painfully ineffective. “I don’t want one,” you said with a little more oomph this time, fiercely hanging on the urge to defend Nanami. It made him feel strangely prideful. 

The stranger’s smile never retreated, but something sinister glinted in the ocean of his dark eyes. He gave a sniff, brushing the point of his nose with the pad of his thumb before hurling yet another unwanted flirtation your way. “Baby, hey, what’s one more drink? I saw you from across the room, I’ve been dyin’ to chat you up.” Under the table, his hand slips into your personal space. Nanami sees it unfold in his peripherals; the pallor hand slithering over your lap, grabbing a handful of your denim-clad thigh. You yelped in surprise, wincing. Nanami saw it all.  

He was not a violent man. In fact, he could count the number of times he’s thrown a punch in his life on one hand. Physical fights were pointless, a waste of time and energy because Nanami wholeheartedly believed that altercations were best settled with words. But the moment your nervous squeak found his ears, Nanami couldn’t control the urge to beat this guy’s face in. So that’s what he did; sliding out of his seat to round you and pull the stranger off his stool by the collar of his faux leather jacket. The material felt cheap and mingy, not something Nanami would ever be caught dead wearing. Without so much as a second thought, Nanami sends a heavy fist barreling into the meat of his cheek. One good, solid punch, and the sinewy gentleman was tumbling to the ground, walking the thin line between consciousness. “Shit…” Nanami breathes, chest heaving with barely concealed rage, knuckles throbbing to the beat of his racing heart. The bar went dead, too many pairs of eyes locked onto him to count, but the only ones he could care about were yours. 

You looked at Nanami with such astonishment, with your eyes pried wide as dinner plates and your mouth ajar. He was ready for you to yell at him, to curse him for embarrassing you in a pub you frequented, but nothing came. Well, almost nothing. 

“Security!” The bartender hollered thick and deep, slapping a damp rag onto the counter with a wet plap. 

“Shit!” Nanami repeated, cuffing a hand around the thinnest part of your wrist, tugging you into his side as you both raced toward the exit. “Let’s go.”

You’re gurgling and grumbling, latching onto the material of his shirt as little bouts of complaining bubbled past your lips. “Not so fast!” and “Oh God, my stomach” and “I don’t feel good.” Nanami had been reduced to your crutch at this point; he bore the entirety of your weight without batting an eye because your own legs were too wobbly to do it yourself. 

“I know,” he murmured, maneuvering through the crowd. “Hold it together, we’re almost there.”

The first step outside felt like entering Heaven. Nanami basked in the cleanliness of the chilly night air, gulping down a big breath of fresh oxygen that hadn’t been tainted by marijuana smoke. But suddenly, you’re detaching yourself from his hip and he’s bewildered by your sudden need for proximity. “Y/n—”

He turns to face you, only to be met with the crown of your head. Doubled over at the waist, hands on the lower fraction of your thighs, you vomit onto the dewy pavement… and his shoes. Nanami’s cursing once more, drawing closer despite how much you obviously don’t want him to. “Alright,” he coos in exasperation, gathering your hair into a bundle and holding it away from the splash zone. “It’s alright, get it out.”

“You’re… Did I just puke on y-your feet?” Your voice is croaky, something of a mixture of embarrassment and illness. You can’t even look at him. 

“Stand up,” Nanami tells you. He’s unbending you, straightening your body upright with a hand pressing your back in from his bowed shape. “Can you look at me?”

You pout, childlike. “No.” You’re looking at his shoes, the toes slick with remnants of your stomach acid. 

“They’re just shoes, I have a million pairs.” His head cocks to a tilt. “Would you look at me, please?”

You’re sighing, but looking up to him nonetheless. Gazing up with big, glossy eyes and wet lashes that clumped together through tears. Eyeliner diluted and cradling your undereyes in a dark embrace. You wipe your mouth with the back of a palm, smearing shimmery gloss out of the confines of your lip line. It’s all so nauseatingly familiar, this pitiful display. Nanami decides he hates seeing you like this. 

“I’m sorry,” you chirp. 

“Don’t apologize.” 

“I’ll pay for them.”

Nanami puts a hand on your shoulder when he notices the slant in your posture. “Cut it out, that’s entirely unnecessary.” He looks around the parking lot, full of vehicles. They catch the glint from the yellowish street lamps. “Did you drive here?” He thinks it’s unlikely, seeing as you let yourself fall under such intoxication. You weren’t so irresponsible; if you drove here, you would’ve made sure you’d be able to drive home too, like he did. 

You’re shaking your head. “Caught a train.”

Nanami nods, pleased. “Good. That’s good.” With all the grace and gentleness in the world, the man loops your limp arm back around his nape, securing you against his oblique with a sturdy arm snaked around your waist. Everything is ginger, lest he upset your stomach again. “Are you good to walk?”

“Yeah, I think I’m alright.”

“Then let me take you to my car.”

That pulls a frown from you. “You don’t need—need to drive me there, Nana’. The station—” Hiccup “It’s just down the road.”

The blonde glowers. “You can barely stand on your own, public transportation is out of the question.” Like Hell he’s going to let an obviously inebriated, attractive young woman such as yourself ride the subway alone. Please, don’t make him laugh. “I’m driving you home.”

“It’s out of your way.”

“I don’t care.”

It’s a slow race, but Nanami eventually hauls you to his car parked at the entrance of the lot. A midnight shade Maserati; he doesn’t miss the way you gawk at his luxurious ride. “If I had a car like this, I’d never leave it.” He laughs. You smack his bicep. “I’m not kidding, I’d sleep in this thing. She’s gorgeous.”

“She says thank you,” he huffs his response. Nanami leans you up against the side of his car, pinning you between its door and his thigh while he opens the passenger door. “Watch your head.” His hand curls around the roof’s ledge, a makeshift cushion to protect your skull as you duck into the car seat. Immediately, you’re slumping back into the comfortable leather interior, moaning out quiet mewls of exhaustion. 

“Yeah, I’d definitely sleep in here.”

“Keep those eyes open.” The door swings shut, and Nanami makes haste when rounding the rear of his car to the driver’s side. He had barely toed the line of sobriety anyways, but knocking a stranger on his ass was definitely more than enough to woosh any semblance of haziness from his veins. Nanami wouldn’t think about driving—wouldn’t think about putting you or anyone else on the road in danger—if he felt even the slightest bit impaired by the scotch. Behind the wheel, the man leans across the center console to grab your seat’s safety belt, carefully dragging it over your chest and clipping it into the buckle. “I need your address first, then you can knock out.”

“My address…” You ponder, lips pursed and eyes blinking at a snail’s pace. Sleepiness prevails, and you fall in and out of slumber, head lolling and cheek mashed up against your shoulder. 

Nanami carps, unappreciative of your inability to stay awake long enough for this much needed conversation. “Hey,” he bleats, patting the top of your thigh. “Come on, Y/n. I need to know where you live.”

You whine, rolling your eyes at his persistence. “The city.”

“You live in the city.” Nanami deadpans at the useless information you’ve just spared. 

“Mm.” And then you’re drifting back to sleep. 

Nanami pinches high on the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger, over the permanent divets where his glasses have drilled into his skin. The contortment of his fingers sends another spike of pain over his bruising knuckles. “Wake up and give me a proper address.” He supposes his heated seats aren’t doing much to stave off your tiredness, so he presses his knuckle into the off button. You whine. 

“I don’t remember, okay?”

That’s how you ended up at Nanami’s home, tucked under his lavish sheets in his bed that’s entirely too big for one person. Your outfit had been neatly folded and piled upon his dresser, exchanged for one of his tee shirts and a pair of sweatpants that were cinched at the waist. He helped you into his clothes—with your undivided consent, of course. A completely clinical and respectful process; Nanami looked elsewhere, acting as a handle for you to hold onto as you stepped into the oversized pants he held open for you. They were far too wide, falling off your hips, so he took the time to tie a precious, little bow with the drawstrings. 

“Comfy?” He asks upon his return to the bedroom, holding a glass of tap water in one hand, a bottle of pills rattling in the other. You’re exactly where he left you; swimming in his bedsheets, the comforter hoisted up to your chest. Nanami sets the water down on the bedside table, then takes a seat on the edge of his mattress, working the bottle open. 

“I’ve never been more comfortable,” you sigh blissfully, taking a deep inhale. “Your blankets smell good.”

The blonde can’t help his chuckle. “I’ll give you the name of the laundry detergent I use tomorrow.” With deft fingers, he plucks two small tablets, light pain medication, and sets the pair on the table next to your water glass. 

“Promise?” Your tongue pokes out from between your teeth, playful. He chides an airy yes, snapping the tylenol bottle shut. Then, your smile fades; you’re averting your eyes, fixing them somewhere over to the blank canvas of Nanami’s gray, bedroom wall. “Hey, um…” He watched the side of your face, watches the flex of your jawline and the tension in your neck. “Did I—I didn’t really throw up on you, right?”

You rub at your temple, like you’re trying to find the memory but it’s just out of reach. “No,” he replies instantly, steadily, like it’s not a complete lie. Like his bile-ridden shoes aren’t sitting outside on his front door step, waiting to be cleaned. “You don’t remember?”

“It’s fuzzy,” you grumble, frustrated with yourself. “I had too much.”

Normal circumstances permitted, Nanami would’ve totally took this opportunity to have his I told you so moment. But you already looked  upset, maybe a little bit sick still, so he bit his tongue for you. “Some drunk imbecile interrupted us. We shared words, and then he got sick on us.” He was pleased with himself, his story must’ve been believable with the way you nodded along. 

“And then you punched him, right?”

His face drops. “That’s what you remember?”

Your shrug. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget it, Nanami. Not for my entire life.”

“Kento.” You hum, confused, so he reiterates, “I mean, call me Kento. I just clothed you, I’d say we’re close enough.” It’s true, you guys were getting more and more comfortable together by the day. Even outside of work and the management project, Nanami and you share text conversations more frequently than he would’ve ever imagined. And these little hangouts—granted, only two have been executed thus far—have been the most fun he’s had in ages. More fun than he’d ever hope to have with his ‘friendly’ business colleagues. You’re his friend. 

You, Y/n L/n, are his friend. What a strange fucking twist of events, it nearly gives Nanami whiplash. 

“Ken… To…” You speak each syllable slowly, peeking up at him through your eyelashes. He nods, grinning easily. Happy. “Kento, Kento, Ken—”

“Okay, okay enough.” He rises, arms raised as he gives a hearty stretch to his back. “It’s bedtime. Over there,” Nanami points at a door, “is the bathroom if you need it. You’ve got water here, and make sure you take the medicine in the mornings. You’re going to have a terrible migraine.”

“Wait, where are you gonna go?”

“I’ll take the couch for tonight.”

“Kento…” You whine, and he really wished you wouldn’t do that. “C’mere. There’s room.”

You’re patting the expansive open space beside you, peeling back the heavy blankets. It’s an enticing offer, to slip in beside you and feed off your body heat. To hold you to him and— Stop, what are you thinking? Stupid. “I think it’s best we don’t. Sorry.” And then he’s fleeing to the door because the way in which he worded that made the depths of his soul curl with cringe. Nanami bids you a polite sleep well before leaving you to the darkness, though he has enough sense left to keep the door cracked just in case you should yell for him in the night. 

likes and reblogs are appreciated !

tags . • @justbelljust @amnmich @ti-mame @silkija @maddietries @vyntagei @ebrysteria @aesukuni @lololooolleonnaaa @nanamiswife22 @r0ckst4rjk @mizzfizz @saiki-enthusiast @taelattecookie @enchantingkitty @kindadolly @reinam00n @hqtoge @syamamas @numblytemporary @xxravenxstarxx-blog @bloomedintome @guacam011y @jameinfrau @luvvmae @kazisupreme @nowhoremones @https-tank @venjrnjrbhrr19 @ya9amicide @darkstarlight82 @archivefortoji @alczam02 @kaiparkerwifes @kenz1eluvs @iaminyourfloors @queeen-goldfish @beautifulloverwitch @nxuriah @invisible-mori @hexrts-anatomy @katharinasdiaryy @moonlightazriel @mermaidian02 @squishies0102 @saintkaylaa @vi-ola666 @alettertonana @seeyapizzazz @jtoddlover

[dirtysvthoughts]

mafia boss! wonwoo x reader headcanons

tags/warnings: smut, female! reader, reader is shorter than wonwoo, some pwp, some worldbuilding before the smut (you know how i do), pet names (pretty girl, little one, etc.), mentions of love languages, mentions of lingerie, fingering, lots of kissing and making out, mentions of a dinner, apartment sex, kitchen sex into bedroom sex, make sure they wrap it up before you unwrap it! i’m actually highly upset i can’t have wonwoo blow my back out on a regular

author’s note: first of all, HEY BESTIES! i know i’ve been kinda silent, but i’m slowly getting back my will and motivation to write (do NOT take 3 classes during the summer). i’ve been dying to get my thoughts out on this after the lalali mv, and who knows - this may end up as a full length fic sometime soon 👀 let’s get into it!

———

-mafia boss! wonwoo whose gang started off small, and now he runs one of the largest mafia organizations in the country. he’s cunning, smart, sly, intimidating, even ruthless. those under him respect and admire him, from his vice-leader to the newer members. he strikes fear into several and he is not to be taken lightly or crossed. several groups have been eliminated with just a few words from his lips (like he said, he’s a monster).

-then enter you, his lover, whose entire lifestyle is the opposite of the one he leads. you’re just a simple office worker, but you’re fortunate enough to have some extra pleasures, like a lavish apartment and a decent social life. wonwoo has had his share of women and previous relationships, but you were different. you keep him level headed and grounded. your calm demeanor and intelligence are so very, very attractive to him. and of course, your looks and natural beauty were stunning. he’s protective of you and would prefer you rather not get involved in any of his business endeavors.

-even though he insists on not bringing you into his craziness, he wants to help you out and provide for you as much as he can. his acts of service have ranged from his captains running errands for you to even giving you large monetary gifts every few months.

smut under the cut!! minors DO NOT INTERACT FROM HERE!

-good god, sex with mafia boss! wonwoo would go two ways: rough sex with you screaming and begging for mercy or soft sex with you whimpering and moaning his name, telling you to hold your cum in until he says you can release it. either way, his dominance will be asserted.

-has multiple pet names for you, but absolutely loves calling you: “little one,” “princess,” “my darling,” and “pretty girl.”

-mafia boss! wonwoo has an OBSESSION with you in lingerie. he. can’t. get. enough. he’s bought you multiple sets, and of course has his favorites. absolutely loves it when you dress up for him, he will roam his calloused hands up and down your body, kissing your stomach as he toys with the hem of your panties.

-one of your sexual encounters was in his gang’s warehouse (before the group’s weekly meeting, so it was empty). he looked so dashing in his green gucci suit, hair pulled back into a bun - the wetness gushing in your panties making it clear you needed him. when he closes and locks the warehouse garage door, he crashes his lips onto yours while his hands grab your ass. he grunted something about missing you and how he needed to feel your tight cunt around him. at the moment, you’re unable to form words, but you feel the exact same way, all you could think about was him while you were working and the last time he fucked you silly. he walks you over to a table, lips still on yours and his hands now moving to take off your blouse. he tosses the white garment to the side, leaving you in your bra and work pants. once the back of your knees hit the edge of the table, he guides you to lay on top, clearing off everything in your way - objects loudly crashing to the floor. he caresses your face as his right hand works the clasps and the zipper on your pants, fingers slowly trailing inside your panties, and lightly touching your clit from the outside. you can help but bite your lip and moan his name, wonwoo smirking in response and he rubs the pad of his fingers around your part. “think you can finish before junghoon (his vice leader) gets here, little one?”

-another wonderful sexual encounter brought out his soft dom side. he wanted to spend some time with you, so you two set a date where he can come over to your place, have some food, and enjoy your company. on the day of, he rings the doorbell to your apartment, bringing with him a bottle of champagne, dressed in a white mock turtleneck with black pants. when you open the door, a smile appears on his face and you take his hand, leading him through the door. you just put him at ease, and he feels so comfortable around you. “i missed you my darling,” he whispers as he kisses your hand, a blush creeping on your cheeks.

-some time passes after dinner, and the two of you are talking in the kitchen with champagne still in your glasses. as you sit on the counter, wonwoo finishes washing the dishes, thanking you for the meal. you shrug and say it was nothing and you didn’t mind, but wonwoo insists that it was something more. “i know i don’t say this a lot, but i want to let you know that i do love you, and you mean a lot to me.” your heart melts at his words and you give wonwoo a hug as he comes back to your side. “i love you too, baby,” you whisper. a few moments later, you delicately press your lips on his, and he seals the deal. your tongues dance together as you continue to kiss, this time your hands are the first to move and they tug at the hem of his turtleneck, pulling it up to reveal some of his abs. he helps you out as his shirt goes higher, and it’s quickly tossed to the other side of the room. he returns the favor by taking off your crop top, revealing the bra that beautifully accentuates your breasts. he licks his lips as he kisses your neck, his hands moving slowly up your thighs. “w-wonwoo,” you whine, “i need you!” “i know, darling, i know,” he responds. “you’ll have everything you want and more tonight.” he carries you bridal style to your bedroom, lips still locked together as gently tosses you onto the bed.

-you’re pretty sure by now your neighbors can hear you moan for your partner, but you could care less right now - wonwoo was thrusting into so deliciously that you body pinged with each movement. he knew your body and he knew how to please you, and tonight he wanted to make sure just how much you meant to him. filthy phrases leave his mouth, calling you his baby girl, how perfect your pussy was for him, and all he wanted was to see your legs covered in his juices. you grasp onto your hotel-like white sheets, your face contorting as his deep voice and dick send you over the edge when he hits your spot and releases his load in you. you breathe heavily as you come too, saying his name over and over as if it was the only thing you knew.

“i love you little one,” he kisses your cheek as he pulls out, embracing you as you cuddle up to his side.

“mmm, i love you too.”

[cheralith]

wish you well — 「 celebrity!gojo x manager!reader (drabble & headcanons 」

synopsis ; after being one of the nation's most well-loved celebrity's manager for nine years, it's time to call it quits. said celebrity, however, doesn't take it too well.

content tags/warnings ; gn!reader, no pronouns for reader used, mild angst, some parts not edited/not beta read

contains ; celebrity!au, a-list actor!gojo satoru, manager!reader, no powers au

notes ; plot inspired by "what's wrong with secretary kim" after my nth rewatch haha

now playing ; i wish you love - nancy wilson

Everyone goes to lean forward in their seats, gripping the edge of it as the music that’s singing from the movie theatre’s speakers suddenly stops, letting the sound effects of rain pebble through instead. The screen displays a running, drenched man in the rain of a lonesome road in the middle of the countryside, his crystal blue eyes hazy with a brim of tears balancing in them as he huffs and puffs, the exhaustion within him visible. The camera cuts to a woman seated safely under a bus stop as the rain pours down with the same view of a descending countryside town still blurred in the distance. She grips the handle of her suitcase as her head goes to gaze solemnly at her shoes. 

A bus goes to a screeching halt, only the tender wheel of it visible as the woman’s gaze is still stuck on the floor before she looks up to see the bus doors opening before her. The running man appears before the screen, desperation clear on his face before the camera slowly turns towards the bus stop the formerly-sitting woman is now standing under. 

“Loretta! Don’t you dare get on that bus!”  the man yells out, earning the woman’s attention.

The woman widens her pale green eyes at the sight of him breaking out into a sprint. She swallows a nervous gulp, too frozen to move from her spot until the man enters under the shelter of the bus stop. His chest engraved with the lining of visible muscles are evident through his pale blue button-down that’s slicked with water and the sight earns a couple of lip bites from women in the theatre. 

The woman stammers, “Y-you know I need to do this…”

“No you don’t,” the man mutters, the camera panning to show his eyes holding desperation and a slight flicker of anger. “Your father wants you to do this, but I know you. I know you don’t want to.”

“But it’s my duty, Vincent—”

“Don’t give me that ‘duty’ shit!” The man shakes his head, letting droplets of water fling all over. “Loretta, please… just stay here with me,” he pleads, holding her face in his hands and forcing the woman to look up at him as his thumbs wipe away her tears that grab onto mascara. “We can stay here… get a house together… build a family… die old together like you said we would. You’re not gonna break your promise, are you?”

“Vincent, that was when we were six!” the woman exclaims sadly, “Don’t tell me you’re still hanging onto that.”

“I’m not hanging onto that promise,” he whispers, pulling her face closer to his. 

The instrumental of a music track begins to play softly in the background, obvious tension rising to the surface in the theatre as the scene continues. A couple of hands shovel into large popcorn buckets and without thinking, shove the popcorn into their salivating mouths. Nails dig into the palms of hands as some chew on them out of anticipation. Eyes wide and unblinking, they give their full attention to the screen.

“Say the line…” whispers one person.

The man tenderly kisses her in a short, but passionate kiss, letting her release from him with a dreamy sigh. 

“I’m holding on to you,” he murmurs ever so softly. 

Compared to the quietness of the man on the screen, the theatre goes absolutely crazy. Shouts and cheers ring through the air as numerous rounds of applause go to harmonize with them. 

The scene in the movie finalizes with Loretta finally swallowing her pride and nodding to Vincent’s agreement, sealing the movie with a kiss that lasts until the screen slowly fades to black. 

“Annnd… that’s a wrap,” the director of the movie jokes as he stands up from his seat. He earns a few laughs from the cast and the crew of the movie. The theatre begins to light up once more and gives a clear view of everyone, including the section that holds the main cast up near the back. “I’d like to give one last thank you to Satoru Gojo and Yuki Tsukumo one last time for giving an amazing performance and dedicating their time for the past year and a half. Thank you both ever so dearly.”

Satoru Gojo, also known as Vincent, goes to stand up with his co-star, also known as Loretta, and they give a synchronized bow to the people in the theatre as the premier for his latest movie finally draws the curtains from behind the audience. “Thank you for directing another outstanding movie. I truly do look forward to working with you again in the future,” he gives another dazzling smile as he and Yuki elegantly walk down the stairs together. They say their final goodbyes as co-stars and depart to opposite sides of the theatre where they’re greeted with their teams. 

You go to hand him his coat you’ve been hanging on to for the past ninety minutes, the scent of cologne finally fading after a suffocating hour and a half. Glancing at the director who heartily laughs with some of the editors of the movie, you let out a light chuckle. 

“Hm? What’s so funny?” Satoru inquires as he shoves on his coat. 

“You’re such a liar,” you say, shrugging as you and him exit the movie’s premiere together, some of the actor’s team following shortly after, conversing with another about how spectacular the movie was. “You’d rather throw yourself off a cliff than work with that guy again.”

Without looking at you, Satoru grins ahead. “You know me so well.”

Ijichi, the chauffeur, is waiting patiently outside the venue despite the winter cold. When he sights the many delighted smiles and laughter, he asks, “I take it the premiere went well?” 

“Very,” you nod, getting into the car to enjoy its warmth.

The car ride is nothing out of the usual, just quiet jazz playing in the background and the city lights glimmer from above. 

“Oh, what’s the agenda for tomorrow by the way?” Satoru asks, his gaze turning from the window to you, who still is focused on the tablet that checks off today’s draining tasks for the celebrity. 

Photoshoot for Ray Ban… done. Look over next month’s plans for Season Two of Jujutsu Kaisen… done. Suit fitting for movie premiere… done. Movie premiere… done!

“(Y/N)~” Satoru calls again but dragging the last syllable of your name and snapping his fingers in front of you to capture your attention. He chuckles when you jolt in your seat. 

“Sorry,” you mutter before swiping to tomorrow’s agenda. “Alright, nothing too big. You just gotta sign that contract that you’ll be the spokesperson for Chaumet, then right after, you have an Elle interview regarding the movie. Then, you’ll have a final dinner with the entire cast and that’s it for the week.”

Satoru nods in approval and obviously ready to take on tomorrow’s attacks. Only three things? He can handle that with ease. If anything, it’s been less of a load to bring on from the recent events that had been happening as of lately. His feet could really use a break from walking over so many red carpets. 

The road begins to lead down a familiar path as you realize you pass the local family diner, your apartment’s entrance shortly coming to view. Ijichi slows to a stop and unlocks the door, letting you out. Before Satoru can say goodbye to his beloved manager, however, you stop the window from rolling up and lean down into the car again. 

“Oh, I forgot to say this earlier, but,” you pause, making sure his attention is all on you for this short, but possibly life-alternating moment. “You’re also meeting your new manager tomorrow, too. She’s really sweet and—”

Time freezes for a moment.

“Wait a minute,” Satoru furrows his brows and faces his body completely towards you, his countenance pulling the curtains to reveal a confused, serious expression that rarely appears on his face. “New manager…? What do you mean?”

The question comes out more as a demand. Breath hitching for a short moment, you release it and smile gently with the corners not letting your eyes curve. You had been anticipating this moment for the longest time now—around half a year of decision making and weighing the pros and cons, then three months deciding when the right time to break the news would be. But at this time, you’ve ran out of time and you’ve ultimately decided to push it towards the day before the deadline, something you almost never do. A little solemnly, you sigh out softly and finally declare the groundbreaking news to the A-list celebrity, your head still high.

“I’ll be quitting as your manager, soon.”

Actor!Gojo, who doesn't get a good night sleep after that abrupt statement, in which you barely gave him time to try and ask why on earth you're giving up the job that many people would kill for, only leaving him with a small wave and a subtle "goodnight." Your voice replayed in his head the entire night, the sentence resembling nails on a chalkboard the more he repeated it to himself—"I'll be quitting as your manager, soon."

Actor!Gojo, who thinks you have the nerve to put on a smile and greet him good morning the following sunrise as if nothing happened, as if you weren't breaking a bond of nearly nine years with him. Your words for today’s plans go in and out of his ears as Satoru wearily examines your appearance and movements in the kitchen that he almost never uses as he rounds up his thoughts that poisoned his head ever since you said that all-too-bold statement last night that shifted his entire world in the matter of seconds.

Actor!Gojo, who cuts you off mid-sentence, asking you sharply why you're quitting as his manager out of the blue, his usually-playful baby blue hues piercing right into you. He notices your smile faltering a bit, but never completely dissipating, though it comes severely close to doing so when you tell him why.

Actor!Gojo, who listens much too intently for his liking when he hears you out, a feat he rarely does. "The past nine years have been wonderful, don't get me wrong," you murmur as you slather on a sugary marmalade on his toast. "But I don't think I'm really getting much out of life just being someone's manager."

Actor!Gojo, who pretends as if those last two words don't sting his chest. Someone's manager... as if he's not one of the most worshipped and celebrated A-list actors in the industry right now. But he supposes that's why he stuck by you, since you understood that he, too, was just a regular human being at the end of the day like the rest of humanity, even with his godlike good looks.

Actor!Gojo, whose mouth runs dry when you continue. "I don't want to be the side character to someone's story. I deserve to live fully too." you finish, pushing Gojo's plate of breakfast towards him before snacking on the leftovers. You stare at him, awaiting his response. You understand that despite you thinking over such a big decision for a few months, that it was better to rip off the bandaid and avoid any further complications by quitting unexpectedly, even though you knew Gojo better than anyone.

Actor!Gojo, who attempts to understand where you're coming from. Yes, he can get that maybe this life wasn't the most exciting, but then again, what other jobs out there are? At least with this one, you're guaranteed good—dare he say, great—pay and stability, along with experiencing second-hand what it's like to see all the glitz and glamour most of the population fiend for. It's thanks to him that you've been draped in designer clothes for premiers, that you've tried Michelin delicacies, that you've travelled the world. So... why ditch all of that for a more simple life? Aren't you content?

Actor!Gojo, whose mind flashes back to the moment where you stared a little too longingly at a lovesick couple in the window of a coffee shop, or when your eyes lingered on the engagement rings in a shop window that one day he had to get a suit tailored. He suddenly remembers the one dress rehearsal where he witnessed an extra asking for your number before you declined politely. He had asked you jokingly that you were blind to reject such a handsome guy (second to him, of course), only for you to reply you smiled gently at him and said you had no time to date.

Actor!Gojo, who suddenly blurts out without any restraint, and with a little more edge than expected, "What? D'you want to get married or something?"

Actor!Gojo, who regrets the sentence as soon as it escapes his lips. He swallows thickly and attempts to organize the right words for a proper apology. You stare blankly at him for a moment, and before Gojo can say anything, you nod. "Yeah. It's been a dream of mine to, actually..."

Actor!Gojo, who thinks his coffee tastes much bitter than usual, silently nods after a moment of awkward silence. You open your mouth first to try and cut it through, but he beats you to it. "I'm sure I could re-arrange some stuff in the schedule so you can get out there and meet someone. There's no need to quit." He ignores the weird pang in his chest the moment he says "someone."

Actor!Gojo, who frowns when you shake your head. You explain it would still be hard, as he'd remain your first priority despite it all. You mention that you've already submitted your resignation letter to his agency three weeks ago and that it's been processed, that it'll be your last two weeks as you being his manager and that you'll be saying goodbye to what had been nearly a decade of companionship with the celebrity.

Actor!Gojo, who flinches as the doorbell rings and watches miserably as you fetch the person at the door. She's a young girl, around the age when you first started as his manager, with choppy bangs and long blue hair, along with a bright and ready smile. You introduce her as his to-be manager, but Gojo can't shake off the thought of being greeted by her face in the morning and seeing her face as the last thing he sees before he goes to sleep instead of yours.

Actor!Gojo, who thinks this week is going much too fast for his liking. Despite essentially begging for the director of his latest TV show to give him some extra scenes to shoot, he was excused early with the rest of the crew after all the required scenes were shot nicely. Somehow, the brand deal commercial and meeting flew by much faster than usual, too. But despite it all, Gojo couldn't help his eyes constantly flickering to your figure whenever you were in his field of vision, even receiving multiple warnings from the director from the commercial to stop getting distracted.

Actor!Gojo, who finds his gaze lingering on a rather old picture of you and him, along with some blurry figures in the background. Nine years younger, both of you, with outdated fashion and makeup. He remembers you were just shy of being his manager for four months, when he was still trying to break out of the shell of being a nepotism baby and attempting to create a name for himself. Gojo prided himself on his independence, but he'd be fooling himself if he didn't give a hefty amount of credit of his success to you. After all, you were the one that was in charge of his many brand deals and were the one that landed him roles that granted him film awards.

Actor!Gojo, who can't find the right words to say during the drives home, hating how the air is always thick whenever you were alone with him. He doesn't think he can get used to not pulling up to your apartment when the night comes to an end before going to his, despite your affirmations that him and Miwa would get along great. He murmurs a good night to you, not facing you despite watching your reflection intently in the window, but before you wish him a good evening, you say something that forces him to face you.

"I have... a dinner reservation with someone at 6:30 p.m., so I'll be leaving early tomorrow."

Gojo blinks. "Is that implying you have a date?"

"I..." you swallow anticipatingly. "I suppose you could say that."

Actor!Gojo, who feels the familiar pang of his chest as the thought of someone else sharing a dinner with you, something you've been doing with him since the very beginning of his career. He can't even imagine a person, only some sort of foggy figure sitting across from you, sharing a shabby meal. He can tell you're waiting a response from him before you head into your apartment, and he wryly says, "That's great... Hope you have a good time or whatever..." before commanding the driver to drive off, not even waiting for another word from you.

Actor!Gojo, who drums his fingers with great boredom against the door's handle, fighting off the nuisance that was the city's insane traffic this evening. When he gazes out the window to find some other distraction other than his phone, however, he instantly finds himself drawn to a familiar figure being seated at the window a few stories up in the restaurant his car was stuck in front of. You're up there, dressed regally for another, giggling with them at something they said (something stupid, Gojo thinks to himself). Teeth grit against themselves when they feed you a small portion of their food with their fork, the indirect kiss making his eyes narrow.

Actor!Gojo, whose spontaneous anger suddenly dispels when he repeats your words from earlier that week.

"What? D'you want to get married or something?"

"Yeah. It's been a dream of mine to, actually..."

Gojo suddenly pauses and goes still for a while, thinking over something incredulous. He blinks repeatedly, before a grin etches on his face as his plan settles into his consciousness. Gojo may not give you anything you desire if you're just his mere manager...

... but if he were your husband, then that meant your dream would be fulfilled and you could stay at his side for what was essentially the rest of his life and give you anything you wanted. He'd never have to fret about you leaving his life ever again.

Satoru Gojo, you absolute Einstein... he compliments himself proudly in his mind. Letting out a confident huff as the car begins to drive on, he tells the driver to head on over to the nearest jewelry store before heading home.

a/n: hi sorry it's been a while! i was finishing up a semester at uni, so forgive my absence with this little weird hybrid ficlet of mine featuring the one and only

i hope you enjoyed and thank you for taking time out of your day to enjoy my writing! likes/comments/reblogs are always noticed and are always appreciated (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡ !!!

[smolskye]

i miss Attention and such but whenever I delve into fandom communities for like an hour randomly I come out like......are you guys even having fun. because it's supposed to be fun. also I can't sleep

[azullumi]

JESUS, TAKE THE WHEEL ?!

premise — to put it simply, hsr men driving. characters — boothill, sunday, aventurine, veritas ratio, jing yuan, and blade content tags �� small mentions of reader, probably fluff, not proofread, i don't know how to tag this please | wc: 0.6k ; headcanons

note from me — this idea was brought to me after nearly crashing and getting multiple heart attacks while my dad was driving

BOOTHILL, races with the wind that it feels like you left your soul somewhere in the road—literally a wild spirit who seems to enjoy the feeling of the breeze on his skin. He probably got you lost one time too, or maybe twice, or thrice. He just loves fast cars and faster chases, likes the thrill of it (much to your dismay if you’re a cautious person). He’s probably cussed someone out for cutting him off his lane which led to him nearly crashing when he pressed the brakes suddenly. Despite his reckless driving habits, his quick thinking and reflexes keeps him out of harm.

SUNDAY, perfect law-abiding citizen—follows the traffic rules, doesn’t go past the speed limit, never crashes, never gets pulled over, you’re in the safest hands and you can trust the entirety of your life on him. You have a good road trip, a great driver, and someone who you can easily talk to. It’s perfect. He probably has a playlist ready with the most of it being his sister’s songs, playing and listening to it as he drives, often humming along with the melody.

AVENTURINE, drives like there’s no tomorrow when he’s alone but drives like the most responsible and careful driver whenever there’s someone with him in the car. He likes driving during the night despite the risk of it (and that’s honestly the point); he does love the quiet streets and the solitude he gets, taking long drives to often clear his mind or just drive somewhere where he wants to be, often taking the scenic route. There are times that he drives in complete silence, deep in thought, and taking random turns.

VERITAS RATIO, just your normal and average sane driver. Literally it’s all just normal with him that it feels so wrong. He’s quite the careful driver but is easily annoyed when someone cuts off his lane and you’ll have to deal with a rambling doctor that calls people who have no driving etiquettes foolish and reckless. He strictly follows the rules of the road, but doesn’t hesitate in voicing out his frustrations at those who don’t. Other than that, everything is fine. He rarely listens to music, however, opting to listen to educational podcasts or the radio instead—he says it helps in keeping him focused.

JING YUAN, bold of you to even assume he’s driving; he doesn’t drive, or he rarely does. He’s a passenger princess, a shotgun queen, the backseat sleeper,—preferring to sleep on his seat than focus his eyes on the road. If he ever drives, however, it’s slow and careful. He’ll reason that there’s nothing to rush for and that you all have the time in the world, and you don’t know if you’re supposed to accept his reasoning, especially when you’re going to be late. The chance of him falling asleep while driving is higher than the chance of arriving at your destination early (a 10-minute drive easily becomes a 30-minute one and no, it’s not because of the traffic).

BLADE, believe it or not but he’s, if not the most, but one of the trusted drivers. While he does go past the speed limit sometimes and maybe he does have to swerve the car that you’ll fly off your seat (if not without your seatbelt) ever so often, you never die while he’s the one on the driver seat—thankfully. Surprisingly, he does wear his seatbelt and even urges you to wear yours (even if he didn’t, you’ll have to because you have nothing else to hold on to). The most silent car ride to ever exist though as he’ll only speak when you’ll ask him something, otherwise you’re left on your own with a conversation in the wind. Nevertheless, you’ll arrive at your destination in one piece. Not until the mara strikes.

FELIIII, a lovely mention to the beautiful and lovely @dr-felitas !! i'm getting back to writing now since i'm back from vacation (which means i can do anything and everything i want, but not including ghosting 🔥) ANYWAYS i would like to say thank you for always being patient with me and my replies ,, like my bad g 🙏 i really appreciate your presence in my life and your constant understanding, and i know i already told you this but you're a very warm and comforting person and i only hope for the best things to come in your life (i know love and beauty exists because you exist and you're full of it). i will support you in each and every one of your decisions, despite how bad or stupid it can be. don't let anything hold you back boo, never listen to your haters or your opps 🗣, you're still young and you have all the time in the world to experience meaningful moments (even heartbreaking ones). so go talk to that girl bae <33 no matter what happens, i'll always be here for you. ily lots mwaaaa

© azullumi — do not plagiarize, copy, repost, nor translate any of my works.

[shizucheese]

Hey guys, we need to talk. Because a certain little something in TMAGP 8 is causing what is genuinely the most toxic part of the Magpod fandom at large to once again rear its ugly head. So let's talk about podcast character appearance head canons, shall we?

I'm tagging this with the Magnus Archives, TMA and Magpod tags because I am absolutely calling all of you out, but if you don't want spoilers for The Magnus Protocol episode 8 then stop reading right now.

.

.

. Okay, so, Gerry exists in the TMAGP universe. He's happy (or at least acts cheerful). And some people have headcanoned this to mean that he is no longer goth, or at the very least isn't dying his hair black with bad box color. And other people have decided to get seriously agro over this. I have literally seen with my very own eyeballs someone call "un-gothing" Gerry a "hate crime" and calling the person they were talking to "gothphobic."

Let me make this absolutely clear for all of you: podcasts are a purely audio medium and unless a physical trait of theirs is explicitely stated, everyone's headcanon for how a character appears is valid. Goth TMAGP Gerry is valid. But also

Rainbow Goth TMAGP Gerry is valid. Pastel Goth TMAGP Gerry is valid.

Not Goth At All TMAGP Gerry is valid.

Bald Gerry who has actually gotten his brain cancer diagnosed in time and is getting treated for it is valid. Somebody's headcanon of a character that has no canonical description to them, or whose headcanon matches the few crumbs of canonical description we have but otherwise doesn't look the way you imagine them to, is not going to take away from your own headcanon of what a character looks like. If someone imagining or drawing a character looking a different way from how you imagine them looking somehow takes away from your enjoyment of the fandom or otherwise makes you feel like you need to barge in and tell them that they're Wrong and need to conform to your headcanon or else, that is a reflection on you, not them.

And this problem way predates TMAGP, let alone TMAGP 8. The only description we have of John is that he is in his early 30's and has prematurely greying hair.

If someone thinks he looks like the pastiest motherfucker to ever dwell in a basement, an extra-in-the-Adam's Family or Tim Burtan protagonist of a man, let them.

What's that? You want to tell them that John is BROWN and if they don't headcanon him looking that way they're WRONG and RACIST? Back away from the keyboard and go outside.

(Ironically, as someone who started getting grey hairs in my hair in my 20's myself, I'm pretty sure everyone's headcanon of John, with tiny little whisps of grey in his hair, is wrong, because if he was so grey that people were surprised to learn he was "a child of the 90's," he was probably full on salt-and-pepper when he was in his 20's.)

The only description we have for Martin is that he (man who canonically has the self esteem of a used doormat) describes himself as "not the smallest guy", Not-Sasha called him "roomy", Melanie is skinner than him, and Jonny said he imagined him as a "bigger guy" who would beat Alex in a physical fight. If someone decides to take this information and conclude that it means he's tall, broad and has muscle, rather than that he's overweight, fucking let them. If your first instinct to this is to run to your keyboard and call them "fatphobic" or otherwise bash them for it, I once again urge you to back away from your keyboard and go outside.

Someone headcanons Basira not wearing a headscarf? We have exactly 0 canonical physical description of her and the people who headcanon her as having one are basing that purely off of her name alone. Fucking let them. Someone headcanons Melanie and/ or Georgie as a skin color you don't agree with or a hairstyle you don't like? Fucking let them. As long as someone's headcanon of a character's description doesn't contradict the few canonical descriptions we have of a character, why do you care? Them having a different headcanon from you doesn't take away your right to imagine the characters looking however you like, anymore than it should take away their right to do the same. Someone headcanoning John as white (or Black, or Asian, or Mixed, or whatever) isn't going to make all of the fanart of John as brown with long hair suddenly disappear, nor the fanfiction describing him as such (although I do often wonder if the opposite is not true; is the fact that John looks the same in so much of the fanart I see on here really because of fandom "consensus", or is it because people are absolutely awful to anyone who draws him Different?). Someone headcanoning Martin as not fat isn't going to make the mountains of fanart of him as a fluffy little marshmallow vanish into the void (although I do remember hearing about someone getting bullied off the internet for daring to draw Martin as not fat). And someone headcanoning Gerry in TMAGP as not being goth isn't going to take away your preciouse goth TMAGP Gerry headcanon. That should be part of the fun of it, shouldn't it? Seeing what different images people have conjured in their heads of these characters we only get to experience with our ears, and celebrating the differences as well as the similarities? Why are we bullying people into conforming to one appearance of a character when no actual canonical appearance of them exists?

[sttoru]

𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐄

⟣ sypnosis. everyone has their own fetishes and things they get turned on by; some things being very random or specific—naturally, your lover has his own. what are random / mundane things you do that he gets turned on by?

⟣ note. uhh kinda a thought i had back in the days of my old account + from this post & now i just wrote it out . . . hope you all enjoy. this post contains smut, proceed at own risk !

⟣ tags. dom!gojo, geto, toji x female reader (separately). headcanons + drabbles. smut. (over)sexualisation. gojo: m! masturbation, implied blow job, dirty talk, reader gets called ‘baby, princess’, teasing | geto: teasing / edging, dirty talk, breast play, dry humping, implied breeding, degradation if you squint, reader gets referred to as ‘wife(y)’ | toji: brat taming, pussy spanking, cunnilingus, teasing, dirty talk, reader gets called ‘doll, slut,’

GOJO SATORU.

definitely the classical ‘sucking on a lollipop’. satoru himself doesn’t even know why he gets so turned on by the sight of the candy disappearing between your plump lips—it’s not that he likes it when just anybody’s enjoying a lollipop either—only when you do it, it’s a complete turn-on. it’s ridiculous that you have that much power over him honestly.

since satoru’s been dating you, he’s discovered so many things about his body that he never even knew of; new feelings, new emotions, new. . kinks and fetishes. there’s just something about you eating a lollipop (or actually any kind of food that you need to suck on) and he’s already having a difficult time hiding his hard-on. he swears that he’s never found that innocent thing ‘hot’ before;

will try to play it off—try to ignore it, but naturally, fails at this. you can easily see the changes in his expression and actions.

satoru shifts in his seat on the couch, eyes trembling as they didn’t know where to focus; the show playing on the tv or you, who’s next to him, suckling on a lollipop like it was the best meal you’ve eaten.

“is it good, princess?” satoru asks in hopes of distracting his perverted mind from going any further. you turn your head towards him and nod, taking the candy out of your mouth with a faint ‘pop’ sound, “mhm. very.”

it’s like you knew — the way your eyelashes flutter, your glistening lips parted into a sly smile, tongue sticking out to slowly lick the sweetness and circle around its surface to get every last drop of that strawberry taste. just like the way you would tease his tip—

satoru shakes his head as if it’d help erase the mental image of you on your knees between his legs; get yourself together. she’s just eating a lollipop. there’s nothing sexual to that.

but he can’t help it. his body reacts on its own as the blood flows to his crotch, his boxers restrain the growing bulge and his cheeks turn a pink hue. his breathing pattern turns irregular as well; all clear indications of his arousal.

you were too preoccupied with your little snack and the tv-show to notice any of it. the distraction was perfect for satoru—he could palm himself through his shorts and you wouldn’t notice a thing. so, that’s what he decided to do.

his big hand sneak under the waistband, long fingers reaching far enough to stimulate his throbbing cock through the fabric of his underwear. it wasn’t long before you start to notice what was happening down there. satoru was never good at hiding such things from you.

“shit—sorry, baby.” satoru flashes you a weak smile after seeing your eyes land near his groin area, “you’re just so fuckin’ hot. . i couldn’t wait.”

he tilts his head back, warm breath coming out in small gasps whilst his hand motions continue. satoru was shameless at this point. he didn’t care if you knew—all you had to do was sit there, look pretty, have a lollipop in your warm mouth and he’d be able to finish himself off with no problems.

“need some help?” you chuckle, biting down on the ball of candy in your mouth and throwing the empty stick away somewhere on the coffee table.

satoru lets a whimper escape his lips at your suggestion. he wouldn’t say no to that, but it truly felt like he’d cum right in his pants from the idea. he can’t wait to hear those wet, suckling noises again—this time due to you sucking and licking something else than a mere lollipop. something way bigger.

“mhm, fuck, yeah. need ya to suck me off so bad—might cum the moment i feel those lips wrapped ‘round my dick, though. ya mind if i do? just don’t forget to swallow like a good girl, ‘kay?”

GETO SUGURU

his ‘kink’ is simple: just you in an apron does unspeakable things to that man. suguru’s always knew that you’d be the one he marries, however every time you put on an apron to cook, the desire to make you his wife intensifies ten fold. you look absolutely adorable in it—standing near the kitchen counter whilst moving back and forth in your pink apron.

another thing about that which turns suguru on even more, is when he finds you in the kitchen after spending the night together, wearing only panties, his shirt and the apron. ‘easy access’, is what he likes to call it. his arms would find their place around your waist, clothed dick pressing and grinding against your ass from behind. next thing you know he’s pushing your panties to the side and fucking you good.

probably will dirty talk right into your ear whilst giving you that good, early sex session in the morning.

suguru sucks on your earlobe and digs his teeth in the soft flesh before pulling away, hands still feeling up your tits under the apron, hips deeply rubbing against the fat of your ass—just what you expected to happen once you put that apron on. his favourite one at that.

“look at you,” suguru purrs against your nape whilst leaving small pecks across the skin, “you’re going to be such a good wife and mother one day, sweetheart. and i want to be that lucky man that gets to call you his wife. .”

his words and touches were merely used as a way to divert your attention from your cooking. if suguru wanted to take you right then and there, he would. and he knew you’d allow it. you always do; you turn putty in his hands whenever he’s so loving like this in the early mornings.

“mngh, yes, please.. wan’ you so bad, suguru.” your voice is a quiet whisper as you bite back a moan or two. you couldn’t hold on any longer as the endless grinding made you crave for more. you push your ass back on the hard bulge you felt, gaining a grunt from the man behind you.

“impatient, hm? poor you.” suguru sighs before trailing two fingers downwards, pulling your panties aside while his other hand discards his boxers. he rubs the tip against your wet entrance, slipping the head in before pulling it back out to rub the mixture of fluids over your cunt—not yet giving you what you want, “you know, i was also thinking about how good you’d look in an apron while pregnant. with a little belly sticking out.”

the extended edging and dirty talk made your brain stop working as it turned all thoughts into lustful ones. all of them revolving around suguru and the pleasure you’re about to receive. you knew he was just giving you a small taste of what other nasty stuff he’s going to whisper in your ear later on. you can’t count how many times suguru’s made you cum from simply his lewd words and smooth voice.

“pl—” before you could start to beg again, suguru pushes his entire length in, the girth of his cock making you grip onto the counter like you’d fall over if you don’t. you bend over a bit and let your tummy rest against the cold surface.

“so submissive.” suguru whispers under his breath, watching you arch your back after he starts to pump into you. his hand trails across the knot made from the laces of the apron, which rests on your lower back. suguru twists the material around his index finger before firmly pulling you back by it—back flush against his chiseled chest, “so obedient. .”

it was only a matter of time before his slow thrusts turn into a quick and rough pounding. you could tell by the way his breathing was turning shallow.

“what do they associate those terms with nowadays? ah, yes, ‘wifey’ material. i feel like that describes you perfectly. fuck—i really can’t wait to make you my wife, put a baby in your tummy and start our own family. you’re going to look so beautiful pregnant. i’m sure of it.”

FUSHIGURO TOJI

gets extremely turned on by you getting mad at him. toji found this out when you were upset by his habit of leaving laundry on the floor. he remembers how you stood there in front of him, blocking the tv from his sight, hand on your hip, finger pointing at his chest with that cute little frustrated expression plastered on your face. for some reason, it made his dick twitch in his pants. the urge to fuck that scowl right off that pretty face of yours was undeniable.

toji would be so calm whilst you’d almost lose your mind at his laid back, or actually, lazy demeanour. like he isn’t taking you seriously at all when you’re mad (he actually isn’t; his mind is too busy thinking about the positions he’s gonna have you in later that day).

idle ‘mhm’s’ and ‘yeah’s’ are all you’re going to get out of toji if he’s seeing you look at him with that adorable pout again—that almost unnoticeable pout you have when you’re upset about something.

“honestly, toji. you could’ve washed this yourself instead of waiting on me to finish the dishes and then put your dirty cup and plate in the sink.” you sigh and reluctantly wash his dirty utensils as well, even though you were in the midst of scolding him.

“it’s really annoying, you know? when i think i’m done doing the dishes. . . .” bla bla bla bla.

well, that was moments ago—you trying to talk some sense into toji. somehow it ended up the other way around; you being put on your back on the nearby table, legs on either side of toji’s head, his tongue lapping up your leaking fluids, his rough fingers digging in the fat of your thighs.

“really thought ya could jus’ talk to me like that without any consequences?” toji sighs, his deep breath hitting your cunt making your muscles tense up, your thighs trying to close around his head. a harsh slap lands right near your clit which causes your hips to jerk up in surprise;

“aht aht,” toji scoffs and disregards any contact with your dripping pussy, leaving it be for the time being, “keep your legs open f’me. all the way or ‘m leaving ya hanging right here.”

you cooperate immediately and spread your legs again whilst your fingers tug at toji’s black locks. his sharp eyes travel from your cunt to your face and he exhales through his nose, almost in a mocking, breathy chuckle;

“bet y’re gonna sulk ‘n pout if i get up and leave again, eh?” toji grins and is almost tempted to do just what he said, simply to see you pout and get mad at him once more. he wants to play that game of patience, but he knows he’ll come out victorious after every round. you’ll be the first one to beg him for forgiveness for your behaviour.

“please, baby— ‘m sorry. sorry.” there it was. you caved in, your frown nowhere to be seen as your face was overridden by desire and need for the man kneeling before you. toji was too good at letting you forget all about your previous sour mood—his tongue working its magic on you was enough to put you under a calming spell.

“mhm. that’s what i thought.” toji hums and smacks your cunt again. this time it was done purely for his own satisfaction; to hear how wet you’re for him, how good he’s been eating you out for the past couple minutes. but most importantly—to make sure you knew who held all power in the end.

toji leans his head down and lets the tip of his tongue glide across your vulva, circling right around your entrance to drive you insane. you could feel him smirk against your cunt in victory;

“ya know, i should make you angry more often just to turn you into a fuckin’ mess afterwards. mhmmm—wanna see that cute tough act ya put on fall apart the moment i put my dick in y’r cunt. gonna have you go from acting like a brat to a slut in under a minute, you jus’ wait and see, doll.”

[a-hazbin-reader]

Do you have Alastor x drunk flirty Reader?😞

I wanna see how flustered he is omg

As per the poll~

Alastor X Reader Headcanons

✅️Romantic

❌️Platonic

TW: Alcohol, Drunk!Wife, Alastor STRUGGLING to contain his wife's rizz, He's embarrassed but likes it

Description:☝️⬆️

Alastor can handle his liquor pretty well, years of drinking with Mimzy has built up his tolerance to a considerable degree

As his wife, you had some tolerance but not nearly as high as your husband's, Mimzy often teasing you for not being able to keep up with the two of them

It didn't help that once the alcohol was in your system that your drunken mind just wanted your husband and his attention, so it was always painfully obvious when you were drunk

So you tried to limit yourself to a few drinks whenever you went out in order the avoid that outcome

But tonight, it had failed, Angel taking everyone out for drinks and dragging you along with them, your husband forced to tag along

Because he was not going to miss out on time with his wife, hell no, never gonna happen

You did try and keep to your limit, but the fun atmosphere and being surrounded by your friends made you loosen up a bit

Everyone kept buying more drinks and they kept coming your way, your husband started to try to drink some for himself but you had started to whine at him

"Alastor..! That's... my... my... mine..."

He squished your cheeks together to mess up your cute pout, your face flushed and stance a little wobbly

"You, my dear~ Are completely drunk right now...~"

He's a little drunk too but won't admit it

It's all he can do not to gush and coo over how cute you are, he forgot just how adorable you could be when you were drunk

You suddenly surge forward and sit yourself in his lap, arms wrapping around his neck as he struggles to balance the two of you on the barstool

"I'm not drunk~ Just needy for my husband~"

The combination of your low tone and fingers playing with the edges of his collar makes his face heat up, a small bleat escaping him

You lean against him, rubbing your cheek against his shoulder as you reach up to play with the ends of his hair instead, sighing happily

"You really are... just so handsome, you know~"

Alastor grips your hand gently to pull it away, clearing his throat before another embarrassed sound comes out, blushing slightly

"D-Darling... we're in public..!"

But you're not listening to him, your unsteady gaze on his lips and poking his nose happily

"You~ Are~ Just so~ Irresistible~"

He's mortified that your only reaction is to laugh and slap your hands over his cheeks, pulling him in for a long kiss

His ears twitch wildly as he hears the others whooping at the two of you, Angel, Charlie and Niffty being the loudest of the bunch

Alastor hardly gets the chance to catch his breath once you finally pull away, sputtering out nonsense about PDA and married couples

You don't even look ashamed of yourself, humming a song to yourself that he'll later realize was the love song you both dedicated to each other

"Darling, I think it's time for us to go home."

It's all he can do not to immediately give in when you whine and give him puppy eyes, clinging to him tightly once he picks you up

Only to feel flustered when that pathetic look turns into something more sultry and you grip his shirt to tug him closer to your face

"Alastor, you dirty rascal~ You just can't wait to get me home, huh~?"

Your laughter and teasing words make him blush more, having to look up at the ceiling in an effort to hide it

A pleasant chill runs up his spine as he feels your lips kissing along his neck, a hand sneaking under under his jacket

"Darling, please contain yourself..!"

"You never let me spoil you..! Come on, Alastor~ Let me treat you right~"

Another bleat escapes him as he quickly carries you out of the bar, only then realizing you managed to smuggle out a drink

"How in the world did you-"

You give him a sappy smile and press a finger to his lips, cooing at him like he's the one who's being silly

"I wouldn't be your wife if I didn't have ways of surprising you~"

His gaze softens a bit, and he leans down to nuzzle your head gently, savoring the soft sound that escapes your mouth

"You would always be my wife, no matter what..."

His little comment seems to sober you up suddenly, blushing and squeezing him tight the rest of the way back home, something he's grateful for

He would be mortified if anyone knew how easily his wife could fluster him when she really wanted to

He doesn't put you down until you two reach the hotel and even then he keeps an arm wrapped around you to keep you steady

"Alastor..! I can walk by myself, you know..!"

He only hums and kisses your head, not letting you go despite your whines and adorable protests

"I'm well aware, my dear~ Try to think of this as for my benefit~"

It was apparently the right choice of words because you practically purr and glue yourself to his side, putting nearly all you weight on him

"I see~ This is just another excuse to keep me close to you~ You softie~"

Another hot flush of embarrassment flows through him, too flustered to do anything other than accept the kiss you steal from his lips

And because he's a good husband, he helps you get ready for bed, getting you into your pajamas and making sure you drink some water before you lay down

Only to be taken by surprise when you suddenly tug him down on the bed next to you and roll on top of him, nearly tumbling off the bed from the momentum

"Darling! You'll fall!!"

It takes all of his strength and reflexes to grab your hips and haul you back into his lap, panting from the sudden adrenaline rush

You're oblivious to it, only leaning down to rub noses with him, a big smile on your face as you hug him

"Mmn... It's a good thing I have such a strong, powerful overlord husband to catch me, then, isn't it~?"

Maybe it was your flattery, or your adorable drunken nature, or the comfort of your weight settled on top of him, but Alastor suddenly just felt so warm and sleepy

His arms wrap around you, rubbing your back softly as he kisses the side of your head, sighing happily

"My dear, you are just such a treat... especially when you're completely and utterly drunk~"

You're already half asleep, head nestled against his chest and eyes closed, humming the same song as before

"Mn... not drunk..."

He chuckles softly and kisses your head again, nuzzling you before eventually noticing that you've fallen asleep

Alastor won't let go of you the entire night, not even when he himself falls asleep, so you wake up hungover and trapped in his arms

"Ugh... Alastor, let go of me. I think I got drunk last night..."

Your sudden struggle to escape his grip wakes him up, yawning and rolling onto his side yet not letting you go, only holding you tighter

"Mm... I told you so, darling..."

X3

[notyourhetloki]

Can I request dating headcanons for Logan x GN Reader x Wade with Reader who's touch starved please?

Logan x touch starved!Reader x Wade headcanons

Reader: gender neutral

/Logan x Reader x Wade/

A/N: Helloo! Thank you for being patient, anon. I'm writing your other request right now ;)

Tags: SFW headcanons, poly relationship, touch starved!reader.

—

Wade would immediately feel comfortable touching you, be that with a hug, holding your hand or putting an arm around your shoulder... he was a very touchy man and you thrived on it!

While Logan was more reserved, he observed how you reacted to the other man's touches and that led to him trying to mimic Wade as best as he could. He wanted to draw the same response from you, making you blush and giggle with his contact alone.

You would feel warm all over with their every touch, and they would quickly pick up on that. They would definitely abuse their now known advantage and take the opportunity to make you fluster whenever they could.

For example, Wade would hug you from behind and kiss the crook of your neck while whispering sweet nothings into your ear... sometimes he would tenderly dance with you, holding you by the waist while his lips grazed the inside of your neck.

As for Logan, he would mess with your hair while your head rested on his lap... or he would kiss you slowly, roaming his hands all over you while you softly gasped with all the skin-to-skin contact.

And when they were together with you... oof. You'd blush so fiercely they would think you were burning, asking you if you're ok and if they should continue. If you said yes, then things would get even hotter.

In your more intimate moments, they would make sure you're alright before going too far. But they loooved how responsive you were, needy for their touch while so willing to touch them back... it was definitely fun for them.

In reality, it felt so good to finally receive the attention you so needed. And let's not pretend these men aren't a little touch starved too, hm? They would absolutely thrive with your touches as well, feeling all fuzzy inside whenever you made clear how important they were to you.

—