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simpee9000 · 1 month

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I love your “not just friends” series🥹 im obsessed! Im hoping to see more I love it soooooooooooo muchhhh!!!!!!! Even telling my friends to read it

But I saw a bakugo headcanon by another anon about him having a crush which I wanna add a spin on, what if he rejected this said crush back in middle school but developed feelings after xD I find it funny

Thank you !!! I'm glad you enjoy it so much!

And that is literally Katsuki Bakugo, can't see him not doing it tbh. (This was also a lot longer then I planned for it to be- I just started typing and here we are- 1k)

He isn't confused about a lot of things in life but his feelings definitely stump him. He tries to analyze other people and how they react to people, but the dots just don't connect. He hears people rave on and on about how cute their crush is, but he just doesn't get it.

It's not that he hasn't been introduced to it either. I mean, it's middle school. Everyone is crazy about dating someone even if it's just to hold their stupid hand. Bakugo didn't get it, he honestly didn't want to get it. Sure he wanted to understand it, but only so he could know a weakness or some shit. He didn't want the gushy feelings or anything such.

Rejecting girl after girl was normal for him, people just loved how great he was. But after the first year of middle school that stopped. Mainly because of how rudely he rejected every girl in the past, but also because of you.

You got extremely close with him rather quickly, working your way into his life and friend groups. It was rare to see you away from each other.

Yet when you confessed to him in your last year of middle school, he stood still. It was the only confession he hesitated on. And while you swayed on your feet, anxious for a reply, he tried to cough up any words possible.

But the only ones that came out were. "You're not special."

In the most blunt way possible, he crushed your dreams. With the way he was looking at you, it was like he couldn't fathom the thought that you thought you were good enough for him, different than all the other girls. So you choked up any spiteful things you wanted to say and nodded before walking off.

He didn't necessarily like you then, but the thought didn't seems gross. So when he watched you walk away, he shrugged it off. You'd talk to him tomorrow definitely.

When tomorrow came and went, he was waiting for you to show up by his side at any second. But of course, you never did. You waited a day before showing up to class, but when you did you stuck near your other friends.

It stayed that way too. You only nodded at him after you finished middle school, a small final goodbye.

So it was rather unfortunate that one of your friends happened to be Izuku. It was a hard-built friendship, but he's very forgiving.

You came and visited the dorms often, encouraged by his mother to help him get by easier.

Bakugo hated it, you never even looked his way.

When he googled his feelings he didn't want to believe the words typed on his screen. It was all saying he was jealous. He'd never been jealous of anything, especially nothing Deku had.

Eventually, Kirishima pointed it out, commenting on the glare he was giving Midoriya. He also called him out the next day, when he kept glaring despite you not being there.

The day he cracked was after he fought Deku, after being yelled out by Aizawa he and Deku were told to wait.

Bakugo mentioned your name in a mumble at first before Deku questioned it. "She like you or some shit?"

"What?!"

"You fuckin' heard me," he spat back.

"No!" Deku scrambled for a reason. He knew you had a crush on Bakugo before, but you haven't mentioned it in a while, "Do you?"

"Do I like you?!"

"NO! HER!"

Bakugo's aggression faded as he thought. Everyone was saying that. Kirishima, his dad, and now Deku. He gave a small shrug because he was unsure.

"She still asks about you," Deku decided to say, rather than poke the bear.

"Hm."

"Wanting to know if you're okay. After the sludge, and after.. well you know," Deku mumbled.

The door opened before anything else could be said, but even if it didn't, they both knew the conversation was over.

Feeling the commonly named butterflies in his stomach, at just the thought of you thinking of him still, was odd. It was an entirely new feeling. After googling, once again, he came to terms with the fact that he finally felt all the gushy feelings that everyone else got in middle school. The ones you used to have for him, hopefully still do.

He still waited a year to act on his conclusion first. But he still slowly tried to weave his way back into your life. Choosing to sit next to you when you visited, to othering you the remote.

Everything was without words for a while. Almost a year in he was forced to talk to you often. All conversations being awkward and strained.

Confessing was a different story, it was the last day you could visit before it was officially summer break before the second year. Everyone was all sat around watching TV, people leaving before they got too tired. Surprisingly, Bakugo and you were the last people in the living room. He didn't want to miss a second of your presence because he knew he couldn't see you during summer. He was so glad Aizawa let you stay late.

His head snapped away from the TV when you stretched to stand, silently grabbing your stuff.

"What are you doing?" he spoke before thinking.

You looked stunned, he never talked to you without you talking first, "It's late, I should go. Plus is it not past your bedtime?"

He glared at your joke before looking at the clock. It was 2:54a.m, you asked him out at 2:54 p.m in middle school.

"Do you still?"

"What?" you switched your weight onto one foot, crossing your arms confused.

"In middle school," he sighed, "do you still?"

"You're gonna have to be more specific."

"Have feelings and shit."

He still wasn't looking at you, but out of the corner of his eyes, he could see how you froze.

"I don't know how that's relevant," you huffed, embarrassed and annoyed that he'd be so cruel to bring up the rejection again.

"I do."

"Do what? Know how it's relevent? Of course you do, it's your brain-"

"Have feelings and shit," he mumbled, crossing his arms at how irated you sounded. He was finally making his move and you seemed pissed as hell.

You barked out a laugh, muffling it with your own hand, "You can't think I'm that stupid, right?"

"I'm being serious," he looked at you straight on for the first time. He was always easiest to read when you could see his eyes, and he looked nervous. Out of all the emotions you've seen on him, this wasn't one.

"Oh."

He sighed and looked down, "Don't gotta say anything, you can spend the night in the common room. No one will care," he pushed himself off the couch, turning to leave.

"Bakugo," you called out softly.

"Hm?"

"I might," your voice was shaky, "but I need to think about it. Know that you're not fucking with me or something."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay. Take your time. You have my number."

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auroreliis · 24 days

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I imagined a situation that I found funny.

Imagine, the entire Batfamily on the beach while making a point of hanging around the reader's neck so they can participate in family activities(Forcibly) . But the reader is not at all in the mood to be part of this fake family scenario, and decides to stay in the shade on the sand making a sandcastle :3 . Jason, seeing this, decides to provoke the poor reader, accidentally destroying the sandcastle :(. Angry reader throws sand in Jason's face. Causing yet another punishment and forcing the reader to sleep in Jason's room. Poor reader

Hot. It was really, really hot.

Of course it was hot. It was the middle of summer and you were sitting on sand that had been in the sun for hours. In this heat, what could you even do? You wanted to stay at home and sleep, but they didn’t let you.

They wanted you to come with them to the shore and practically dragged you there, ignoring your complaints. So, here you were, sitting under a palm tree on the scorching hot sand. Though, you had kind of stopped feeling the pain. You didn’t want them to come talk to you under the guise of you seeming “unoccupied”, so you started building a sandcastle.

Most of them were in the water, probably to cool off.

Yeah, the heat was starting to get to you…

For just a moment, you considered going swimming, but immediately decided against it.

First of all, they would certainly bother you. You could already imagine Damian wanting to compete with you to figure out who could swim faster (obviously him, but he wants to spend time with you). You could already imagine Dick carrying you around inside the water because you “can’t swim properly” (you can, he’s just looking for excuses to hold you) and you could already see Jason trying to “drown you” as a joke, despite the fact that you wouldn’t find it funny at all.

“Hey, aren’t you hot sitting there?”

Yes, that’s exactly what Jason would say to lure you into the water.

“Uh, hello? You there?”, Jason waved a hand in front of you face.

Huh, that wasn’t your imagination, that actually was Jason. You looked up unamused, ”No, I’m quite cold, really.”

He rolled his eyes, seemingly having caught your sarcasm,”Sure. So, wanna go swimming?”

And let you drown me? No fucking way. Oh, right, be polite…

“Um, no thanks”, you smiled awkwardly, not wanting to anger him and, as a result, Bruce.

“C’monnn, it’ll be fun. You do know how to swim, right?”, he teased, trying to rile you up.

“No”, you persisted, “Thanks…”

Jason crouched down next to you, clearly more persistant than you, “Oh, come on. Surely you’d rather spend time with me than Dick, right? If you remain alone for much longer, Damian will surely force you to do something with him.”

Ah…

Well…

You disliked Dick and spending time with Damian was…tedious.

Jason wasn’t any better, though.

Noticing your silence, he spoke again, “Not a bad sandcastle, but I could help you make it better.”

“…”

“We could compete and see who builds better sandcastles”, his smile was still present.

“Um…”, you looked around, trying to find a way to distract him.

“C’moooon. Here look, I’ll help ya”, he started adding sand to your castle.

“Wait! Nonono! Don’t touch that!-”, you froze after seeing your entire sandcastle collapse.

Silence prevailed for far too long.

You couldn’t think of anything to say. Jason, however, felt the need to salvage the situation.

“Oh, I’m…sorry.”

Sorry? He was SORRY?

The audacity left you speechless.

The only thing you could do was grab a fistful of sand at throw it at Jason. He dodged most of it, but he certainly felt your wrath.

To avoid further conversation with him, you got up immediately and left.

It took only a few steps for you to notice that what you had done was certainly punishment-worthy.

What would Bruce make you do? You shuddered as you remembered the time you had to hug and say 20 things you liked about Jason…yikes. Never again, you swore and yet, here you were.

You had barely gone a few metres, when you heard Bruce calling your name. When did he even arrive here? Was he here from the start?

You stopped walking and turned towards him. The look on his face was…stern. He did not seem very happy. Next to him, Jason was rubbing his eyes.

Wait, did you get sand in his eyes? No, you couldn’t have, he dodged it! Did he…lie to Bruce about what happened?

No, Jason wouldn’t do that-…

Well…would he?

Bruce called you over to him and Jason, so you slowly walked towards them, trying to come up with a good excuse to avoid doing whatever he wanted you to do.

#thanks anon ily mwa #also yayyy im going to poland and will be back in about a week ;DDD #(in other words: please forgive any late posts xoxo)#anyway enough yapping #rorii talks #dc comics #batfam #platonic yandere #x reader #platonic batfam #yandere batfam #jason todd #yandere jason todd #bruce wayne #yandere bruce wayne #yandere x reader #batfamily

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sierrale8ne · 16 days

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what kinks do you think Paige has 🙏

-🌠

oh anon i’m so glad you asked.

I think more than anything she has a huge (huge) praise kink. Obviously it’s shown in what she says to you, but hearing you praise her was a completely different story. She’d like it when you tell her how good it feels when she fucks you, how you love the way she kisses you. Even when you’re topping her, telling her how pretty she is, or how much of a good girl she’s being. That one is her favorite.

Daddy kink for sure. I genuinely cannot get the thought of that Daddy Paige cake out of my mind. She’d love hearing you say it while you beg, responding to you cries of please please please with “what’s my name?” Or when the sex is rougher than usual, when she’s breaking you apart with her strap and nearly manhandling you, the sheer dominance she feels when you call her daddy alone is enough to make her cum. She’s freaky like that I believe it.

Maybe it’s just because I write her like this but overstimulation? YEAH. She loves doing it to you for sure, making you cum over and over and over again just to prove she can; but there is another level of dominance that she loves in watching you go from her overconfident vocal partner to a a silenced little play thing for herself only. Then when she’s on the receiving end? I think she’d love the complete feeling of euphoria every time. Maybe after physical game or on a night where she just wants to be felt on, and you just push her to that edge repeatedly until you’ve deemed that she can’t take anymore. Sure she loves having that power over you but when those roles are reversed it’s almost even better.

Spit kink and please just hear me out! Thinking about your tongue between her legs, eating her out until your jaw is sore and she’s cumming in your mouth with ragged breaths and the occasional moan of your name. To have you lean up, and spit it onto her tongue? Or riding her strap— which I believe to be one of her favorite positions (we can get into that another time)— and the constant pressure of your bouncing on her cock, against her clit is becoming blinding. Your hand gently grips her face, instructing her to open her mouth just slightly so a hot glob of your spit lands perfectly on her tongue for her to swallow. PLEASE!

Let me stop it’s too early in the morning for this but I can (and will eventually) continue 🙂‍↕️

#sierrale8ne #kalena’s works ୧ ‧₊˚ 🍵 ⋅#paige bueckers #paige bueckers smut #lena’s gay yaps #i need her so fucking bad #🌠 anon #rqs 🐆

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thelesbianluthor · 3 months

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Calling Kate selfish and saying she didn't care about Edwina's feelings is the most ridiculous statement ever made when she was the one that sacrificed everything FOR HER.

Edwina was naive and thought that Kate's multiple warnings were misguided protectiveness. Anthony never promised love to her, he stated he was not able to give it to her, but of course she didn't know him at all, she didn't understand him at all (and that was bc Anthony himself never intended to be open with her or anyone really) and that made her think that his courtesy could turn into love at one point. She thought her infatuation with the viscount was love. But she never really knew Anthony and that is not her fault.

I love Anthony but I will always say that most of the blame of Edwina's hurt falls on him. He was the one that kept following Kate, kept looking for her, could barely contain himself in her presence while still courting Edwina against Kate's loud protests and then proposed to the wrong sister.

Kate stopped being loudly against their union when Edwina said she didn't care about his disinterest in love and then pressed for the wedding with full intention on going back to India on her own because Edwina thought she loved him. Kate had never even considered the idea of taking anything when it was for herself. She had spent a life of service to her family and she would have done the same thing again, dismissing her feelings and wants in favor of her family, if Anthony had been able to keep his feelings in check.

Would that have been an incredibly sad ending and worst for all ? Of course it would have! Because Anthony would have never learned to let go of his trauma and would have spent his life keeping his family at arm's length. Edwina would have grown to resent Anthony because of his cold and detached demeanor. And Kate would have spent a life of solitude.

Anthony shittiest action was understanding he loved Kate and immediately going for the worst possible decision, asking Edwina to marry him, especially after what happened between Kate and him in the library. But I understand the reasoning behind his stupid actions. Do I still think he was a huge clown for it? Yeah obviously. But I know that it was a necessary stressful moment to amp up the angst and drama caused by his never addressed trauma and issues.

Either way the rules of their society, the stubbornness of everyone involved and the lack of honesty with themselves and each other plus years worth of unaddressed trauma are the reason behind it all.

I still think that some of the thing Edwina said when angry were not really fitting with the situation (i mean writing wise) but I can justify them if I think of them as words said in anger in the heat of the moment by a young girl who has spent her life following her sister like a guide and not having to worry about the world because her sister would always protect her and take the brunt of it all.

Also one thing that people that blame it all on Kate conveniently forget is that the moment she realized she had feelings for Anthony she WAS ready to tell Edwina, especially after Lady Danbury told her to be honest. But he proposed to Edwina and Lady Danbury told her it was too late to do anything basically and she should just swallow her feelings because the marriage was gonna happen at this point.

Not saying that it's Lady Danbury's fault because she is just trying to work with what society gives them and trying to keep the situation under control, like all the women in the show really...

The moment something was actually about to happen between Kate and Anthony she was gonna tell the truth but Anthony was a clown and society made it worse.

In Kate's mind, at that point, she was just gonna have to keep her feelings in check until the wedding because then she would leave for India and leave it behind.

I keep thinking I am done ranting about this but I see someone being a Kate hater and I have to ramble about all the shit my girl has had to deal with and defend her.

Also I am late to the party so I have many thoughts to express

#i love women always i will love them with their faults and mistakes #hating on female characters is NOT allowed in my space #especially when i love them #bridgerton #bridgerton season 2 #kanthony #kate sharma #anthony bridgerton #kate bridgerton #edwina sharma #yapping time #to the random anon that trashed kate in my inbox i just laughed and deleted bc you are a clown lol

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idontcare4urmom · 2 months

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sometimes i hate anon😕.i received by someone who had seen some pics of me in here(I deleted them days ago) and they called me ugly and said that there is no way i am natural,etc.!! they also told me that my writing sucks.honestly the only thing i am gonna say is get a grip for trying to insecure people

coming for a person who literally spend years to like myself and still not fully confident,and i am a new writer cause i started 2 months ago,i just don’t get the point of being rude to someone you don’t even know,like bitch nothing is going to happen if you just be nice

this is me btw,not my best photos since i don’t have much makeup on but you get the vision

#evelyn yaps #idk #ugh ugh ugh #sturniolo fandom #sturniolo triplets #rant #anon #be nice!!#love you

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majesticallyunmagestic · 10 days

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wagh okays i guess thay is sorted? shruhs. anyeay YIPPIE i love tags. personally to keep track of mine, i make a post and add all tags i use onto it, and then have that as my pinned.

since you already HAVE a pinned, if you wanna use this methods, i suggest either using that post or making a new post to pin up :]

ok hopefully that makes sense *runs away and falls into a ditch*

[Cupping hands around mouth] HA!! LOSER!!! /aff

#anon yapping #The Fish Speaks

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slowd1ving · 2 months

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Hiiiii can u write Kim Dokja x Goth!Male!reader this sponsor constellation is Apollo and The reader is a simp for Dokja ( I love this man )

LOVE LIKE BLOOD ・゜゜KIM DOKJA

“The life is short, and I’m running faster all the time, Strength and beauty destined to decay, So cut the rose in full bloom.” By chance you meet him, by chance you become his friend, by chance you stay by his side; until it cannot be called fickle, capricious chance any longer, but an example of the inevitable law of universal attraction between two starving masses. art by @ 1L9l2Aa8UCL0IGJ (blackbox) on x! also thank you anon this ask was so big brained I yapped on for like 5k words (very sorry if you wanted headcanon/drabble form I got the most profound inspiration for this at like 3am :3) also damn you have no idea how many song titles I was perusing trying to find a suitable one for this... pairing: kim dokja + male goth reader warnings: pretty graphic metaphors, child abandonment/implied parental death, child neglect + abuse, alcohol, smoking, depression + bullying, hurt/comfort, injury, violence (as it's orv), does 10+ year long pining and oddly tense homoeroticism need a warning, anon I hope you ENJOY reading because I enjoyed writing wc: 5.6k (YAP because i love this silly man, I've never written so much for a request before lmao)

ORV MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Fundamentally, you and him are the same.

There’s a sense of loss that’s too heavy for either of your bodies to comprehend. Rather than a heart, there’s a black hole right where the organ lies; so greedy, so hungry for acknowledgement. Born blue into this world—deprived of oxygen yet wailing, screaming for your voice to be heard—it’s little wonder you’ve always been avaricious for the love your parents could never give. The hands cradling the babe were never loving; they were clinical, they were covered in sterile blue gloves and they smelled only of caustic antiseptic. There was no kiss on your slimy, puckered forehead. There was only the sting of alcoholic sanitiser.

Kim Dokja is similar, yet his parents wouldn’t (rather than couldn’t, for in your embittered mind the two concepts were so different as to be alien) spare him scraps of care. Rather than press a kiss to their son’s awaiting cheek, only bruises blossomed where the love should’ve been. No flowers were given for Children’s Day—only oily blood spilling and macerating against his chubby hands as a last, vibrant gift for their son.

These two black holes sputtered on their axes while they spun round each other: gluttonous, esurient for care that didn’t come with bruises and wailing grief.

Seoul had been unusually cold; blue afternoons spanned across the school rooftops. They were frigid and foggy—perfect for avoiding detection. Thus, the boy without kisses (only contused skin) encountered another like him on the rooftop that day. Against the haze, your own cigarette smoke had dulled the edges of what he saw—a boy canted against the railing with rippling earphones and a head tilted so far back he could taste the polluted mist.

A merger had occurred.

And though neither of you said it, there was an unspoken recognition of each other’s greed in that moment. Your eyes, ghosting over his injuries while the heavy bass played and the prussic wisps trailed around him: deep reverberations sounding a bit too like his careening heartbeat—as he made sure no one had followed him up here, that he was safe. And his umbrous eyes—honed in on the cigarette wedged between your lips, now stained black from the gloss decorating your humourless smile.

Maybe it was just that inherent feeling of kinship that came with avariciousness: a snarling sort of camaraderie that snagged at your skin with its claws. The wounds left behind were tender, but tender was precisely the adjective you were looking for—as was he.

And so, Kim Dokja found himself coming to this particular rooftop the next day. When his breathing came ragged and his vision began to swim, he instinctively sought the numbness the frigid azurine firmament would bring. Like a wounded animal, he sought safety. Flight over fight—a lesson he’d learnt too late. Bruised fists would never save him.

There you sat—eyes closed and lips still glossed in modest black. There were silver rings on your hands; rings he’d seen flashing before his eyes before he was hit, that those people no longer sported. Quietly, he matched up the scrapes on your own knuckles to the ones decorating their faces: to their unusual sullenness today. They’d furtively sequestered themselves in a club room all break, touching their swollen lips and eyes with bruised fists. Bruised fists. Like trophies, the achromatic metal glinted against the cobalt haze, and for once, his heart didn’t skip any beats at the sight of the gleaming metal. Neither did you acknowledge his presence nor their sins, but still, he sat on the same bench you were sprawled upon: hugging his bag to his chest while he scrolled the hallowed pixels of Ways of Survival.

There was no grand exchange of words, no heartfelt conversations between Kim Dokja and the boy with a messed-up uniform.

This was how tentative company was kept for a fragile week.

Tuesday was the day that fragility finally shattered. He still remembers every detail about it—down to the particular cigarette brand you’d purchased that morning, down to the chips in your dark nail polish, down to just how many rings you’d worn on your left hand (three—it was three rings). Tears had spilled down his cheeks that afternoon; they warped and distorted the words that had saved him thus far, evoked from the pain in his purple ribs and his empty stomach. Somehow, the salt he’d kept tightly bound had been coaxed by your cold presence—perhaps, knowing your indifference made it easier to cry pathetically in front of you.

You still didn’t speak, but you did hand him a tissue. You still didn’t speak, but you did press your shoulder to his own trembling one: smelling of caustic smoke, and something rich and sweet lingering beneath the plumes. You still didn’t speak, but your rings clinked on your left hand as you unhooked the earbud in your pierced ear and offered it to him: fingers brushed against his palm as he was forcibly shocked out of crying any further, like a blubbering child faced with such a conundrum that their little brains focused entirely on that rather than the reason for their tears.

Melancholy had streamed out of the device. Doleful chords twined against threnetic voices—which he could not translate nor understand but could feel in pulsing waves.

In that short whorl in the great machine of time, in the chill of the blue hour, he could not help but feel warm.

And thus, that Tuesday changed the trajectory of this merger somewhat. A deafening hum had finally blossomed from the gargantuan event; your presence could no longer be described as distant.

When he went to class the next day, you were in the seat next to him: a mirage brought on by his lack of food, no doubt. He limped to his desk, but there your corporeal form remained: this time with silver chains lining the base of your throat and a dry, sharp grin decorating your face. Sure, he knew there was a student that never showed up in his class, but he wasn’t expecting it to be you: your name now a permanent fixture in his mind.

There was a new name for this phenomenon: friendship.

The boy, with the pensive music and trophies stolen from Dokja’s tormentors, smiled up at the reader staring at him. It was an inviting gesture: the proverbial hand reaching out, the hand which he took.

You weren’t a particularly talkative friend at first: preferring to simply share your music rather than speak much. That was fine with him—it wasn’t like he wasn’t used to reading alone. Then, you started bringing boxes of food alongside your cigarettes: containers that lacked the refinement of store bought meals. One for you, and one sheepishly thrust out to him with a smile bright as burst yolk and as messy as it too. Consequently, he returned a wobbly, unsure smile back at you—not mentioning that the vegetables were slightly burnt, slightly too salty. But that was fine. The more lunches you brought, the more skilled your hands became—until he never felt truly full unless he was eating what you gave him.

In return, he cracked open his soul: pried its rusted walls with bleeding fingernails in a gesture never before seen, not since his childhood when he still knew what hope meant. Dokja for once didn’t blubber apologies and pleas for mercy—but became a teenager rather than a groveller. He complained about teachers, he discussed Ways of Survival at length (noting how you listened even when you showed no particular interest in reading it), he finally developed his own, modest aspirations for his own life. Lying in his bed in his lonely apartament, it suddenly didn’t feel so claustrophobic (yet somehow far too big for one) when you were there with your shoulder just brushing his own.

You were not as cold as you seemed: though this was always obvious from that fateful Tuesday. You made fun of and empathised with the eternal regressor; you diligently stood at his half-broken stove frying meat and vegetables; and you talked at length about whatever band you were currently into—“I’ll take you to one of their concerts when we’re older,” leaving your lips, for your dense black-hole hearts did not conceptualise a future where the other was not present. He saw your loneliness—heard the rumours of you bouncing around from orphanage to orphanage, roaming the streets and working nights rather than return to that boreal home.

So, more nights than not, he woke up from his nightmares to see you sleeping on the small couch in his home—legs just about peeking over the armrest, for your avarice didn’t only cover the abstract but the heaps of food you swiped from the canteen (and over the past two years he’d known you, you got your growth spurt far more obviously than he had). It partly contributed to almost skittish aversion his tormentors had of him—one you never did acknowledge, and so he learnt quickly to not mention it either. In this way, he too never mentioned why he invited you to sleep over more nights than not. And so, neither of your selfish hearts ever spoke a word of pity, but rather conveyed an unspoken understanding that bound the two of you in this merger.

This routine continued.

He enlisted after graduating from the local university, and so did you—suffering the eighteen months of hazing with the smoke lingering on your skin and that same, humourless smile he first saw on your face. Frigid mornings turned his own lips as blue as the sky, yet he found it was harder to feel the chill when he saw you. Just like back then, you wore the same smile that brimmed with such colour it was practically incandescent with its heat.

Two outcasts. It was hilariously terrible. Two outcasts, still sharing a pair of earbuds that had seen better days—blaring out the dolorous music that had grown on him, that described this situation perfectly. Stars were strewn in the fabric enveloped around you: memories that would continue to shine even after the world slowly marched towards its apocalypse.

In that cramped bunkroom, it had been just like school—blue nights with the moon just barely peeking through the window, with your leg still hanging off the side of the bunk and within his field of vision. And he still found the steady rise and fall of your breathing far more comforting than any white noise: like a guard dog, almost, you still shielded him by his proximity to you throughout the brutal eighteen months of mandated service.

Adulthood had crept up unbidden. In his single-room apartment, he sat on his couch with your legs sprawled just as lazy as they had been eight years prior. Though, your appearance certainly had changed—beneath the loose material of your tank top, he could see the ink seeping and decorating your skin. He’d gone with you to the underground artists right after the discharge: worriedly biting his lip while you simply grinned at him as if there wasn’t a needle pressing into you. And despite his initial concern, he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away—sneaking glances even as he browsed through job sites since the winding patterns under the fabric and silver jewellery was oddly entrancing to the eye.

In the end, he applied to the same company you had done on a whim: Minosoft, where you carefully wiped off the black residue on your lips and the smudged pencil round your eyes. You still shared your earbud with him on the subway (though you’d sent him your playlist aeons ago), you still smoked the same brand you did eight years ago, you still occasionally put on those rings you’d kept as prized trophies, you still made two sets of lunches for work. You still listened over drinks while hammered Dokja updated you on the latest update of Ways of Survival. You still angled your body just so, so that you would bear the brunt of Han Myungoh’s scolding rather than him.

You hadn’t changed.

But in some ways, he could no longer see the same boyish guy who’d awkwardly offered him his earbuds nine years ago. The look in your eyes was far more intense, the messy smiles splitting your cheeks were sharper, more overwhelming, and there was no longer any clumsiness in your movements from your sudden growth spurt from years prior. Even the very hand that occasionally clasped his shoulder, even the legs that you still casually flung over his on his beaten old couch, were far more scorching than he remembered.

You had changed.

And in the end, it was him who was left behind.

Eternal loser, Kim Dokja.

Though, he could never find fault with you for that. Not when you leaned over the tangle of limbs on his couch, not when he caught the thread of oud lingering beneath the smoke on your throat, and not when you thrust your phone screen at his face with that stupidly boyish grin that only peeked out when you brimmed with excitement—with a “look, I finally got us tickets for this festival!”. And he knew at that moment that you weren’t leaving him behind: stretching out your rough palm just like you had more than a decade ago.

He let you tousle his hair to give it more spikes. He let you dress him up in your clothes—they sat too large on his frame, but he found himself unconsciously burying his body in the fabric that smelled like your laundry. He let you slip your rings onto his fingers: slender digits jolting at the sensation of the cool metal and the action itself.

Finally, he let you rub your dark pencil on his lashline—lids fluttering up at yours while he did his best to not avert his stare. His gaze traced the bold lines of your brows and eyes, and finally onto the dark stain on your lips as you bit them in concentration. “There,” you’d murmured, gently grasping his chin. “That looks pretty.”

And just like the loser he was, he felt his chest tighten at the casual compliment, for seemingly no reason.

Over the din of the hall, he could barely hear the ebb and flow of music. Goth chords jostled him, weaving past the throes of post-punk and metal as band after band took the stage. In this crush of people, he was more focused on how your index finger threaded through his left-most belt loop; linking the two of you just enough that he wouldn’t get thrown into the mosh pit. No doubt the buzz of cheap liquor contributed to his distracted train of thoughts—he never was the best at handling alcohol. His hazy gaze distorted his view of your side profile; in the dim lights, obviously the wide smile (yolk-like, as was your grin years back) couldn’t possibly be that bright.

It was at this moment that sentimentality got to him. He was thankful that his friend had stuck by his side for so long: gazing so softly at your happy expression he was unaware of his look himself.

This was the night before the apocalypse began.

When the crowds trickled out, when the reverb of bass still played through the club, you hugged him tight for coming with you. Outcast with the outcast, you’d thought introspectively. There were cheap spirits clouding your mind that night—a hangover would surely strike you come morning—which was why you weren’t as reserved as you usually were. As you leaned down to press the man into your arms, your lips had brushed past his cheek accidentally, and you could feel the black hole in the centre of your chest constrict.

Profanities had whirled through your mind when the dark smudge remained on his cheek, and especially so as he made no move to wipe the umbrous gloss off on the subway back. Or maybe he just hadn’t noticed—not with the flush on his cheeks from the alcohol in his system. There was a terrible, discordant crescendo to your pulse as you gazed at him. The gloss, from where it smeared slightly past the boundaries of your lips, burned your skin. But you made no moves to wipe the corners either—for this night only, there was something linking Kim Dokja to you.

Thus, for the first time since he was a mere babe cradled in his mother’s arms, there was a kiss planted on his cheek that wasn’t from a fist. An accidental one, but one that could not be considered devoid of affection. And though neither of you remembered it after the hazy stupor faded, it did not change the fact that it happened nonetheless.

A small snippet of joy in the bleak landscape. A caesura found within the long, winding elegy of this world. A reprieve before tragedy.

It was a fitting conclusion for the night before the end.

✦ . 　⁺

[The free service has now been terminated.]

Back in the carriage, wedged between Yoo Sangah and Kim Dokja, the two of you had shared a glance confirming the unspoken truth. Minds intrinsically linked together—he did not need to speak for you to understand his thoughts immediately. And Yoo Sangah had recognised this—as did she remember the devoted gleam in your eyes whenever you spoke to or of the man seated adjacent to you. Yet ultimately, her lips would remain closed.

When the scenarios began, it was Kim Dokja’s turn to repay you. He would be your shield moving forward—protecting your messy smile even as the world burned away. He vowed this to himself, and though the promise was heard only by him, it did not change the fact that the constellations watching him and his companions could see the oath brimming from him as he put you first.

[Almighty Sun has sponsored you.]

Even when Apollo chose you as his incarnation, even when you were just as capable as you had been before the cataclysm occurred—he could not help but feel his fists clench as you put yourself in danger.

“Hold on,” you’d murmured, rings flashing as you’d caught his wrist in your firm grasp. Even with his coins improving his stats, he still felt so much weaker than you—still the boy who ran to the rooftops while your fists bruised against the faces of those who tormented him.

Had your touch always been so scalding?

Privately, he thought Apollo had chosen the right person—smile bright as the sun, skilled fingers deft enough to play the electric guitar you’d bought on a whim, presence practically a healing balm for his soul.

“You’re injured, Dokja-ya.” And the words had made him shiver as the syllables ghosted over his flesh—your face was too close to his chest where he’d been slashed by a monster, while the affectionate tone added to his name made this situation far worse than it was. Secluded like this, in an abandoned corner of the station, it was easy to misread the situation; this was the only reason his face flushed red. His friend was far too close. When those aforementioned fingertips brushed over the wound—just grazing the wounded flesh—he jolted. From the pain, of course.

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire has sponsored 200 coins.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire would like to see more action.]

“Steady.” You eased him against a pillar while ignoring the message—ignoring how your pulse was now leaden in your mouth, how the golden gleam stitching flesh back together seemed far more shaky than usual. Though, you couldn’t ignore the pain you felt as you saw the rise and fall of his torso grow shallow; you were useless when it counted—arrows meeting their target far too late.

“Dokja-ya,” you breathed, sweeping the hair that plastered to his clammy forehead. He didn’t meet your eyes, and the heavy feeling in your chest grew more burdensome. He was supposed to tell you what was wrong; as his best friend, you duly heard his complaints and dealt with them where you could. More often than not, you could intuitively tell what bothered him; much like you had from the very first day you saw him all those years ago. And as time passed, the object of your adoration only grew easier to read.

But he was never avoidant like this.

What happened? As you watched him leave with heavy steps and not a glance spared back, you could feel the crushing weight of the sky drop back down on your shoulders. Fuck. Burying your face in your hands, you barely registered the message that popped up.

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire expresses her sympathy.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire says she knows how the two of you can make up.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire sponsors 69 coins.]

[The Almighty Sun tells the Demon-like Judge of Fire to not be stingy.]

[The Almighty Sun sponsors 6969 coins.]

[The Almighty Sun empathises with a lover’s quarrel.]

“Shut up,” you seethed, and the bad mood carried on late into the night. It was obvious to anyone with eyes; the conjured lamps lining the perimeter of camp had seethed with you. Gold had been interspersed with bleeding red—crackling like true fire, though it was anything but. Even the tattoos that lined your skin had begun eroding into ember-like patterns, as though lava was breaking through the dermis of your skin.

Unsurprisingly, it was Yoo Sangah that had approached first: past the harsh glow of your lamps, gracefully weaving through the brightness with the light steps that belied her nebula. She’d taken a glance at the incandescent splintering of your body, your hands furiously working away at the guitar plugged into your practically-bulletproof earphones, and finally the imposing frame of Yoo Joonghyuk only a few metres away as he stood guard tonight.

But when you paused, when you hastily yanked the buds from your ears, she could also see the wobble in your lip. The furrow in your brows wasn’t angry, it was anguished, while the fearsome glare in your eyes contained only pain. If she was being honest, it was hard to approach you at work and even nowadays—with ease, you picked off enemies from a distance and your longbow conveniently morphed into two curved daggers when it came down to it. You were a maelstrom with the capacity to take lives—stained with blood as you bared your proverbial teeth at any threats to Dokja. But it was precisely that that allowed her to see your stupidly blind adoration of this man.

(“Your devotion will only hurt you,” she says, as if that will dissuade you. You’ll take whatever feeling he gives you: greedily swallowing each and every morsel of emotion. Tender is your heart, but tender is good. It means you aren’t going mad over the situation you’re in.

“Yoo Sangah, I appreciate the advice,” you reply politely—you do respect her, after all. “But I do not mind that.”)

Yoo Joonghyuk had bemusedly watched as she left: staring the the dim red tattoos strewn across your body as if they could possibly help him decipher the fool in front of him. His Sage’s Eye flashed as golden as your lamps for a brief moment—detecting that your statement had, in fact, been true.

Fool, he’d said as your hands flew over the fretboard once more. Fool, as you disappeared up the stairs to the rooftop. Fool, when your lips had pressed together tightly against one another.

You did mind, even when you thought it was the unequivocal truth that you didn’t.

Maybe it was futile to even think it, but he thought that idiot didn’t deserve the long-standing care in your hands, and the veneration in the timbres of your voice. It was pointless to get attached to someone like that—especially when the end of the world was upon you.

But you wouldn’t know that, since you could not read his mind. But you wouldn’t know that, since he would never explicitly say it. But you wouldn’t know that, since you’d long-since accepted your self-torture as perfectly and utterly a part of what came with knowing Kim Dokja for as long as you did.

The rooftop was like all other rooftops. Similar. The same. Azurine fog was at your fingertips: just like that day all those years ago. Except this time, Kim Dokja was not in your sights, and you were left alone with wisps of smoke trailing from your lips and no other company save the glowing stick in your fingers. Just like it had been; before you met the boy with a heart as greedy and all-consuming as yours. Before the merger between two black holes occurred. Before he ran up to the rooftops with bruises on his face and placed new stars in the endless vacuum of your universe.

There was no charge in your phone, but the song that played that day still rested heavy in your neurons as you sprawled out on the bench. Mindlessly, you summoned the lyre-turned-guitar: doleful chords germinated, flourished and withered away once more under distressed fingertips. It was a night between scenarios; another caesura in this ceaseless tragedy. Though those days were filled with an empty stomach and an endless struggle, they were your halcyon days.

Just like that time almost twelve years back, it was a blue Monday once more.

Just like that time almost twelve years back, you didn’t hear the heavy run of footsteps through the heavy burr of music.

Just like that time almost twelve years back, Kim Dokja’s black hole heart pulsed with each discordant twang of chords—though this time the link was acutely clear to him.

The boy who once tasted the mist and tilted his body into oblivion was no longer there: replaced by a man who’d faithfully stayed by him for more than a decade. Though you hadn’t changed, not at all; not when he could still see the rings you took off his bullies, gracing your fingers just as they had back then. A trophy, dedicated to his protection. When his plans involved his sacrifice, you were the first to reach him. Your face was the first he saw, tears brimming from your lash line. For despite how you’d grown into your looks, you wore your emotions clear on your face. Your heart had been taken from the cavity in your chest and replaced with a dense core that greedily always wanted; yet it had been sewn messily onto your sleeve rather than discarded.

Kim Dokja suddenly remembered another interlude. A club, where the amorphous ebb and flow of bodies could not sweep him away from your side—since you kept him there, treasured his presence enough that you hooked your finger firmly into his belt loop and rooted him there. An anchor: you’ve always been the rock beneath his shaky feet, after all. He remembered that, and not the endless churn of music that made your face glow with happiness.

(A black smear of gloss left on his cheek. His hands, carefully wiping eye pencil away yet not touching the remnants of your lips—not until it smudged away on its own, forgotten for all of time but this day.)

A sun of his own. The reader trod his slow orbit around you long before he could conceptualise the gravity that drew two masses towards each other. Newton’s theory of universal gravitation be damned; you were the only centre of the universe, the only body that ever existed to draw others towards your brilliant light.

His eyes flickered over the smoke in your lips: the dim embers of a glow from the lines in your skin made it seem as though you were alight yourself. Instinctively, physically, he was compelled towards the patterns just like he had been all those years ago: your music, your stupid piercings and your stupid discussions about bands and the stupid way you listened attentively to his yapping about Ways of Survival. Stupid, because why did you do that? Why did you convince him to make a shrine for you in his heart? Stupid, because why is it only now that he can see what exactly lays atop the stone altar?

“Kim Dokja,” you spoke through your plumes, formal in the way he knew you spoke when you were upset and trying to keep it together. He swallowed, and he could feel the same pitter-patter of his pulse as he did all those years ago—heartbeat colliding loudly in his ear drums while he steps towards you, unsure. You didn’t let up with the strum of strings: electric in the drizzle of rain and wind and cold Seoul air.

For once, he was the one looking down at your impassive face. He was the one brushing his fingers through your hair, he was the one whose hands made themselves comfortable on shoulders—for it’s always been you wrapped around him, you whose legs wedge on top of his domestically on his shitty couch in his shitty studio flat.

“It’s Dokja-ya,” he corrected: tongue thick and leaden. It constricted his larynx and made his cadence oh so small at this moment. Tentative. Because he was your close friend and you his. He was the one who knows all your expressions—even the ones you deliberately tried to hide from everyone. He was the one who’s been with you the longest: always staring up at the muscle of your back while you act as his shield. He was the one who’s been blind.

Your fingers halted against the strings and the instrument dissolved into the wind; the concert for two had reached its conclusion, just like it had all those months ago. For despite being packed full of people, the club only ever had two people in it for him.

Lazily, those same hands that have bruised for him—but somehow had a touch that was far more painful than any torment that was physically inflicted on him—wrapped round his own that rested neatly on your shoulders.

“Dokja-ya,” you answered, and the axis the world tilted on is finally righted. This man, Dokja thought—and his umbrous eyes traced down the warm lines of your face, stopping on your lips. Bittersweet.

“Don’t leave me,” he all but begged—voice only a whisper. Don’t die on me, the black hole wanted to say instead; selfishly wishing for you to always be by his side so he doesn’t see you depart this world first. That would end him more than anything else.

“I can’t leave you,” you murmured, and oh, the hand brushing his tear-stained cheek suddenly made more sense. “Dokja-ya, I should be telling you that.”

He pressed his face into your warm palm—scorching even with the boreal damp settling over his skin. There was something twisted within him that revels in your admission: that you, too, feared him abandoning you just as he feared you leaving him behind.

“Idiot.” And he twined his fingers in yours, seeing the surprise on your face bloom—for he’s already established that you’re ever so easy to read. Idiot, because it’s ludicrous to even think that he’d ever willingly walk away from you like that.

“You’re the idiot,” you whispered as your phantasmal hand ghosted from his cheek to his collar, yanking him so he fell onto the firm sprawl of your legs—in a way he’s never felt. So warm, he thought through the haze as he straddled your languid body—fit so right against you that there was none of the tension nor the anticipation that he might’ve felt. His hands splayed out onto your chest, feeling the steady beat of your heart, tracing the glowing lines he adored on your body.

So warm, he thought as your hands gently cupped his face—for you’ve never been anything but soft with this stupid man perched on your lap.

So warm, as your lips met his and he melted into your body. He could taste the acrid smoke on your tongue, but he could also taste the food you’d prepared earlier for him, and the traces of whiskey you’d scavenged. All traces of you; his insatiable heart could not help but want to merge into you.

So warm, as your tongue melded against his and he could feel the seam of his mouth against yours grow ever more ragged and messy. His hands desperately curled into your shirt, and he could feel your palms pressing harshly against his waist and canting his torso into yours more—something which his avaricious heart eagerly swallowed.

On a blue Monday just like this one, two boys met for the first time once more on a rooftop just like this one.

Again. Like and like created a merger for the second time, or perhaps it was already the third. Or fourth. Or the thousand-eight-hundred-and-sixty-third time this has happened—over and over and over and over.

Fate has a funny way of bringing people together, or maybe it’s just the intrinsic law of gravitation that binds two black holes in a binary system.

Blue Monday. What a silly notion, when the man beneath Kim Dokja is as warm as the brilliant sun.

✦ . 　⁺

Fellas is it gay to pine after your best friend for over ten years and have oddly homoerotic moments with them

✦ . 　⁺

EXTRAS

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire returns from her work and asks what she missed.]

[The Almighty Sun keeps his lips shut.]

[The Abyssal Flame Black Dragon stays silent.]

[The Prisoner of the Golden Headband, perhaps not fearing his imminent hair loss, opens his mouth.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire promptly goes catatonic and explodes.]

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buwheal · 4 months

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hey spamton! anything interesting happen recently?

#Hes standing on a crate cause hes too short lol #Only a little embarrassed after the fact but he was so excited p;ease your honor hes just a bit silly #can you tell this one was storyboarded way ahead of time lmao his extra dilated eyes this time took a bit to get used to cause he looked #kinda weird #not used to it #i love him hes a dork :swirlinghearts:#I love this one so fucking much ive had it written out for agesssss #ty btw for being patient anon this is from JANUARY 9TH.. When i say i save some i mean it #sometimes i dont know what to write so i sit on it and then suddenly its the perfect ask ever for something i want to do #in this case something cute. i mean. look at him.#yo ucant argue with that.#[you've got mail!]#spamton #spamton g spamton #deltarune #deltarune spamton #deltarune chapter 2 #this took longer to do than i wouldve hoped but GOD is it worth it hes so cute WAAGHHHHH #i love yapping in the tags i never realize how damn much i be writing in here #hi :wave:

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simpee9000 · 2 months

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Thoughts on Bakugo having a staring problem and sometimes dosent realize he’s starting into (y/n) / reader for too long? 😭

Bakugo would get called out for it a million times but just doesn't know how to stop. Denki and Mina tease him the most for it but even Deku and Shoto throw in some jokes as well.

"Dude you've been staring for the past hour."

"Fuck off."

best part is that Reader would constantly get told that Bakugo is starring but she always misses it by two seconds. kinda oblivious to it

#anon ask #simpee yaps #simpee anon #thanks anon!#my hero academia #bakugou katsuki #bnha bakugo katsuki #mha #katsuki bakugo mha #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader

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chilfucked · 2 months

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I'm thinkin abt when chilchuck does that cat thing where he looks up at you, like in your header, how he bares his neck by doin that, and how awesome it is that he feels safe enough with the touden party to do that so casually- rghhrgrhhr

dude i think about this all the fucking time. he’s such an expressive character it’s awesome. you can always tell what’s going on with him just by observing his body language

beginning of the series? before everything goes down? he’s open, relaxed. he’s really started to trust the people around again after years of not letting himself

you have him closing himself off after The Incident™️, his anger and frustration, and generally not feeling safe being on full display without needing to say anything

he closes off when he’s worried, scared, or being protective of the people around him

and he opens back up again once he starts getting comfortable with everyone again

i just. i love him so much, i love how no matter how hard he tries to keep people at bay. keep things to himself. he just. can’t. he’s an open book and boy howdy am i reading it

#asks #anon #chilchuck #chilchuck tims #chilchuck dungeon meshi #dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #analysis #sorry for another pseudo character analysis lmao #i should just make a 2 hour yourube video at this point save us all the time /silly #also sorry i realize looking back that i may have gone off on a tangent lmaooo #i just love him so much he’s the only special interest ive had that i’ve felt comfortable in my knowlage to yap about #like don’t get me wrong with keigo i can write little pieces here and there for him #but i just. with chil there’s so much more canon material to work with #i can really KNOW him and it’s just #sorry i’m having a moment lmao

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lavendermin · 2 months

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Ououghhhh vampire Jing yuan jndjejdjcjr

The soft intimacy paired with the bitter twist that comes with it, in the way he holds you so softly as his teeth press into your neck-

There’s equal parts dread and anticipation when your neck is waiting for that familiar prick of sharpened fangs. The momentary few seconds of pain is something you’ll never get used to. But Jing Yuan feels the way your scent grows thicker—heady with the rush of adrenaline pumping through the veins in your neck.

He gulps almost audibly. Parched.

But he needs to keep up this little ritual, for the sake of keeping sane and not devolving to the monotonous cycle of feeding over and over and over like an animal driven by the brink of extinction. He needs to feel.

cw | blood, suggestive

Not human, no. That’s something he’s long given up on.

Just Jing Yuan is enough. To feel like he was, or who he could be, or who he wants to be. Just… him.

Intimacy, longing, exhilaration—he holds back the primal instinct to feed on the crimson life that courses through you. The very essence that keeps him sane for a few spare nights.

Perched on his lap you lay against him, his hands wandering the plush of your thighs so warm and fragrant. There’s still a bandage wrapped around one of them where he sunk his fangs into their inviting delicacy a couple weeks ago. He had his fill in blood and body, his shame put to rest as you gripped his hair and urged him to where you need him—mind high on adrenaline and blood loss.

His breath is hot on your neck as he licks a stripe along the pulse that quickens under his tongue. A tender kiss pressed just under your jaw. His affections—or his preparation as he likes to call it—made you squirm in his lap. It earns a deep, velvety chuckle from him, vibrations you feel against you where you lean further into him.

“I’m beginning to think you look forward to this little rendezvous more than I do, songbird,” Jing Yuan teases. His fang just barely grazes your skin, pulling a stuttering gasp from you.

“Being the general’s lifeline does things to one’s ego,” you bite back with a breathy laugh. A shiver courses through your body as he teasingly presses his fangs just enough to feel discomfort but not enough to break the skin.

“Noticeably, with how you wear rather… enthusiastic outfits to these meetings. What would the people think?” The question is sarcastic with a playful glint in his eye.

“The general I know doesn’t care for rumors as long as peace is long-standing. Besides, I hear the general is quite fond of my daring little red dresses.”

He chuckles at your quick witted arguments. And this is what he most craves. The faux normalcy—the way you never miss a beat, never treat him significantly different with conversations. Just you. Just him.

He nuzzles his nose along a prominent jugular vein, arms hugging you tighter against him. And he breathes in deep, grounding himself and taking in the sound of your pulse that is all too apparent for him. His hunger is progressing.

Jing Yuan acknowledges he is greedy. Definitely needy. It’s a cruel intimacy he seeks from you often. But this is sound company he’s made with a little unconventional transaction between you both.

Of course you love him. You wouldn’t be baring your neck for him every few days if you didn’t. Going through special diets for blood quality and too many doctor appointments to count—your selflessness was your self-destruction. But you wouldn’t put your fate in anyone else’s hand.

He doesn’t envy your humanity. Nor does he wish to make you his equal in this vampiric curse of abundance. It’s simply you and him and these vulnerable moments before he feels less than himself as he takes from you.

#most normal jy luvr failing to answer an ask in a short manner #I could go on and on #bc vampire hot #and jing yuan hot #so mii will yap #vampire jing yuan 😵‍💫#mii writes #ask stuff 💌#💌 anon #I need that man ASAP #jing yuan x reader #cw suggestive #cw blood

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harbingersglory · 9 months

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can i req some arlecchino kink headcanons? no pressure to answer! there's just a lack of new knave content lately ahhh.. (￣ヘ￣)

{☆} characters arlecchino {☆} notes drabble, hc's, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings 18+ content

{☆} dacryphilia

arlecchino is a sucker for crying. doesn't matter if you cry easily or not– either she sees it as a challenge to make you cry in the first place or to see how much you can cry before you have to tap out. her absolute favorite way to make you cry is straight up overstimulating (or understimulating you, depending on her mood) until you're practically sobbing. if you cry prettily enough maybe she'll take pity on you.

{☆} temp play

arlecchino has a pyro vision and she is absolutely going to use it. especially prominent if you're both in snezhnaya– it provides prime opportunities for her to slip her hands under your clothes when you least expect it just to see you squirm beneath her hands. she'd never actually do anything too scandalous in public, but if you're a bit more hidden away she'll have no qualms playing with your chest. if you complain about the cold you're just giving her an excuse to "warm you up" and see you tremble like a lamb.

{☆} face sitting

nothing prettier to her then seeing you above her with her face between your legs. her tongue is just as warm as any other part of her, and she knows how to use it, too. she'll hook her arms around your thighs just to hold you down until you've doubled over from the intensity of it– if you start crying, oh, she just gets worse. absolutely ravenous. she won't stop even if her jaw starts to ache. if you don't want her to stop, she could go for hours without a break.

#genshin impact smut #genshin smut #arlecchino x reader #arlecchino smut #writing tag #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #minors dni #asks #anon #i would pref if men didnt interact w this but im not gonna go out of my way 2 do a background check lol #considered for the briefest moment on adding breeding kink to this but i had to physically restrain myself i add it to EVERYTHING #arle breeding kink but w/o the actual breeding she has enough little bastards 2 deal w u get me #its abt the Idea. the Concept.#if u thought id stop adding 300 random tags yapping ahahaha no.#also considered overstim but thats a given. BORING.#also me?? actually using this blog???? yeah lol #if my mutuals see this look away im having a moment #i havent slept at all its like 4 am if theres a typo or smth i forgor look away

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shalomniscient · 2 months

Note

jingliu angst where she only tolerates you cus u remind her of baiheng sjjahagsab im dead

[nsft utc]

tw. mentions of vomiting (?), unhealthy/toxic dynamic, identity loss

you have always been a stray, hungry for scraps.

it began back on your home planet, ravaged and carved by interastral powers of all its resources, leaving behind a gnawing, gaping hole in the ground and the hearts and bellies of its people. you once mourned your more normal childhood—but the hunger in your stomach and in your soul consumed that too. your meals were few and far between, snatched from the hands of other starving husks, and it was the only joy you ever had as a child. the trickery and the thrill. it’s the only joy you get to keep into adulthood, a twisted elation that grants you a place in the cosmic court of jesters; the masked fools.

it’s—predictably—fun. trickery and thrill are the bread and butter of the fools. your mask affords you many, many opportunities for both, and though you have never had your belly achingly empty since, that hunger in your soul is not so easily sated. now, what you crave is the rush, the adrenaline, the oxytocin. and so you dance on marble floors with a different face each time, with partners who either wish you dead or in their beds, the space between you measured in an unfathomable amount of risk which you exchange for an unfathomable amount of thrill. you scamper along the length of this cosmic ballroom like a starving, feral fox in tall grass, the red of your fur as inviting as the white of your teeth are sharp. you hunt and you haunt, seeking something to fit between your aching teeth, something that will burst on the sharp point of your canines and smear your lips with pure elation and maybe satisfy that abyssal hunger in your psyche.

you have always been a stray, hungry for scraps.

and you have never seen more tantalizing a meal than a devil with a coffin and a woman who seeks to kill a god. she holds the tip of a ice-hewn blade beneath your chin the first time you meet, nicking the delicate skin of your neck, just above your pulse. you swallow. let out a laugh that sounds like a barking fox, and the woman’s sword falters. surprisingly, it doesn’t take much for you to convince her to let you tag along on her fool’s errand. it’s almost poetic. you learn of her name—jingliu. it’s pretty. rolls off your tongue. jingliu doesn’t bother to learn yours, but she calls you fox. you don’t mind the scrap of attention. after all, you’ve spent your whole life living off scraps.

travelling with jingliu (and by extension, luocha) does not lack for excitement. the road to deicide is paved with elation, even if your blue-haired companion refuses to see it. through battle and through the long travel between star systems in pursuit of the great fleet, you get somewhat closer to jingliu. it doesn’t take very long for you to slip into her bedroll (or cot, depending where you are). mara, you find, though cannot be cured can certainly be sated; much like the permanent hunger that curls in your belly. jingliu fucks you until neither of you are coherent enough to feel much of anything, madness or hunger. it’s an arrangement you find yourself enjoying. and as a by-product of such intimacy, you learn more about jingliu. her mannerisms, her illness—her past. she doesn’t tell you any of this, of course, but you can put two and two together from the things she lets slip deep in the throes of some nightmare after fucking you senseless. she gets many of those. the pattern is always the same. at first, she’ll sleep relatively soundly. but then, her brow creases, and her lip curls, and she angrily mutters a few names under her breath; a certain dan feng and yingxing. she curses them, then almost makes a noise like a sob, and something else leaves her lips— another name, but this time spoken with heartache and longing.

baiheng.

it doesn’t take much to infer that this baiheng was someone jingliu cared very much about. though when you ask luocha more about her, he reveals a little detail that makes her moderately more interesting—baiheng was a foxian. in some ways, that makes you similar to her, even though foxian you are not. the thought amused you once, as you looked back upon jingliu’s restless, sleeping form. perhaps jingliu saw her lost lover in you. how… quaint. the assumption never bother you, not really—until she starts to call for baiheng while she’s fucking you.

you’re no stranger to casual sex. even before jingliu, you never lacked for partners eager to share a bed with you. no, the fucking itself isn’t the problem—it’s how she’s fucking you. it isn’t with the detachment and pure lust like you’re used to. instead it’s almost like she cares, hands gentle on your hips as she drives her cock in and out of your greedy cunt. she fills you like she never wants for you to want for anything anymore, and even though you know it isn’t you this affection is for, that jingliu is barely even aware that you’re you and not baiheng, you can’t help but devour it feverishly every time.

you have always been a stray, hungry for scraps. and like this, with jingliu’s cock filling your pussy as she deliriously presses the shape of a dead woman’s name against your neck, you finally feel full.

and it makes you sick.

you crawl out of her embrace and spill your guts every time she falls asleep. your body utterly rejects the feeling—you’ve been so used to starving that the sensation of being full turns you ill. and yet, you can’t seem to push her away. you always come back, always relax under her touch, always pliant for her just to chase that brief, beautiful high you’ve never been able to find anywhere else only to bleed it once she’s done. your heart’s a pythagorean cup; a little too much and you’re spilling over. but you’re so greedy for it, still greedy for her. of all things it is affection that’s the most potent drug you’ve ever tasted, beyond the cheap thrill of oxytocin and adrenaline—even if none of it is meant for you, even if it’s just scraps. but that’s fine.

after all—you have always been a stray, hungry for scraps. and if that means wearing the face of a dead woman and letting the hunger finally devour you whole, then so be it.

#sev.responses #[nsft]#sev.thirsts #jingliu x reader #jingliu #not rlly a thirst but it has some nsft so thirst it is #listen i. dont know what happened here #where does luocha go while u n jl r getting it on ?? fuck if i know #also this was so much more reader focused than jl focused andjdjsjsn sorry anon #reader is kinda abnormal here lmao #tried to do smtg with themes but shsksks idk if it worked. i feel like it didnt but i will allow the court of public opinion to decide #my fav line in here is the pythagorean cup one im ngl #ANYWAY thats enough yap from me it is 0302 i need to be unconscious #also idk if i need to tw this for anything else but if i do pls lmk

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