#bald spot on crown of head

[thegcng-arch]

"of course i'm not going bald. wh-what!? no. nope. i've got a think and full head of hair, thank you very much."

[littlekohai77]

Ikevil NSFW hcs

𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚟𝚒𝚋𝚎𝚜. 𝙾𝚔𝚊𝚢? 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍.

🅆🄰🅁🄽🄸🄽🄶: NSFW, minors dni or bald Jude is gonna come for you, villains, members of crown, what more do you need? Aren't they enough of a warning? Mention of pregnancy, bdsm, degradation, overstim, edging, dacryphilia.

*･ﾟﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:.｡..｡.:*･ﾟﾟ･*

♡🆆🅸🅻🅻🅸🅰🅼 🆁🅴🆇:

Pussy pleaser spotted!!

Cares more about your pleasure than his own. Willing to blue ball himself at the drop of a hat to give your sweet cunny some well deserved attention.

Favorite position: probably something where he can see your face well. He wants to see how you react to him. Do you love it? Do you hate it? Are you conflicted? Do you feel guilty to be getting fucked instead of doing your job like the good little girl you are?

I think cow girl would be his favorite. Cause he gets to sit back and let you take the reigns. It helps show him more sides of you. Sides that he wants to explore and get to know more.

He's the type to never push you to give him oral. He won't have to say a word, you'll just feel the need to do it, you'll feel compelled to.

If he ever wants you to do anything, he'll just ask you to do so. He doesn't command it yet you always feel compelled to. It's just hard to say no to him and you don't really know why. Is it because you want to please him? Is it because you think you need to repay him?

The thing about him is, he never ever uses his powers on you in bed, doesn't matter if you beg him to, he just isn't.

He knows just how strong he is and he doesn't want to make a habit of controlling your actions. He fears that in some point in time, he might just feel very tempted and find controlling you more convenient than persuading you. Which would tarnish you freedom in the relationship and cause a major imbalance in power. He also doesn't want to break that trust that he worked so hard to build.

♥︎🅷🅰🆁🆁🅸🆂🅾🅽 🅶🆁🅰🆈:

Ahemhmhmhnshdbsxbdhdbd

Bro he fucks with my head so bad. Anyway,

His favorite position is probably spooning.

He likes the intimacy of the act.

Like you both just woke up and are lazing around in bed. And then you push your butt against his crotch a few too many times that he just loses it. 😩🙌

His face nestled in the crook of your neck, his breath brushing up against your nape as he slides his cold slender fingers under your nightgown and pinches you nipple while holding your legs apart with his own and thrusting his hips into yours.

Also also

He's the type to both enjoy giving oral and receiving. But the thing is, despite enjoying, he doesn't give it often. Why? Cause fuck you.

Nah I'm kidding.

He just tries to keep up his persona.

But there are times where you just look too delicious or are being too good of a girl that he gets so overwhelmed with love for you and just splits your thighs apart and slots himself in between.

This also happens when you're riding him, he just gets so overwhelmed by how good you're making him feel that he flips you over and starts pounding you into next week.

❥🅻🅸🅰🅼 🅴🆅🅰🅽🆂:

You're his mistress and his your little naughty kitty.

Definitely enjoys being rode to tears.

He's very experimental. Always ready to give everything a try. Will even do fletching.

You guys probably have a healthy balance of sweet-slow sex and rough sex.

He enjoys being choked. Like suffocatted. Every time he wants you to go harder. That's concerning ngl. 😰

He's not the most obedient. Very rebellious and always has a comeback ready.

But it's easy to shut him up. Just sit down on his face. Or edge him till he's crying.

(Sorry I'm not really good at writing subby characters and I can't really see Liam in a sexual way.)

☃︎❆🅴🅻🅱🅴🆁🆃 🅶🆁🅴🅴🆃🅸🅰:

🗣️ Pussy Pleaser spotted ‼️

But he's like that for selfish reasons.

He pleasures you to literal unconsciousness, not because he wants to make you feel good, no, he wants to see the beautiful expressions that you make when you're getting fucked, when you're thighs are shuddering from the pure intensity and a tear slips down your flushed cheeks, when you're about to fall apart.

His favorite position is probably missionary. He gets to see your face, he gets to control the pace. All perfect for him.

Much more of a giver when it comes to oral. But there's one condition, you must not look away. You look away and he stops. You deprive him of that sickeningly sweet expression of yours and he latches himself off of your little clit.

Another torturous thing he does is edge and overstim you. Because sometimes he gets a bit addicted to that face you make when you climax or are about to. So to see it again and again. He just keeps going and going. He knows from experience that not stopping would highten your sensitivity and make you cum faster. And that's exactly what he wants, for you to show him that utterly heavenly view again.

If you try to hide your face, he's gonna stop or holds your arms in his hands.

But that's not to say he doesn't enjoy romantic sex either. He enjoys it quite a lot. He loves the faces you make when he's thrusting into you slowly, peppering you in kisses and squeezing you gently. He loves that look of adoration in your eyes. That happiness, how content you are.

❍🅰🅻🅵🅾🅽🆂 🆂🆈🅻🆅🅰🆃🅸🅲🅰:

He's a womanizer. So that makes me feel like he's a Dom.

I think his go to position would be doggy. Just because of how easily accessible it is in Victorian era attire.

He seems like the most twisted and manipulative man there is.

So he probably does both degradation and praise. He needs the right thing to sway you in the right direction and there's no guarantee that everyone would be into degradation.

He's more into degradation. Because it's hard for him to give praise and make it feel genuine to himself. Because the simple knowledge of him knowing that he's faking it and forcing himself kind of ruins that allure.

But he pulls through any way. He's a great actor to be honest. Should consider becoming Liam's coworker.

He's probably into edging. Both himself and you. He enjoys the sweet sweet torture of losing his high again and again, and he also enjoys how your composure cracks and you beg him to make you cum.

He really loves being begged and having the position of power.

Even when taking the submissive role, he's still got the most control. Aka, he's a power bottom. He provokes you into getting what he wants and while you might think you're putting him in his place, this is actually exactly what he wanted and you fell right into his trap.

He prefers receiving than giving oral.

✾🅹🆄🅳🅴 🅹🅰🆉🆉🅰:

You better pray you're a masochist.

He's really rough. Shoves your head into the pillows and fucks you into the mattress.

He's into degradation. Calls you every dirty name in existence.

Slapping and spanking are definitely his go to. Doesn't spit on you though. It just doesn't sit right with him. And he finds the act disgusting.

He's one to give orders with rewards and if you can't follow through you face punishments.

☠︎︎🅴🅻🅻🅸🆂 🆃🆆🅸🅻🅸🅶🅷🆃:

Service Dom. I repeat, SERVICE DOM.

But he's scary. He's the type of service Dom that does what he wants. He's selfish like that. He does it because he wants to make you happy. So he asks what would make you happy, if it's good enough he'll do it, or he'll think of something better and do that.

Definitely more into giving head. Doesn't really enjoy receiving cause taking that large of a cock in your mouth seems uncomfortable for you.

Favorite position is probably you sitting on his face.

☣︎🆁🅾🅶🅴🆁 🅱🅰🆁🅴🅻:

Your tears are his lubricant.

Pussy Slapper™

Favorite position is probably doggy style. But he pulls on your hair, supports himself on one arm, his chest to your back, places his head besides yours and licks your tears off your red cheeks as if it's ambrosia. Btw he slapped you, that's why your cheeks are red.

He's into patient x doctor roleplays.

He's into degrading you, spanking and spitting on you.

One thing he doesn't do unless necessary is probably tie you up. Holding you down just makes him realize how much stronger he is than you and he gets pretty drunk on that power trip.

He's all about receiving when it comes to oral. He face fucks you. Literally grabs onto your hair and shoves your head up and down his cock.

Maybe does romantic sex once in a while as an apology for treating you so roughly and finally gives you head.

◡̈🆅🅸🅲🆃🅾🆁:

Definitely has a daddy kink.

Also a breeding kink. Wants to make you a mommy and have lots of kids. A whole entire army in fact.

Mating press galore.

Probably sucks on your boobs. Hopes that one day you'll get pregnant and it'll leak milk.

Literally fantasizing about naming his kids as he's thrusting into you.

He's also a service Dom. But he's a tease and will only go as far as you tell him to.

Like literally if you say 'touch me! ' he'll just graze his finger against your inner thigh, a spot a hair's breath away from your core.

*･ﾟﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:.｡..｡.:*･ﾟﾟ･*

𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍.

𝙰𝚕𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝... 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞. :)

[chaostroberry1]

Hi, Could I request a platonic yandere story (or headcanons, whatever works best for you) for Adam's ror family? The reader is human and they decided to adopt her. I haven't seen much for this family and I really need more. Please and thank you very much 💗

Hello anon!! This is one lovely request. I'd love to ^

RoR!platonic!human!family × daughter reader

- I can say that there are many ways that they could have found you, but what I think would be so much funnier is that if Cain and Abel found you abandoned somewhere.

- maybe they were out adventuring until they heard baby noises, little crying. I have a feeling that Cain and his big brother instincts told him to go check it out. And boom, they find you, wrapped around very thin cloth, shivering.

- Cain told Abel to watch you so that he could get Adam. And off he went running. Abel really pitied you despite his age, what a poor thing you were. you were very small and in need of protection.

- once they got Adam to see you, he picked you up gently, cradling you around his arms while instructing the boys to get some leaves and tree branches, to make you a nest.

- he stared into your small little eyes, as eve came rushing, hearing the cries of a baby.

- They adored you so much, you were so weak. They needed to protect you no matter the cost.

- when you started growing older, the two siblings would take you out with them to watch them hunt or scavenger hunt for berries and other tasty fruit.

- your big brothers were so sweet, and very nice. You got scared because of a squirrel once, and they scared it off. Making you giggle happily.

- Eve would make you all desserts, or make you wear pretty clothing. Of course they wouldn't just have you wearing things like them, that means there would be people staring at your body. That's disgusting.

- instead, they give you a dress, and a flower crown. Like a mini princess, you were so cute. their cute little baby girl was growing up. (You were actually still five years old)

- anytime you went missing, everyone would go insane, like you were only out for a walk and eve is already rushing towards you and crying out your name, before squeezing you into the tightest hug ever, barely letting you breathe.

- Adam would scold you, before telling you to go eat berries cus he thought he was too harsh.

- Cain and Abel would cry too, blabbering nonsense like "my baby sister...Whaaa!!! We thought you were dead!!!"

- okay maybe that was too dramatic.

- what if you had a crush? Well. They don't like that. Eve would tell you to consider, and tell you all the littlest details on stuff that she found 'odd' about the person. Like how they dress, or their hair, the way they walk, a bald spot on their head- just basically anything to make you dislike them.

- Adam tho, protective father switch on. Mf is literally pouty about the fact that you had a crush on someone, saying that you were too young, and that you were still his little girl.

- Cain would go chasing the person away while holding a twig, like an angry dog. While Abel would cry to you like "why would you wanna leave us...we're your familyyy..."

- bro.

- but, you've gotten used to them. They love you very much and are only doing things like this for you because they love you.

- might as well just take it, right?

[crumbledcastle28]

Javier Pena: Blowing Off Steam

Pairing: Javier Peña x fem!reader (she/her; afab)

Summary: During one of the most important meetings of his career, Javier is relentlessly distracted by the drive over.

Excerpt: "That's the spot, isn't it hermosa?" he said into your ear. The smell of your sweat mixed with your perfume as well as the small groans you were releasing only spurred him on more. "Think you're in control, thought you had me."

Your eyes fluttered closed and your jaw began to tremble, digging your nails into his bulging biceps seemed to be the only thing giving you any sort of relief.

Neither of you heard the partition clicking shut.

He smiled at your state, kissing the crown of your head. "You do have me, cielo. But tonight I have you."

Warnings: making out, heavy touching, smutty smut smut, dirty talk, my attempt at Spanish, unestablished relationship, swearing, italicized=flashback/past, I am positive this doesn't actually work with canon, Javier is a simp.

Word Count: 1.8k

A/N: I don't really know what to say besides I missed this with every part of me. Please enjoy this brain rot that has gotten me through the last three months.

If you would like to leave a like, comment, ask, or reblog, it would be much appreciated <3

Pedro Masterlist

General Masterlist

(gif from pinterest you cannot convince me that isn't a hickey on his neck bfibrifbiri)

Javier's taste buds were coated with a delightfully devilish mix of Cheval Blanc and red lipstick as he sucked in your heated breaths.

Your thighs fit so fucking perfectly in his hands as he gave them a squeeze. Your bare, sweaty skin squeaked against the leathered seats in response.

"Javi," you whined, and he shushed you gently. The streetlights passing by illuminated your smooth skin like music, and he was tempted to pull away only to stare at you.

Another whimper from your swollen mouth persuaded him against it.

He moved his teeth down your throat, pulling you impossibly closer to him. He could feel the heat of your core against him as you began to grind into him slightly, god did it make his lower stomach pulse.

He switched to the left side of your neck, pushing you against the car door ever so slightly as he cut his vision to the driver. The man's bald head had remained facing forward, his skin a deep tan. He figured limo drivers had to deal with this sort of bullshit all the time. A part of him enjoyed the fact that another man was learning just how liquid you were for him.

A bigger part of him fucking hated it.

It was this millisecond of inner turmoil that gave you the upper hand - pulling his mouth from your throat and bringing it to your own, sucking his bottom lip into your mouth, sliding your hand down his pants, tracing his happy trail as your fingers cupped him so fucking flawlessly -

"Agent?"

Javier sucked in a breath. His palms had practically soaked through the menu in his hands.

"Ye-yes?" he said, clearing his throat.

The Colonel scoffed. "Your head is not where your heart is, Peña."

"Fuck off," he whispered back, and stuck his nose back into the menu.

Carillo had called a meeting about a possible promotion for Javi, suggesting he was "too acquainted" with the night life of Colombia to be sitting at a desk all day. He felt Javi was needed on the ground, working within the system than around it. A true DEA agent, rather than a glorified secretary.

Hence whatever the fuck this dinner was.

Javi was surrounded by his superiors, men and women he had never seen nor met before, as well as what had to be hundreds of dollars in booze. The menu before him had words he had never even heard of before, as well as prices that seemed to stretch off the page if he unfocused his eyes.

He was the furthest out of his comfort zone that he could have ever imagined, while consecutively borderline emotional at the favor Carillo was doing for him. He was dealing with more emotions than he had allowed himself to in years.

You had looked too pretty that night not to blow off some steam.

-he could have come right then and there. He felt your smile against his lips as he jumped at the feeling, before practically melting into your hands. He could barely kiss you through his panting.

"Sensitive," you whispered as you dragged your teeth down his jawline, paying particular attention to the crease between his bone and his neck. The two of you had done this enough for you to know all his weak spots.

He gripped the fabric of your dress as you did before sliding his hands underneath it, resting his hands on your ribcage. You sighed at the feeling.

"I'm sensitive?" he whispered, moving his hands all the way up to cup your breasts. You tucked your face more into his neck as he did, but continued to trace his head and dick. This flipped the switch on him once again, chills etching themselves down his spine, and a renewed heat boiling his organs -

Javier came back to a woman whose name he had long forgotten asking him a question he absolutely did not hear.

But, he flashed his charming smile anyway.

"Yes ma'am," he said, and despite the woman's efforts, a faint blush crawled up her neck.

"And what makes you say that?" she said in reply.

He could feel Carillo's smile.

"Just a gut feeling," Javier said, and to his surprise, she smiled.

-that finally caused something in him to ignite. He felt out of body, watching himself as if from he was a fly on the ceiling remove his dominant hand from your breast and bring it between your legs. He only took a few seconds to enjoy the wetness that had culminated there before he teased your opening.

Your jaw fell open, giving him ample opportunity to stick his tongue down your throat as he finally fingered you up to the knuckle.

Your body convulsed against him, any and all air escaping your lungs the very second he began to pump in and out of you. It was messy, it was desperate, but god was it everything -

"And how exactly was that handled, Agent...." the man paused, before snapping his fingers in recognition. "Peña. Agent Peña."

Javier swallowed. "Well, we could never have pulled it off without the Colonel, as well as our other agents."

Javier had never spoken so out of his ass in his life.

"I was just a puzzle piece," he said before taking another sip of his bourbon.

The man appeared partially pleased, but unconvinced.

"And how exactly do you plan on being less of a puzzle piece going forward, Mr. Peña?" The man said this as he leaned forward in his chair, folding his hands onto the table.

Every eye at this goddamn table was on him, and for some reason, it made him think of you once again. The way you would whisper in his ear. Your unwillingness to appear afraid. You had told him once you couldn't afford to look afraid in a city like Bogotà.

"It's better to look stupid than afraid. It would eat me fucking alive," you had said.

He decided to take a page out of your book for once.

"I plan on being the person placing the pieces, sir," Javier said. "I can only do that by being more active in the streets. Fieldwork, groundwork, whatever you want to call it."

Javier leaned forward, mimicking the man's position almost exactly.

"How else can I see the full picture?" he asked.

The man's skin was as red as his wine, while his colleagues were as shined as gold.

-and more, prompting Javier to do what he seemed incapable to avoid doing whenever he was with you: lose complete control of his mouth.

"That's the spot, isn't it hermosa?" he said into your ear. The smell of your sweat mixed with your perfume as well as the small groans you were releasing only spurred him on more. "Think you're in control, thought you had me."

Your eyes fluttered closed and your jaw began to tremble, digging your nails into his bulging biceps seemed to be the only thing giving you any sort of relief.

Neither of you heard the partition clicking shut.

He smiled at your state, kissing the crown of your head. "You do have me, cielo. But tonight I have you."

You rocked up and down onto his fingers, whining into his ear as he used his middle finger to pump, and his thumb to caress your clit. He took the one he had around your neck down to your thigh, tracing the muscles, invigorating what you were already feeling between your thighs. It rose up and up to your breasts, forcing you to cup and play with them.

He smiled again, removing the hand from your thigh to bring it up to one of your breasts. He fondled one, while you fondled the other.

"Didn't know you could get this bothered from just my ha-"

"Shut the fuck up," you said and kissed him so hard your teeth clashed -

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Agent Peña," said the blushing woman from before. "I look forward to working with you in the future."

Javier was no dummy. He could very easily read between the lines of what she was implying. However, due to how much he could not get his mind off of you - despite the fact that he finally got the job he had been dreaming about since he was a little kid - he had a feeling that he would only disappoint.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said, and shook her hand firmly.

He said his goodbyes to his superiors before following Carillo outside the restaurant. The two men sat there, waiting for their individual limos to arrive.

Where the DEA got the money for shit like this, Javier had no idea.

Carillo patted Javier on the back in congratulations, which was more affection that Javier had ever seen the man give to his own wife, and Javier gave him a nod in return.

It was then that Carillo began to chuckle.

"Cual es tu problema?" Javier asked, slightly aggitated.

Carillo shook his head. "You could have at least attempted to hide your way of blowing off steam, Pena," he said, gesturing to his own neck.

Javier must have reddened, because Carillo only laughed harder.

-so hard he was shocked one didn't chip. The two of you stayed that way for some - grinding and kissing and pulling at each other - before the limo finally pulled up to his destination.

You pulled away from him as you felt the limo lurch into park. You looked behind him, eyes widening slightly at the sight of the restaurant Javier would be dining at. You then smiled at him, wiping at his face and his hair, as well as straightening out his lapel.

"You should have warned me," you said to him, "I would have gone easier."

He smiled. "No, you wouldn't."

You smiled back, giving him one last kiss. It was deep, but deep in a way that meant more than goodbye. He couldn't afford to look more into it than that.

"Good luck," you whispered, and he nodded before exiting the vehicle. He saw you wipe at your own face through the window, as well as give the driver your address.

He watched you drive away, his heart shifting from a delightful flutter to an anxious one.

He watched his limo pull up behind Carillo's, sucking in the last of the chilled night air.

"Good luck, Peña," Carillo said as he walked to his car, a slight slur in his voice from all the bourbon. "Go and fucking celebrate."

Javier grinned as he opened his limo's door, exhaling in relief at his prayers of having a different driver being answered. The driver didn't even turn around as he said in a thick Colombian accent, "Where to?"

Javier knew exactly where he was headed.

He was going to fucking celebrate.

Tag list: (if you would like to be added please let me know :)

@lovesbiggerthanpride @paintlavillered @xocalliexo @c4psicle @joelsflannel @thesmutslut @untitledarea @daphne-turner @queerponcho @leahkenobi

[shinjisdone]

Hii, can I request a scenario with Thorfinn and the reader where the reader finds a comb on one of their expeditions/ raids and brushes Thorfinns hair? (Lord knows he needs it)

i truly salute thee if u uhm somehow still awaited an answer from me and i hope i wont disappoint 🙇

Comb

prompt: Thorfinn refuses to have anyone touch him fic: oneshot

A grin etched itself on your face when you spotted no blood on the wooden comb. Without really thinking you grabbed it in the dead of the night into your pouch, hurrying out of the burning house and into the fiery ocean. Thin strands of hair of someone long gone were entangled in the teeth that you removed one by one, fingers gliding over the wood before blowing the rest off.

"It's a good one. Well crafted." You showed the tool to your friend Thorfinn, who had his hunched back turned to you, idly cleaning his dagger. He had argued with you that this thing was not needed and that you are wasting your space in your pouch - but he was always quick to grow tired of arguing with your stubbornness. Instead, he gave a hum.

With a brief shove to the shoulder, you had the comb hover next to his face. The blonde stumbled, rocked back and forth like a swing and gave only a pout at the comb right next to him. It still had hair, how gross. "Brush mine first. I don't wanna have any of your lices." Though your jab was met with a scoff, Thorfinn tugged his weapon away, turned around and grabbed ahold of the tool. Patiently, you positioned your hair for him to begin. "This is a waste of time I told you." He grumbled and you looked back with a glare. "And I told you I don't want to deal with lices. People don't have these in their homes for leisure. You still trying to trick me that you never had any lices?"

You were first met with silence, before one of his hand grabbed ahold of the crown of your head, while the other roughly tugged at your locks with the comb. You groaned in pain. "I just run my fingers through it." "Oh yeah, and then have them crawl underneath your nails, "You suppressed another yowl through gritted teeth, "And then eat with those fingers. It's a miracle you aren't dead."

Another louder cry escaped you when he flicked your head. His strength, especially for his size and age, was inhuman and you bit your tongue at the childish act. "I'm tough, unlike you. I don't fall by some diseases or critters. You're wasting your time worrying."

"Still, could you try to be gentler? You're yanking all my hair out!"

"You won't have any lices when bald."

"Thorfinn!"

A small chuckle escaped him but without another beg, he held the side of your head gently and brushed smaller locks of hair one after another. Tangled strands loosened and he never noticed how soft your hair could be when he ran his fingers through them. You seemed to enjoy it too, the gentle wood on your scalp leaving you soothed. The blonde hesitated to tease you again and held his tongue.

After a while, he wordlessly gave the comb back.

Turning around, you urged him to do the same. He only rose a brow.

"I told you already."

"Even if you are a unyielding warrior, I don't want you to get sick. Or have you toss and turn and lose sleep over some critters. Let me do this for you quick."

Thorfinn pouted at the small smile lingering on your face. He did not like to be touched by anybody. Not by Askeladd's blade, not by Björn when he brutishly puts his joints back together, not by the other bandmates and their attempts at jokes nor by the bloodied hands of the enemies on the battlefield.

But with you he seems to lose all edge.

Your touch can be just as vicious as any other viking yet it is soft with him when necessary. Your touch seems more human than anyone else's. Something he can allow to come in contact with him.

Slowly, he turned around. Stubbornly he refused to meet your gaze and lowered his head as you began to comb through his hair. The blonde locks are tangled enough to leave a mother gasping at her child, split hair ends that smelled ever so faintly. The session, for how long it took, seemed like leisure to him regardless. You hummed and talked, jabbed a few times when you did find dirt and grime but kept the teasing to a miminum. The feeling of the comb teeth on his scalp left a shiver running down his spine, making him sleepy almost. But letting his guard down is not something he could afford - perhaps however, he could with you.

A waste of time. Waste of space in one's pouch, playing house as if you were a family taking care of each other. He did not like to be touched like that but he could grow to like it when it came from you.

[littlemelaninfics]

Hii I’m pretty new to 9-1-1 and caught up in like a month lol!

Since you right for Black girls, can you write something about Buck confiding in Hen and Karen or even Athena about being with a black woman? Love your work!🖤

I love that for you! It’s an easy watch, but it’s so intense 👀

Thank you so much for this request! I had a lot of fun with it and I hope readers can relate 🤍

I see a time when Buck and Hen get drunk again with Karen and the topic of hair is brought up:

“So many products! There’s rejuvenating, hydrating…curl quenching? Don’t they all do the same thing?” Buck asked with his eyes squinted, half with curiosity and half due to the blood running to his face.

“Absolutely not!”

“No!” Karen and Hen exclaimed, stepping on each others words,

“Hair that contains melanin requires much more care. One day it’s soft and bouncy and the next it’s dry and brittle like a birds nest,” Karen explained.

“Hence,” Hen said as she lazily pointed to her bald head and poured another shot.

“Yeah…but…”

“But?” Hen asked choking down the contents of her glass

“She won’t let me help her with it. I mean..Taylor a-and Abby loved when I played in their hair-“

“You didn’t tell her that, did you?” Karen interrupted.

“Of course,” Buck replied confidently looking slightly to the side as if the conversation turned argument was replaying in his head.

“Noo, Buck,” she said putting her head on the table.

“A-a-and she got sooo mad!”

“First of all, women don’t like to hear about what the women before her enjoyed,” Hen started to explain,

“It makes her think you’re still thinking about them,” Karen said in agreement.

“I-I’m not! Not at all!” Buck tried his best to defend himself, but the drinks were staring to hit faster and faster.

“Second of all, Black women have never been allowed to think her hair is enough,” Hen continued but she could tell she was losing Buck,

“Meaning, she’s always been told it’s too wild or too nappy. So the thought of someone “playing” in our hair makes our skin crawl,” she said matter of factly.

“So then I just never touch her hair?”

“No, Buck. You need to break down that wall with her that has been up since before grade school. Watch what she does, look up YouTube videos if you have to, but it’s more than what you think.”

“Is it cause I’m white?” He hated asking the question, but he wouldn’t know the answer if he didn’t. When Karen and Hen just took sips from their cups, Buck slumped in his chair, sighing in defeat.

“It’s different for both of you. Why do you think we’re even talking about it…with you?”

He propped his head in his palm, looking at the wet ring stained in the wood table. Hen and Karen were right. Buck is not completely out of touch and should’ve known it was more than he was understanding.

He begged his friends to crack open their laptop and share enlightening stories about their hair journeys. That night he studied Black Hair Care as much as he could. Since he’s only touched her hair during a movie or sexual activity, he found her texture is 3C with a 3B framing and 4B crown. He spotted her favorite products by the color of the label and airdropped himself articles he wanted to revisit. Karen couldn’t help but feel mushy as she finally understood the scope of the love Buck has for Y/N and she couldn’t be happier.

He sobered up over the next couple of hours and ordered his Uber home. On the ride, he couldn’t help but imagine the direction their relationship was about to go, smiling to himself gently. He walked through the front door hearing the shower run and decided to shed his street clothes into something more comfortable. Once he had been home for 15 minutes and Y/N still wasn’t out of the shower, he knew she was taking an Everything Shower.

Buck got up and went to the hall closet, picking up her hair basket. He started to get intimidated when actually handling the products and Denman Brush, but that quickly changed to excitement when he remembered she still has to teach him, no matter what. He heard the shower turn off and wet patting across the hardwood. Buck went over her whole routine in his head and anticipated you walking down the stairs.

You rounded the corner and was meant with waiting eyes,

“Hi,” Buck said with his famous grin.

“Hi,” you replied looking at him and then your hair stuff out and displayed,

“What are-”

“Um, come sit,” he said plopping back on the couch. You looked at the two pillows stacked on the floor between his legs,

“Buck…” you said unsure.

“I’ve already learned how to love all of you. Let me learn how to take care of all of you.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you slowly crossed the floor panels. You knew you weren’t just walking to get your hair done. You were taking steps into your future with a man who wanted every bit of you.

[a-leg-without-fear]

Medium Peppermint latte for Matt Murdock with police reader that doesn't know that he's daredevil but she knows he's lying to her that get into an agurement but she storms off and on her night shift she got shot (nothing deadly)

Oooooohh I love this!! One peppermint latte, coming up!

It was a dangerous thing to be distracted.

Your mind chased itself in circles over the argument you'd had with Matt earlier. A near screaming match between you and the lawyer. Voices loud and strained as you debated the very fundamentals of your relationship.

"I just don't understand why you're lying to me!" you exclaimed, fingers pinching the bridge of your nose. Frustration and anxiety leaked into the edges of your chest like oil in water.

Matt blew out an irritated puff of air, "What exactly do you think I'm lying about?"

You threw him an incredulous look you knew he couldn't see. His dark hair was ruffled, the strands wild after his fingers had carded through them one too many times. Strong hands clutched at his hips.

"Why the fuck are you constantly covered in bruises? Where do you go at night? What aren't you telling me?" you questioned harshly. It was exhausting, repeating the same questions over and over again.

"One, I'm blind. Two, I don't go anywhere. Three, nothing!" Matt replied. An aggravated groan rumbled your chest. You'd been interrogating people long enough to know when someone was lying to you. Lawyer or not, you could see right through him.

"That's it. I'm leaving," you said with a grimace. You couldn't handle the lies. Each time they spouted from his mouth, another spike was driven into your heart. Why. Why did he feel like he needed to lie to you?

"Sweetheart, please," Matt called after you as you stormed away. Your work boots stamped along the hardwood floor. The cold doorknob dug into your palm as you tightly gripped it.

"I'll see you later. Come up with a better excuse by then," you said, wrenching open the door. The hinges squeaked under the sudden movement.

Matt shouted your name as you slammed the door behind you.

Now you sat in the car you shared with your partner, Stu. He was an older gentlemen. Beer belly stretching the buttons of his uniform, gray hair balding near the crown of his head, a warm smile typically stretched across his thin lips.

Stu was a kind man, and an even better partner. There wasn't anyone else on the force you'd rather spend your evening patrols with.

"A lot on your mind tonight?" he asked, lowering his coffee cup from his lips. Brown eyes traced the furrow in your brow and the frown lines surrounding your mouth.

"You could say that," you sighed in return. Your own coffee had long since grown cold, the drink sitting untouched in your cupholder. The crackle of the police radio filled the silence of the car.

"We've got a 10-65 at 56th and 11th. All nearby units reply," a feminine voice, Cheryl, said through the radio. You scooped up the plastic microphone from its place on the dashboard.

"This is patrol #8675. We are two blocks out. Heading over there now," you replied into the microphone. Stu turned the key in the ignition, the engine rumbling to life. Cheryl's voice crackled through the speakers confirming your location.

"Should make for an interesting night," Stu mused as he pulled the car out of your typical parking spot. You huffed a laugh, reaching up to flick on the lights and siren at the top of the car.

As your cop car zipped through the streets of New York, your mind wandered back to the fight with Matt. What the hell was he keeping from you? What was so important to keep a secret that he'd risk your relationship over it? Did he think the half answers and weak apologies were cutting it? Were salvaging the tension between the two of you? You bit at your fingernails as your thoughts swirled.

Stu swerved the car to a stop in front of a jewelry store. The front window had been smashed, glittering shards of glass littered along the pavement. A blaring alarm screamed from somewhere inside the store.

About five men, from what you could tell, were frantically gathering as much jewelry as they could find. Shoveling necklaces and rings and loose gemstones into black sacks. A quick glance informed you that all of them were armed. Some having pistols shoved in their pockets or clutched in their hands, others having rifles and shotguns slung over their shoulders.

Dread pooled in your gut. Situations like these didn't end well. Someone was getting shot tonight., and you hoped to God it wouldn't be you.

It seemed that the robbers had noticed your arrival. Two of the men, both with automatic rifles, scrambled to the front of the store while brandishing their weapons. You took in a deep, rattled breath, then opened your door. The comforting weight of your pistol clutched in your hands grounded you as you positioned yourself behind the door, body shielded by the car with your gun held over the top.

"This is the NYPD! Come out with your hands above your heads!" you yelled at the men. A few exchanged looks between their masked faces.

"I ain't goin' back to jail!" one of the men, wearing a black jacket and holding an automatic rifle, screamed in defiance. He aimed the gun at where you stood behind the car door.

"Put down your weapon!" you shouted quickly. It was getting more difficult to hide the tremor in your voice. Stu clambered out of the driver's side and mirrored your position behind his car door, his own pistol gripped in shaking hands.

A loud bang echoed from the man in the jacket. Bright light flashed from the rifle and nearly made you squint. In a split second, piercing pain erupted from your left bicep. You cried out, ducking behind the car door, then gripped at the fresh wound in your arm. Thick spurts of blood leaked from the bullet hole.

"Let us go, old man, or you'll be next!" the man who'd shot you yelled. You grit your teeth at the shocks of agony that coursed through you with every breath.

"Drop the weapon and put your hands in the air!" Stu shouted back. You heard the hammer of his gun click as he loaded a round into the chamber. This is turning into a firefight.

The night air was thick with building tension. Static gathered under your skin, anxiety gripping your throat in a tight vice. The men in the jewelry store remained quiet as they seemed to wait for Stu's response.

"Holy shit," he breathed after a few tense moments.

Meaty thuds and grunts cut through the tense silence. The occasional pop of a gunshot ringing out, often cut off by a groan of pain and then a body hitting the ground. Metal pinged off solid objects like hitting a wall with a lead pipe.

You looked at Stu through the inside of the car. He was watching the scene unfold before him with concentrated focus. A glimmer of amazement shone in his squinted eyes.

"The hell's going on over there?!" you hissed, the throbbing in your arm making it difficult to form words. Stu opened and closed his mouth for a bit before responding.

"It's-It's Daredevil," he breathed with wide eyes. Your eyebrows shot into your hairline.

"What?!" you sputtered. Using your undamaged arm, you gripped at your car door and peered around the edge.

Sure enough, the red-suited vigilante bounced between the men in the jewelry store like a muscley ping-pong ball. Gloved fists colliding with masked faces, metal clubs slamming into stomachs and shins, red boots shoving back anyone who dared get too close. It was almost impressive, how effortlessly this guy moved.

The last of the men fell unconscious to the ground. Daredevil stood above the pile of thieves, broad chest heaving and a trail of blood leaking from his nose. His helmeted head tilted in your direction.

It may have been a trick of the light, but you swore you saw a whisper of your name cross his plump lips.

Daredevil darted out of the destroyed jewelry store and towards the cop car. You used your car door for leverage to bring yourself back to your feet. A light sway dizzied your mind as your wound continued to bleed.

Red filled your hazy vision. Daredevil stood in front of you, a frown pulling at his lips, as surprisingly gentle hands held you upright.

"You've been shot," the vigilante stated. The lenses in his mask nearly glowed crimson in the glare of the streetlights. You swallowed a nervous lump that'd gathered in your throat.

"Y-Yeah. Thanks for the assist," you mumbled in amazement. What the hell was Daredevil doing here? And why was he worried about you? You were just a run-of-the-mill, New York City cop. What was so special about you that had the Devil of Hell's Kitchen clutching you like you'd break?

"Let me bring you home," he breathed. The soft lilt of his request scratched at your brain. He sounded so familiar. Had you met him before?

"She needs a hospital," Stu called out over the top of the car. Daredevil's head tilted sharply at your partner's voice.

It was then that the recognition tickling your brain finally settled. The quirk at the corner of the vigilante's lips, the stubble brushed along his sharp jaw, the low tone of his voice.

Matt.

But... How? How? How the fuck was Matt Daredevil?

He'd seemed to notice the hitch in your breath. His focus shifted back to you, lensed eyes reflecting your shocked expression back at you.

"You alright, sweetheart?" he muttered quietly, just loud enough for only you to hear. Yup. That's Matt.

"He can take me home, Stu. I'll be fine," you said over your shoulder. You couldn't bare to pry your gaze away from the vigilante in front of you.

A smirk danced along Matt's lips. Subtle, teasing, almost begging you to say what you were thinking. You'd punch that smug look off his face if you could move your arms.

The two of you were definitely having a talk tonight.

[osunism]

We Might Even Be Fallin' In Love

🪧 Summary: A glimpse into the deepening romance between two anomalies in a world that would see them torn apart.

🔞 Rating: Explicit

⚠️ Be Advised: Smut. Shameless smut.

💋 Pairing[s]: Satoru x Sundari [🧿👹]

▶• ılıılıılıılıılıılı. “We Might Even Be Fallin' In Love” by Victoria Monet

𓃰 AO3 𑁍 FFN 𑁍 Parallax OCs 𑁍 Sonder OCs 𑁍 Headcanons & Meta 𓃰

Gojo Satoru’s Residence, August 25, 2018 22:30

     Sundari watches Satoru with the curiosity of a tame predator. Well, not tame. Satoru knows better than to think a woman like Sundari can ever be tamed, even by the likes of him. But she does not snarl and snap at him in earnest, which he takes as a point of pride. He brought a goddess to his side and got her to submit to him. Of course he’s feeling himself.

     “Keep your legs open for me,” Satoru murmurs, his hands smoothing up the backs of her thighs, pressing them against her chest. He marvels at how easily she folds into the position he wants, her flexibility something to be commended. His eyes take her in, settling on the bald swell of her pussy. He thinks it is by far the prettiest pussy he has ever seen, and he will never admit it, but the cursed marking that crowns her pussy, stopping just shy of the lips is probably the hottest thing he’s ever seen. He wonders if that means her father…

     Can’t think of that right now.

     Instead he focuses on memorizing her, the wet and glistening folds, which he traces with his fingers. He doesn’t miss her soft but sharp intake of breath, lips parting to match the ones below. Her sex is quivering under his delicate touch, and he spreads her open, seeking her clit as he traces the clenching hole of her entrance. She shudders, lifting her hips only slightly, offering herself to him.

     “Satoru…” Her voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. He meets her gaze, circling her clit with his fingertips.

     “Yeah?” He asks, teasing her entrance with one long finger, spreading her slick over her clit until is slipped beneath his touch like a peach. Sundari’s breaths come out as soft stutters, and she bites her lip as a whimper dies in her throat, swallowed as she struggles to maintain her composure.

     “Use your words, Sundari,” Satoru admonishes, “or you’ll never cum tonight.”

     Sundari almost yells at him, she’s so close to begging for it. She needs it, wants it more than anything.

     “What does my greedy little slut want?” He asks her and that undoes her.

     “You…” She says in a rush of whining exhales. “Please, Satoru…need you inside me…”

     Satoru dips one finger inside of her, brows raising when her pussy sucks at it greedily, gripping it tightly. Fuck, she is going to be the death of him for sure. He cannot wait to bury his cock inside her. His balls ache just thinking about it. He slides his finger in and out.

     “Mmm, seems like she agrees,” Satoru says, indicating the squelching and slick noises of Sundari’s pussy as he fingered her. “She’s purring for me.”

     Sundari tries not to cum on the spot. Satoru adds another finger, drawing out a desperate and surprised moan from her. She maintains her position because he likes her to watch while he ruins her pussy, while he claims it as his. Soon, however, his fingers aren’t enough and he needs to taste her. He kneels infront of the bed, dragging her hips to the edge.

     “I wanna talk to her for bit,”  Satoru murmurs, his breath ghosting over her glistening folds, making her shiver. “Wanna see how bad this greedy little pussy has missed me today.”

     Without warning he dives in, meeting Sundari’s cunt in an open-mouthed kiss. He wants to devour all of her in one go, and Sundari’s head drops back onto the bed as Satoru runs the broad side of his tongue along the side of her clit. Her hips buck but she is held fast by his strong hands, pinned in place while he sucks and slurps on her pussy like it’s the first decent meal he’s had in ages.

     “Oh fuck…” Sundari whines, her hands slapping at the bed, fisting the comforter. “Oh fuck…oh god…”

     Satoru hums, his eyes flickering up to her, and somehow she swears the bastard seems to look all the more smug for having his mouth full of her cunt. He moves his head this way and that, spreading her open on his face, his lips wrapping around her clit unexpectedly. When he begins to suck she lets out a keening wail that would have gotten them a noise complaint if Satoru had neighbors. Instead, Sundari writhes and screams beneath the skylight of Satoru’s bedroom, and he doesn’t let up, sucking on her clit until her brain feels like it has been struck by lightning, her body electrified and every nerve singing in open pleasure as she cums, splattering her slick all over Satoru’s eager face. He works her pussy until his jaw aches, reveling as her slick drips down his chin and throat.

     He pulls away licking his lips hungrily.

     “Mmm, you sure do know how to keep a man fed,” he teases. Sundari chuckles tiredly, holding out her arms as he crawls between her legs and she welcomes him. His cock probes her entrance and the slide is smooth between them as he slips inside of her. She groans at the stretch of his girth, the length of him as he occupies every plane of her velvety walls, just barely tapping the entrance to her womb. For a moment, they lay there, entangled and joined at the hip. Satoru leans up just enough to look at her.

     “You’re so goddamn beautiful, baby,” he whispers, his nose brushing hers. Sundari’s cheeks are warm when he says this. The prospect of him being inside her doesn’t make her blush, but when he looks at her as if she is the softest and most beautiful thing he has ever seen, she wants to hide her face and scream. She tries to look away but he doesn’t let her.

     “I mean it,” he says, and he does, kissing her as his hips begin to move. Sundari moans into the kiss, and reaches up to cup his face in her hands, this beautiful man with his powerful gaze and a face Botticelli might envy. She kisses him, again and again, as if he is something precious to her because he is. The first person in her long life to ever want to truly protect her. It shakes her to her core, even as they make love, Satoru tormenting her with deep, long, langourous strokes, whispering sweet nothings into her ear, along her throat and jaw.

     “I could live inside you,” he murmurs against her jawling, tracing its sleek angle to her pulse in her throat. “You feel like you were made just for me. A whole goddess…ngh…are you my goddess, Sundari?”

     He’s fucking her in earnest, now. Sundari knows what he needs, what he wants. She knows because she needs and wants it too.

     “Yes…!” She moans, clinging to him as if he is the sole reason she is still rooted to the earth. “Yours, Satoru…! Just yours!”

     “That’s right,” Satoru growls. “Just mine. You wanna be a good girl and cum for me, my goddess? Wanna make a mess all over this cock?”

     Sundari can hear herself whining and whimpering her assent. He’s asking if she wants to come apart in his arms, all over his cock, and she’s nodding and moaning yesyesyes in time with his thrusts. He knows his own strength and hers, applying just enough force behind his hips to steal the breath from her lungs.

     “Look at me,” he says and she meets his gaze, her pupils blown with lust. “Yeah, just like that. Let me see you when you cum, baby.”

     Sundari whines in response as his hand slips down between them, sliding her clit between his skilled fingers in a counter-rhythm to his pumping hips. Sundari has no words, only the keening refrain of his name, and incoherent beseeching for him not to stop, begging him to make her cum.

     “Yeah,” Satoru growls. “Yeah—that’s it—that’s it…just like that, baby…fuck you feel so good.” He presses his forehead to hers, while she pants like an exhausted, hungry animal into his mouth. He steals kisses, sloppy and saturated and dwelled upon, drinking down her pretty sounds like they’re as nourishing as her cunt which squeezes him like it’s trying to drain him. He won’t last much longer.

     Sundari cums like she’s dying, her back a perfect bow as she arches into Satoru’s thrusting body, heels digging into his back as she cries his name like a desperate prayer, scoring her nails down his back as her pussy flutters around his cock.

     “Did you just—shit—gonna make me cum…fuckfuckfuck…” Satoru growls in bone-deep satisfaction as he cums, and Sundari holds him closer than skin, letting out a mewl as he drives into her until he buries himself balls deep, emptying himself inside of her until she’s soaked with him. His hips slow and stutter to a stop as he collapses onto her, dragging his face along the smooth arc of her throat, pressing lazy kisses along her skin, whispering endearments into her flesh. In turn, she turns her head, catching his mouth with her own and they spend their additional energy simply indulging one another wordlessly.

     For a long while, the world falls away, and they lay tangled up in one another, body to body, calf to calf, palm to palm. She holds his gaze with open adoration, as if he has brought her the moon and stars. He stares at her with naked fascination and adoration, marveling at the very miracle of her existence. That love once ablated an evil demon’s heart to rust and produced her, a force of nature. He sees the heat rush to her cheeks when he reaches across to stroke the tender plane of flesh beneath her lower set of eyes. She no longer looks ashamed when he traces the sharp lines of her cursed markings. She is Sukuna’s daughter, yes, but she is herself always.

     Satoru sees this, and hope she sees it reflected in his eyes. Hopes she can find the bright star of her existence amidst the galaxies that swirl serenely in his vision.

     Hopes she knows how glad he is that his heart can beat for love again.

© 2024 Hajara Asiri. Do NOT copy, translate, plagiarize, repost anywhere without permission [reblogging posts is okay]. Do not copy my masterlist or fic format, or feed any of my writing to the disgusting AI machines. I only upload on Tumblr, AO3, and FFN. Title banner by me. Dividers and banners by @cafekitsune.

☕️ Member of the @pixelcafe-network.

[klm-zoflorr]

Anyhow here's the timeline for heads of the Institute i was talking about. Part 1. Disclaimer some of this information is canon but most are my own headcanons or like. Literally stuff i made up on the spot.

Jonah Magnus (1818-1872)

Born 1785, which makes him 33 when he founds the Institute.

Trans!!

Pocket-sized (like REALLY short. He wears the tallest heels known to mankind and still only manages to be kinda short), auburn curly hair that gets a bit wild, thin eyebrows and face, button up nose. Those cheekbones bring all the boys to the yard. There's a sharpness to him that remains even as he ages. Ngl he's a ball of energy and can't really be stopped when he gets into a mood.

Did the Eye extend his life? Probably did

In 1867, attempts the Watcher's Crown after Smirke's death (he was 82 then, Smirke was 93)

It fails, he gets Panopticon powers, starts making preparations to both move the Institute and move his counsciousness into another body.

Disappears in 1872, at 87. Body is never found.

Julian Morgan (1872-1898)

Julian is a name that means Youthful. Little easter egg lmao

Ngl he kinda looks like Ben Meredith because I thought it was funny.

Facial hair!! Jonah went a bit buckwild. He will calm down after this don't worry

Has a face that flushes easily, straight nose and dark, striking eyebrows, full lips. Big ears. He has light, straight hair. Jonah likes having light hair, it reminds him of his original but without being, you know, a ginger (he was bored of the jokes). Neater hairdo than Jonah ever had. Soft voice.

Finished moving the Institute to London, overseeing the construction of it. He didn't like leaving his body too far out of reach. (<-author has no idea how long it takes to make a building btw)

Was 34 when Jonah took over, 60 when he died. Jonah got scared of death and strokes and allthat and perhaps switched sooner than was necessary.

Michael Lewis (1898-1903)

Another Michael!!!

Round/full cheeks, very nice skin (circus approved for sure), thick eyebrows, curling mustache. Dark and curly-ish hair, is starting to bald. He does look a bit older than he is, he was 29 when Jonah took over and 34 when he "died". Is perhaps a bit on the shorter side.

I don't know what happened to him, but something sure forced Jonah to switch out vessels sooner than he was expecting.

Anyways, we're done for this part! I still need to color the others lol. And give Richard a weave. Planning on doing some full body outfits too. Bye for now! Also @jonahfagnus you wanted to see so here goes

[doppel-doodles]

Watch me ramble on about Leshy, because I dont have time to doodle all of these-

The way Leshy "helps" Heket with cooking is basically she uses him as a trashcan, got any scraps? Just dumperoo it into your little bros mouth, doesn't matter if it's vegetable scraps,chunks of animal or follower meat. The little guy will happily consume anything.

Leshy is also very active during the night and prefers to take long naps during the day, but of course not in his home, naaaah homeboy is making himself comfortable in the sunniest spot there is, bonus points if there is a lot of nutritious dirt for him to lay in.

Building on that one, ever since his crown was taken he actually doesn't just do this because its nice but because he NEEDS sunlight and nutrients from the ground or else he'll get sick, normal food won't cut it in healthily sustaining him for long periods of time.

And of course he needs lots of water, him and Kallamar will often collect it together, though let’s be honest he carries the bulk.

Speaking of Kallamar he once caught Leshy being horribly malnourished as he was still adjusting to his mortal body, he was no longer used to the whole sun routine, and immediately Kallamar dragged him screeching and clawing tooth and nail to the nearest farm plot and proceed to bury him up to his neck in the dirt. Leshy was knocked out into a power nap almost instantly.

One can only dream of having an older brother that cares for you a delicately as Kallamar fr fr♡

Can we all spread the headcanon that if the seasons were to change Leshy's leafs would also change color and he would basically go bald in the winter?- I dunno man I just think that's such a funny idea. Also I'm not sure what idea would be better, him just being a bunch of sticks under his leafs or there being like actual flesh-

Also this in autumn:

Leshy:"It's not a phase shamura! "

Shamura:"Right you are younger brother, it is not a phase, but a season." *pats head*

And instead of getting acne berries would just start growing all over his face(for the love of the gods do not eat them-).

Out of all the Bishops he actually gets along the most with the Lamb, like you could call them friends??? even as he has no problem insulting them to their face five seconds later. Mainly because they also are pretty chaotic, which he respects. Leshy would even go as far as claim they could've been a worthy acolyte or even a favored disciple if they hadn't been born a Lamb.

He is the most aggressive towards Narrinder, he basically takes any opportunity to mess with him or pick a fight and if there’s none he will create one himself.

[howlingday]

Ozpin is currently wrestling a cassowary that somehow found itself on beacon’s courtyard.

Ruby Rose was in trouble. For what, nobody else could say because they were all in class while she was forced to stand outside, watching the courtyard ahead. As such, nobody else was there to listen to her as she observed the strange bird strutting about the courtyard.

"What is that?"

The bird was about as tall as Ruby, maybe even taller, and was the biggest bird she'd ever seen. Its body was like Ren's and Jaune's hairs mixed together to make this shaggy black mass of feathers. It had long black legs with long black claws and around its neck was a red dangly thing that looked like a necktie. Following along its blue neck, she saw atop its blue head was a large, dull brown crown.

"Whoa... Such a big bird..." She said as it looked at her. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted her headmaster, Professor Ozpin, approaching with rope in hand. "What- What is he going to do with that bird?!" Ruby looked around for anyone whom she could talk to to confirm or deny whatever it was she was seeing. "H-Headmaster! Bird!"

Pulling the rope taut, Professor Ozpin drew the bird's attention. He swung the lasso overhead, ready to capture the creature. But, with blinding speed, the bird kicked the headmaster hard in the chest, sending him flying. Ruby yelled in surprise as her headmaster rolled across the ground.

She wanted desperately to grab another student, a teacher, or even head out herself to help him. Before she could leave where she stood, Professor Ozpin stood to his feet before reaching into his pocket an pulling free a weird yellow fruit that looked like a flat banana.

"What is that?" Ruby asked, unsure of what the bright yellow thing was. She watched as the bird approached, drawing close to the ylang-ylang fruit, before delivering another kick into the belly of her beloved headmaster. Ruby nearly screamed as she watched the headmaster fall back, rolling on the ground in agony.

Professor Ozpin climbed to his feet, then climbed the statue of the Two Heroes. Maneuvering himself around, he did a backflip of the stonework and landed belly-down on the stone pavement. He staggered to the state, climbing it once more, only to climb back down again. He rubbed his head, giving a sheepish chuckle to the large bird.

"Is... Is it over?"

Professor Ozpin spat blood as large, black claws dug deep into his belly from another devastating kick from the hyperviolent bird. Professor Ozpin bounced across the ground as Ruby screamed in fear of what she saw. Professor Ozpin had been killed, murdered, by a beast not quite Grimm, but twice as deadly.

Ruby was about to go get someone, anyone, until she noticed that her headmaster wasn't dead yet. He staggered to his seat, wiping the blood from his lips, before throwing off his jacket to reveal armored plating over his shirt. Confidently he strutted towards the bird, who replied in kind with their own strut. Another kick was delivered but was caught by a hand instead of a body, and the headmaster maneuvered himself behind the foul bird, locking his hands around the bird's breast. Delivering a mighty roar, Professor Ozpin, headmaster of Beacon Academy, threw his foe over his head, fell backwards, and smashed the bird into the pavement. The only harm that fell upon him was when his gray hair fell, revealing both a wig and a perfectly bald head.

"PROFESSOR GOODWITCH! EVERYONE! LISTEN TO ME!" Ruby stood before her class, all eyes on her, including Professor Goodwitch's, and Ruby... Ruby couldn't find the words. Were words needed to describe what she saw. They didn't. So she said what needed to be said, with a salute to match. "The courtyard is perfectly normal~!"

[mrpissypants666]

Detailed explanations and headcanons for both drawings. ↓

[First Image Explanation]

Octavio, before he transitioned, worked in the entertainment district as a side job. Other than privately entertaining people (WITHOUT providing any sexual services), he'd reenact Oiran performances to honor his ancestors and to (basically) keep the tradition alive. It's a public event and it's crucial for him to play the role of the Oiran anyways due to being in the royal family. It wasn't a choice for him to decide whether or not he wants to perform either. It's a requirement.

Despite the history and original purpose of the Oiran (prostitution), he found some joy in performing it these reenactments... Not only because it's a tradition, but also because it's a work of art. It was kind of a workout session for him because the whole outfit weighed atleast 30kg. Of course, it was a pain in the ass to put on AND take off... He does admit that he looked hella good in it despite that. He still reminisces about it in the Splatoon 3 timeline because he's old as shit. And unfortunately for him, the crown he used to wear all the time on his head would cause him to develop a bald spot later in life.

But ermmmmm... after his first encounter with Craig, he'd make up excuses on why he isn't able to perform. Whether it'd be him feeling extremely ill or having to study, he'd come up with horrible excuses to sneak out of the castle and hang out with Craig (he barely left the castle unless he has have to perform). Not too long after, he'd resign from performing in Oiran reenactment festivals or festivals in general due to exhaustion. Having to wear and walk around in 30kg of clothing once a week can OBVIOUSLY wear you and your body out. Blah nlah blah more stuff because I'm writinf this from the top of my head and I can't think of anytjing else to add blah blagh....

[Second Image Explanation]

An alternate timeline where Craig resigns from the military after 7 years. Craig was in and out of training for about 5½ years, but with an upcoming war, he couldn't get in contact with Octavio, let alone anyone outside of the Inkadia military anymore. The soldiers of the military was infact not informed that a war was about to break out. Octavio was already at his lowest; having to deal with being a heir to the throne, having too many responsibilities as a member of the royal family, and of course being neglected by those close to him, which fucked up his ego fueled his depression even more. With Craig (being the only person who truly cared about his feelings) gone, his mental health declined a great amount.

After 1½ years of no contact, Craig resigns just a week before soldiers were scheduled to show up on the battlefield. Craig forgot to inform Octavio beforehand that he had already left, so he shows up at Arowana Castle unannounced, which causes Octavio to latch onto Craig and burst out in tears of happiness. ^_^

[oatmealdaydreams]

Shattered Glass Shards

Let me know if ya wanna be added on or taken off the general taglist!

Prompt: Mindscape; Day One for Fiddtober from @oobbbear

Pairings: gen, minor or background relationships

Warnings: Memory Loss, Nightmares, Panic, Amnesia, Memory-Erasing Gun

Description: Exploring his mind is something Fiddleford only does when he's dreaming. If he were to try and reach for memories he doesn't know about in the daytime, well…the reality of it wouldn't be pretty. Sometimes, he mistakes his adventures in the mindscape for nightmares when he stumbles upon unpleasant, disconnected memories. 

Extra: I'm attempting to write a drabble for each day of Fiddtober/October! We'll see how much I can get out. Posting at 12am because why not.

[Masterlist] | ao3 link

[fic under the cut]

There are dreams, and there are nightmares. 

Sometimes, they’re neither.

Fiddleford is a forgetful sort, to put it lightly, and he isn’t any different in the Mindscape. Only accessed when he dreams, fast asleep, the old inventor isn’t aware of the fact that this is his Mindscape, and not another weird dream sequence that you hardly remember once you wake. Not that he’d remember much of it, anyway. There’s always an odd tug in the back of his mind when he’s here, however, as if the deepest of his subconscious knows but is hesitant to let the waking man in on this information. 

Fiddleford walks in a slump, arms hands loosely at his sides. His feet are wrapped in old, brown-spotted bandages. One of his hands is the same, his forearm covered in the same cast-looking, thick wrapping. His beard is white, dirty, nearly dragging across the ground. A mustache sits just as unruly above his lips. He wears only a dark pair of overalls with rusted metal buttons. A golden tooth in his mouth of cracking teeth. A band-aid on his beard. Patches of lighter cloth on his knees. A worse-for-wear hat sits atop his balding head, its long and thin crown bent back about halfway up. 

He ambles in a vast, endless field of indiscernible greenery. It’s unclear if it’s a meadow, or the plains, or a flower field. Every time Old Man McGucket tries to focus on what it is, it changes, blurs, glitches, becomes snow on a television. Here, in the seemingly empty void of the Mindscape, he is still Old Man McGucket. He knows no different. He bears no memories to think otherwise. Some of the greenery crumbles like stone cliffs over a churning sea. It’s damaged. It’s breaking. 

He wanders still. 

A few scrap of metal and bolts lay on the ground as McGucket walks further. Scrap turns into stray parts and components that belong to machines. Blueprints with indescribable, shifting plans rustle with the temperature-lacking breeze. Colours flicker into different hues and variants. Green to blue to red to orange, and back to green—no, now it’s brown. The sky has crackes in it. It’s rusted orange and deeply blue, and the Sun itself is a dark grey circle that illuminates shadow instead of light. No clouds. Another crack forms on the sky like peeling paint in an abandoned nursery. 

Nothing is yellow, or golden, or lemon-coloured, in this vast and colourful Mindscape. Except his tooth, that is.

Yellow does not belong here.

Yellow only brings about pain. 

Yellow is sour dressed in sugar. Salt is hard to see when everything is made of bitter-tasting grains. 

Something starkly red, unshifting, steady, lies on the ground. It catches McGucket’s eye, and he glances down at it. Amongst all the glitches and shattering shards of forgotten memories, this is clear as still water. It’s an invention, a doohickey of sorts. The red glass is…almost alluring. The rest of it is in lighter browns and dark beiges, bluish translucent lightbulb attached to the front. There’s a trigger. A dial. A little screen to display text. A handle. It’s a gun of sorts. 

Something sharp and dark pierces a clench in McGucket’s chest when he sees it. He exhales a shaky, hitching breath before he can realize it. 

“F!” echoes out a familiar yet unreachable voice. 

McGucket cannot take his eyes off the gun. 

“F,” it speaks again, coming from everywhere and nowhere and anywhere. 

He picks up the gun, an unsteady grip. 

“I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone!” the voice lashes out, and McGucket’s ears thrum in barely-there pain. 

“Why won’t you come home? Your son misses you. I miss you,” a different voice rings out, strained, shaky, cry-ready. 

Old Man McGucket’s hands are just as shaky. He can feel the pulse in his wrists, in his throat, in his chest. It beats harshly against his skin, his ribs. Blood rushes and roars in his ears as the pain turns sharp. 

A hand on his shoulder, and he opens his eyes. 

When did they close, comes a passing thought, am I wakin’?

The first thing he notices is a blurred-out face, brown hair, and a six-fingered hand shaking his shoulder. McGucket no longer holds the gun. He holds nothing in his hands. They feel empty and lead-like. He glances up at the strange figure, confusion blossoming brightly. Knitted eyebrows. He’s on his back. The figure huffs out a sigh of relief—is it relief, is it annoyance, he cannot tell the difference—and their hand leaves his shoulder. They sit back on their knees. 

“What did you see, F-dle-ord?” their voice is one he heard earlier, echoing and warping around his ears. 

He stops his mumbling—when did he start mumbling—and glances just behind the figure. A tall, grand void of darkness and the barely noticeable hint of bluish metal. Something is whirling, zapping, whirring off to his right. The brightest light, blue, illuminates the dark room. His head swims the smallest bit as he slowly sits up, the figure watching from his side. They seem anxious, a flitting aura of unsure and concern. Is it concern? Has it ever been concern? Does he even know what concern looks like? What it sounds like? What it—

McGucket spots white and looks down at himself. A lab coat engulfs him. He brings a hand to his face, and…no beard, just stubble. No mustache. Just skin. Glasses. He presses his tongue to tsk, an old habit, only to feel a full set of teeth in his mouth. He’s younger. Why is he younger? Where is he? What’s going on? 

“When Gravity Falls and Earth become sky,” he hears himself mumble, younger, quiet, afraid, “Fear the Beast with just one eye.” 

“F, what—” a six-fingered hand gently grabs his shoulder, but he flinches away. 

More words he speaks. More words from whoever he’s speaking to. He cannot grasp what else is said, seen, heard. It’s falling away, bright thrumming of something off to the side floods his ears. All pain and breathing is ripped away as he nearly drowns in the sound. He turns his head towards it…and, well, it’s—it’s—

Bright blue, his eyes do see. Fire. Colours swirling. Madness in bubbles. Triangle. Yellow, so much yellow. Cackling laughter. It hurts. Make it stop, it hurts. Run, run, run! Make it stop hurting and run!

McGucket gasps upright as he wakes, shaking frail limbs holding him up. A dream, it was just a dream. A nightmare. Whatever it is, it’s over. Lingering adrenaline pulses his heart against his chest. His ribs ache, his ears ache, his head feels the teetering of an oncoming headache. The nightmare taunts him on the very edges of his mind, unable to form coherently enough to address. Only one thing remains clear from his terror: the letter F. 

F, F, F, McGucket repeats again and again as he forces himself to take a shuddering breath, F, F, F, F.

He stands from where he slumbers, grabbing a chewed-on pencil and his journal. It’s the one thing that seems to stay pristine—or, at least, as pristine as he possibly can keep it. It’s dirty with mud-spots and blots of oil. The cover is brown leather. The pages are stained, and some of them stick together. Some of them are torn. Some of them are wet from something, McGucket doesn’t know what. He turns to a random page, finding it blank. He scribbles the letter F quickly, big, bold, taking up the entire page of paper. He throws the pencil somewhere, tossing the journal on what used to be a desk. Sounds of clattering cans and spray paint catch his attention, and he scurries out to see what kind of younguns are causing such a ruckus now. The journal lies still, a tiny black F on the back of its cover. 

In its many pages are many F’s. Most of it is covered in large, scribbled F’s written over and over and over again. Forgotten. Each dream brings another F. Each nightmare brings a shaky letter. Every exploration into the Mindscape leaves Old Man McGucket—Fiddleford, but he doesn’t recall that name—remembering the same little thing again and again and again. 

As he chases off the snickering teenagers, he forgets.

Taglist: @lost-in-thought-20 @thegoldenduckie @not-sure-what-im-feeling

[cosmictyto]

Concept/headcanon - Cicero with Trichotillomania

(Is this self indulgent? Yes, yes it is. Am I doing this silly, minimally edited, free-writing exercise to keep myself from pulling? Yes, yes I am.)

Obligatory warnings since this mentions hair pulling, anxiety, obsessive & repetitive compulsions, balding, damage to the scalp, embarrassment from said balding, etc.

In this hypothetical o’ mine, this all flared up during his time in Cheydinhal. But, before that, I could see him being the kind of guy who’d run his hand through his hair or tug slightly as a self-soothing mechanism when stressed. His scalp is generally sensitive and he enjoys the feeling of someone touching it either by combing his hair or running their fingers through it.

The plucking didn’t start immediately. While, yes, he was upset to lose the Bruma sanctuary and his siblings, he could manage that. It was all the pressure that came after.

Other sanctuaries were being destroyed. The active listener was being threatened. He botched his contract. Their communications were cut off. The listener was dead. The Night Mother forced out of her crypt.

More and more.

He’s elected to be in this revered role. He also has to learn how to DO said role via old books and just kinda… have faith that he’s doing it right. Probably with the constant nagging feeling that the lack of any new listener might be his fault (since the NM’s corpse is her conduit to speak with mortals, and if she’s not taken care of properly her connection is severed.)

Even more pressure as the Cheydinhal sanctuary is crumbling around him. One by one the remaining members die and more and more pressure is put on Cicero. All the while he’s also fretting over why the NM won’t just speak to him instead.

With Garnag left MIA, Cicero is just left completely on his own. Stuck (presumably) underground and unable to really leave the sanctuary.

All the while, he’s been rubbing his scalp and tugging at his hair to just get even the slightest feeling of peace, pacing all throughout the halls waiting for Garnag to come back with supplies. Being overwhelmed with laughter. Until, one day, while rubbing his head he feels something off. A single hair with some odd texture. A wrong texture. He plucks it, feeling the sharp sting fade into a wave of soreness, pulls the strand taught between his fingers. Investigating it. His hair is normally smooth and silky. But this one wasn’t. Something… clicks.

It started with one… Then another, and another, and another.

If his hands weren’t busy preparing oils or tending to Mother, he was plucking. Sometimes he’d feel the length of the strand, other times he’d touch the root of the hair to his lips (something about the sensation was pleasant. Blissful even.) But as soon as he tossed the strand aside, his hands were back at his crown foraging for similar threads.

It became a pattern. A frantic rhythm. Pluck, feel, touch, toss. Over and over. His hands hasty and shaking slightly. Part of him knows that this isn’t right, but he. just. can’t. stop.

The halls of Cheydinhall are dusted with shed ginger strands from where Cicero would pluck as he paced, muttering and laughing to himself to fill the empty air. And as he ran out of “bad hairs” he started targeting the “good ones.” But, of course, it wasn’t the same. It didn’t scratch that same itch. And that was just as maddening as the silence. His plucking grew more and more intense and rough.

It eventually gets so bad that the crown of his head starts to bleed and scar. But, then the scabs give him something else to futz with.

Later, after he makes his jester outfit and sends out the letters to Astrid, he finally notices just how much damage he’s done.

There was only one mirror in Cheydinhal. In the liar Rasha’s room. So, he used it to get a good look at his new outfit. He’s dancing about, humming. And then he finally notices the massive bald spot, pale white and covered in maroon scabs, on the crown of his head.

The humming stops. His heart sinks. His stomach twists. The immediate wave of panic and shame stung at his eyes. What you were doing never fully clicks until you’re staring at the consequences of your compulsory actions head-on.

Instinctively, his hand claws its way through what little remaining hair he has left back there. And he pulls it back with a yelp, gripping his wrist with his other hand. His fingertips tingle with pressure as he forces himself to not try and pluck or pick. And something in his mind burns at the thought.

Before anything else happened, he grabbed his hat and pulled it taught against his head. Out of sight, out of mind. Like it never even happened. He still had enough hair on the rest of his head, so everything looked fine. He could feel the itching feeling fade as he tried to even his breathing and just… forget everything he just witnessed.

And it worked. As long as he kept the hat on, the habit was temporarily broken. Plus, he was so busy trying to move mother across the continent, there wasn’t any time to fret, or pace, or pluck.

He did have a slight flare-up with his eyebrows and eyelashes while on the long, long boat ride to Dawnstar. The rolling waves made him nervy and nauseous. And the very thought of his mother, stuck in the cargo hold, being constantly surrounded by ship crew made his skin crawl. He just couldn’t help himself. But, that never felt “as right” as it did with his head hairs.

Then, things got better. A new, true Listener was found. His life was spared. The pretenders who dishonored the name “Dark Brotherhood” felt the wrath of Sithis. And now, there was an opportunity to start anew!

Post-DB-questline, I imagine his plucking would slow down significantly. For the first time in a long while, things are stable. He’s not alone. Mother is happy and actively talking to someone. Things are looking up. He still falls into old habits here and there, since you never fully stop with these sorts of things, but he feels the urge way less. And when he catches himself doing it, he’ll try and redirect instead to something that needs both hands. There’s always something in the sanctuary that needs cleaning or mending. He’s even working on a new jester’s outfit (because it’s too damn cold in Dawnstar for his current one) and he’s doing all the embroidery work himself.

He did too much damage to his scalp, though. Some of the hair has grown back. But, it’s patchy and thin. Baby fuzz mixed with old, long strands. And, yeah, this is a sore spot of his. He knows it looks odd. He wears his hat almost 24/7 because he’s so self-conscious/embarrassed about it. It’s an unfortunate reminder of his lowest point. So, he tries to keep it covered and to not think about it. (And if you dare try to take his hat “as a joke” you’re dead. No warning, just stabbing.)

Maybe, just maybe, if you’re close enough with him he’d be fine taking the hat off. But that’ll take a lot of trust before you get to that point. And it’ll take even more than that before he’d even let you touch his head/hair. (However, when you get to that stage, he will 100% melt into a puddle of goo if you comb his hair.)

Anyway, if you got this far, thanks for reading! I only edited this lightly so apologies if anything’s worded weird or if there are any mistakes.