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tropes-and-tales · 10 months

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Dyin' for a Taste

Day 11: Face Sitting (Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!)

CW: Idiots in love; pining; smut (oral, f!receiving); 18+ only.

Word Count: 4096

AN: This was requested by an anonymous person!

AN2: When I say this is not edited, please know it is NOT EDITED. Full of typos and sloppy typing. Tropes is a fat-fingered old crone.

It starts with a joke.

The 141 is on a covert ops in the mountains. It’s cold—the sort of cold that burns, that makes the bones ache. You’re posted up in a perch, your sniper’s rifle at the ready if shit goes south. The rest of the team is in the square below, waiting for the drop.

“My bollacks are gonna freeze off,” Soap complains over the comms, and you snort at the whining tone in his soft Scottish brogue.

“Shoulda dressed for the weather,” you reply. “Ghost probably has a spare balaclava.”

“And cover this handsome face?”

“Won’t be so handsome when your nose turns black from frostbite.”

You hear the tsch noise he makes over the comms, the very Soap, very Scottish noise of dismissal.

“You’ll have to sit on my face then, hen, and warm me back up,” he says.

You’re rarely stunned into silence—you and the guys are always making off-color jokes—but when you open your mouth to reply, you only gape wordlessly. The silence over the comms grows, expands, until Gaz—fucking Gaz—chimes in.

“I think she’s into the idea, bruv.”

And you can’t respond to that fast enough either, which leaves another long beat of silence over the comms, which likely seems like enough of an answer.

-----

The mission goes smoothly. The team splits up as planned to avoid drawing attention. You don’t see Soap again until a few days later when you regroup at HQ.

You think, perhaps, that he’s forgotten. Maybe that’d be better. You and Soap get along well, and sometimes he flirts with you, but he flirts with everyone. It means nothing.

And yet…

And yet, it’s Soap. You might be able to lie to others, but you can’t lie to yourself: you’ve spent many a lonely night with your thoughts drifting to him. Turning him over and over in your mind.

Soap MacTavish. Handsome, almost unbearably so. He could be a cocky asshole, be the sort of man who knows he’s hot and be insufferable about it, but he’s gregarious. Friendly. He’s a happy-go-lucky sort of man—or as much as someone in the One-Four-One can be.

-----

“Been avoiding me.”

It’s a statement, not a question. Soap corners you in the mess hall, his blue eyes peering at you without guile. He looks almost concerned.

“I haven’t,” you reply. You try to shift past him, but he puts a hand out against the doorway, bars you with his arm.

“You have.” He peers at you closer, his blue eyes somber. “What’s wrong?”

“Why would anything be wrong?”

You thought, perhaps, that he’d forgotten…but those somber eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, then smooth out as he schools his expression.

“Maybe you think my offer was wrong,” he says.

“I never said that.” You duck under his arm, but he lays his hand on your shoulder and stills you again.

“You’ve never said anything about it.” You don’t look at him, but you hear his gentle snort of laughter. “Your silence is deafening.”

You feel your face start to heat up because he’s not wrong. Too much time has passed now to address that moment in the mountains. You should have said something then, spat out some rejoinder to signal that it meant nothing to you, that it was just another dumb joke between you and Soap. But something about that dumb joke conjures up the mental image of you and Soap, and your face burns in embarrassment.

So you duck from his light grip on your shoulder and it makes him laugh again, then call out to your retreating form, “the offer still stands, hen.”

-----

A month passes, then another. You get leave for a few weeks and go someplace warm, a beach with golden sand and soft breezes where you can relax and forget the horrors of what you see every day.

Then you’re back on base, then another mission. Over and over, the same routine.

Through it all: Soap MacTavish, the team’s Golden Retriever. Always with an easy grin on his handsome face, a laugh, a joke. He teases Ghost, he does a passable impression of Captain Price. He gives Gaz a hard time about their rival rugby teams, but it’s always good-natured.

He jokes with you, but that joke—the one about sitting on his face—becomes just a joke between the two of you. You don’t know if the other men have forgotten it, but Soap only brings it up when you’re alone now.

At the barracks, in the rec room, he’s sprawled out on the couch and half-dozing, half-watching a rugby match. When you walk past, he notices, sits up. Beckons you over, tells you to have a seat…then thoughtfully strokes his face with that damned smirk and comically waggling eyebrows.

“You’re a jackass,” you call out as you leave the room, but by now, it makes you laugh…and it lightly stokes that ever-burning flame low in your belly.

-----

Another time, he sidles up to you at the range as you study your targets with their tight formation of bullet holes. He points out one shot, high in the corner of the paper, off of the concentric circles of the bullseye.

“Missed one,” he says.

You scoff. “One out of….many.”

He matches your scoff with one of his own. “Might be losing your edge.”

“I’m not.” You know he’s winding you up, but that missed shot galls you.

“Maybe you’re stressed out.”

You set the target down on the wooden railing. “Maybe you’re stressing me out, MacTavish.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. His blue eyes light up in glee, and he only gets out the first part of his retort—You know what’s good for de-stressing—before you drop to one knee and start disassembling your sniper rifle, ducking your head and hiding your burning cheeks from him.

“…nothing wrong with it,” he finishes as you shut the rifle’s case, and you realize you’ve missed part of what he’s said.

“There isn’t,” you agree. You stand up and lean a bit on the courage that sees you through each mission. You look him square in the eye and add, “but you’re just flirting.”

He gazes back at you, a soft smile on his face, only a little teasing. “Not just flirting.”

“Sure.” You roll your eyes.

He makes his Soap-branded tsch sound, then he loops his arm around your shoulders to pull you in close. He smells like…well, he smells like soap, clean with a hint of something herbal. It’s nothing he hasn’t done a hundred times—in safe houses after a mission, walking out of a bar on a night out with the team—that companionable way he pulls you against him.

“It makes me sad when you don’t believe me, hen,” he chuckles, and it’s low, right by your ear, his warm breath fanning over you.

You’re not sure what spurs your next move. You’re a natural-born sniper; you take the measure of everything around you—the curve of the earth, the speed and direction of the wind—before you squeeze your trigger. You’re the same with people, cautious and feeling out every angle of their intentions before you make a move. But you know Soap, and the question around his joke is the only uncertainty.

Something makes you act without much thought. Your rifle case in your hand, your other hand tucked in your pocket, and Soap’s arm slung around your shoulders…the moment is crystalized, will be an easy memory to recall in the years to come because this is when everything between the two of you changes.

“You know what?” you ask, and you don’t allow him to hazard a guess. Instead, you gaze at him levelly, straight into those bright blue eyes of his and add, “alright, let’s do this.”

It’s comical, how the smile drops from his face, how his mouth makes a little “oh” of surprise. His eyes scan your face, quick, like he’s trying to find the joke, trying to find proof you’re just having a laugh at his expense.

“Bonnie,” he starts to say, and his voice has a rough edge to it. His voice is missing its usual teasing edge, and he pauses to study you. You don’t know if he realizes it, but the tip of his tongue darts out, licks against his lower lip, like he’s really thinking of it now that it could be a reality.

“Bonnie, are you just…are ye fer real?” His voice is lower and his accent gets thicker, and it sets a frisson of heat shimmering through your lower belly.

You refuse to blink. Refuse to look away. “I’m for real if you are.”

“I was never joking about that.”

“Then I’m not joking either.” You swing your rifle case towards the barracks, playing at bravery but willing the fluttery feeling in your stomach to calm. “So let’s go.”

Soap—gregarious, convivial Soap—says nothing else on the walk back. He keeps his arm around your shoulders, though, and his hand settles against your bicep, rubs you briskly before gently holding you there, like he’s proving to himself that you’re real, that the moment is really happening.

-----

Your nerve wobbles a little when you get back to quarters. Soap’s nerves must have a similar wobble, because he turns to you and his usual boyish grin is gone, replaced by a grave expression.

“You dinnae have to do this,” he says, “if you don’t want to.”

Part of you wants to back out, chuck him in the arm and say it was just a joke. You could still back out. Soap is flirty and gregarious, but hooking up would irrevocably change your easy relationship with him. It could change the tenor of the team. And yet…

…don’t you both face death every day? Don’t you see the absolute worst of humanity? Don’t your bodies bear the scars of your hard, unrelenting lives—countless scars, visible and invisible both? Don’t you all operate in your own bubbles of loneliness, sleeping alone night after night but crowded out by the ghosts you all haul around?

Is it too much to ask for even a moment of connection, of not feeling alone?

You gaze back at him. Sweet Johnny MacTavish. Handsome but not vain, smart but not aloof, funny without being cruel about his teasing. Is there anyone you’d rather be with?

“I want to do this,” you tell him, and there’s no hesitation in your tone. “If you do. If you really were just joking around, then no harm, Johnny.”

His somber gaze softens at your use of his real name. “Wasn’t joking at all.” Then he opens the door to his quarters and turns to you, invites you in with a sweep of his hand, and when you walk past him, he lays his palm on your lower back to guide you.

-----

In truth, you’ve never actually sat on anyone’s face. It’s one of those funny sex acts that you joke around about but have never gotten around to, like sixty-nine (always seemed more complicated than necessary) or food-play (always seemed too messy).

Soap, it turns out, has never actually had his face sat on.

And it’s adorable, how he sheepishly runs his hand through the longer stripe of his short-shorn hair and admits as much.

“Figured it cannae be that complicated though,” he says. He huffs out a breath, and you realize how nervous he must be, and it gives you courage to take charge.

“Kiss me first. Then we can figure it out from there.”

The tame command makes his face light up and he murmurs, “yes, ma’am” in his brogue, and then he does as you say.

If Soap MacTavish is generally the team’s Golden Retriever, bouncing around with a wagging tail, he kisses with far more finesse. He cups your face gently, reverently and leans forward, brushes the lightest of kisses against your lips like he’s testing the waters. Like he’s waiting for you to pull away, and when you don’t, he kisses you again.

It’s awkward at first, but only because you’re both so tentative. It’s uncharted territory. He must be aware that you’re crossing a line in doing this, you think, and he must not care either. But the awkwardness melts away quickly because Soap is a damned good kisser, skilled in how he moves his mouth against yours, his tongue against yours. One of his hands stays on your face, cupping you gently and steering you, but the other hand touches your waist, your hip, slides around to squeeze your ass gently before returning to the dip of your waist.

He tastes like something warm and spicy, like cinnamon or nutmeg. Everything about him is warm, really: the way he cups your face but runs his thumb over your cheekbone, the way his other hand holds you steady as he kisses you. And the way he looks at you when he breaks the kiss, the almost-shy way he tugs at the hem of your shirt and asks if he can take it off.

He’s warm too—his body, his skin as you bare it with each article of clothing shed. You strip each other in tandem, and the sight of him leaves you breathless. He’s like something carved by a Renaissance sculptor, but when you smooth your palms over the dips and swells of his muscles, you find that he’s warm to the touch, wonderfully so, and a wave of lust almost takes you out at the knees by how much you want to feel his body against yours, under you or on top of you, every inch of you pressed against him.

Soap must feel the same way about you—he touches you just as gently as before, almost reverent, but his goddamned eyes practically shine when he looks at you, then groans out, “fuck, but you’re stunning, hen.”

He maneuvers you both towards the bed, and then he stretches out across it, and this is precisely why your sexual repertoire has always been lacking: when a brutally handsome man is stretched out in front of you like a damned buffet, your mind singularly focuses on one thing, and you rarely remember that there’s other, more adventuresome things you could do.

You’re already turned on. Ever since the two of you walked back from the range, you’ve been on a low simmer of lust, and the desire has ratcheted up with each kiss, with each little grumbling groan of Soap’s, with each sweep of his big warm hands along your body.

So you’re already turned on, so why sit on his face when his beautiful cock—perfectly sized for you, the ruddy tip already leaking precum—is also an option?

And Soap is no dummy. He must guess at your internal battle because he says your name softly, pulls your gaze back to his face where he smiles that brilliant Soap-smile at you.

“Alright then?” he asks. He pats his upper chest. “You can sit right here, to start.”

It hits you all at once how intimate this is. Fucking, hooking up—that’s one thing. But sitting on your teammate’s face feels like you’re taking a further step into the unknown. Oral sex, to you, is already more intimate than regular ol’ intercourse, but sitting on his face feels…even more intimate. There’s a lot of trust on both ends: he has to trust you not to hurt him, not to put too much weight or force on his face or neck. And you have to trust him too, since you’re basically smothering him you with your pussy, and many men are precious little babies about eating pussy.

“I could just…” You trail off and gesture vaguely at where his erection strains and bobs against his belly, and Soap snorts before he replies, “we could do both, hen.”

When you don’t say anything, when you don’t move, he adds, “c’mon, sweet girl. I’m dyin’ for a taste of ye.”

The accent is unfair, you decide. The accent is not fighting fair. Soap’s Scottish brogue is charming in the best of times, but his bedroom version is thicker, at a slightly lower register, and it’s entirely unfair. It easily dismantles the rest of your meager defenses, so you nod and then kneel on the bed. But when you start to awkwardly clamor on top of him, he stills you for a beat and taps his mouth, says, “give me a kiss first.”

And the kiss is unfair too because it reminds you that it’s just Soap, one of your dearest teammates, a man who often holds your life in his hands and whose life you hold in your own. His now-familiar taste of spicy warmth on your tongue, and his lips curving in a smile against yours when he whispers, “climb on up, hen Don’t keep me waitin’ anymore.”

There’s no sexy way to climb on top of him. Do you just kneel by his chest and throw a leg over him? Do you straddle him lower and scoot up? You split the difference, try to straddle him on his lower chest and scoot up, but then his one arm gets pinned. Any other man? It might be a deal-breaker being so clumsy, but Soap laughs underneath you—a genuine belly-laugh full of warmth that makes you giggle too. He wrangles his arm free, then lays both hands on your hips and guides you the rest of the way.

This is unbearable intimate too, being so exposed to his bright blue-eyed gaze. You probably have tons of issues around previous men who didn’t eat pussy, who were grossed out by it, but Soap’s eyes practically glitter black with how blown his pupils are. His face rarely hides its emotions very well (he’s a shitty poker player), and there’s no disgust in his expression at all. There’s only desire, naked and apparent.

“Tell me,” he says, and his voice is a low growl that sends that frisson of heat straight to your core. “Tell me what is working for you, yeah? Don’t go quiet on me.”

You nod, and you wish you could think of something cool or funny to say, but Soap lifts his head a little and presses a plush, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, where both are splayed in front of him, and before you can even beat yourself up for failing to think of something cool or funny, his mouth is on you in earnest.

Soap, a damned good kisser. It translates to this, his skilled tongue and lips licking at you, suckling at you, swirling against you before he breaks up the pattern with an outright kiss, then resumes his routine. He traces the tip of his tongue around the firm bud of your clit, the perfect amount of pressure before he snakes it lower, lapping at the arousal leaking from your entrance. He’s unabashed about it, groans against your feverish skin, and you love him in this moment—love that he wasn’t joking after all, love that he had led you here, where you sit perched on him while he feasts on your cunt and seems to genuinely enjoy it as he does.

Any other position, you’d lean down and kiss him, or pull him to you and kiss him. Now, as he groans against you again, you reach down and run your fingers through the longer stripe in his hair. He must like that, because he groans a third time, and his grip on your hips spasms tighter.

You remember what he asked of you, so when he purses his lips and suckles against your clit, you gasp out a startled “oh!” but then add, “fuck, Johnny. Just like t-that.”

“Good?” It comes out muffled against you, and he pauses his mouth long enough to gaze up at you with a smile.

“So good.” You shift your hand, cup his stubbled chin slick with your arousal—a gentle movement that makes his smile soften too.

“Like when you call me Johnny, hen.” Now he sounds a little shy, like he’s edging close to something beyond a random hookup with face-sitting.

“Keep using your mouth like that and I’ll call you Johnny all the time,” you tease.

“Deal.” And then he’s on you again, laving your sensitive folds with his tongue, his bit of stubble raising a warm burn against your inner thighs. His hands on your hips pull you closer, and he encourages the slow, careful rhythm when you start to actually ride his face—a languid back-and-forth, mindful of his need for oxygen, while he eats your pussy with the fervor of a starving man.

Your orgasm approaches faster than you thought; you thought you might have to fake it, since you rarely come from oral alone. But there’s something about this position. You feel powerful in a benign way, in charge, but mindful of the man underneath you. You run your fingers through his hair and Soap preens at the touch, just as he preens when you pant out praise for him, tell him how good you feel. How good he is making you feel.

He must sense it because his grip tightens on your hips, but his tongue moves faster and focuses solely on your clit—teasing with the tip of his tongue, then laving it with the flat of his tongue, then wrapping his lips around it and sucking.

“F-fuck,” you choke out. “Johnny…fuck…I’m gonna…” but you don’t finish the sentence, you keen out a garble of nonsense as you come.

The heat in your belly pools over, spills over in a brilliant wash that courses through your veins, into your trembling legs and up through your body, makes your vision shimmer and crackle with sparks. Your heartbeat, your panting breath are loud in your own ears, and you hear Soap groan but he sounds faraway. He teases your orgasm, prolongs it by licking against you until you grip his hair tighter and hold his head still while you clumsily dismount, then flop gracelessly onto the bed beside him.

You feel boneless. You feel heavy, sleepy, like you could sink into the mattress and sleep for days. You close your eyes and feel the bed shift, and Soap disappears for a moment. You hear running water—he must be cleaning his face, you think—but then the mattress dips again and he’s curling his warm body around yours, wrapping his arms around you as he pulls you to him, then settles the blanket over both of you.

“Good, yeah?”

You laugh. “Yeah, that was good. Especially for someone who’s never done it before.” A beat. “Give me a moment to catch my breath and then I can help you out.”

Soap chuckles above you, and you feel him press his lips to your forehead before settling again. “No need.”

“But I—”

“Already came.”

The gears in your head turn slow when you’re sated from sex. Coming makes you stupid. “Huh? When?”

Another chuckle, another kiss to your head. “When I was eating you, hen.”

You turn your head and try to peer up at him. He looks comfortable and sleepy too, content and sated. “Seriously?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Told ye I was dyin’ for a taste.” He shifts a little, pulls you closer to him. He tugs the blanket more securely around your shoulders. “If ye want a second round, I’ll need a few minutes.”

You appraise the situation: the warm scent of Soap, the feel of his naked body pressed to yours, the warm little cocoon he’s created here in his bed. Of course you want a second round, but you’re sleepy too, and the thought of sleeping with Soap doesn’t seem nearly as terrifying as it might have seemed before he had his mouth on your pussy.

“Or we could sleep,” you offer.

“Sleep,” he agrees. “Round two tomorrow.”

The doubts from earlier start to surface in your mind, but they seem tiny and inconsequential when you’re wrapped up in Soap’s arms. You feel sleep tugging at you—he’s already asleep, you think, breathing deep and even against you—so you chance to brush your lips against the bit of him you can reach and whisper good night to him.

But he’s not quite completely asleep yet because he kisses you back, another press of his lips against your head, and he whispers back, “g’night, hen.”

#john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #johnny soap mctavish x reader #soap imagine #johnny mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish imagine #soap x reader #call of duty modern warfare #kinktober 2023 #tropes and tales

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radicalrainbow · 25 days

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Frostbite!Sans

I wanted to create my own "bad sans" A possible addition to Nightmare's gang, and whether I add him to it or not I feel he's quite the unique character! :D

If you have any questions about him, throw them into my asks and I'll give you more info! :D

#radicalartwork #undertale au #undertaleau #utmv oc #utmv sans #undertale #bad sans?#hes just a silly guy #undertale au sans #utmv #artists on tumblr #digital artist

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fujoshirat · 2 months

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+Strawberry Magic! ♡ 30 Years of Virginity Can Make You a Wizard?!♡+

Chapter 2: An Extra Boost

Summary: When virgin Pro Hero Shouto turns 30, he gains the magical ability to read the minds of people that he touches. After finding out that his personal assistant has a crush on him, everything changes and Shouto finds himself lost in the stressful game called love.

Pairing: Todoroki Shouto x Reader

Warnings: aged up characters, mention of virginity, as usual: this entire fic is and will be written in Shouto's POV. HOWEVER... there is a short reader's POV in this chapter so I hope you enjoy it (hehe)

"Todoroki-san, are you alright?"

The sound of Y/N's voice snaps Shouto out of his dazed state. What was he doing again? Oh right, walking her to the subway. The soft splash of shoes stepping into rain puddles fill Shouto's ears, the rain having stopped a few minutes ago.

"Ah, yes. Sorry, I was just thinking about something."

Y/N nods and continues walking with her boss. After a few minutes, the covered stairs to the subway become visible, quickly bringing a smile to Y/N's face.

"There it is!" Shouto nods and escorts her to the entrance. Stepping under the covering, Y/N turns to Shouto and bows.

"Thank you once again, Todoroki-san! I hope you didn't mind the detour on the way." Shouto shakes his head. "It's quite alright, L/N-san. It's the least I can do for my assistant."

He makes sure that she goes down the stairs, and once she is out of sight, he walks in the direction of his house.

...

After tossing together chicken and whatever vegetables he could find in the fridge, Shouto begins his research. Busy typing away on his personal laptop and halfheartedly eating his dinner, he types the following:

Cherry magic 30 years of virginity can make you a wizard

What happens when you turn 30

Mysterious happenings at 30 years old

Is it possible to read minds

Development of mind reading quirk at 30

Mind reading at 30

Hand crushing and mind reading

Am I possessed?

Finishing his food, Shouto groans when his research hits a dead end.

'I don't understand! Has no one ever experienced this before?' Turning his laptop off, he looks at his reflection in the dark screen.

'Maybe I'm just being silly. It's all in my head.'

...

Spoiler alert: he was not being silly. Shouto really could read minds.

Reaching the scene where a villain infamously known for kidnapping women was on the loose, he looks at his interns behind him.

"Mitsuru, Tsubasa, evacuate the area and check for any others who may need assistance."

"Yes sir!"

As the high school students spread out, Shouto faces the villain chasing after adolescent girls. With his right side, he encases the distracted man in frigid, freezing ice. Once he is rendered immobile, he walks up to him.

"If you don't wish to catch frostbite before being sent to prison, I suggest you tell me where your victims are." The twisted criminal laughs and smirks.

"Why would I tell you?"

Shouto's left side flares up slightly and places his hand on the man's head, eliciting a yelp from him.

"Okay! Okay! Fine! I'll tell you! They're in Yokohama, by the river!" Nodding, Shouto is about to remove his hand when suddenly he hears a voice in his head.

'Stupid pro hero Shouto! The guy doesn't realize I'm lying straight to his face! The dumb chicks are still in Hosu City! He'll never find Club Diamond.'

His eyes widen slightly, and he lets go of the man's face. The police arrive just in time, and the city detective walks up to Shouto.

"Pro hero Shouto! Thanks for taking care of him."

"Ah, it's no problem, Matsuyama-san." The shorter man smiles and takes out his notebook. "Did the villain say anything about the missing women?" Shouto looks at the criminal being escorted into a police van. Once he is out of earshot, he turns back to Matsuyama and speaks.

"Can you find a Club Diamond? In Hosu City."

♡ 3 hours later ♡

"Good evening, I am your reporter, Muramoto Kozue, and here is Tokyo's latest headline news. At around noon, pro hero Shouto and Hosu City's lead detective solved the puzzling disappearance of women in the area. Having rescued five women no older than 26, pro hero Shoto also apprehended the criminal."

Holding her microphone, the news reporter turns to Shouto.

"Pro hero Shouto, eyewitnesses have stated that the villain told you that the women were in Yokohama. What made you decide to check our own city, no less a club?"

Taking a silent breath, Shouto speaks into the microphone the sentences that he practiced in his head.

"No villain would truly be upfront with information that heroes want. With the way that he told me the supposed location of the victims without hesitating as well as his refusal to make eye contact with me were signs that he was lying. Also, the alleyway that the Diamond Club is located in has been known for crime and sketchy mishaps."

'Signs my ass, I knew all of this because of this weird mind reading ability.' Nodding, the reporter looks back at the camera.

"Well, there you have it! Shouto-san, thank you once again for your efforts in keeping Hosu City safe. I'm Muramoto Kozue and this is your latest report on what has just gone down in Tokyo. Signing off." The camera shuts off and the cameraman gives the thumbs up. Shouto bows to the report crew and walks over to his interns on the side.

"Sensei! You were so cool!"

"Sir, I would have never guessed that the victims were in Hosu City!"

Shouto waves his left hand. "It was nothing really. Thank you two for escorting all of the victims. I heard from Matsuyama-san that you both assisted well." Reaching a vacant taxi, he gestures for the boys to enter.

"We did good today. The agency's around 20 minutes away on foot, and since you boys did a lot today, we can take a taxi."

His interns cheer in unison.

"Thank you, sir!"

...

"L/N-san! Is it okay if I ask a few questions? It's about my report."

"Of course!" Y/N walks over to Mitsuru, who appears to be struggling with his report. Tsubasa speaks up.

"L/N-san, what's it like being a secretary?"

"Hm? Well, it's a lot of work, especially here at this busy agency. I'm sure you both see me, running around the building, negotiating, answering phones, collecting and looking over reports, deliv-"

"Buying coffee for sensei!"

Y/N blinks slowly at the younger boy, then starts laughing. Tsubasa snickers in the background.

"B-buying coffee? For Todoroki-san?"

Mitsuru's cheeks turn red. "My bad, L/N-san! It's just- you always buy coffee for Todoroki-san. Do all secretaries do that?" The other intern nods. "L/N-san does always seem to get sensei coffee." Y/N chuckles.

"I guess it's been a habit for me to buy Todoroki-san coffee. I mean, ever since he hired me, I've always bought him his coffee in the morning!" She starts giggling.

"Do you boys want to hear a story?"

"Yes! Yes!"

She stands between them and starts whispering.

"So one time, I had an appointment in the morning one day..."

...

When Shouto exits the elevator, he hears giggling. Turning to the desks, he sees Y/N huddled with the high schoolers. Leaning over her shoulder, his frame towering hers, he speaks up.

"What are you doing?"

Y/N yelps and turns her head. "Oh! Todoroki-san! I was just bonding with our interns!" She giggles and winks at the boys.

'L/N-san has a pretty laugh', Shouto thinks.

"L/N-san was telling us about the time when the agency was turned upside down because you didn't get your morning coff-!"

"Shh! Mitsuru! How could you betray me like that? After I trusted you with such a delicate secret... Boohoo.." She sniffles, teasing the intern and slip up.

"Mitsuru!" Tsubasa hisses. "You're such an airhead!"

"My bad! Me and my big mouth..."

Shouto chuckles and looks at Y/N, who has a smile adorning her face. "I was helping them with their reports, and I wanted to tell them one of our agency's very fun stories." "And you decided to tell them the story that could destroy the grand image that the two of them have of me?" Shouto jests lightly, the corners of his mouth curved upwards at the thought of the memory.

"That day was the day that everyone in the agency realized that we couldn't function without L/N-san. L/N-san is a very important person here, so please treat her nicely."

"Oh please," Y/N's cheeks turn pink. "the interns are absolute sweethearts and I really only focus on management, PR, finance, meetin-" All three boys look at Y/N, and she laughs sheepishly.

'Y/N has a very pretty laugh,' Shouto thinks again.

"Okay, maybe I do do a lot. But it's worth it! I love the agency and do not want to incur the wrath of my boss without coffee!"

"I wasn't that bad!" Shouto huffs playfully, his left hand resting on Tsubasa's chair.

"Mhm, whatever you say, Todoroki-san."

Shouto lets out a soft laugh-

And then,

he hears Tsubasa's voice in his head.

'L/N-san and sensei act like a married couple. Are they dating?'

...

After clocking out, Shouto goes home. Once he finishes eating dinner, he takes a shower and lays on his bed.

'Today was... interesting.' Looking at his hands, he smiles softly. 'This mind reading ability was really helpful today. I didn't expect the women to still be in Hosu City. Maybe this mind reading thing is a good thing.'

'L/N-san and sensei act like a married couple. Are they dating?'

'Do L/N-san and I act like a married couple? Well... I do think her laugh is pretty.'

'Oh god, I like him so much.'

Shouto's eyebrows scrunch together 'What L/N-san said yesterday... What did she mean by *like*? Was it admiration? Approval?'

Shouto's eyes widen and his cheeks turn pink.

'No way.'

Gaining an idea, he grabs his phone and opens Line. Clicking on the groupchat consisting of two other members, he swiftly types out a message. He sends it out, anxiously waiting for a response.

Kushikatsu. 7:30

-6:42pm

'L/N-san has a pretty laugh.'

A/N: That's it for chapter 2! Can you guess who Shouto messaged at the end? The little reader POV was completely unplanned so it was a surprise to me too when I was writing this OwO I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Once again, thank you everyone who has being showing interest and support in this series so far <3 If you haven't already, you should definitely check out Yuu Toyota's Cherry Magic! series which greatly inspired this series!!!

Also, I'm starting a taglist for this so if you wanna be tagged, just let me know in the replys/comments :] I didn't realize the amount of people that would actually read this messy fic, so I obviously I didn't plan on making a taglist but here we are!! (i'll figure it out eventually, i promise) ^^ Chapter 3 is in the works, so once again thank you all and I hope you all look forward to that ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊

~entire fic and notes written by me: fujoshirat!

TAGLIST (thank u!!): @boogiemansbitch

#shoto x reader #shouto x you #shoto todoroki x reader #my hero academia x reader #fluff #office romance #romance #pro hero shouto #bnha #mha #todoroki x reader #bnha x reader #todoroki shoto #shoto todoroki #shoto x y/n #shouto todoroki

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toriwakes · 2 years

Text

Snowball [Spencer Reid x Reader]

summary: spencer just cant wait another day to see you

content warnings: fluff, that’s it

a/n: BOO!!!!! i’m back :) it’s been so long so PLEASE excuse the rusty writing. i hope u all enjoy and as always, please let me know if u have any requests!

you’ve been sick for 7 days.

7. damned. days.

spencer was so impatient when it came to you. he knew one week meant you should be in recovery and returning back to him any day now but he physically just couldn’t wait anymore. so, he did the only logical thing there was to do.

he put his coat on, and got ready to walk in the snow to your apartment.

he picked up your favorite treats on the way there, and a hot pad for himself. he could feel his throat drying and the tip of his nose freezing, but he’d know his efforts were worth it when he got to see you again.

it was late at night. you went to bed early when you were healthy, he could only assume you went to sleep earlier when you were sick. he was pushing 10 o’clock now, but he had just the idea to ensure your consciousness.

he made it to your apartment- sans frostbite. your light was on, but spencer new sometimes you’d get so tired you wouldn’t shut them off before sleeping. he smiled at the thought. you curled up in bed, peacefully. he really, really wanted to see you. which is why he believes his next actions are justified.

he picked up a handful of snow from the ground, took about 2 minutes to calculate his aim, and threw the snowball with all his might to your window. he smiled when his shot was precise and the snowball flew right in.

wait.

spencer’s (frigid) hands flung to his mouth to muffle his gasp. the back of gifts fell softly to the ground with the snow breaking it’s fall.

he did not just do that.

your pajama-clad body ran to the windowsill, already muttering curse words when your eyes landed on spencer. “spence?!” you shouted. he was absolutely speechless. he stood there, feeling frozen. out of fear and due to the weather. “what the hell?” you said through a chuckle, running to put a coat on before shuffling down the stairs to see him. he’d hardly moved from his spot when you got down there, still shocked from the situation. you crossed your arms, urging his explanation. and he did give you one.

“i really wanted to see you. and i walked here from my apartment-“ “you walked?” you interjected, but spencer kept rambling. “so i picked up some of those candies and that tea you really like and i thought you were asleep and i wanted to avoid waking you up by knocking because i know that scares you so i threw a snowball because i also thought it’d be kind of romantic-“ “spencer.” he stopped rambling and looked at you. “yes?” “i. am not. mad.” “you’re not?” you put both of your hands on either side of his head. “of course i’m not mad. i will be mad if we stay out here any longer because i am freezing, though.” he smiled and took your hand in his, running inside the complex with you.

you got him a change of warm clothes that he’d left at your place some time ago. you got him in bed as quickly as you could, engulfing him in the sheets and clinging onto him like a koala. you guys were sharing some of the candy he bought and talking about his work and your studying. you could never string together the right words to express how much you loved him.

spencer looked down at you while his body regained warmth in time with his heart. this really was all worth it. seeing you, holding you, hearing your laugh.

you were starting to get tired when spencer spoke again.

“hey (y/n)?”

“yes?”

“did you close that window?” you answered by hopping out of bed and scurrying to the living room, from which you could hear spencer laughing from bed.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid funny #ssa spencer reid #doctor spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid #spencer x reader #spencer reid fluff

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strong-with-the-sarcasm · 1 year

Text

Part 3 - If you could’ve seen

Dp x DC: Regent!Jazz, Vigilante!Jazz

Masterlist Part 2

“If you could’ve seen how I looked yesterday, a hopeless disaster, but I’m getting better at being faster.” -Never Look Back by The Nearly Deads

Jazz wasn't so proud to admit that she had many regrets about her life choices.

Taking the Crown was a fine line between terrifying and glorifying, with the many scars and callouses Jazz now bore from the hours of training (at Pandora's behest) a misgiving that was required for the sake of survival.

Hurting her little brother was the heaviest weight on her chest.

It hadn't been that Jazz meant to cause Danny pain from escaping Amity Park, but he'd already died there once from the portal and almost a second time when her parents the older Fentons captured Phantom in a thermos and strapped him down.

They had crossed a line, the point of no return, and Jazz was done trying to fix her broken family. The moment they cut into Danny while he screamed "I'm alive, I'm alive!" was the renouncement of their right to their own lives.

Jazz had enacted Vengeance for her little brother, the hero in death he shouldn't have had to become. For all the Unquiet Dead and Neverborn ended by the Fentons.

For her lost childhood. For her lost humanity.

Slash, slash, slash went the Regent's sword. Blood spattered the walls of the lab, mixed with the ecto already there from a fight for one's existence.

One slash, two, three Blood is on your hands already.

Frostbite would later, admist the ice and snow of the Far Frozen, that as a Liminal Jazz had triggered a rage state due to both her emotions and her unintentional ecto-starvation.

It wasn't enough to absorb it from the environment anymore, not with the Crown and summoning her ecto-sword. She would have to consume raw ecto to replenish her levels and diminish the chances of another blackout rage.

(Frostbite and Danny would never know that Jazz was fully aware of her actions.)

(She just didn't care anymore, Danny was more important.)

Danny had healed over the few months they were in Gotham, his incision wound now a grotesque Y-shaped scar over his scrawny chest that would never fade. His ecto-levels were improving with constant exposure to a natural portal, corrupted as it was, and slowly he was gaining back his sense of self.

Jazz didn't talk much anymore, but Danny was all too happy to argue with her- about her ripping him away from his haunt, killing his parents, his friends, and going out as a vigilante almost every night.

(As she had guessed, Danny was relieved that the Joker was dead and not a ghost.)

(He'd never know that Joker had returned as a ghost, but the Regent crushed his core before he could even form words.)

(Both Sam and Danny approved of her trophy though.)

At the other end of Crime Alley, tucked away in a safe house, Jason Todd was dying.

Well, so he thought, as his heart ached in his chest and beat so fast it could almost rip itself from his rib cage.

(If he was a lesser man, he might’ve gone crying to Bruce for help, but not in this life.)

Jason had collapsed on his bed in full gear, sans helmet, as the pain began to wrack his body. Was he truly dying again?

(He wasn’t ready to. Not again.)

And to think his night started so well.

He’d woken up a few minutes before his alarm went off, the hazy dregs of sleep trying to lure him back in, back to the rather nice dream he’d been having.

(Feminine build in bloody armor, a teasing grin, soft lips against his own.)

He didn’t even have patrol that night, his one day off a week he could just relax as Jason, not Jay Peters or Red Hood- only for it to be ruined by the emergency alert on his phone announcing that his murderer had broken free again.

Fucking Joker.

Old familiar rage simmered low in Jason’s gut, but much to his surprise, his vision didn’t tint neon green. No haze of being on the verge of a blackout rage at the mere thought of his murderer.

Nothing.

(What was going on?)

It wasn’t as if the Pit Madness could just be gone, right?

Right?

(Jason Todd was no a fool, the Madness was still there.)

(Just… sedated. Like it didn’t need to boil to the surface anymore where it concerned his murderer.)

And for the first time in a very long while, Jason felt like himself again.

Until the agony began.

A/N:

{I swear I try writing something that’s not angst for once and this is what I get. Great. Well as long as someone likes it, right?}

{Oh and sliding in an AU for Jason too! Not Halfa!Jason, because I’m not a particular fan of how I would write it. But something more akin to what he was when he dug himself out of his grave pre-dip in corrupted Ectoplasm ala League of Assassins.}

#dp x dc au #dc x dp crossover #dpxdc #dp x dc #jazz fenton #I tried writing something more positive and this is the result #more angst for the pile #yay #at least we have the mounted clown head right?#and Jason POV!#Jason is a… trope.

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solusminds · 2 months

Text

My version of the Murder Time Trio

Info below

Dust

Dust uses any pronouns. He's genderfluid (and intersex).

Dust does speak, but it's never his own voice. He mimics other people. He can only mimic things he's heard from people, and he's very good at it. His textbox even mimics the textbox of who he is mimicking.

He guilt induced hallucinations off his dead brother.

He gets lost in the castle frequently.

His bones are never visible... many people think he's not even a skeleton/Sans anymore.

Sorta just appears places.

His soul is an upside-down Determination soul.

Constantly runs off from Nightmare.

Has participated in cannibalism a few times.

Killer

His clothes are stained from his 'tears'.

Always has a knife on him.

He has a lot of books on biology and souls, and he likes to study them, even having jars with souls and organs to study in person.

He has some kind of dissociation disorder similar to DID, as well as dealing with visual/audible hallucinations.

Was around when Cross was there, he kinda misses having him around.

He loves cats.

Color is trying to help him and get him away from Nightmare.

Horror

Tallest between the three.

He is 7 years older than Dust and Killer.

Will eat so much he is physically ill.

Will not eat at all to the point he is physically ill.

He lives part-time at the castle, mostly living in his AU.

Slight amnesia.

He can be both really nice and really mean.

He likes to hang around Farmtale sometimes.

Randomly gets headaches due to his injury.

Missing parts of a few of his fingers, he either chewed them off or they were lost die to frostbite.

#murder time trio #dust sans #dusttale #murder sans #killer sans #something new #horror sans #horrortale #utmv #utmv au #undertale au #art #drawing #artists on tumblr #undertale #sans #solusminds rambles #solusminds

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gallusrostromegalus · 1 year

Note

I'm glad to hear that Kaname protected Momo from the worst of Aizen's manipulations. Does she ever find out about his efforts, or does that stay a secret?

Post-Aizen-Fight, Kaname is in the hospital recovering from General Befuckening, and needs Reiatsu transfers to finish purging The Curse from his system and it's Hitsugaya's turn.

*****

The boy doesn't actually say anything for a long time after Unohana finishes connecting the IVs. It's alright. He's still exhausted, and there really isn't that much to say about what happened that hasn't been gone over and over and over, in debriefings and staff meetings and the distant sound of tears Tousen can hear coming from Lieutenant Hinamori's room. Gradually though, Lieutenant Hitsugaya's silence grows cold and sharp and restless, a winter gale banging against a window that won't quite latch right.

"-Out with it." Kaname sighs, opening his eyes and not frowning at the ceiling. "If you keep sulking like this I'm going to get frostbite and Unohana-sama will have both our hides for it."

Toshiro startles, coughs a bit like he's about to deny it, but collects himself and states his problem with magnificent succinctness.

"Momo." he says, voice almost violent in it's neutrality.

"Ah." Kaname nods. "I did what I could, but I know that was far from enough. I am sorry."

Hitsugaya is quiet, considering his words. "...What did you DO, actually?" he eventually asks.

Kaname blinks in surprise. "Huh. I thought Hisagi-san would have noticed when he did the audit of all my paperwork. I was genuinely hopeful you were going to spot it before Aizen could make his move with how much Momo complained..." he muttered, slightly puzzled.

"Spotted what?" Toshiro grumbled.

"You have undoubtedly been subject to the ongoing saga of the Rice-Farm-Subsidy Fraud case that Lieutenant Hinamori has been investigating since her promotion to lieutenancy?" Kaname prompted.

"Yeah, yeah, the one that's got her haring off to some backwater district or getting lost in the stacks at the archives for days on end or-" Hitsugaya graoned, then stopped. "...the one that had her constantly traveling away from the division, or doing extended research without Aizen's help."

"He used to get terrible motion sickness from trains or portals, you know." Kaname smiled, sitting up a bit. "-and a wretched allergy to paper-dust. Part of the reason he made me do all his fucking lab work, I imagine. but it seemed a good way to keep Miss Hinamori outside his sphere of influence at least for a few weeks at a time. Do I still have water in my glass?"

"...you MADE IT UP?" Hitsugaya yelped.

"I did no such thing. There is an extensive conspiracy between the various provincial leaders and mid-district governors to defraud the Central Government of subsidies for rice farms that frankly, do not exist, while also hiding the existence of taxable villages, resulting in invisible granaries used to fund private armies and other villiany-" he explained, sitting up properly and groping for the end-table where his water theoretically was. "-I just made sure Miss Hinamori had enough information to know where to look for the evidence of said conspiracy, and occasionally... lightly interfered with granaries in the middle districts to make sure more visible evidence came to light for her to keep the investigation open and moving in a timely manner. Lieutenant, if I may ask for your help-"

There was a rustle of cloth as Hitsugaya shook himself, grabbing the pitcher and refilling Kaname's glass, handing it to the frail man.

"Thank you." Kaname took a drink, handing the glass back to Toshiro to set down. "-I imagine the investigation will go much faster and with fewer extended trips to the rukongai now that I'm not cursed and can freely discuss the taxation and census records Aizen had covered in his illusion to hide his experiments." he explained. "...But doing it the long way has allowed Miss Hinamori to build a very complete and entirely legitimate case. She's an exceptional forensic investigator."

"...HOW?" Hitsugaya gaped. "The curse- it's not like you could talk to her, or send her messages- and if you could, it'd mess with the legitimacy of the case to have an anonymous tipster?"

"I had to...sort of gently suggest the names and locations to her in such fashion that her subconscious would make the connection between those terms and the case. Fortunately, in addition to being a certifiable genius, Miss Hinamori is also a master of the Lingual Arts."

"...Sir, I don't think Hinamori is that kind of girl." Toshiro mumbled, and Kaname could almost hear his full-face blush.

"You're thinking of Zaraki-Taicho, who is an entirely different kind of cunning linguist." Momo announced from the door. "-but you don't know everything about me Toshiro." She teased, coming in the room and climbing onto the bed beside Kaname, unfolding and re-folding that week's newspaper. "Lieutenant Sasakibe took over the crossword in your absence, and I think he may still be a bit upset with you."

"Ah." Kaname winced.

"What?" Repeated Toshiro, thoroughly lost.

"You remember that Tousen-taicho is the Editor-In-Chief of the Seireitei Newsletter, right?" She asked Hitsugaya, who failed to respond in a fashion that suggested that he did not, in fact, know that. "-Anyway, sometimes he writes more or less for the paper depending on that week's news, but without fail, he also designs the crossword- the most fiendishly difficult one in any of the newspapers, Sir." She explained, taking out a pen and tapping the partially-finished lexical puzzle she'd been working on.

"I try." Kaname smiled, looking just a bit genuinely smug.

"You largely succeed. I didn't actually make the connection between your five downs and the rice subsidy investigation until i tried doing Sasakibe's substitute puzzle this morning. I think he may have made the same connection, because 5 down today is 11 letters, starts with "P" and the clue is 'Degenerate Justice'."

"...Prevaricate." Kaname hissed with imagined pain at the likely wrath of the Chief Lieutenant. "Oh dear. Do you think a written apology is in order?"

"It's Sasakibe-san, it's just as likely to be his idea of an apology." Momo shrugged, filling in the word.

"...for those of us that are better at Sudoku?" Hitsugaya glared.

"Tousen-Taicho was putting clues about where the next bit of evidence I needed for the Rice Subsidies case in the Crossword because he knew I did it every week." Momo explained. "The clue was always in the fifth column down, which is a structurally important one in crosswords- you little shit, I even got on your case last year about how you always used locations for your 5 Downs and I STILL didn't make the connection!" She realized, rolling up the paper and affectionately swatting him over the head.

"Entirely deserved, but you have my word that was as much as I could do to help you, and that you have my full resources available to you now." Kaname smiled.

"I have entirely too many words from you-" Momo sighed with exasperation before putting the paper down and laying down beside him, hugging his chest. "-But I believe you. There's- I've been finding all sorts of things- people I forgot, places I'd been before and couldn't remember- huge sections of my LIFE! that his Illusion just... vanished."

She hugged Kaname's chest. "-I can't imagine what you went through."

"I hope you never will." he sighed, returning her embrace and for a moment, Hitsugaya felt even more outside the conversation- this was a secret grief, but the burden lightened by finally being able to share it. "...Did Sasakibe Key any clues to 5 Down? He might have more to say." Kaname asked, letting go and Momo sat up, frowning at the paper.

"Key?" Asked Toshiro, pleased to be talking about anything else.

"Sometimes one word is a hint to some of the next words, usually the ones that originate from it, um- Yeah, three words. Four letters, second letter 'i', clue is "Astronomical Favor"; Three letters, middle letter 'a', clue is "German Opera, 1874" ; and the last one is four letters, Second letter 'e', clue is "Truth's Abode". Momo read off.

All three of them stared (or pointed their faces) blankly at each other for a moment.

"...Yeah I'm gonna stick to the Sudoku." Nodded Hitsugaya.

#AEIWAM #an elephant is warm and mushy #Bleach #Bleach fanfic #kaname tousen #momo hinamori #Toshiro hitsugaya #Crosswords are fun i promise!#bonus points to whoever figures out Sasakibe's Secret Message!

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