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[study-with-pammi]

Steel Bite Pro..Product Review

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[minuino]

SAFE WITH YOU

pro hero bakugo x fem!reader ꕀ angst to fluff ⸝⸝ bakugo returns home injured, and his girlfriend tends to him while expressing her concern. 1.1k words. established relationship / injury recovery

the news blares through the living room, every word sharpening your focus as you sit cross-legged on the couch. the anchor’s voice, sharp and urgent, recounts the aftermath of the villain attack. you’re perched on the edge of the couch, the remote clutched tightly in your hands as you stare at the screen, your anxiety growing. 

“Dynamight and his team have successfully neutralized the threat downtown,” the reporter announces, and your chest tightens as the camera cuts to the scene. and then, there he is. Katsuki stands amidst the destruction, his hero costume barely holding together. his sleeves are ripped clean off, revealing bloody scrapes and bruises along his arms, and his pants have a jagged tear exposing a gash on his leg. dirt streaks across his face, his spiky blond hair disheveled and coated in ash. the weight of the battle is evident, but he looks tired. his eyes are half-lidded, his mouth slightly open as he takes in deep breaths, his chest rising and falling with each one. his focus is unwavering—until the reporters begin crowding around him, bombarding him with questions. 

“Is the situation over? Are we all safe now?” one of them asks.

his eyes snap open slightly, and in an instant, his tough persona is back, his guard rising as he forces his usual glare. his posture straightens, and he inhales sharply, as if to hold onto his strength for just a little longer. 

“Yeah, it’s done. It was nothing," he growls, his voice low and rough. “The bastard wasn’t even that tough. Don’t panic, and stay the hell home where it’s safe. We’ve got this handled.”

he turns and walks away, but you know better. you’ve seen him push through tough moments before, but even now, he exudes confidence. he always does, but you catch it—the way he shifts his weight ever so slightly to his uninjured leg, the fleeting grimace that flickers across his face before his scowl returns.

the broadcast moves on, interviewing the other heroes on the scene, but you’ve already tuned it out. pacing the room, you glance at the clock, your heart thrumming with anticipation. the tension in your chest doesn’t ease, even as the clock ticks closer to the time he usually comes home. when the front door finally creaks open, your heart lurches.

“Katsuki?” he steps inside, his boots dragging against the floor. his usual commanding presence feels dimmed, his shoulders slouched in a way that immediately sets you on edge. he mutters a quiet “Hey” and trudges to the couch, collapsing onto it with a heavy sigh. you follow him quickly, your worry evident in your voice.

“Katsuki, what happened? You’re hurt.”

“It’s fine,” he grumbles, leaning back and shutting his eyes as if that could dismiss your concern. 

“It’s not fine,” you snap, crouching beside him to get a better look. “You’re bleeding, for god’s sake. Don’t try to act like this is nothing.” he grits his teeth but doesn’t fight you as you grab the first aid kit. his silence speaks volumes. 

as you return to his side, you notice the way his hands are balled into fists, his jaw tight with pain.

“Sit up,” you command gently, and though he groans in protest, he does as you ask. you settle beside him and start cleaning the gash on his arm. he flinches at the first touch of antiseptic. 

“Damn it, that stings!” 

“Good,” you bite back, your tone sharper than you intend. “Maybe next time you’ll stop acting like you’re made of steel.” he huffs, but there’s no real bite to it. you focus on the task, your hands steady despite the emotions churning inside you. 

“This is why I tell you to be careful,” you say quietly, your voice cracking slightly. “You get so careless sometimes. I get worried that one day you’re not going to make it home, that you’re going to be caught underneath all that debris and—” “That’s not gonna happen,” he interrupts, his voice firm but softened by a rare gentleness. his crimson eyes meet yours, and the weight of his gaze is almost too much to bear. “I’m not that dumb, alright? I’ll always come home to you. So don’t worry so much, okay?” your breath hitches, and you press your lips together to keep them from trembling. 

“I can’t help it,” you murmur, focusing on wrapping his arm with a bandage. “I don’t care how strong you are, Katsuki. You’re not invincible, and the thought of losing you—” 

“You won’t,” he cuts in, his voice quieter now. he reaches for your hand, his grip firm but reassuring. “I mean it. I’m too damn stubborn to go down like that.”

the corners of your mouth tug upward, but the lump in your throat doesn’t ease. you move on to the scrape on his knee, carefully cleaning and bandaging it while he watches you in silence. when you’re finally done, you sit back and exhale a shaky breath. 

“There. All patched up.”

 he leans his head back against the couch, his eyes closed, but you can see the tension starting to leave his body. the sight of him like this—so vulnerable, so human—makes your heart ache. without thinking, you reach out and brush a hand through his unruly hair, brushing away the bits of dirt and soot still clinging to it. his eyes flutter open, and for a moment, he just stares at you, the fiery resolve in his gaze replaced by something softer.

“You’re such a pain,” he mutters, but there’s no venom in his words. 

“And you’re impossible,” you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips. 

he pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist and burying his face in the crook of your neck. the sudden intimacy makes your cheeks flush, but you don’t pull away. instead, you let your fingers trace soothing circles along his back, feeling the tension melt away beneath your touch.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your skin. 

“Always,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. 

the two of you stay like that for a while, the weight of the day slowly fading as his breathing evens out. for all his strength and bravado, it’s moments like this that remind you just how much he lets you in—how much he trusts you to hold him together when the world threatens to tear him apart. and though you still worry, you know one thing for certain: no matter what, you’ll always be there to patch him up and remind him that even heroes need someone to come home to.

a.n — thank you for taking the time to read my second fanfic ! this was my first time ever writing angst to fluff, so i hope i wrote it well enough for you all. I just wanted to write a bittersweet story forgive me LOLOL (*/ω＼). but how did i do? please tell me ! until next time, thank you again for reading XOXO 💕

[yuwuta]

roommate katsuki lore time: 

your job isn’t as physically demanding as that of a pro-hero, but it is equally, if not more time intensive. your friends often comment you seem dead on your feet way more often than they do, and you have to agree. so when you decide to scrounge up some extra money and hire a private chef, you think it’s the best decision you’ve made in a while. 

your friends would seem to agree—and some tease that maybe you should ask your guy if he can cater to izuku, too. except for katsuki, who seems appalled, betrayed, and disgruntled. it takes all but one week about you gushing over the meals your chef has prepped for you for katsuki to show up to your apartment in the middle of the day, while you’re at work, and the chef is in your kitchen, kindly ask him to leave forever, and get to work himself. when you come home, you’re confused and pissed when you realize katsuki has fired your saving grace, but the anger falls flat on your tongue when you’re interrupted by the blonde spoon-feeding you the most delicious bite of steak that you’ve ever had in your entire life. he’s way too smug watching you physically melt about the food, and ordering you to sit down and have a proper meal. 

he tries not to be endeared by your stuffed cheeks, but there’s a satisfaction brewing in him that he can’t quite place. all he knows is it won’t be taken away from him again; that’s why he flicks your forehead, throws a dish towel over his shoulder, and says, “make room for my shit here by the end of the week. and don’t complain when i put all your spoons together in one drawer,” before heading over to the sink to wash up. 

you don’t even get until the end of the week before katsuki is barreling into your apartment with boxes and clothes and, “this is what we call a stainless steel pan in the wild. ever seen one before?” prompting you to reach up and pinch his ear even as he cackles all the way to the kitchen. you suppose, in the end you can’t complain. you get to live with your best friend, you get free catering, free cleaning, and it takes you two months of living together to find out katsuki’s paid off your rent for the rest of the year, too. you know, what friends are for. 

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You - Part 14

Azriel x Third-oldest-archeron-sibling!reader

a/n: small note because it’s a bit confusing, but az’s pov and reader’s pov are 24 hours apart—az is on the third day of her absence while reader is on the fourth :)

Word Count: 7,296

-Part 13- -🎇🎆- -Part 15-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

He knows he can withstand pressure. It makes no difference whether the weight comes from time ticking on, or the tension that coils beneath the icy bite of steel—he has withstood it all. But it’s been three days, and she hasn’t returned to her lonely room in the House. No light has flickered beneath the door’s frame, no soft taps of cotton-wrapped feet padding quietly through the halls, the corridors smelling blandly of wood and pine, lacking the sweetness he’s become accustomed to.

Maybe she’d run scared.

He should have kept a closer eye on her, especially after the fortnight had passed. Would it really have been so bad, he has to wonder. Hadn’t the years in Prythian shown her how wonderful magic could be? Why shy from it? The potential brimming from her fingertips, cauldron-gifted magic ripe and ready for use. He wonders how she sees it. It’s clearly something less appealing, if she’d taken to hiding.

Azriel stretches out, wings splaying taut at his back as sturdy muscle shudders with relief, shaking out the tightness of his shoulders, getting to his feet. He glances once more over the report Cassian had written from Day, still no closer to what they were looking for. Restlessness threads through his bones, jittery and in need of preoccupying. It’s only a matter of time before the tingling static sparks. The others may be managing on their own, but after everything that’s happened in such a condensed span of time, now with a baby to worry about—Rhys doesn’t need this too. None of them do. They may hide it well, but they all can sense that crackling undercurrent, hushed snicks of a second hand ticking down.

And now he’s scared her off, too.

For the third time in as many days, he makes the pathway to her door, spelled to keep sound trapped within, but also preventing it from seeping out. He’s no longer able to hear soft, even breaths when his shadows pass by, not even the crisp rasp of pages turning, nor the rustle of clothing as it’s moved about. He knocks thrice on the door, not bothering with calling out—the wards prevent that. He wonders not for the first time if she can even hear the knocks, he does’t know where the magic lies—if it cuts out the thud of wood. So, as usual, he slides the note under the door.

He has no idea if she’s so much as peeked at the others, has no idea if she’s even actually inside. With the noise cancelling of the wards, and the magic nature of the House, she could very well be remaining curled up in the room, eating what the House gives her, flipping through pages in her own world. He doubts it—he surely would know if she occupied the space behind the door, but remains unsure to the extent of the magic lining the dimensions of the room. It feels too quiet.

Scarred fingers raise to the handle, turning it with ease, and the door opens, left unlocked. He hears no words of protest after announcing he would be coming in, so opens it wider, revealing what he expected: she isn’t here.

The room is emptier without her sat at her desk, without the clothes strewn haphazardly across the floor and bed, without the stacks of book normally set beside her mattress—everything left neat and tidy. Hazel eyes flick to the desk, noting the absence of the bound volume, instead spotting a piece of parchment abandoned where the book would lay. He walks over but leaves it upon the surface, untouched, simply scanning the sparse note.

At Bas’.

I’ll be back shortly.

His brows narrow, at last raising the paper from the desk, inhaling lightly. The faint scent of gardenias clings to the edges, likely where her skin had brushed over the parchment, but it’s already fading. She probably wrote it that night, three days ago.

Azriel sighs, discarding the paper and turning for the door, scanning one last time over the room before leaving. They catch on the dusty red box, untouched and sealed, ribbon still wrapped surprisingly neatly over the rectangular box of the jigsaw puzzle, poking out from beneath her bed. He pauses then, eyes wandering over its form, thoughts passing idly. Then they’re shifting with purpose, glancing again to the desk, this time marking the purple and silver bookmark set aside at the edge, beside the ink pot. It’s been placed facing down. A small painting of starfall rendered in blues, yellows, and oranges in place of the irradiated greens and iridescent golds, positioned adjacent. The pendant he knows his brother chose—admittedly with a little guidance from Nesta, but no less meaningful—laying atop the bookmark. He hasn’t seen her without it since before she had it.

Some dried flowers lay separately.

His eyes shift warily to the singular shelf that’s normally holding borrowed books from the library, now only keeping the weight of one—a short romance, one he’s seen Nesta reading multiple times over. She must have returned them all before leaving to Bas’—but she would have no need to.

Turning to the closet, he pulls open one of the doors that holds a full-length mirror, smudge marks near the edges, and he notes the couple of crudely drawn smiley faces. A curved line and two dots, drawn with the tip of her finger. Inside the cupboard are the neatly folded clothes, all set tidily, and he marks the small bottle of crimson nail polish, still sealed. Beside it is the bright pink lipstick, and his shadows wrap around it, removing the lid. It looks like it’s been used a few times, though he’s never seen her wearing it. He closes the door heavily, returning the gift to its place.

That would leave only his and Elain’s presents unaccounted for, but this time he moves toward her bedside table, shadows once again in use as they lift the lid from the box, successfully locating the glimmering metal of the orrery she’d fawned over. Covered to keep it safe from dust. All signs pointing to her being gone for more than a little while.

Hazel eyes return to the underside of her bed, dipping down in search for the blue box they’d come in. The coloured ribbon that had been suggested, and remained unaltered. Instead he finds brown paper bags, and like almost everything else, they seem untouched. Left to themselves, as if trying to be forgotten. Shadows spool through the handles, neatly lifting them from the floor and carrying them out. Inside are some books, and a short glance at the first page reveals they’re owned, not borrowed. His lips push into a thin line—things from her trips with Mor.

Still no sign of that small, blue box.

He wouldn’t blame her if she’d found a way to return them. It would be better if she had, than if she’d chosen to hold onto them. To hold them dear. His jaw works, returning the bags to their selected place, standing to his full height, once again sweeping the room.

He hopes that she doesn’t treasure them. She doesn’t deserve that indignity.

Gloves lay atop her pillow, and he picks them up, once again inhaling incase they hold a more recent scent. Instead he pulls them away sharply.

The sweetness of flora soured by the damning scent of copper.

The metallic tang that’s impossible for him to forget, so soaked into his skin.

Something sharp tightens in his gut, instincts recoiling and he makes the walk to the windows, opening them to clear the stuffiness from the room. Clearing the smell, starting afresh. Right now, his next task is seeking her out, luring her from whatever burrow she’s found for herself, likely with the male she’d mentioned in the note.

Whatever happens, he tells himself she’ll have to return with him. What’s at stake is too important to risk, he’ll have to handle it delicately.

Make sure she doesn’t run at the first sense of him.

————

The silver bands gleam beneath the crisp afternoon light, crisp breeze fluttering through the free strands of hair at your cheek.

Twenty minutes, he’d given you. Glancing up at the clock tower, you can see you have closer to fifteen left, but it should be enough to at least look. You hardly understand what you’d been thinking, coming here on your own. Possessed by a abrupt urge to walk, and to move. To remind yourself of your ability to chose, the autonomy you have over your body.

Eyes run over the rings, a wonderful display of craftsmanship, intricate little designs human eyes might struggle to pick out. One band has tiny wings welded to the sides, feathers brushed with pearl wrapped around the ring. Another is encrusted with gems that glimmer beneath the watery sunlight, winking and swirling as people move at your back.

Your attention shifts to a new section of the jewellery, rings with raised platforms, holding small engravings on their perfectly smooth surface. Soft creatures bundled together, initials carved into the metal, icons carefully indented upon the ring’s canvas. Almost instinctively, as if guided, your eyes find those of a fox’s, its long fur blowing elegantly in a light breeze, snout raised to the air as it takes in what are likely the last few rays of sun for the day. It’s eyes are closed in concentration and pleasure, leaning into the wind as it wraps about the animal, tall grass swaying with the airways.

“It’s a precious one, that,” the welder says, breaking you from your examination. “Aside from its beauty?” You ask, meeting their gaze—heavy and tired. A faint smile gleams in his eyes, twinkling at the reply, nodding. “Did you make all of these yourself?” You question, re-examining each piece briefly. Again he nods, and you blink. “All of them?” You repeat, watching with furrowed brows. His features drop to displeasure, thick arms folding over a robust chest. “Think I stole some?” He retorts gruffly. “These are all mine. Not a single one you’ll find elsewhere.”

“I’m sorry,” you say hurriedly, “I didn’t mean to…” But he’s already waving his hand dismissively, “I didn’t think you did. Not the type to.”

Not the type to?

“I…thank you.” He nods his head sharply, roughly, and you wait to see if he’ll say more. When he doesn’t, you awkwardly return your attention to the ring, wondering how he managed to capture the moment so perfectly. How much time he must spend simply observing to be able to recreate it with its own sense of life—how he’s managed to contain that energy in cold silver.

“I’m sorry, but are we…I mean, can I…can I look more at it? Pick it up?” You ask the welder, anxiously tiptoeing. Again with a gruff nod. “Guards’ll be on you before you clear the yard, so no running,” he warns. “Fae have lost fingers over these pieces.” You blanch, and he chuckles at the expression, making you unsure of the claim’s truth. You have no idea whether he’s lying or not.

Either way, you swallow, plucking the flat-surfaced ring from the display, wondering. It slides down easily over your knuckles, hanging loosely from the base of your middle finger. Hopefully large enough.

“Bit big for you.”

You fumble, nearly dropping the ring as you remove it from your finger. “Careful,” the welder remarks, eyeing you warily. Blood pumps through your chest, skin warming as you hold the band carefully in your palm. “How…how much is it?” You ask, nerves squirming beneath your flesh, aware of how your throat is sticking together. “3,800 gold marks,” he responds, and your heart drops. “Oh,” you mumble, crestfallen. You guess it’s out of the question, then. “I’m just pulling your leg,” he chuckles gruffly, “it’s only 500.”

“Oh,” you laugh faintly, forcing the smile. It’s still far too much than you could possibly afford. What had you been thinking?

Your eyes drop to the carving, the fox, free in its lands. Wild and beautiful. At peace.

“I…” You lick your lips, setting the ring on the table to show you won’t steal it. “I don’t suppose…I mean, do you trade?” You manage, words bumbling out clumsily, heart stumbling in your chest, breathing a little jagged. The welder pins you with a hard look, bushy brows narrowing in inspection. “What about those rings of your own?” He asks, pointing a meaty finger to you.

You blink, gloved hands wringing together. “What…rings…?” You ask, unsure of what he means. The welder gives an impatient look, and your shoulders tense at the expression. “The rings on your ears. Those look valuable.” You blink, lips slightly parted as you thumb gently over the gold and pearl slotted into the lobes. “Would these work?” You question, a shade quietly.

The welder opens his palm, beckoning. “Let me have a look.” You swallow, but manage to unhook one from your ear without tearing, keeping the trembles to a minimum as you set it in his palm. He raises it to the light, examining it carefully, performing a series of some unknown tests. “Hand over both, and it’s yours,” he offers clearly, the gruffness faded, all business now, returning the earring.

You take it, peering at the tear-drop pearl that you’d treasured. Teeth pull at the inside of your lip, glancing at the flat-topped ring. It’s about time you made some choices of your own, even if they might be bad ones.

“Okay,” you say, a little breathlessly, mostly to yourself. “Both of them. That sounds perfect.” You unhook the other earring, pressing both into his palm a little shakily, heart pounding with exhilaration and uncertainty. But it’s done now.

The welder nods his head in confirmation. “It’s all yours then. Good doing business with you,” he says, scribbling on a small piece of card before handing it over. The title of the piece, the price, and the craftsman’s name inked upon it. A nervous smile makes its way onto your lips, and you take the ring. “Thank you, good doing business with you too,” you say, “have a nice day.”

And with that you pocket the ring and card, giving one last smile to the welder before turning back the way you came, heading over the neat cobbles. Feeling a little lighter than before, breathing easier as you make for the agreed meeting spot.

A strange feeling of pleasure tingling in your chest. Something like satisfaction; pride, and the smile stays with you for a little longer.

————

He knocks thrice on the door he knows belongs to the male, looming before it as he waits.

A latch clicks, and golden eyes pierce out from the relative darkness, marking who’s darkening his doorstep, pupils tightening warily. He opens the door a little wider, shoulder leaning into the thick, wooden frame, ankles crossed, propping his weight on one leg, foot keeping the door from opening any further—also preventing him from barging in. Deceptively casual while remaining cautious, defensive.

“I need to speak with her,” Azriel says, straight to the point, shadows peeking in through the lower windows from the garden. “She’s preoccupied,” Bas informs, unblinking as he takes in the Shadowsinger’s menacing silhouette, great wings towering at his back, capable of shattering bone with a single hit, if stood too close. “It’s important,” Azriel counters smoothly, “family business.”

“I can’t help. She’ll be ready by the end of the week, no sooner.”

Shadows sneak up the vines that have crawled over the light brick walls, but his curtains have been drawn so Azriel has no way of finding her or even catching a glimpse of her condition. “I said it’s important,” he repeats calmly, lowly, eyes flicking over his shoulder to the rest of the house—or what he can see. Bas tilts his foot, not-so-subtly bringing the door to a tighter close, blocking out the view. Bastard.

“And she’s still busy,” Bas repeats, unfaltering. “If it’s so important then I can pass on a message, but she’s staying until the end of the week. You can come back then, if it’s that serious.” Displeasure has his lips pressing together in a pejorative fashion, angling his head in a way that serves as a warning, more warrior than fae, staring down at the male despite there being a mere inch between them. “What’s keeping her busy?”

Bas keeps his expression casual, but replies with surprising adamance, “something important.”

“What?” Azriel repeats, warmth vacating his features, becoming hewn from rock. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” Bas remarks idly, golden eyes running with provoking analysation over the male. His mouth sharpens a little, as if finding something funny, and Azriel briefly considers the merits of roping his brother into this mess. Just by name, of course. Rhys doesn’t need the extra stress of knowing about this.

So the Shadowsinger matches the expression, cool amusement passing through cutting hazel eyes. “Would you be willing to explain her busyness to your High Lord, then?” He remarks.

Azriel doesn’t miss the tension that stitches the male’s shoulders tighter, a faint beat of pleasure echoing through his bones in response to the obvious discomfort. “It’s private,” Bas deflects, thick brows narrowing as his emotions begin to surface. “We’re her family,” Azriel reminds, “you’re an acquaintance.”

A wicked grin raises Bas’ lips, the taunt of instigation gleaming in his golden eyes. “Very well acquainted,” he drawls, peering at the Shadowsinger provocatively.

It’s enough to have Azriel pausing, considering the male before him, examining him. And then stepping forward, intruding into personal space.

Bas doesn’t yield an inch, and it has the Spymaster considering what a brawl with the male would look like. Whether blood would spray as easily as it did the last time he saw the golden-eyed male.

Bas stiffens beneath the look, pushing up from the door frame into a more secure stance. He doesn’t like the look in the warrior’s gaze, how he’s being sized up.

“Tell me why she’s busy,” Azriel commands softly, lower than a whisper and sweeter than silk, yet it has the hairs at the nape of Bas’ neck rising, warning him against something even fae eyesight is unable to detect. Instinct calling for him to back away from the fight.

The Shadowsinger marks the roll of the male’s throat keenly, attention cutting him down to size.

“She’s on her cycle,” Bas bites out at last, after a resentful glare directed his way. “So she’ll be staying here until she feels good enough to move again.”

“Do not,” Azriel whispers, “lie to me.” He steps forward, leather boots pressing hardly even an inch over the threshold, but he knows the male marks it, the blatant disrespect. The Shadowsinger’s nostrils flare delicately on instinct, as every fae’s do when entering upon a new area, and the scent of charcoal and freshly tilled earth enters his senses, along with the faintest hint of sweetness. A floral note hidden beneath the male’s scent.

Very well acquainted, the male had proclaimed.

Azriel’s features turn to ice, any previous amusement or satisfaction draining swiftly away, leaving deadly neutrality. “Find her. I need to speak with her.” Cold hazel runs over the male’s frame. “Promptly.”

“She doesn’t want to speak with you,” Bas replies sharply. “Whatever it is can wait until she’s ready. By the end of the week.”

“And I’ve told you it’s important, so either bring her down here or move aside.”

The very air crackles sharply, a pulse of magic thumping across the landscape, felt in the skies as it shocks through the land.

Gold and hazel blink at the same time, having both felt the shift, skin tingling faintly, like their limbs had fallen asleep. Pressure splitting as ears pop, feeling briefly disorientated.

Bas swallows, eyes returning to the Shadowsinger’s. “I think the fact alone she’s chosen to come here over staying with her family is enough. And I will tell my High Lord the same if you bring him.” Neither of them address the odd shift in atmosphere. “She’s come here, to my house, because it’s where she feels safe. Not with you, yeah?”

“She hasn’t spoken about you,” Azriel states coolly, staring down at the male. “So I have to wonder how honest you’re being.”

“That says more about you than it does about me,” Bas replies lowly. “Because she’s told me a lot about you.” The way he says it makes it clear exactly what he thinks of what he’s heard—and he is not impressed.

Hazel eyes narrow down on the male, pupils tightening with focus. “You’re meddling in Court affairs,” he says lowly, ice hardening his features, “bigger than you could understand. So I will ask you one more time to bring her down here.”

Rhys would have bitten into him then and there had he heard the command in his voice.

Fortunately, Rhys doesn’t have to know how his morals took a sharp turn around the time of the first war. Fortunately, Rhys believes them to still be mostly intact, not half disintegrated and little more than dust upon the cold, dark, cell-stones of his mind. There’s too much at stake for him to waste time with smooth words and idle talk, too much pressure gathering in the skies, a storm on the way at a pace none of them are able to gauge. He doesn’t need this inconvenience—not when his very life might depend on handling her correctly. As if she isn’t a clock ticking down to detonation.

The visions don’t lie, and he has heard what Elain saw, straight from the seer’s mouth. About that flash of vibrant, pale green light, then his body bleeding out on the floor. Fate exists, and there must be a reason for her magic to only now be making an appearance. There must be a reason for his death.

(There must be.)

And yet, as usual, it doesn’t feel like there’s enough time.

“Come back with someone else to verify that, and I’ll consider it,” Bas snaps lowly, hand resting on the side of the door, poised to shut it in the Shadowsinger’s face. “Until then, you keep your hands off her.”

The door shuts, and Azriel’s forced to take a step back, caught off guard. Had she told him about what happened in the library so long ago? Was that a comment about his warped palms?

Frustration burns through his blood but he knows how to temper it, attempting to calm himself despite the hurried tick of his heart. There isn’t time for this, every second is precious. He should be sending a message back to Cassian, discussing these new events with Rhys, filling the rest of them in on the vision and her magic.

Gods, he shouldn’t have allowed her those two weeks on her own. He should have put his foot down then and forced to tell her sisters at the very least. Fuck, he should have done it himself. But he’d let himself be swayed by her emotions, the deep-rooted fear he doubted she was even aware was in her eyes, shifting her scent. But it had been his own shitty way of trying to apologise, allowing her the time she needed, time Elain had insisted she needed.

He sighs roughly, hands flexing at his sides as he turns from the home, already instinctively making his way to the River House. He can’t wait until the end of the week, there’s already enough he has to deal with between her abrupt absence and having to keep monitoring everything, within other courts as well as his own.

He shouldn’t have been so lenient.

He should have pushed more.

Then she would have been able to see there’s nothing to fear.

Then there would have been more time.

————

“Like this?”

“Try it.”

Your brows furrow, but you reach forward, fingers hardly even brushing the rope before his hand is roughly gripping the nape of your cloak, yanking you back hard enough that you choke as something whistles through the air. You gasp, running your palm over where the material had dug in, oesophagus feeling swollen and large within your neck.

“Do you have a death wish?” He snarls, fingers still painfully digging into the material, inadvertently having gotten your hair tangled in his fist, making you wince, eyes prickling with heat. “Eris, ease up,” you grit out, wincing, “you’re going to strangle me.”

He releases you roughly, not missing the sharp tug he gives beforehand. “I should strangle you for being so stupid,” he mutters harshly, stepping back to let you get to your feet, take in what just happened.

You blink, heart pounding from the abrupt turn in attitude, breathing a little faster than before as you turn to peer at the ground a few steps away from the snare he’d shown you how to set—the arrow that’s lodged firmly in the soil.

“You said to try it,” you accuse, aghast at how close the projectile had come to slicing you open, spearing into your flesh. It might’ve gone straight through bone, piercing your skull.

“With a stick,” he snaps, “using a stick. Not your bare hands.” Flame blazes in his eyes, brows slightly narrowed, lips pursed in a terse, pissed-off line. “I thought you were pretending when you said your youngest sister did all the hunting,” he mutters, shaking his head lightly as his groups his long fingers over the bridge of his nose. “I can see why. You’d have likely shot her through.”

Your lips part in slight shock, a look of hurt and dismay marring your features. “Maybe if you were a better teacher that wouldn’t have happened,” you retort, getting to your feet, briskly brushing off the dirt that’s gotten stuck to the back of your cloak. “I didn’t know it would fire automatically.”

“It’s a weapon made to do exactly that,” he snaps, beginning to calm himself, though you can still make out the irritation in his gaze. “You aren’t stupid, despite what your actions suggest. It’s common sense to use a stick.”

“I didn’t know!” You reply sharply, feeling unfairly judged, walking over to where the arrow is lodged in the dirt, pulling it out with some difficulty. “Just because I wasn’t raised to kill…” you mutter.

Keeping your back to him, you pretend to examine the arrow as you wait for his reply, wondering if the comment will have gotten under his skin. But instead you’re met with silence.

“It’s common sense to use a stick,” he repeats lowly, intonation shifting. “Why didn’t you?”

You scowl at him, gripping the arrow as you fold your cloak tighter against the chill breeze. “I’ve never hunted before,” you remind him, sharply, “I didn’t even know it was called a crossbow until today.”

His gaze slices into you, feeling more invasive than usual. Like he’s discovered an opening you’d somehow missed, carefully concealed yet revealed in a subconscious lapse.

Eris stands straighter, angling his head. Cutting amber eyes pierce into you with a weight that’s unsettling, hairs rising at the nape of your neck. He’s made it easy to forget he’s as much as a warrior as the others are. As deadly.

“Do you have a death wish?” He asks quietly.

You snort, rolling your eyes, returning to the crossbow, making to reset it like he’d shown you.

The silence stretches, and you blink, spinning to face him. “Of course not,” you exclaim disbelievingly, staring at him with slight horror. “What on earth would I get out of that?” You mutter, returning to the bow, trying to remember where to fit each part, what lines up where.

“You’ve never thought it would be easier?” He says from nearer by, still in that slightly hushed tone. You frown, peering up at him sidelong. “What would be easier? Engineering my own death?” You ask humorously.

“Yes.”

You blink, hesitating. Fingers pause on the crossbow, attention shifting elsewhere.

“I suppose absence would be easier,” you murmur idly. “But the effort of ending myself would ruin things. I wouldn’t know the first thing about it.”

“About what?” He asks, moving to the other side of the bow, clicking back a part, allowing it to stretch, able to fit the arrow. “About how to do it the right way, I suppose,” you answer, slotting the small projectile in with a satisfying click. “How to keep it clean, or keep it painless. Probably trying to minimise the horror of whoever finds you—if you pass in place you’d be able to be found.”

“Sounds like you’ve given it some thought,” Eris remarks. “I’m giving you a comprehensive answer,” you retort, meeting his gaze. “Do you want me to take you seriously or not?”

“You need to close that up,” he says, nodding to the latch that will secure the arrow in pace. “Here?” You ask, clicking it down and pulling it back, tension rigid across the bow. “There,” he says, and you watch how he ties the rope to the trigger, setting it so the slightest tug will set the arrow free.

Eris steps back, and you peer at him. “What should I aim for this time?” You ask. He thinks for a moment, before a creature made of small flames appears above the rope, hovering—it looks like a deer.

“Anywhere on the main body would do, though the heart or the throat would be best. Equally through the skull, but that’s a smaller target,” he answers, and you grimace. “The legs would suffice this time, since the snare would keep it place. Though without it you’d have to go to the effort of tracking it down, which if you’re having to resort to a crossbow, I don’t imagine you’d want to waste time over.”

“So I just have to hit it?” You ask dryly, giving him an unimpressed look.

His eyes gleam, corners of his mouth sharpening, “if you can.”

————

“Would an arrow have worked on the…” you fumble, not sure what to call it, wrapping your cloak tighter to keep out the autumn chill. “On the creature…? Two days ago?”

“You’re not serious,” Eris muses from your side, piercing amber eyes darting from stall to stall, walking out through the market to get to the main shopping district. “A no would have sufficed,” you reply, laughing a little. “You don’t have to always put things in their coldest form, you know.”

“I thought I’d make you aware of what an idiotic question it was,” he remarks, pausing to glance at a table, lovely silks draped over various racks and hangers. “Weird how I don’t know about something I know nothing about,” you huff, pulling the fabric tighter. “It’s almost as if I’ve never hunted before.”

Eris rolls his eyes, and a faint smile tugs at your mouth at the open show of irritation. “Have they not even taught you how to fight?” He asks disapprovingly, tracing his fingers over the stitched hem of a scarf. “Why would I need to know how to fight?” You reply earnestly. “The war’s over.”

His fingers pause, and he glances at you sidelong. A beat stretching between you as he quietly stitches things together. “Indeed it is,” he says at last, gaze sliding back to the stall, though his attention doesn’t fully shift.

Your brow furrows at the odd exchange, before glancing elsewhere, wondering if you’d be able to spot the welder’s table from here. You peer about but don’t recognise anything, instead gorging your eyes on gleaming jewels and dazzling finery. Is this all second-nature to him? Does any of it amaze him, or will everything inevitably lose its potency when digested continuously? Would even perfectly soft beds, and heated slippers become part of the relentless drag of life?

You can’t imagine ever being unhappy with warm slippers, though. Maybe it’s a poor comparison.

“Take your hood down,” Eris instructs.

You blink, reluctantly lowering the fabric, shivering as a cool breeze bites at your collar bones; the tops of your shoulders. He pushes the scarf into your hands, already in motion as you start to keep in step. “Now put that on and stop looking so feeble,” he mutters. “Something as simple as the cold shouldn’t be bothering you so visibly.”

The silk is surprisingly warm beneath your fingertips in spite of its thinness, and you fumble for a second before neatly wrapping it over your shoulders, concealing the little skin that’s been left unprotected against the harsh chill of autumn.

“Thank you,” you say a touch faintly, almost scared to brush against the delicate fabric wrong, though it’s undoubtedly tough enough to hold up against your hands. As long as you don’t spark up, that is.

“I know I said I wasn’t surprised you hadn’t the foresight to think ahead, but not even a scarf?” He mutters under his breath, glancing down at you distastefully. “If you’re so easily affected by the weather you should have taken precautions. Why didn’t you bring something heavier?”

“I’m never accepting anything from you ever again,” you mutter back, tucking the end of the fabric beneath your cloak. “Especially if you’re just going to use it as an excuse to tell me everything I’ve done wrong. Surely by your logic it would be better to let me freeze as a way to learn the lesson.”

“I don’t need an excuse to tell you everything you’ve done wrong, but it’s embarrassing to have you shivering so obviously at my side,” he replies.

You stare at him for a moment, a little offended. “What do you mean, everything—”

“I mean, everything, because it’s a lot,” he says, cutting you off. “Really, had you even tried accessing your magic before coming here?”

“Of course I had,” you snap, sobering up a little as you remember the attempts. “But it’s a little hard to keep morale up when the results are so…” you trail off, subtly gesturing to your hands, ashamed to have them connected to your wrists despite the gloves you’d brought with you.

“Of course you’d bring gloves but forget a scarf,” he murmurs under his breath, making you grit your teeth against a scowl. “I didn’t forget a scarf, I don’t have any,” you snap at him. “Don’t have any?” He asks, doubt in his voice. “I find that hard to believe. Doesn’t Rhys keep you fully stocked on everything you could ever want?”

Eris marks the way you avert your eyes, head lowering a little as though there’s an invisible weight around your throat. “He does,” you reply quietly. “But none of that’s mine.”

“I’m pretty sure if he’s paid for it, and had it put in your wardrobe, that means it’s yours.”

You look up at him then, an indecipherable expression on your face. Conflicted.

“It wouldn’t be right, though,” you mumble, looking away again, shifting back to step in his footsteps. “Not when he’s done so much for us. Kindly given us a place to stay, and made our lives so much better in ways I hadn’t even dared to dream of before.” Your hands wring together, and he catches the slight flinch as you accidentally graze over what’s probably a new bruise or bump. “Especially not when he probably wouldn’t even… Not when I’ve…”

“…run straight into the enemy’s arms?” Eris finishes dryly, a wry look on his face. “Your words not mine,” you shoot back, before once again quietening. “But yes. It would be like spitting on his kindness, and I can’t…I can’t do that.”

He listens to your breathing, a little uneven. You feel quieter after that dive into your thoughts. “Good to know you’re fine if it’s my money being spent,” he remarks flatly, continuing forward. Really, you practically shrivel up and die whenever he brings any of them up. Maybe there’s a reason you’re so clueless to the larger picture.

“But I don’t owe you anything,” you murmur, hardly louder than a breath, and he’s so caught up in examining that angle he almost misses your reply. Possibly the root of all your problems. If not the foundation, then certainly the stem.

“Something tells me he won’t be charging you for every piece of gold you take up,” Eris replies, glancing back at you, slowing his paces to remind you to keep up. It’s plainly odd to have a conversation with someone trailing at your back.

“He doesn’t need to, but that doesn’t mean everything’s forgiven,” you counter, pulling the cloak closer, arms folding over your body, tucking in tight. “I can’t just accept everything he’s done—everything they’ve all done—and pretend like we’re all happy and equal. There’s a debt.” And it’s been a struggle to even keep your head above the water.

“So that’s what convinced you to come to me? So you can learn how to become useful?” He doesn’t seem particularly impressed, and something simmers in the pit of your chest. “A reason is a reason, isn’t it?” You reply lowly, brow narrowing. “Why not work with them? Save yourself the grief of having to face them when you return?” A faint smile sharpens his mouth, but it’s not of the ones you’ve become accustomed to. This one’s cold, the look in his eyes hinting at something vulpine lurking just beneath his skin. “I can’t imagine any of them being particularly pleased with your choices.”

“Is this another one of your tactics?” You ask abruptly. “Trying to make me anxious and tense so that I might lose control again and spark up?”

“We’re in the middle of a marketplace. I would hope not.”

“Then why are you bringing it up?” Again, that slow smile that has the hairs at the nape of your neck rising. The glint in his eyes as he guesses at the reaction—pleased with it. “Simply gauging the distance,” he muses, forging on ahead as you step to be at his side, pushing away from his trail of footsteps.

“Why? You’ve never show any interest in my relations before,” you point out, keeping an eye on him in your peripherals, now beyond the palace’s borders, moving for a road that will lead to the larger shopping district. “Haven’t I?” He remarks, something to his tone that makes you question yourself. Has he done any prying without you noticing? Your brows bunch a little, small worry lines creasing between them.

“You wouldn’t get anything, anyway,” you say defensively. You don’t have anything to give. “Don’t you think it’s strange how out-of-the-loop you are?” He asks, making you pause.

“No. I don’t.”

“You have no interest in the inner workings of your group?”

“I… Should I?” You ask, questioning yourself as you peer at him. Cutting amber spears into you, surprisingly intense as he pauses outside the defensive walls of the Palace.

The wind dies away, and you become aware of how still and silent the surrounding forest is, as if enchanted by something not entirely good. The world seems to slow to a eerie drag, black pupils contracting as they pierce into you, cold and experienced. You’ve never really considered any of them old, at least in the sense you’d grown up with, but now, as he’s stood before you with such horrific stillness, such an indecipherable look on his honed features, the sheer difference might have begun to dawn on you.

“Events happen in this world—it’s a condition of life. Of nature. Instinctive or otherwise, everything will naturally fall to chaos if left unchecked. Keeping yourself distanced, pulling away from the events of your life will not force them to remain a constant but instead facilitate that inevitable shift towards chaos.

“You have the potential for control yet choose to discard it, choose to avoid it. You allow things to happen to you, to sit back and put yourself at the mercy of external forces in being so complaisant. I don’t understand how anyone could be so content with inaction, and I don’t think you truly are, yet your choices suggest otherwise. You stay in your House, reading your life away, all in the pursuit of discovery, yet hardly seem to apply those interests to yourself.

“That’s not—"

“Shut up.” Pure ire blazes within his irises, and your mouth snaps shut of its own accord.

“You are idle and resigned. Too quick to accept what happens to you, and it’s pathetic.” The words smack across your skin, cracking down like a whip but he forges on. “I have told you before, and I will only tell you once more: you do not have the luxury of inaction. So don’t waste my time with a pretence of ambition when in the end you’ve already chosen to lie down and die.”

His words ring in the overwhelming silence of the forest, blaring through your world, resonating with a frequency that stirs cogs and sets wheels into motion, synapses sparking with powered charges as they snap and crackle.

“Use it,” he commands lowly, taking a step forward.

You blink, uncertain about what he means.

“Use it,” he repeats, rougher this time, gripping your wrists and holding them up. Thumbs slipping beneath the gloves, then turning them to ash.

“Eris, no— The last time—”

“Was for less than a second,” he says lowly. “Sustain it.”

“I don’t know how,” you grit out, hands bunching into fists.

“Use it or I’ll send you back.”

The fight drains from your body quicker than a millstone dropped in water. “What?”

“You heard me,” he says calmly, an intimidating ferocity underlying his words. “It’s been nearly a week, cygnet. I’m not going to parent you forever. Stand on your own two feet now.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Birds aren’t born knowing how to fly.”

You stare at him, wide eyed. Breathing shallow and stuttering. Hands shaking. But he does nothing without considering some sort of benefit. You’ve known from the beginning he’s manipulative; self-serving. Have been warned about his nature countless times.

He’s by no means foolish. Why place a bet if he thought he would lose?

You place a bet to win.

In his own way, he believes you’re capable of showing strength. Or at least harnessing it. With little to no faith in yourself, you’d never be able to make the leap, but with the trust placed in someone else, someone who has never pretended to be something he isn’t to you. It’s worth something, right?

Teeth bite together, pain creaking through your bones, groaning how furniture does when it’s on the verge of breaking. Aches sing through your palms, blossoming through your skin as pale green light flickers at your fingertips, irradiated and glowing. Gold shimmers at its edge, looking so familiar yet not. Like Starfall, but…more.

Either way, it’s enough for now. You’ve reached the bar he’d set, and can’t help but gaze in wonder at the view you’re presented with. How colour flickers and floats around your palms, glowing and waving with an unheard heartbeat.

“So you can summon it if you put your mind to it,” Eris muses, a hint of smugness to his voice that you would glare at if the cockiness wasn’t earned.

“You were trying to make me anxious,” you accuse.

“And it worked,” he counters, making you want to roll your eyes. “It seems to spark up in response to whatever imagined ending you think is coming along. An act of resistance before the fall.”

A faint glint of amusement sharpens his mouth, eyes gleaming. “Almost like a death surge.”

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya

[red-riot-unbreakable-heart]

AAAA are you planning on continuing the "How They Kiss" series? If so could you please do my sweet baby Hitoshi next? :cccc

Ooooo yessss - I've been wanting to write some Hitoshi fic for a while!! 💜

Shinsou x Reader | Headcannon: How Hitoshi Shinsou Kisses 💋

The first time Hitoshi kisses you – you totally don’t see it coming. It happens in the library on a quiet Sunday afternoon. Hitoshi is sitting in your favorite spot of the city's library – a cozy corner hidden from view behind the oversized art book section. He’s dragged two large beanbag chairs into the tiny space, waiting for you to join him as he studies for an upcoming Pro hero rescue certification exam. He’s flipping through flashcards when you arrive bearing a purple travel mug filled with his favorite caffeinated beverage. You know your friend is a chronic insomniac – with his permanently baggy eyes and constant yawns - so you decided to get him a refillable mug so he can keep his coffee close throughout exam week. You’ve stuck a cute sticker of a black cat with big eyes to the side of the mug, knowing his TikTok algorithm is almost exclusively cat videos.

“’Toshiiiiii!” You warble quietly as you drop your school bag next to your beanbag chair. “I brought you a ‘lil treat for studying so hard!”

Hitoshi looks up in surprise, his forehead still wrinkled in concentration. He puts down his flash cards and when he realizes it’s you standing over him, he smiles easily. Things have always been like this between the two of you – soft and comfortable. 

“You brought me something?” He instantly locks on to the steaming mug of coffee, his eyes crinkling into a smile when he sees the cat sticker. “Is that the cat from Kiki’s Delivery Service?”

“Yup!” you hand him the cup as you plop down into your chair and start shuffling through your bag for your notes. “You told me it was your favorite movie as a kid, so I found a little sticker of Gigi on Etsy.”

After a few moments of digging through your bag, you finally find the sheaf of notes you’re looking for and you yank them out – sheets of paper flying all around you. “Whoops!” You hastily gather the papers back into a neat stack.

When you finally look up, you meet Hitoshi’s eyes – he’s giving you an intense, searching look. His eyes are wide, and there’s a soft pink blush across the high points of his cheeks. He absentmindedly smooths a hand through his wild hair, seemingly lost for words.

“What?” You say, a little startled at the sudden tense atmosphere. “Everything okay? Is that not your preferred flavor of coffee?”

“Of course you remembered my favorite flavor.” His voice a quiet rumble and seems to catch in his throat.

You swallow, suddenly feeling hot around the collar as he continues to gaze at you through those bright violet eyes. You can see him biting back his next sentence, seemingly steeling himself to say something.

After a few moments, he takes a steadying breath and his eyes sparkle with a look of resolve. Hitoshi softly places the hot mug of coffee on the ground before leaning towards you. Instantly, he’s a breath away from your face – his delicate features magnified as he tilts his face towards yours.

“You’re just so…” He whispers, moving to brush his thumb against your cheek. Your skin feels like it’s blooming with tiger lilies at the contact. “…sweet.” His tired eyes flutter shut and he leans into you – guiding your lips to his.

The first kiss is feather light – tentative. He wants to make sure you want him back – he needs you to want him with the same deep intensity he’s been feeling in his gut for you for so long. His lips are impossibly soft and taste like a light berry lip balm, and you find the flavor absolutely delicious. When you respond eagerly he smiles into the kiss, blissful. How lucky is he to get to kiss your pretty face?

Hitoshi climbs into the beanbag chair with you deftly, moving his hands to cradle your face. He moves his mouth against yours slowly, purposefully – almost lazily. It’s such a Shinsou way of kissing that it makes you giggle.

“Hey, now.” He breaks the kiss, bringing his forehead to yours as he takes a shaky breath. “Is my kissing that bad?” He’s smiling, but you can tell he’s the tiniest bit nervous for your answer.

You lean in to kiss him again and he pulls back, his lips just out of reach – teasing.

“Your technique can use some refining. But I know someone who can help you practice.” You grin, winding your arms around his neck and pulling him back in for more. He loves that – the banter, the ways you are able to both make him feel comfortable and keep him on his toes. He deepens the kiss, and you know it will be a while before you get back to studying. His flash cards lay abandoned on the floor by your stack of notes.

---------------------

After that, he’s hooked on you. Any trace of nervousness is nonexistent. In just one afternoon, Hitoshi Shinsou has become a lean, mean, make out machine. He absolutely cannot be stopped. He kisses you everywhere he can – in the library, in dark corners of your favorite bar, at the convenience store. He’s constantly trying to sneak away with you so he can crash your lips together in that way that makes his brain feel all blissed out and fuzzy.

I think we’ve all seen just how much determination Hitoshi has – it takes a lot of unwavering dedication to claim a spot in the hero course. He’s just as determined to figure out how you like to be kissed. He pays attention to what makes your pulse race – maybe he kissed your neck a certain way and you moaned? He’s filing that away in his brain so he can do it again and again and again. You don’t like it when he bites your lower lip? He takes note and never does it that way again. He’s committed to figuring out exactly what makes you tick and how he can maximize your pleasure every time. He can’t believe how lucky he is to have the affections of someone like you – someone so sweet and gorgeous and goddamn perfect.

Of course, once he realizes you find him irresistible – he’s smug AF. He becomes such a goddamn tease. You’ll get a rare private moment and move in to kiss him, only for him to dodge your advances until your lips form a disappointed pout. He absolutely revels in how much you want him and loves to build up the tension between the two of you. He’ll kiss you playfully on the cheeks before your disappointed look causes him to concede. “Sorry, Sweetheart.” He says in his low, gravely whisper. “You know I love to tease.” And then he’ll kiss you with as much passion as he can muster, until your legs turn to jello. After all – it’s not in a hero’s nature to do anything half-assed.

----------------------------------------

Thanks so much for reading!!

Interested in some ~smuttier~ Shinsou content!? Check out my story:

Never Too Tired To Love You💜

My Master List! 💜

[hanasnx]

pro hero!babydaddy katsuki who’s quick to fold you in half at the edge of your bed. it’s creaking and shit but he doesn’t care, not when your pussy’s sucking him in like she doesn’t want him to go. it’s all because he saw you out at some restaurant having dinner with a quirkless nobody and it pissed him off. and you left his daughter with a friend. why not him? why didn’t you ask him? fuck— he would’ve never let you leave, would’ve kept you fed and fucked you way more nicer on his bed. now he’s gotta do it on your shitty bed in your shitty apartment.

his eyes watch your pussy open physically more around his cock, flexing and his lips split into a grin. “tryna fucking replace me or something? get my daughter to call another man daddy? tch.” he dryly chuckles. “nah, that shit won’t slide with me, now open your fucking pussy more, gotta knock you up again it seems.” - 🧃

i came to marvel at this in my inbox a couple times because i loved that you sent it in so punctually aligning with my bakugou mood. the bits about your pussy sucking him in, the quirkless nobody comment, and the dialogue???? “get my daughter to call another man daddy?” i could bite through steel. “nah, that shit won’t slide with me, now open your fucking pussy more, gotta knock you up again…” exactly the kind of bat shit wild type of shit katsuki says just cos. like open a pussy up more?? knock your ex up again?? he’s so crazy. loved it loved it

[willowser]

the day of the opening, you text izuku thirteen times.

most of which are met exactly how you'd hoped, in a way that should settle the nerves steadily brewing in your gut:

izuku: i will be there @ 7pm sharp!! ( =＾ω＾)

izuku: did you finish your speech yet?? we can go over it in the car otw!!

izuku: i'm going to grab flowers??? (///∇///) idk if that's okay?? but it's a big night!!! i think you deserve them!!!!

you should be relieved at his excitement, appeased enough to know that he has plans, that he's looking forward to this, too. genuine promise threads his words—and yet you only feel the pinpricks of doubt.

when he doesn't show, you try not to take it to heart. it's not his fault, you tell yourself, angry that you're angry. the life of a pro-hero is a whirlwind, and after knowing izuku for so long, one would think you'd become accustomed to the sound of his voice-mail and the rain check any and all events are given.

maybe it hurts so much worse this time because he didn't show up and he didn't call. didn't answer, either.

maybe it hurts because you're standing in front of the vision of all might in acrylics, your painting style soaking through the canvas; alive in his creases and curves. despite the fact that this is your first time in a gallery opening, ever, you think you were more looking forward to izuku's enthusiasm, than having your face in the local paper.

your smile feels tight across your mouth, as thick and forced as all might's. you hope it doesn't show through either of you on camera.

what would you say your biggest motivator is?

you take a long pause before answering, reminding yourself to rid your speech of any unplanned uh's and um's, and when what you've recited slips off your tongue, you can hear the words crashing into the hardwood below. shattering.

"the truth is that i wouldn't be here without the support of my best friend—"

(in the movies, this is when izuku would come bursting through the gallery doors, sweaty and disheveled in a suit jacket too large for his shoulders despite how broad they've become. people would be awed by the sight of him, glittering in the remnants of his emerald lightning, and he would turn to find you across the floor and he'd smile sheepishly, apologetically, and say—)

"the parking y've got here is shit."

but it's not izuku. it's bakugou.

it's impossible to have grown up with one and not the other, but—where izuku was quirkless—you were a girl, and that made you even more detestable. you weren't invited to any of his sleepovers or birthday parties at the arcade, and his nose always wrinkled at the sight of you and your pink butterfly clips, the dresses your mother loved to doll you up in.

even now, you see him and a strike of fear jolts your heart, instinctive, after watching the beat-down your best friend endured for so long. the only thing that softens him in this moment, for the first time, is the black, mock turtleneck he's wearing, and the bouquet of pale red carnations in his hand.

immediately, the interested party in front of your exhibition is stolen by him, dynamight, though his face twists hideously as they make to crowd him. you know that look, all too well, and you steel yourself for the bite of his words as he snaps at them.

"alright, alright, get the fuck outta my face before i blast all this frilly art shit to hell."

your anger spikes, fed by his own, though you can feel yourself shrinking behind the red-hot look he gives you, snuffed out as quickly as you'd caught ablaze. why, you wonder, why of all people would it have to be him? if this is izuku's way of apologizing, you'd rather have struggled through the event alone.

he stomps when he walks, like an overgrown child, and when he comes to stand in front of you and your small display, he doesn't even offer the flowers he's holding. instead he considers your work with a frown, eyes darting to and fro without so much as an inkling of enthusiasm. and then he takes in you, too—the soft cotton sweater you're wearing, the way you cup the sleeves with your fingers—with just as much disinterest.

and then he says, "thought you were s'pposed to have five pieces."

you were, but you and your nerves pushed your final painting to the last minute, and then you couldn't get any of the colors right, nor the movement. it was choppy and ugly and you hated it—and so you'd just gone without.

but you're not going to tell him that.

"what are you doing here?"

again, his face twists, as if he's sucking on a lemon. "doesn't exactly sound like a 'thank you', for showing up to your—whatever the hell it is."

"it's an art show, don't act dumb," you frown as he sucks his teeth and turn your stare to the flowers, how they're already wilting. petals drooping. your eyes sting as you look back up at him. "where's—"

"the hell do you think?"

it's not his fault, you tell yourself—but your anger has gone, blown out with the wind. the loneliness that always comes after letdowns like these joins you, faithful in its ache. you wrap your arms around yourself and step back further from him, forcing yourself to look away, at the other artists, so that maybe he won't see the gloss in your eyes.

it surprises you, what he says next: "...shitty nerd would be here if he could."

"i know," you say, defensive suddenly, like you always are with him when it comes to izuku. the bite in your tone deepens his frown and he, too, eyes the flowers. he holds them up wordlessly, handing them off to you with more care than you could have ever expected from him. "thank you for bringing these," you murmur.

bakugou shrugs, shoulders hiking up in a way that is as foreign to you as the light pink dust settling over his cheekbones. "don't know shit about flowers, so. whatever. congrats, i guess."

you frown again, brow crinkling. "but—izuku knows, doesn't he? he told you what to get, right?"

"what?" bakugou's nose twists, suddenly seven years old and offended by your proximity. "ain't talked to the fucker all night, just heard the call over the radio 'fore i left."

"wait, what?" you blink and take a step towards him, without thinking, and the action has him rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. cheeks darker, you think, in the low ambient light. "how—did you know to come then?"

and when he looks back at you, eyes molten and metallic, you think it's maybe not offense in his stare, but something else you've never seen on him. "nerd's been talkin' about it all week." he shrugs, and what he says next feels like an answer to more than just this question, here. "came on my own."

[kyywritess]

I always imagined what my funeral might look like; and here we are.

PROLOGUE: KNOW ITS FOR THE BETTER

pairing: aged up!katsuki bakugo x fem!reader

summary: After six intense years in Japan, YN LN has firmly established herself as a renowned gym owner. She's known by many pros for her charm, strength, and boxing abilities. She has a strong support system and amazing friends... her life in Japan was everything she dreamed it would be.

But everything changes one fateful night when a mysterious package appears on her doorstep. No note, no return address—just a plain box wrapped with a single pearly pink ribbon. As she unravels the contents of the box, she’s drawn into a dark, twisted mystery that seems to reach deep into her own past—a past she thought she had buried when she left her old life behind.

word count: 1.6k

notes: eeee hi everyone! Im super excited to get this story started, I have spent countless days/nights brainstorming so many ideas and I absolutely fell in love with this version. The prologue and first few chapters may seem a little confusing, however I promise that everything will start making sense soon. I hope you guys end up loving it as much as I do!!

psa: I am a full time student, so I may not be able to upload as much as id like.

~~~

6 Years Ago

I always imagined what my funeral might look like; I just never expected to be watching it from across the street.

The air was sharp and chilly, biting against my skin and leaving a faint sting on the tip of my nose. A gust of wind stirred up a handful of dead leaves, auburn and gold, scattering them like ashes along the quiet road. Early winter was settling in, and with it came a certain lifelessness that matched the scene unfolding before me.

From where I stood, leaning against the cold metal of a black SUV, I watched my parents under the old oak tree, mourning the death of their only child. My mother’s dark coat fluttered around her as she knelt by the coffin, her head bowed. She had planned this funeral well—it was beautiful, graceful, even in its tragedy. Of course, it was. She had a way of making everything beautiful, even something as grim as burying her daughter.

My father, stoic as always, stood rigidly beside her. Not a single tear wet his cheeks, not even as the empty, bodiless coffin was lowered into the ground. As dirt began to pile onto the gleaming steel, he was the first to leave, pressing his lips tightly together, his face angled toward the overcast sky. I knew that look, the look he wore when he was praying without words. I felt his prayer, his silent goodbye, even from across the street.

“Hey,” a voice crackled in my ear, breaking the silence. The earpiece in my ear sputtered, static hissing through the line. “It’s time to go.”

I ignored the voice, lingering in this small, stolen moment a little longer. Turning my head, I spotted the hooded figure across the parking lot, watching me with an impatience I could feel even from this distance. Slowly, I pulled up the hood of my winter coat, cloaking my face in shadows. “Give me a minute,” I muttered into the mic, my voice low and sharp. “Or I’ll be the one standing at your funeral.”

I turned back to the cemetery, eyes fixed on my mother, who was still kneeling in the dirt, her fingers tracing invisible lines on the ground. With trembling hands, she kissed the earth, pressing her lips to the cold soil as if she could feel me through it, as if she could reach out and pull me back from wherever she thought I’d gone.

The urge to throw caution to the wind and run to her, to fall into her arms, gripped me with a fierce, aching intensity. It would be so easy to step out of the shadows, to rush across the street, and let her hold me one last time. But that part of my life was dead now, as dead as the girl they thought they’d lost.

I’d never see her again—the angel who raised me, the one who had loved me beyond measure. She would have been so proud of the woman I’d become, proud of my strength, my resolve. She would’ve told me I was selfless, that I was brave for walking away.

But if she knew the truth, if she knew I was still here, breathing the same air and treading the same streets, she’d curse me as the most selfish person she’d ever known. The monster who tore her child from her own arms, who left her to grieve an empty grave and a memory. I had stolen her greatest creation, and I knew it was a crime she could never forgive.

A fresh wave of cold seeped through my coat, slipping under my skin, and I shivered, feeling the weight of my decision press down on me. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I let them fall, bowing my head in silent mourning.

I love you, Mom, I thought, sending the words into the bitter wind. Please understand that I did this for you. For all of us.

And with that final prayer, I forced myself to turn away. The hooded figure across the parking lot was waiting, his shadowed face showing nothing but impatience. I took one last look at my mother, still kneeling by the grave, and swallowed the ache rising in my chest.

Then, before I could change my mind, I walked away from my past, leaving my heart buried under the dirt along with my former life.

As I walked across the parking lot, every step felt heavier than the last, like each footfall was anchoring me to the ground, begging me to turn back. But the figure waiting for me, draped in dark, weather-worn fabric, held out a gloved hand, ushering me into the next phase of my escape.

"Nice show back there," he murmured as I approached, his voice low and gravelly, barely audible over the hum of the nearby highway. His eyes, the only visible part of his face beneath the hood, glinted with something unreadable. Pity? Amusement? I didn’t care. I wasn’t here for his sympathy.

“I don’t need your commentary,” I snapped, ducking into the passenger seat of the car he led me to. The interior smelled faintly of old leather and rain, comforting in a strange way, though nothing felt comforting anymore.

He slid in behind the wheel, turning the ignition with a flick of his wrist. "Well, too bad," he replied with a smirk. "I’ve been doing this a long time, and you’re the first person I’ve ever seen actually show up to her own funeral."

I wanted to ignore him, but the irony wasn’t lost on me. "Guess I just needed to make sure they bought it," I muttered, casting a glance back at the cemetery as we pulled away. The oak tree, the line of mourners, my mother’s hunched figure—all of it faded into the distance, a ghostly tableau through the tinted windows.

He drove in silence for a while, only the sound of the engine filling the void. The highway stretched on, bleak and empty, and with each passing mile, I could feel pieces of my old life slipping further and further away. I didn’t ask where we were going. I knew the answer: nowhere. At least, nowhere anyone would think to look.

Finally, he spoke again, his voice softer this time. "You did the right thing, you know. Walking away like that… it’s not easy, but it’s the only way to stay alive."

"Easy for you to say," I replied, my voice barely a whisper. "You didn’t have to stand there and watch your family mourn you."

"No," he admitted, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. "But I know what it’s like to lose everything you care about in one choice." His gaze flicked toward me briefly, something haunted in his expression. "I wasn’t always… this."

I looked at him for the first time, really looked at him, noting the faint lines around his eyes, the way his jaw clenched as if he were grinding down old memories. But I didn’t pry. In this line of work, everyone had a past they preferred to leave buried. It was enough to know that, whatever he’d once been, it was long gone now.

We drove through the night, the car slicing through rain that had started to fall, droplets streaming down the windows and blurring the empty road ahead. I tried to rest, closing my eyes and leaning my head against the window, but every time I drifted close to sleep, the image of my mother, broken and grieving by that empty grave, snapped me awake.

Eventually, as the first light of dawn seeped into the sky, he pulled into a rundown motel on the edge of some small town I didn’t recognize. The neon sign flickers in and out, casting a pale red glow over the empty parking lot.

“This is your stop,” he said, shutting off the engine. He turned to face me, holding out a small envelope with a single key inside. “Room twelve. Lay low here for a few days while we set up your next location. Use the time to… adjust.”

“Adjust,” I echoed, the word feeling hollow. Adjust to what? To living as a ghost, to being a stranger to everyone I’d ever known?

But I took the key, knowing I had no other choice. “Thank you,” I murmured, though the words felt foreign in my mouth. He nodded, his expression softening just slightly.

“Get some rest.” he said, his voice gentler than before. “You’re not alone in this, even if it feels that way.”

Without another word, he climbed back into the driver’s seat, and before I could respond, he pulled away, the car’s headlights vanishing into the distance. I stood alone in the parking lot, clutching the key and feeling the first chill of dawn prickling my skin.

Room twelve was small and dim, with faded wallpaper and a musty smell that clung to the air. I dropped my bag on the worn-out armchair, running a hand over my face and taking a deep, shuddering breath. The enormity of it all crashed over me like a wave—my funeral, my family’s grief, the finality of leaving behind everyone I loved.

I collapsed onto the bed, the springs groaning under my weight, and stared up at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster. It was strange, how silent everything felt. No phones ringing, no familiar voices in the next room. Just me, alone, in a nameless place, a ghost of the girl I used to be.

Somewhere out there, the world was moving on without me. My parents would heal. My friends would remember me fondly. And I’d remain here, drifting from one safe house to the next, surviving on anonymity and borrowed names.

[quietwings-fics]

to nip it in the bud

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Midamoul Additional Tags: Relationship Negotiation, Biting, Michael Possessing Adam Milligan, Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, Established Relationship, Misunderstandings, Domestic, Breakfast, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism Wordcount: 2036 Summary:

“I don’t actually like kissing you.” There’s a lot of ways Ghoul could have led into that, starting with ‘literally anything except outright saying it.’ Or, relationship negotiations during breakfast that go poorly and then go very, very well.

“I don’t actually like kissing you.”

There’s a lot of ways Ghoul could have led into that, starting with ‘literally anything except outright saying it.’ He could have said good morning first. He could have asked how the weather was, which was the kind of question that generally got him blank looks from Adam and sincere paragraphs from Michael. (Very good for white noise. He just had to make sure to tune back in to whatever Michael was saying before he asked a question back, or else deal with the angel lording his superior small talk over him for the rest of the day.) He could have, arguably should have, said it before he hugged Adam from behind and Adam turned to kiss him.

As it is, Adam turns away from kissing him, Ghoul begins rubbing his cold nose against the back of Adam’s neck, and he drops his truth bomb without much thought to collateral damage.

Adam’s making bacon for breakfast. It smells great, even if he always fries it too crispy for Ghoul’s liking. It takes a moment for what Ghoul said to sink in, and when it does, the arm holding onto the spatula Adam’s poking the bacon with jerks involuntarily. It’s a pretty strong jerk. It sends two slices of bacon flopping across the counter and then over the edge onto the floor. Ghoul goes after them. Five second rule and all, and besides, one of the pros of having an angel partner is his obsession with keeping everything neat and tidy. Ghoul has eaten off of way less sanitary surfaces than Michael’s shiny kitchen tiles.

He straightens up, bacon retrieved, and turns back to Adam, who looks... Well, it is an appropriate face to make considering Ghoul puts the bacon in his mouth a second later. (Not fully cooked yet! Bonus!) He’s pretty sure the face is not actually about his breakfast, though.

“You don’t... like kissing me,” Adam repeats, slowly. Ghoul licks his lips.

“Okay,” he says, “admittedly, my phrasing could have used some workshopping.” Adam doesn’t even crack a smile. Ghoul shifts from foot to foot guiltily, and that gives Adam the exact wrong impression.

“Are you breaking up with us?” he asks. Of course Michael’s listening in. Michael is always listening in. Adam’s mouth pulls tighter when Ghoul can’t find the words to explain himself. “Are you breaking up with me?” he asks.

“Why would I want Michael and not you?” Ghoul says, a little louder than he intends. His scalp prickles like he’s being watched.

“So, both of us.” Adam says, quietly. He turns back to the remaining pieces of bacon, schooling his face. He’s not doing a very good job of it. Ghoul can see his eyes watering. He steps forward.

“That’s not-” He starts. He reaches out to touch Adam, but Adam’s eyes burn with light and Michael is the one who twists away from the stove. He catches Ghoul’s wrist in archangel steel and fury. Ghoul tries to make himself smaller on instinct, shoulders pulling up, stepping back without really being able to retreat. There’s a small voice in the back of his head trying to tell him that Michael won’t hurt him, that this is all a comical misunderstanding, but a much louder primordial screech echoing wordlessly in his skull while he’s pinned under Michael’s gaze. He’s so used to Michael looking at him fondly (Frustrated? Sometimes. Annoyed? Constantly. But always fond.) that he’d forgotten how cold his eyes could get.

“Don’t,” Michael orders. His voice is low, and it makes Ghoul’s skin feel the same as it does before he changes shape, too tight and too sensitive.

“I’m not,” Ghoul swallows, “trying to break up with you.” Michael’s face remains stony. His grip does not relax. “Either of you. I’m not.” Michael’s eyes flick down, the way they always do when Adam and him are having an internal conversation, and then back up to meet Ghoul’s. He looks almost sheepish as he lets go. Ghoul massages his wrist, glares at Michael when the angel extends a hand to offer healing.

“I overreacted.” Michael says. “Adam says you should be allowed to feel like you can break up with us without your life being under threat. I’m sorry.” It’s mostly genuine, but it also sounds a little like a kid being forced to apologize for something they don’t feel that bad about doing.

“Great. I’m still not breaking up with you,” Ghoul mutters. Michael crosses his arms, and his eyes glow as Adam comes back to the front again. He shakes his head, puts on a smile that doesn’t completely reach his eyes, and holds out his hand. Ghoul clutches his wrist close for a second more and then lays it in Adam’s palm.

“You’re both so dramatic,” Adam sighs, as though he wasn’t the one to set all this off by assuming the worst at every turn. He raises Ghoul’s wrist up, but he stops before he presses a kiss against his skin. “Wait, is this-”

“That’s fine,” Ghoul says. Adam gets that sometimes bruises don’t need to be healed; they just need a smooch. “It’s the mouth part. The mouth on mouth part. I don’t like that.” Adam kisses his wrist again. “And it’s not only you. You’re not special.” Ghoul stumbles. “I- No, you- You are special, but- I love you. I don’t want to kiss you. It’s gross.” Adam’s lacing their fingers together. Ghoul blushes.

“I just saw you eat off the floor,” Adam teases. Ghoul’s scalp is prickling again, but it feels less like there are eyes on him and more like someone gently tugging his hair.

“The floor is clean!” he protests.

“You'll eat me,” Adam says.

“Exactly!” Ghoul tries to gesture, but the hand he goes to use is the one still holding Adam’s so he ends up swinging their arms instead. “I thought, hey, you let me eat half your thigh the other day because you didn’t want me to starve, so the kissing thing might not be a stumbling block!” Adam’s thigh is perfectly fine (and tasty.) More perks of an archangelic housespouse. A frown creeps back onto Adam’s face.

“How long have you known this, exactly?” Ghoul looks down. “It’s been the whole time we’ve been dating, hasn’t it.”

“You like kissing.” He knows that. He knows when Adam’s first kiss was, how it felt, how much he enjoyed it. Lingering on those experiences and comparing them to his own is part of how Ghoul figured this out. He’s not getting whatever Adam is out of this. And that’s fine! Or, it was fine, for a while, but every passing day makes him more aware that this arrangement is a permanent thing. (Archangelic housespouse, he jokes, but is it? Is it really? Adam said the other day that wedding rings would be easy to get, what with him and Michael in the same body and him and Ghoul having the same size fingers, and Ghoul just nodded along and pretended like the idea didn’t make him want to vibrate out of his seat.)

And the point is: Adam and Michael deserve to know.

And the point is: Ghoul also deserves to not force himself to do it.

And the biggest point is: Adam yanks Ghoul closer with their entwined hands. Adam’s back hits the kitchen counter. Ghoul melts into him, sucks up all the heat Michael radiates from inside him, nuzzles his face in the crook of Adam’s shoulder. It’s heaven. Better than, according to a couple reliable sources.

“I can live without it,” Adam says. Ghoul likes feeling to the vibrations of his voice under his skin. “Worst case scenario, I buy a hand mirror, and me and Michael can make out.” Ghoul snorts.

“You are such a freak,” he says, and because this seems to be going so well, he asks, “Can I bite you now?”

“We have bacon?” Adam asks, taking that to mean Ghoul’s hungry. A second later, Ghoul’s being rudely shoved off as Adam says, “Oh, shit, the bacon!”

The bacon should be unsalvageable. Adam stares forlornly into the pan at their horribly burnt breakfast until Ghoul swears he can hear Michael sighing from every corner of the kitchen, and the bacon is suddenly edible again. It’s still a bit too crispy for Ghoul’s taste, but Adam set aside a few more strips to cook after the first batch and surely he won’t notice if a few go missing before they ever touch the pan.

“I’m not asking to eat you. I’m asking to bite you,” Ghoul says as Adam munches on his miracle bacon. “Casually. Like-”

“Like kissing.” Adam finishes. He breaks another strip of bacon in half and chews it.

“...Yeah?” It’s somewhat like that. The feeling in Adam’s memories that Ghoul’s examined time and time again, that urge when he sees someone he likes a lot (Ghoul now included in that category!) to take their face in his hands and kiss them, is... Well, it’s not exactly the same feeling Ghoul gets when he wants to bite Adam, but it’s similar. He wants to nip him when Adam’s being annoying, and to bite his hand when he messes with Ghoul’s hair while they’re cuddling and watching movies, and sometimes, he really, really wants to sink his teeth into Adam when he tries to leave the bed early, not hard but enough that Adam will stay.

He wants to bite Michael, too, but he’s less sure if Michael will be as open to it. Oh, it’s fine when they’re fucking, even if Michael pouts and denies that he likes it, but everyday biting might not be his thing and that’s fine. Kissing’s not Ghoul’s. They can compromise.

Adam tilts his head and considers this.

“Okay,” he decides. “Where?” Ghoul perks up immediately.

“Uh,” he manages, eloquently. All of a sudden, Adam’s skin is free real estate, and Ghoul is having trouble figuring out where he wants to start. He licks his canines, feels the point of them on his tongue. He’s got to be careful. He’s not going to break skin, because broken skin means tasting blood, and tasting blood means Ghoul might forget he’s not actually trying to eat Adam for breakfast. “Your shoulder?” he asks. Adam’s neck is right there and so tempting, but no, Ghoul’s savoring this. He’ll work up to that sweet spot. Right now, he’s just grateful that Adam sleeps shirtless and usually doesn’t bother to get dressed until after breakfast is over.

Adam nods. He leans back against the kitchen counter again, open invitation. Ghoul jumps him. He nuzzles into Adam’s shoulder first, excited and grateful, and Adam laughs. It’s the vibrations that get to him. They’re barely there compared to pressing against his throat or his chest, but Ghoul feels them. He bites down. Adam’s laughter catches and then rolls into his next breath as a hand comes up to card through Ghoul’s hair.

“Eager,” Adam says, and Ghoul bites him again. His teeth press into Adam’s skin, but they don’t pierce it. Finally, he pulls back. Adam catches his breath. He’s smiling. “Yeah, I think-” He licks his lips and his smile gets even bigger. “We can definitely get behind that.” One of the lights above the stove blinks out twice before coming back, in a way that looks about as embarrassed as a light above a stove can look.

“We?” Adam’s eyes flick up, and then he smirks at Ghoul.

“It’s definitely we.” The microwave timer goes off and starts beeping at them, despite it never being set. Adam starts laughing again. Ghoul sticks his tongue out at the microwave. The prickle is back, setting his hair on end, but it’s a distinctly fond prickle. All is well.

(All is even better when, later, Michael finally comes out to play. Adam encourages him to try it. Ghoul takes full advantage of the fact that nothing he does can actually hurt either of them when Michael’s fronting and bites down as hard as he can. Michael doesn't push him off, lets Ghoul gnaw on him. The action becomes pretty soothing after a few bites. Michael’s the perfect chewtoy.)

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

[batgirlsay]

Bodyguard Tempting Fate

Obiyuki Trope Madness 2024 Playlist for Bodyguard Crush

Another early Obi playlist using the most broadly themed trope, so I could include some songs I’ve been wanting to use for a while! Most songs have some common themes from previous playlists (arrows, snow, green vs. gold) but I had a difficult time naming this playlist before noticing the lyric “troublemaker tempting fate�� from the Nada Surf song.

Bodyguard Tempting Fate

An Arrow in the Wall- Death Cab for Cutie Acrid- The Beths Troublemaker- Nada Surf Bite The Hand- boygenius Whose Authority- Nada Surf The State of Gold, Pt. 1- Matt Pond PA Bring You Down- The Dear Hunter Green Eyes, Red Face- Lucy Dacus Copper Mine- Matt Pond PA

Summary lyrics are cited after the cut:

An Arrow in the Wall- Death Cab for Cutie

My heart runs on gasoline vapors The thousand drums waking up the neighbors But I can feel the fissures in the freeways The rusted steel, deception in the handshakes

An arrow in the wall Take it as a warning That you are gonna fall Even if you're soaring

There's more than one way to get your freedom

Acrid- The Beths

Acrid, the smell of burning rubber is a daily feature When I throw myself into reverse Check out of my surroundings Backing up so blindly, my back to the universe

Like a ship out of commission Like an arrow always missing

I'm trying to lie like a pro And I know it looks easy from the outside But it's hard to hold your brow just so

Like a record slowly twisting Like an arrow always missing I'm always whistling by But it's you I want to run into Tragic, the messages I send my mind post-midnight Are showing seen but no reply So I mash the keys a million times for a million years And maybe by chance I'll say it right Closing in on your middle distance Filling quivers with ammunition But I'm always missing you

I want to run into you Like a light burning bright in your hard heart I won't make a sound when I go dark Can you see me through

Troublemaker- Nada Surf

Why do I feel bad again? I shouldn't be sad or miss a grin Doubt creeps in and doubt creeps out Skews the view from my cloud

Troublemaker tempting fate Questioning the path I take Showing me the twists and turns The forks and points of no return

Every day I choose to spend the rest of my life with her And every day I break the molds of lives and worlds I already miss the things that I will never know I will never know the things that I've already missed

Bite The Hand- boygenius

I can't hear you, you're too far away I can't see you, the light is in my face I can't touch you, I wouldn't if I could

Here's the best part distilled for you But you want what I can't give to you Your hands are gravity while my hands are tied I can't love you how you want me to

Whose Authority- Nada Surf

I walk like you guide me, my eyes Are shut like I'm blind Turn to you and listening and tryin' To be in your mind

Surprised in translation World without end

How do you stay where You most want to be? Where'd you get the patience Did it come easily?

On whose authority I have none over me 

The State of Gold, Pt. 1- Matt Pond PA

I might have a drink to be myself I hope nobody notices tonight what it takes to be real To truly keep this lamppost standing

I don’t care if anyone carries me I don’t care if anyone drops me Cause I know how to be alone At least I’ve learned how to be alone

We might have to fight to get out That’s the way I picture almost every night below stars Below the crown of heaven

All I care about is your sentences And all the secrets you left down in them There’s so much we’ll never know All the vastness in the word hello

There's more than one way to live There's more than one way to love There's more than one way to give I won't stop climbing to the state of gold

In the ether above our reach is the state of gold worth believing in

Bring You Down- The Dear Hunter

You took me by surprise A stranger through my eager eyes

I tried so hard to hide The cynic in me far from sight But moments still arise when My flaws get the best of me

So don't let me bring you down No, don't let me bring you down

Green Eyes, Red Face- Lucy Dacus

Slow dancing At low tide Drawn to move By the moon

And I see the seat next to yours is unoccupied And I was wondering if you'd let me come and sit by your side And I got plenty of affection I'll be glad to show you some time

What am I supposed to do With you in the room? What am I supposed to say With your green eyes on my red face?

Copper Mine- Matt Pond PA

When it snows from above the towers The ground stays still - it can't get away Clothe the roofs hour after hour

With this ease ignore the obvious Heard the cold lost all its power If we go let's go away

[ranger-rai]

Hey Ranger Rai? Is it possible for Sableye to be native to snowy mountain regions? Because if not, I may have just found something a bit concerning. I was up in the mountains with my camera taking some nature photography after a blizard, and I noticed a Sableye that was not only out in the open instead of in a cave, but it seemed to be traveling with a small group of Sneasel. The Seansel seemed fine with the Sableye and visa versa, and it kinda seemed like the Seasel had taken it in as part of their group. I watched em for a bit from a distance, and it seemed like the Sneasel were leading the Sableye to an Alolan Sandshrew they were trying to hunt. I lost sight of them for a bit, but spotted them again as I was leaving, the Sneasel and Sableye carrying off a now-hunted Sandshrew that had a massive bite mark on it. Sneasel can't get through a Sandshrews armor, but a Sableye can easily bite through diamonds, and I think these lil Sneasel have figured that out and is why they've taken the Sableye in. What worries me though is I don't think Sableye are native in this type of climate, much less outside of a cave? I'm worried the little guy might be misplaced somehow, and if this is safe for the Sableye or the local environment? Sableye fur is shorter and less insulated than a Sneasel, the Sableye looked like it was struggling to navigate the snowy terrain without the Sneasels help, and I worry if this may have a negative impact on the ecosystem up here with a new possibly-invasive pokemon hunting with the Sneasel?

Wow, what an observant find.

Beleive It or not, this isn't too uncommon.

While they aren't built for extremely cold climate, Sableye do live in cold and damp caves, so they can be tolerant to cold weather.

Sneasel and Weavile are group pokemon who are pros at survival and adaptability.

Much like Murkrow, Sneasel have been observed taking in certain pokemon that might benefit their hunts.

It's pretty common here in Sinnoh.

My associate, Ranger Eddie, has observed Sneasel and Weavile taking in steel types.

There's a group apparently that has adopted in a Lucario to help them take down pesky poison types like Drapion.

They don't tend to take in more than one at a time, usually to keep control of their numbers and to go uncontested.

In return for the pokemon's help, they usually provide them with shelter, warmth, food etc.

In this instance, it doesn't sound like it's a serious issue.

Sneasel are pretty smart, and the Sableye seems well taken care of.

Now, if you happen to see larger numbers of Sableye mimicking this behavior in this environment, then we might have an issue and need to contact your local rangers.

[therosearmada]

Kinktober 2024 - Prompt 1: Temperature Play

Ship: FrozenStar (Rundas x Samus Aran)

[Spoiler: No actual sex occurs. This is a foreplay piece. 18+ rule for smut still applies though.]

“Y’know…I’ve been thinking…”

Samus turned to face Rundas. Even without her armor, there was a look in her eyes that made him feel a bit intimidated, though they were the furthest thing from enemies.

“If we’re going to be together…isn’t it kind of a problem that we have such different body temps?”

“I seem to remember this relationship being your idea,” Samus replied. “Having second thoughts?”

“Well, you’re a human,” Rundas stated. “Humans always complain about the cold. And they can’t touch ice without hurting their skin. So how do we…”

“Rundas,” Samus began, as though she were explaining something to a novice. “I can handle the cold.”

“I’m not just cold,” Rundas insisted. “And you’re warm. Really warm. So what if we touch without our suits and it hurts us?”

Samus raised one hand, extending it towards his face. “Then why don’t we see for ourselves?”

She couldn’t quite reach his face because of the difference in their heights. Before he’d really weighed the pros and cons, Rundas found himself bowing to her level and gently pressing his face into her palm.

At first, the heat made him recoil in surprise. Without his own insulating suit, her body heat felt more intense.

“Too much?”

“No,” Rundas answered hastily. “I’m…it didn’t burn. What about you?”

“You pulled back so quickly, I barely had time to register it.”

“Can I try again?”

“Yes.”

So Rundas leaned in again. He paused right before her hand, taking in a deep breath and steeling himself for the warmth. He felt it radiating from her flesh, an ambient heat like sunlight. From this distance, it was soothing. He shouldn’t have found it soothing, as sensitive to heat as his kind were, but it was as though the cold radiating from his body was cooling the warmth from hers to a much more tolerable degree. 

Samus felt much the same. She could feel the cold seeping into her skin, but her own body heat dulled its bite. It felt less like bitter, icy air and more like a soothingly cold compress on aching muscles. 

After adjusting to the heat, Rundas once again gently pressed his face into her palm. This time he did not flinch away, resisting the urge to avoid the heat. He leaned in further, letting it seep into his skin. Nuzzling against the calloused flesh of her hand as though greeting an old friend. 

Samus kept her hand there, savoring the cold. Leaning in and watching her breath become clouds of steam against his body, and his breath become smoke-like wisps of vapor against her body. Was it her imagination, or was he getting colder? She was beginning to feel warmer, herself. 

Samus moved her hand, sliding it downwards to caress her partner’s chin. He sighed contentedly, closing his little yellow eyes. She smiled just the slightest bit. He was…cute, in a way. She didn’t normally think about things like aesthetic appeal, but he was. Like this, anyway. Figuratively melting into her warm touch. 

“Can I…,” Rundas breathed. “Can I touch you…more?”

“Go ahead,” Samus replied. She realized she’d started hoping that he would.

Rundas brushed one hand through her hair, dusting it with frost and raising goosebumps upon the back of her neck. Slowly, hesitating, his hand moved to her upper back. Both of them gasped. Subconsciously, Samus pressed her legs closer together. She knew where she wanted to go from here, but…though he weathered her warm touch well enough, could he really withstand unshielded intercourse with a warm-blooded being? And just exactly how cold could he get? If there was a not insignificant chance that he might become too frigid during sex, she could sustain frostbite or possibly even become stuck, and unable to remove herself without injuring both of them. No, until they’d better prepared themselves, there was just too much risk.

That was when Rundas pulled away, shaking his hand like it had been mildly burned. “Haahh…Sorry,” he rasped. “I was getting too hot. But I…we could do this again, sometime.”

“...Yes,” Samus replied. “We could.”

The two of them turned then, and retreated to their own secluded areas of the ship. Samus leaned against the wall, letting the cool metal preserve the cold that lingered in her body. Her hand was still cold from holding his face. Cold enough to soothe the warmth from between her thighs which now begged for attention. She found herself wondering--as she slid herself down the wall and moved her frigid hand down her waist--if he would pleasure himself with the lingering warmth in his hand as well.

[quietwingsinthesky]

Archangels as Chewtoys Ranking:

Michael: F. Probably goes stiff as a board whenever he’s bitten. Like biting down on steel. Literally. You’ll break your teeth on him.

Raphael: C+. Fifty-fifty chance that they’ll do the same as Michael and be awful to bite or that they’ll be curious enough to relax and let you do it. If they are, you’re going to end up feeling shocks running through your body if you bite anywhere sensitive. Could be a pro or a con.

Lucifer: A-. Extremely biteable, both physically and in that he deserves it. Many, many places to sink your teeth into. Will definitely allow you to do it. You just might get exploded afterwards. Which really just means you should take your time and enjoy yourself.

Gabriel: A+. Even more biteable than Lucifer simply because he actually knows where he wants to be bitten. Will bite back. Extremely vocal. And you’ll actually survive him. Probably.