#hm. or i could just accept my fate and never get through my dash fully ever again......

[phosphorus-noodles]

staring at my activity seeing a bunch of urls i recognize follow me knowing i could Easily have more mutuals but also being terrified of being Perceived oh no,

[pluviophile-imagines]

LOWI CONGRATS ON THE FOLLOWER MILESTONE!! 🥺💞💞💞 u deserve it and so much more!! for the kiss prompt could i get 18 with shinsou ?? 🥺👉👈

TYSM SOFFFF so uh. I’ve been fuckin stupid dkfnskfb my dumbass rlly wrote Shinsou correctly on my master post like a week ago and then still managed to write for Shigaraki instead when it came to the actual piece 😳 so thanks to my handyman brainrot you get two—that’s right, two!—characters for the price of one ur welcome ♥️ I cheated a lil bit so shinsou;s not sitting in the reader’s lap it’s just his head but i think its cute 🥺 also Shiggy’s is like twice as long as ive been trying to write them oops i rlly like the jealous reader premise 👉👈 it’s under the read more bc of that and bc of kiiiinda spoilers? if yall arent caught up to the manga you won’t get it but if u are it’s canonical. Whew that was a lot! Enjoy!

Kisses where one person is sitting in the other’s lap

Shinsou

To say that your relationship with Shinsou is new would be an understatement. You’ve been friends for years—ever since the third year of high school when you’d been assigned to him as his support—but you’ve never been particularly close until recently when you’d once again found yourself working on his hero costume and support items.

He’d only asked you out yesterday after nearly two months of tension-filled glances and fleeting touches. Now, the two of you are watching a movie at your mutual friend Kirishima’s apartment, sitting quite awkwardly on a loveseat and pretending like you don’t want to get closer to each other. You haven’t told your friends yet about your new relationship status, but that’s not entirely what’s holding you two back. If anything, it’s run-of-the-mill first date awkwardness (if watching a movie with six of your closest friends around can be considered a date), too afraid to initiate anything.

The movie’s dull; the two of you have pulled out your phones to snark at each other through text, a strategy you’d begun weeks ago after being hushed one too many times by Kaminari because you were talking too loudly. The bright screens probably aren’t all that much better, but you two are in the back anyway; nobody can see it unless they turn away from the TV.

You risk a glance up and end up locking eyes with Shinsou. Your face heats up, heartbeat quickening, as he gives you a charming smile. You watch him glance around the room, unsure at first why he’s doing it until he turns his attention back to you and slowly, silently, moves over across the loveseat into your personal space.

Your legs are touching now, faces so close your nose is nearly brushing his. One of his hands has come to brace against the armrest you’re leaning on, allowing him to stay leaning in.

“Hey,” he says, little more than a whisper and clearly hushed so the others don’t hear.

“Hey yourself,” you respond, earning yourself a low snort.

Instead of vocally responding, he pushes himself back up to a sitting position and then moves his hands to maneuver your legs until you’re no longer curled up against the couch’s backing but sitting like a normal person.

Then he lays down, head resting on your thighs, and turns to face the movie.

You’re grinning uncontrollably. All possible self-conscious thoughts of the others seeing you are dashed from your mind; you like the weight of him in your lap too much.

You spend much of the rest of the movie like that, easily over half an hour. A few minutes in he reaches down to find your hand and bring it to his hair, encouraging you to stroke it. It’s even softer than you’ve imagined in the past, fluffy and thick and genuinely nice to run your hands though. There’s a surge of contentment that rushes through you, and maybe a little bit of pride at the knowledge that you can do this pretty much any time you want now.

By the end of the film, you’re pretty sure Shinsou’s fallen asleep. He gives you the scare of your life, however, when he grabs your arm as you’re trying to pull away. His eyes open, purple irises trained on you.

What happens next you blame on grogginess, him still not quite being awake. He blames it on you; whenever you mention it, he says he saw you and had become consumed with an overwhelming desire to just lean up and kiss you. Whatever the reason, it’s nice for you.

His hand comes up to the back of your neck, tugging you down just as much as he lifts up. It begins soft, kind of sweet, just lips as the two of you melt into each other—but it doesn’t stay that way for long. Within moments the two of you morph the kiss from a quick peck after a movie to a very passionate makeout, and frankly you’d be more concerned if they hadn’t interrupted the two of you.

You pull away when you hear Kaminari’s wolf whistle, left sitting on the loveseat with a burning face and your boyfriend in your lap, still half asleep.

Shigaraki

You’re not jealous.

No, you’ve been dating Tomura for months. You can’t be jealous when he’s, well, yours, and has been for quite some time. You’re his first relationship, his first everything, and it’s frankly foolish of you to feel this insecure just because some floozy is simpering at him from across the enormous room where you and the rest of the League are scattered about. It’s not like she really wants him, or even knows him; he’s just the hew big-shot leader and she’s decided being his lover sounds good. Too bad that role’s already taken.

Still, there’s a sinking feeling in your chest—an ache in your heart, a burning lump in your throat—that says now that Tomura is Grand Commander he’ll drop you for someone better.

You don’t realize you’re glaring daggers at the woman until she catches your eye. She has no business looking that smug; the only reason she’s allowed in the room is to give Tomura reports. You’re the one lounging next to him as she approaches; he has your legs over his lap, his thumb absent-mindedly rubbing circles on your thigh.

And when she bends down to drop the report on his lap (as if your damn legs aren’t there, you want to scoff) she draws the eyes of every League member except the one she wants, because you’re the one who has Tomura’s attention.

He’s wearing Father, but you’ve long passed being afraid when he looks at you from between those lifeless digits and you can see the expression beneath; those lips tugging down slightly in a pout, brow furrowed, eyes far softer than they have any damn business being while hiding behind the severed hand of his old man. He’s concerned, and a little confused.

Tomura plucks the report from your legs and sets it aside, reaching to pull you fully into his lap. To your surprise he takes Father off, too; he buries his face into your neck to prevent the outsider from seeing, lips just brushing your ear so that you can hear him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Hm?”

“You’ve been pouting ever since the secretary came in, brat.”

Like hell you’re saying anything in front of her. You remain stubbornly silent.

He doesn’t like that, you can tell, but while the secretary’s interest is lost on him he knows you well enough to tell that you’re uncomfortable with her. Presumably that’s why he doesn’t press the issue and kisses you instead.

You don’t expect it. Tomura’s not exactly one to shy away from PDA (you’re sitting in his lap in front of the whole League, for fuck’s sake), but intimacy is something he’s never wanted to take beyond closed doors. When he’s in a sour mood you’ll kiss him sometimes, even in public (he’s invigorated by your affection in many way, but never anything you’d call heated.

This kiss, though, is. It’s anything but chaste, perhaps even downright lewd. He’s all but initiating a makeout with you while Miss Secretary is standing right there. Maybe his affection-motivated ways are rubbing off on you, but it helps more than it probably ought to.

You’re dazed by the time he pulls away. The sound of the door slamming closed snaps you from your trance. The secretary, ploy foiled simply by your annoyed expression, had left. It doesn’t matter. None of this was ever really about her in the first place.

“There,” Tomura says, audibly quite pleased with himself. “She’s gone. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

You sigh, leaning in to tuck your own head into his shoulder. Your voice is muffled when you speak, quiet so that only he can hear.

“It’s dumb.”

“It’s bothering you,” he says simply. There’s an underlying statement there: tell me so I can destroy it for you. In many ways, Tomura is a predictable man.

You know he’s not going to drop it, so you accept your fate. “She was making a pass at you.”

He tenses beneath you, holding you closer. You risk lifting your head from where it’s buried to see the way his nose is scrunched up. “She wasn’t.”

“Yeah, she was.”

There’s a pause, like he’s processing everything you’re saying. Then, seemingly finally registering what exactly is bothering you, his hands move to grip your hips and maneuver you to straddle him, sitting fully on his lap facing him. “Fine. Why’re you pissed about it, then?”

You lean in again, arms coming to wrap around his neck as you bury your face into his chest and try to ignore the tears that are coming. You’d never be able to live it down if any of the others saw you crying over the fucking secretary.

But you know more than anyone thanks to many late nights assuring your boyfriend he’s the only one for you that Tomura can empathize with this insecurity. It’s a little strange how the script has flipped.

“She’s a high ranking MLA member, she probably has some crazy strong quirk. I’m quirkless. I dunno. I guess I’m scared you’ll drop me for someone like her. Like I said, it’s dumb.”

He doesn’t speak for a moment. You sit there, listening to his heartbeat and matching your breathing to his. Then he speaks.

“Your emotions aren’t dumb. It’s okay that you’re feeling this way. Thank you for telling me.” He’s parroting you, you realize; this is what you tell him every time he comes to you for comfort when he’s gotten in a mood. You feel a little fuzzy, warmth flooding your chest. “But I think we both know they’re irrational.”

“Tomura… I—”

“I’m not interested in some lame-ass NPC,” he interrupts, no hesitation and entirely sincere. He doesn’t even need to think about it. “You’re my player two, my endgame. The only thing in this world worth protecting. You really think that secretary can hold a candle to you? I didn’t even notice her. Why would I when you’re here?”

You can’t help it, you surge upward and kiss him, just as passionately as he had you mere moments before. His right hand traces up your spine to find the back of your neck and pull you closer, sending a thrill through your body as your own arms tighten around him.

“Oi! Horndogs! Get a damn room, don’t make us see that!”

You break away at Dabi’s words, panting slightly, and if the sincerity of Tomura’s little rant hadn’t convinced you that his words were true, the look of utter adoration he’s regarding you with would have.

[hybristoo]

Blood Will Tell

Request: “Can I request something for Joker x Reader where reader has a blood kink? Could be either Ledger or Phoenix version, I'm not picky.”

Warnings: Sexual content, knife play, sadomasochism

Words: 2′270

Thank you to @seeyouonadarkknight​ for editing it!

Love, Sex and War. Such is the title of John Costello’s book on history - a factual look on the fluctuations in sexual mores and its connections to war. Of course, it’s a 384-page piece on the second world war and its primarily American soldiers - a completely different view of the title than you, who had simply stared at the cover for months, had built up in your mind. 

Love, Sex and War - where sex and war were hastily highlighted in bright orange. A comment written on the side of the page; The mundane connection to a kibitzer (me) is _____. To attempt to articulate the bridge between the pillars was to speak nothing but poppycock to the unenthusiastic. Yet for years you had tried to articulate - to justify the connection your body had created. The bawdy stir which it aroused. 

But the bluntest, and thus simplest, way you had come to put it when you were sure your partners were the perfect blend of drunk and tired enough to receive shocking information was: To me, there’s nothing more erotic than your blood all over my sheets. 

The problem with such a blunt assertion was that it scared most people. And those who weren’t frightened didn’t want anything to do with it anyways. And thus it was back to the drawing board, trying to find the wording that could land you the satisfaction you craved. 

With Joker, however, there was no explaining, and maybe that was one of the reasons you stayed despite axiom challenges. Really, you’d go as far as to say that explanations and talk were discouraged. He wanted to figure people out himself. That was the extent of his fun with people. 

You, on the other hand, unlike the media, mental health experts and police, had no particular interest in the man behind the makeup. You never asked about his real name, his past or his motivations. 

Your stance on him, which was previously petulance, became interest only when he came in one day without the green suit jacket, bloodied shimmy on full display and a leaking wound in his arm. Upon reflection, it would have been the courteous thing to do to give him the medical attention he was most likely seeking, but instead, you started the most illicit affair of your life. 

As it turns out, in between bank robberies, kidnapping and murder, the Joker found time to dip between your legs. And at what price?

You could tell the first time he whipped out his dagger mid-session, he expected you to be afraid. And had he been a robber in an alleyway, you would have been, but he was a robber in your sheets and so it just sent a shiver up your spine. That kept him around longer. 

You sensed this would be the last when his eyes were trained solely on you. Lovely as it were, you knew him to have eyes which were constantly swerving. Constantly trying to answer whatever questions appeared in his mind. Constantly finding things that would give him the upper hand. 

They didn’t this time. There were no questions left.

You were going to offer him tea. Extend the night. Maybe ask all those questions which you frankly deserved to know. However, when he pressed against you so hard you lost your balance, you knew even the last wouldn’t be anywhere close to romantic. 

You reciprocated his kiss with hesitance. There was something different about the way his serpent tongue dove into your mouth. A lack of curiosity. An abundance of hunger. You took his hands and put them on your waist, unbuttoning his vest. The tact to your collective moments had been corrected with time, like a choreographed dance. You moved to his neck, leaving gentle kisses.

“I saw you on the news today,” you commented as you travelled down his neck. 

“And how’d I look?” He tore you away from him, allowing you a look at his tilted face. “Hm? Handsome? Dashing?” His yellow smile appeared as he flicked his hair out of his face. 

You pecked his cheek. “Sexy.” Your hands trailed his bodice, gripping his hands and tugging him into the bedroom. Once inside, you wrapped your arms around his neck, engulfing him in another deep kiss, which he responded to in kind. As he lifted you up, you locked your legs around his waist. Your eyes had a teasing twinkle to them. He left a tiny lovebite at the edge of your jawline before dropping you into bed.

You stared up at him, breathlessly panting. He stared right back, his bottomless eyes exuding menace.

He moved to remove your shirt and then subsequently your pants. Your fingers twitched into a motion to do the same when the Joker’s words stopped you. “For tonight, I have a special little treat,” he hummed as he yanked off your pants, throwing them aside. He leaned in, letting you take a whiff of the aroma he emanated. A distinct mix of almonds, smoke and sulphur, like plastic explosives. “A game if you will.” Finally, the last of your clothing slipped off, leaving you only in your undergarments. “Inspired by a... friend of mine.”

You held your breath as his hand slipped into his pocket - never knowing what he’d reveal. He toyed with your expression, pretending to root around for the object and pricking himself on it, a quirk to his lips. However, when he did remove his hand from his pocket, there was a quarter between his gloved fingers, gleaming in the dim light. 

“Heads, I get to control the knife.” He stabbed a blade into the mattress beside your head. “Tails, it’ll be your turn, doll.” He tucked the quarter into your bra before starting to strip himself. It struck you as you wordlessly watched him that you’d never seen him fully in the nude. 

It was hard to deduce if he was being serious at all; you had come to know him as a man who prized control in all things; even if he tried to disguise it with nonchalance. For him to leave this to chance - something entirely uncontrollable, something had to be amiss. You hesitantly reached into your bra, taking out the quarter. You hoisted yourself into a sitting position before flipping the coin and letting it land. 

Heads.

In a strange twist of fate and some infirmity on your part, you were relieved at this, swallowing thickly as you laid back down. Joker’s head twitched to the side, a grin spreading across his face. “Mine it is.” 

He plucked the blade from the mattress, moving it to your torso. Starting at the xiphoid process and travelling down to the groin, he applied increasing pressure. Although not a motion unfamiliar to you at this point, you held your breath, wondering if maybe this time he’d split you open. Then, he tucked his knife underneath your panties, cutting its seams, allowing it to be slipped off easily. 

He watched your eyes as he moved the knife to your thigh and applied pressure. An icy pain shot up your leg but you made no sound - biting your lip and watching as droplets of red started escaping you. The cut was small and shallow, but big enough for the wound to ooze slightly. 

Seeing the liquid, an electrifying pulse shot throughout your body and your cunt clamped, your head rolling back onto the sheets. You let out a shaky sigh - a mix of pleasure and pain exuding from your lips. You felt a tongue drag across your wound, creating a moan in your throat. The sandpaper-Esque texture of his tongue tickled you, making your toes curl. 

Finally, he leaned back up, his now-naked thumb barely grazing your clit. “Again.” He tossed the coin your way. You eagerly tossed the coin once more, it landing on your chest. 

Heads.

You looked up at him. He jerked his shoulders as if to communicate, what can I say? He rattled his body, trying to wake his limbs, before moving atop of you. Perched on your legs, he studied your body, deducing wherever next he might cut you.

After mumbling something about symmetry, he moved the knife to the other thigh, positioning it parallel to the other cut. Right before he made the incision, he slid his thumb over your clit, circling it twice before pressing the blade into your flesh. He created a deeper cut than before. As it sunk further into your thigh, his thumb hinted onto your clit, before returning to its circular motions. An amalgam of moans and screams escaped you at once, creating a soft bubbling. You cocked your head to look at your virgin wound.

There was a considerably stronger stream of blood in this wound. It wasn’t enough to be severely damaging or even dangerous, but enough to create a tiny river which flowed onto the sheets and into the crevices of your thighs. You felt its warmth against your vulva, the wetness of your folds mixing with its thickness. Your leg started shaking and a chill ran through your body.

Joker’s eyes stalked yours. He slowed down his movements before dipping his fingers into the blood which seeped out of you, staining them red. You panted underneath him, squirming, wishing for him to continue, but instead, he stuck his fingers into your mouth. 

“Suck,” he ordered. You hungrily obeyed him, lapping up the mixture of precum, blood, and grime like a dog. He removed his fingers and chucked the coin at you once more. “Last chance.” He continued stimulating your clit as your shaking hands grabbed the coin and tossed. The pain emanating from your thigh made you wince every time your body twitched in response to the increasing pace of the Joker’s fingers. You almost didn’t look at the coin when it landed.

Tails.

Your eyebrows shot up and a wistful gasp escaped your lips. You had figured the game had been rigged - and you hadn’t minded it. You’d never had such an opportunity before. You looked at Joker. He had an amused look in his eyes. While his right hand kept itself busy with your cunt, the other handed you the knife, which you shakily accepted. 

Your eyes travelled between the blade and the Joker. You had never actually handled a knife before. Sure you’d thought about this scenario, but you never thought it would go down like this. It felt heavy in your hand. 

“Do it, do it,” he hissed, grabbing your wrist and pulling you closer to him. You let out a whine, arching your back. You moved the knife around clumsily, observing his already-scarred body as you did. A couple of times you almost nicked him, but you jerked back last minute. You heaved, the blend of signals overwhelming you. Your mind blanked.

“Come on!”

In a moment of animalistic fury, you sliced at the joker before tossing the knife aside. It wasn’t until you looked that you realized the slice graced his upper arm and it was no shallow wound. The Joker laughed; a loud, shrill sound which bounced off the walls. He grabbed you by the hips and slammed into you.

You wheezed, a hiss of a sound escaping you. You grabbed onto his wounded arm, feeling his blood seep onto your hand. You crashed your lips against his while moving your hips nimbly against his. You mirrored his earlier motions, licking at his wound before returning to his lips. 

As the speed of his thrusts increased, it became increasingly harder to keep track of your directions. A pang of sensations assaulting your body. The Joker was releasing groans of his own, steady vibrations in the air. You removed your hand from his arm and smeared his blood over your torso and tasting it on your tongue. It was funny how a man so inhumane tasted no different from any other. 

You threw back your head as your vision paled - a bright light swamping you. He thumped deeply inside of you and it started to dull out everything else. The pain in your thigh, the coppery taste in your mouth, the ashy smell - it was all gone and all your eyes would see were the bright reds against the white sheets as you came. 

It was, in many senses, the orgasm you had dreamed of when you’d conjured those stupid explanations for years. And who did you owe all that to? Nobody. 

All of it was made very tragic by the returning realization that this would be their last. 

You were jolted back to life by this realization, the Joker’s continuing pumps registering in your mind once more. You looked at him. For once, he wasn’t looking back, his face contorted in a smile and eyes staring up at the ceiling. 

Your eyes shot towards the knife, dangling at the edge of the bed. 

When you looked back at him, he had an intense stare. His lips were quirked into a tiny grin, and right before cumming, you saw him mouth do it. 

Your body fell limply against the bed as his seed filled you. You grabbed the knife, holding it against your chest. The Joker fell next to you, his eyebrows dipping into his face. His eyes were looking all around, spinning about looking for answers.

“I have something to tell you,” you breathed, your grip tightening around the knife. Even then his eyes barely stayed still. You rolled over, laying on your tummy, rising above him. 

“To me, there would be nothing more erotic than your blood all over my sheets.”