#in like a dry deadpan cynical way

[kananjarus]

Tease TidBit Tuesday ✨

my life has been hectic as ever lately, so I don't know when I'll get a chance to update the apocalypse fic. to tide y'all over until then here's a lil snippet :)

thank you @shortsighted-owl and @mellaithwen for the tags this week!! I wanted to post this on sunday but ran out of time

“So, you’re a doctor?” He seemed more on the young side, by Buck’s assumption, but not young enough to rule it out.

The cloth returned, rubbing circles into his skin with surprisingly gentle pressure. “If by doctor you mean ‘unfortunate bastard who never went to med school but had just enough training before the end to be thrusted into a role he never thought he was qualified for,’ then yeah, sure.”

Buck could only blink at him. His mind was like a blank screen, cursor flashing patiently for whatever reply he could muster in response to that. A part of him felt the delirious urge to laugh.

“That’s an awful amount of cynicism for someone who’s got my life in his hands,” Buck deadpanned.

“Sorry,” he said, with another dry snort. A smile curling at the edges of his mouth that lit up his gaunt face in a way that sent Buck’s head into a tailspin. “Yeah, I guess I am a doctor. But you can call me Eddie.”

In rapid succession, Buck felt the blood drain from his face and whatever expression he’d been showing abruptly slip away. He hadn’t been expecting - no, no - he wasn’t - he couldn’t be.

There were millions of Eddie’s in the world before the collapse. How many in California? Hundreds, probably. Someone who was better at math than he figured the numbers once - out of the millions that lived in what was once the state of California, maybe less than a thousand were destined to survive the Georgia flu. And that was just after the first wave. Next came the suicides, then those who died trying to acquire supplies; those who ended up not well enough equipped to survive on their own in an unforgiving world and succumbed to starvation and illness. After all those terrible years and the unlikeliest of probabilities, how exactly would one Eddie Diaz be sitting in front of him now? 

“Sorry, did that hurt?”

Buck made a questioning sound and the man - Eddie - gestured to his bloody cut with a look of great concern. He shook his head mutedly and Eddie returned to his oh so careful ministrations of tending to his wound.

A great and terrible wave of nausea. There was no way. Buck’s addled mind was certainly projecting the similarities of this man and the boy Buck had been looking after as his own. That was the only way. But he did look awfully familiar.

tagging: @rogerzsteven @homerforsure @eddiebabygirldiaz @elvensorceress @tevankinkley

[sweet--sweet--muffin]

Ben 10 Aliens As Their Own Characters (Original Series)

This has been on my mind for a looooong, long time and I finally decided to share this here.

I’ve seen some cool concepts for the “Ben’s Omnitrix glitched out and caused the aliens to have their own sentience” AU (like @thisunknowngenius’ take on the AU for example, as well as @justmenoworries​‘ glorious @omniglitch-au​) and I thought of sharing my own take for this.

Gonna call this AU of mine Ben 10 Alienated.

Let’s start with the Original 10 here because I have no idea where to start with the others lmao.

Wildmutt - Considered as the family pet, he’s just like any other normal man’s best friend. He always strive to be close with his family (especially Ben) to show how much he loves them.

Four Arms - an extremely violent, short-tempered, and very brash berserk who tends to be quite unkind to others around him, especially towards the people who dare hurt his loved ones. He seems to think that punching things, including people, is the best way to solve problems and his hot head can sometimes get him into trouble.

Grey Matter - tends to be boorish, and sarcastic with a dry sense of humor. He usually has a stoic frown, though he does smile from time to time. Grey Matter is very honest and blunt about what is on his mind. His brutal honesty isn't so much out of a sense of morality, but because he doesn't want to waste brain space by making up a lie. Regardless, he’s willing to help his family with any problem that only relates to knowledge and tutoring.

XLR8 - an energetic and upbeat Kineceleran who loves to do all sorts of bizarre things and dislikes "dull" things, like reading and studying. He’s a menace in the pranking field, but thankfully, his pranks are all relatively harmless. XLR8′s also a good sport and loves doing some competitions with his siblings. Well, unless you’re cheating then you’re really asking for a pie in the face.

Upgrade - literally the nicest alien you’ll ever meet. Upgrade possesses emotions and acts more like a human than a normal Mechamorph. He’s a bit shy but is generally a very kind-hearted individual who speaks in a polite manner and is sensitive to others' feelings. Despite his typically shy behavior, Upgrade occasionally demonstrates more assertiveness, confidence and can stand up for himself without resorting to anger (Heatblast joked that Four Arms should take notes about this). He’s pretty much seen with Grey Matter in most cases as he is more like an assistant of his.

Diamondhead - If someone were to look up “father figure”, then Diamondhead is sure to appear in those results. He is very responsible and talks formal. He rarely loses his nerve and can maintain clarity in any situation. He’s like the loving father figure of Ben, Gwen and the aliens and has a closer relationship towards Max due to sharing the responsibilities of being the parent figure of the fam.

Ripjaws - Not exactly the most intellectual member of the aliens, as Ripjaws is clueless, easily confused by complex words and misinterprets insults and figures of speech. He is also very gullible, often easily believing things people say and is surprised when others tell him that they're lying. In general, his mood can shift very quickly. He can bounce between bored, to happy, to angry, and to happy again. Despite his easygoing and aloof personality, Ripjaws is a good-natured and well-meaning alien.

Stinkfly - the very definition of “lazy” and a good-for-nothing couch potato of the family. He may be laid-back, but he’ll do anything to help the world in need and protect his family. Despite this, there’ll be times that he can be cynical towards others, even to the aliens and Tennysons.

Ghostfreak - he’s quite hard to approach given his quiet, deadpan and distant demeanor. But that’s because Ghostfreak is simply not good at expressing his emotions and would rather do so through his poems. It does help with giving him ideas on how to express his emotions more. Regardless, he has a heart of gold to the people he truly trusts; his one big family.

Heatblast - he’s a sporty athlete with a fiery personality and is always eager to challenge someone when he’s being challenged. Heatblast is one of the more mature aliens unless he ends up getting himself caught into the childish antics of his siblings (mainly XLR8).

[1997thebracket]

Round 1E

Daria: You’re standing on my neck. Daria is an animated television series that aired from 1997 to 2002; a spin-off of the popular series Beavis and Butt-Head, Daria helped codify the image of the American disaffected youth. Daria Morgendorffer, a highly intelligent but deeply cynical and acerbic teenage girl, navigates the banality of high school and suburban family values alongside her best friend, her sister, and her classmates. Her deadpan humor made Daria an iconic character in 90s pop culture, resonating with audiences for her dry social commentary. The series takes a tongue-in-cheek look at societal conformity and the absurdities of the mundane, utilizing the music and styles of the era to great effect, making the show endlessly nostalgic but never cloying or forced. Daria represents the unimpressed but privately vulnerable tone of 90s youth in a way few other pieces of media can. Now, up next on Sick Sad World…

Missy Elliott’s Supa Dupa Fly: Beep beep, who got the keys to the Jeep? Supa Dupa Fly is the debut studio album by American rapper, singer, and producer Missy Elliott, released in 1997. The album is a landmark piece of hip-hop and R&B history, characterized by innovative production, unique sounds and samplings, and Missy's unmistakable rap style. Its futuristic and genre-blurring approach set it apart instantly; the album features a fusion of hip-hop, R&B, and electronic elements, while Missy's confident and distinctive lyricism shines throughout. Hits like The Rain (Supa Dupa Fly) and Sock It 2 Me showcased Missy's individuality and marked her as the voice for a generation of female rappers, to say nothing of her equally iconic music videos. Supa Dupa Fly is widely regarded as a seminal work in the evolution of hip-hop, breaking boundaries and earning critical acclaim for its fresh sound and bold approach to both music and visual storytelling.

[thesherrinfordfacility]

Your single favourite trait from each character? (Well, obviously not literally each and every character, but, like, the ensemble, not only exclusively our boys.)

hi anon!!!✨ sure thing, i'll give it a go - let me know if i've missed anyone obvious!!!

aziraphale: i actually really enjoy aziraphale's wit; how at times it's rather dry and deadpan, and the way he's often so unintentional with it (like crowley remarks in ep6), along with his timing and sometimes obliviousness - i find it incredibly funny. there's obviously his kindness and open-minded nature too, but his humour is my favourite trait that springs to mind.

crowley: 100% his wonder, to soak up experiences, and admire them - not just with the stars that he creates, or even humanity and what they create, albeit those are the two main examples... but at little things - like, how he reacts to aziraphale when he does something unexpected, or to children (his favourite animal). i do love how personable he is too, even if he'd deny it, as well as his spontaneity.

mix of s1 and s2 cast:

madame tracy: open-mindedness/worldliness (especially in the book), she's just down for anything and open to anything, without an inch of hesitation or cynicism

shadwell: genuinely, to a certain point (so obviously casual homophobia notwithstanding) like his lack of self-consciousness, how unapologetic he is for his interests/job, even if it's something everyone else thinks is ridiculous

anathema: her tenacity, doesn't give up one bit throughout all of s1, stands steadfast to agnes' legacy until she feels she can put it to rest and carve her own way instead

newt: affability, he's just very polite and courteous, and is just generally happy (ish) to be there. fucking aliens pull him over and he just... goes with it - legend

maggie: her bravery - i know a lot of people have doubts about her motives in eps5 and 6, but the way she overcomes her fear and just goes ham is really likeable; a very quiet and understated character development

nina: lack of bullshit, calling things as she sees them, even if it comes from an unfortunate place/experience. she puts crowley in his place and if nothing else i have to admire that

muriel: their ability to follow their gut and do what they feel is right; like how they continue to help crowley in heaven, or when they speak out to call aziraphale nice, despite him being a 'traitor'.

gabriel: it's not necessarily a good trait, but i like how he just... bluffs his way throughout the majority of his character arc; the whole ribs thing, armageddon, the trial in ep6. takes a particular mind, i think, to be supreme archangel and just... make it up as you go along

michael: their cunning, even when they are a little clueless, you know that they are actually pretty intelligent in a tactical context

uriel: outspokenness, willingness to speak up, especially against quite a combative and devious character like michael

shax: how, in her own quiet way, she's so willing and eager to soak up knowledge - regardless of her motivations for doing so, she takes in the knowledge that crowley teaches her greedily

furfur: his intelligence, because actually - his whole scheme about catching out crowley and aziraphale in 1941 was, by and large, rather ingenious, and would have been successful

metatron: his deviousness; obviously not a good thing, but his whole five, ten, minutes? on a screen in total showed a lot about just how sly and crafty he is, a master of manipulation. quite a feat, really!

think that's most of the main cast, but happy to answer on anyone in particular!!!✨

forgot about beelzebub because im an idiot

[themournwatcher]

In addition to Dragon Age Brainrot, I'm also diagnosed with "Cas-Blorbo Brainrot" so I am NOT NARROWING MY CHOICES

For Laurent, Mahanon and Naoise: 19, 35 and 40 HAVE A BLAST

19. What were your character’s deepest disillusions? In life? What are they now?

This was a weirdly phrased question to me so I'm gonna go ahead and answer it the best way that I can.

Mahanon: I really don't know if Mahanon ever had anymore illusions about anything after Adaia died; a loss that early in childhood kind of ruins everything else.

Naoise: He does have to come to terms with his privileges and the way he carries himself throughout Origins. I think getting to see the world beyond the walls of Highever makes him a more empathetic person.

Andrale: He used to be Templar-pilled actually but then Kinloch Hold happened.

35. Do they always rationalize errors? How do they accept disasters and failures?

Mahanon: Mahanon is consistently making the best choices that he can with very little context or information at any given time throughout the events of Origins. When criticized, he tends to lash out; if they don't like the choices that he made, then THEY are welcome to call the shots. As he grows more cynical and jaded, he feels less guilt for making the tough calls and failure is taken in stride so long as he lives to fight another day.

Naoise: Naoise takes setbacks really hard. Although groomed for the teyrnship of Highever, it's a lot different to be on the front lines, calling shots that can put the lives of you and your fellows at risk. Bearing the survivor's guilt of losing his family, making a wrong call can tear him up for weeks.

Andrale: Andrale puts on a facade; although he appears unnerved by any obstacle, he is privately perturbed and at times despondent, depending on the severity of his miscalculation. He is more likely to take personal or romantic matters to heart than matters of logic or strategy.

40. How is their sense of humor? Do they have one?

Mahanon: Mahanon is one for very dry wit or deadpan humor (autistic moment)

Naoise: Naoise likes to bicker and tease and pass quips, on-the-fly back and forth that culminate in killer one-liners that people will snicker about for weeks afterwards.

Andrale: Andrale is someone of subtler amusement, preferring to listen to others than participate, though he does find slapstick comedy amusing (it's not his fault that Anders is too tall and hits his head on every doorway…)

click here to see the ask prompts!

[thespineoftherighteous]

Aaron Minyard at any point in the series:

[itthoe]

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 ☆ think about… computer science major, twitch streamer and discord mod scaramouche.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ☆ light smut near end. minors dni.

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 ☆ scaramouche.

Think about it: computer science major Scaramouche. He’s a junior, top 15 in his graduating class and too smart for his own good. He's cynical, blunt and sarcastic with an impossibly dry sense of humor. Nearly everything he says is monotone, low and deadpan, a voice that sounds like velvet and honey to the ears. His lavender eyes are always set low and sleepy like he’d rather be literally anywhere else but where he is in that given moment. The entirety of his aura gives off an aloofness and can be compared to... royalty. It’s maybe even a little unearthly. He’s a mysterious guy for sure that is— the kind of guy who many find themselves wanting to know more about.

But apart from his social circle, Scaramouche’s looks are definitely unrivaled. A phrase that gets brought up a lot when one is describing his looks is: “pretty boy.” And rightfully so. His face is one that would seem more fitted for elegant words rather than edgy. Ah, here’s an example: Scaramouche would be a prince rather than a knight.

But apart from his social circle, Scaramouche’s looks are definitely unrivaled. A phrase that gets brought up a lot when one is describing his looks is: “pretty boy.” And rightfully so. His face is one that would seem more fitted for elegant words rather than edgy. Ah, here’s an example: Scaramouche would be a prince rather than a knight.

But apart from his social circle, Scaramouche’s looks are definitely unrivaled. A phrase that gets brought up a lot when one is describing his looks is: “pretty boy.” And rightfully so. His face is one that would seem more fitted for elegant words rather than edgy. Ah, here’s an example: Scaramouche would be a prince rather than a knight.

From his aesthetically pleasing outfits, to the way he styles his hair, all gives him a put togetherness that is admired by many people. Let’s be honest, the first thing that people see is one’s appearance and they judge based on that.

It’s not a surprise that Scaramouche is heavy into internet culture and many of the niche subcultures that come with it. He mainly spends his free time on reddit, twitter, twitch and discord and his popularity doesn’t stop just at his real life affairs. He’s a twitch streamer and has a fairly large following, his streams mostly consist of gaming. He could really make a career out of this alone but he really only sees this as a hobby.

Scara rarely shows his face during his streams. For the most part, there’s a cam fix on only his hands while they’re on the mouse and keyboard. His hands— wow. Slender, visible veins, pale and pretty rocking some chipped black nail polish. 

Naturally, Scara runs a discord server for his community. It serves as a place where people can vibe and connect to one another. It is largely based off of video gaming, manga and anime.

It's a public server so really anyone can join if they have the link. There’s easily a few thousand people with new people joining as Scaramouche grows as a streamer.

He’s not very active because of other activities in his life but when he is, he’s lurking. Every now and again he’ll add his two cents into a conversation. 

As discord admin, Scaramouche is in charge of running the entire server. From little things like adding channels and technical server maintenance to handling “issues” with members in the space. He almost always has his mods deal with things like that though.

But as stated before—he’s lurking and that’s how he met you: stumbling into the “selfies” channel late one night and seeing one of your pictures. The only thing that went through his mind was “Hah.. cute.”

You seemingly sat at your very pink and hyperfem gaming setup with cat ears headphones perched on your head. Your cheeks were supple, lips plump and eyes big and doe-like as you smiled at the camera. There were many reactions under the picture varying from hearts, meme emotes and nsfw ones. Scara couldn’t help the twitch in his brow, going into the inappropriate reactions and banning the freaks one by one. It was a harmless selfie… not a free pass to be a weirdo. At least that is what he tells himself to distract from the feeling of the unwarranted jealousy brewing.

Curiosity gets the best of Scara and he clicks your profile finding himself pleasantly surprised to see you're actually one of his mods. He knows for certain you’re not one of the initial few he picked, he can only assume that over the course of time the mods added some more help as the server grew in size.

Scaramouche has never been “shy.” The correct word to use would be reserved. He was an observer first, then he made his moves. He studied your little about me in the info channel, taking note that you had also been a student, but you were in a video game design program. He had to give you some props for pursuing a career that is male dominated but something tells him you’re not a pushover.

Over the next couple days, he slowly but surely became more active on the server in hopes of catching you online. Thankfully, you were and chatting it up in one of the general channels. There was a small back and forth between you both but nothing too crazy.

And it wasn’t long before you got a ping from Scaramouche himself. The circular profile picture sat atop of all the other servers you were a part of, with a little red dot.

The message reads: “Hey. Let’s hop into vc, I’d like to talk to you.”

But you weren’t expecting to be laid on your back that same night with your hand slipped past the waistband of your panties, messily rubbing at your clit to his voice. Scara on the other line stroking his dick asking if you want to turn cameras on.

© all content belongs to itthoe 2022. do not modify or repost. thank you for shopping with and come again soon! . . . . . . 🛒 🛍

[lowcountry-gothic]

Communication Style by Type

Communication and the lexicon of the Enneagram type’s is fascinating. Our ongoing research has revealed what Katherine Fauvre’s 1994 Enneastyle research found: people of the same enneagram type utilize the same adjectives, phrases, word combinations, favorite sayings, symbolism and metaphors to describe themselves. The combination of the persons lexicon reveals their primary type, tritype, instinctual subtype and wings. Aside from the actual words that the types themselves use the way they talk in is extremely important. The style or flavor of communication can reveal just as much about someone’s potential type as the language itself. By characterizing the type’s language and communication style we can begin to gain greater accuracy in recognizing the type. Of course when characterizing talk style it’s important to think about context and audience. We recommend thinking about talk/communication style in relatively comfortable situations as it will reveal the more authentic talk style. Although you can observe aspects of talk style at someone’s job of a specific performative situation you just have to reserve that some of the content will be specifically focused toward that job or role and could look like another type. Interpersonal relationships reveal the communication style the best.

Teaching, preaching, mentoring, pontificating, criticizing, correcting, appropriate, polite, affectionate, declaiming, parental, judging, reasonable, patrician, irritable.

Helping, effusive, relationship-focused, complimenting, flattering, bossy, managerial, supportive, seductive, sentimental, nurturing, demanding, manipulating, superficial.

Expedient, competent, professional, bragging, socially appropriate, rehearsed, smooth, charming, inspiring, coaching, task-focused, proficient, dazzling, artificial, Pollyanna

Breathy, lamenting, sarcastic, cynical, intellectual, analyzing, specializing, haughty, symbolic, shy, reactive, quipping, elegant, complaining, contrary, metaphorical

Technical, knowledgeable, quiet, self-contained, idiosyncratic, unemotional, rational, professing, dry, frenetic, high-strung, provocative, philosophical, scientific

Tentative, qualifying, provocative, testing, argumentative, anxious, warm, rebellious, questioning, funny, skeptical, cross-examining, friendly, bantering, teasing, complaining, contrary, catastrophizing

Fast, entertaining, storytelling, captivating, charming, intellectual, evasive, arrogant, flippant, future-oriented, generalized, excited, sophisticated, joking, performing, exaggerating

Brash, strident, definite, unemotional, matter of fact, impactful, empowering, intimidating, deadpan, firm, jolly, rabble-rousing, commanding, demanding, clipped, challenging, insensitive, few-words/high impact

Agreeable, accommodating, receptive, rambling, diplomatic, mediating, diffuse, dreamy, non-specific, stubborn, unconvinced, easy, relatable, sentimental, quietly-intellectual, slow-paced, simplistic, un-focused, unaffected

(Source.)

[aenaxes]

penitence

[howzer x gn!reader] doubt is a powerful seed in the mind. also known as howzer lets the kid go, and the first person he sees afterwards is you.

warnings: (spoilers for tbb e11) mild gun/blaster injury, hurt-comfort

w/c: 1.2k

a/n: just a little lunch break drabble to christen the new icon hehe

“Don’t tell me the Syndulla kid did that.”

Howzer drags his feet across the threshold, bucket cradled under one arm as he carelessly brings his hand over the door lock. Swept messily to one side as if crushed by a fall, his hair flutters with the whoosh of recycled air as the dark steel slides shut behind him.

You are quick to meet him where he stands, his holster empty and shoulders dropped low. With him he comes bearing the telltale ashy singe of a single blaster shot over the upper edge of his pauldron. It’s stray fire at best, but you can already envision the bruise purpling under his plastoid.

Lifting your hands to the mark, you struggle over the sudden swell in your tongue: anger, panic, fear, the bitter taste of resentment that someone (even if it was a kid) saw him as just another obstacle, another piece of blaster fodder, no matter what side he was on.

“Howzer?”

He mumbles something that doesn’t quite meet your ears as he trains his eyes on the floor at his feet. And when you call his name one more time, he simply shakes his head.

“She didn’t do it,” he rasps. “I did.”

—

“You shot yourself. To make it believable that a civ girl half your size disarmed you and got away,” you deadpan, bringing the roll of bandage under his armpit and cinching it snug.

It’s about the fourth time you’ve repeated it, in part to process the whole scenario but mostly to emphasize how ridiculously stupid it was to shoot himself at near point-blank range—even if it was to save the girl. You pass the roll of fabric to your other hand and sigh.

“Threw the blaster down the canyon, too,” he mirthlessly snorts. Sarcasm does not curl over his tone, playful and teasing, nor does his voice carry the increasingly common sting of cynicism.

He just sounds… tired.

“Do you think Rampart’s really going to believe you?”

He hisses when you pull the bandage a bit too tight. But before you can meet him with a frantic flurry of apologies, Howzer brings his arms around your waist and pulls you close, crowding you into his space with little mind to how your touch, no matter how comforting, still crushes up against the bruise of his shoulder.

“Howzer—” you protest, but he shakes his head, his nose digging into the skin over your sternum.

It’ll make the bruising worse, that much you know. But who are you to deny him—both of you, really—the simple comforts of intimacy that have become so rare under the Empire’s shadow?

Pulling away just enough to tuck the long, free end of the bandage under its previous wrapping, you pause before you trail your palms up from his shoulders to the prickly undercut at the base of his head.

For the first time tonight, Howzer lifts his eyes heavensward, resting his chin on your chest so he can turn his dark eyes to you in full. There, you find the softest kind of yearning, for you, for respite, for that elusive speck of light that he can hold close and proclaim high. No longer is there that boyish charm he had shared so freely with the men of his company those long months ago, men now unreachable and hardened under that single, cruel order.

You miss it.

Howzer offers you a weak smile, then presses his brow back against your chest. And without missing a beat, you dip your chin low and press your lips to the crown of his head.

“Rampart knows I’m soft,” the captain mumbles, tugging you closer.

With your head bowed over him, you breathe deep and feel him do the same. He smells like the Ryloth dusk, crisp air chasing the sunlight’s heels, hearkening back to better days when dawn felt like hope, when war had an end in sight, hazy as it might have been.

“Was probably going to decommission me anyway.”

“Don’t say that,” you whisper, your lips moving over the dust speckled through his dark hair. Word after word, your voice follows his lead, matching the low, weary timbre of his lungs rising and falling against your chest before finally slipping under the ambient hum of the base around you. “You’re not a droid.”

“Is it bad that most days I feel like one?” he asks.

“Droids don’t whine when I can’t sleep next to them,” you counter with a soft laugh. Warmth spreads over the base of your ribs as Howzer huffs through his nose. Soft and quiet as it is, it is laughter. “Droids don’t laugh at their own awful jokes. Or wake up extra early to spend fifteen minutes putting pomade in their hair. Or get into the habit of sneaking up on me to stuff their cold hands down my collar, which by the way gives me palpitations, which—”

At that, the low-simmering tension finally breaks.

“Okay, okay,” Howzer concedes. His laughter rumbles against your skin.

And you take your invitation, playfully mussing your fingers through his hair as his laughter rises.

A rosy glow floods through you, swelling in your chest and creeping high to the top of your head as Howzer lifts his good arm and tugs you down to meet him. It’s an awkward angle, but it is no less sweet when you feel his dry, chapped lips press soft against yours. He murmurs unintelligible motions of affection, gratitude, that deep and indescribable loyalty that brings you close and binds you together. And you smile into his kiss.

For a while, you stay that way, your neck craned low as you cradle the base of his head and share slow, bated breaths over your tongues. You bear the ache in your shoulders a moment longer, then you press a slow trail of kisses rising from the crest of his upper lip, over the tip of his nose, higher, higher, until your lips meet his brow for one last, lingering touch.

Breathing as one, a comfortable silence settles between you.

Somewhere outside, you hear the birds croon their night song.

“Do you miss it?” Howzer asks at last, his voice little more than a whisper breathed over your skin. “Being the good guys?”

“We’re still the good guys,” you respond. “You and me.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

When Howzer lifts his head again, you find it—that single blinking light of days past when his only concerns had been keeping his men safe and making it back home, to you—hope.

“You’re not just buttering me up so you can be romantic?” His voice rises light above the murky waters choked around his neck. But the doubt is there all the same, always, clawed into his shoulders as only he seems aware of the stark divide between duty and obedience.

As you card your fingers through his hair, you feel his hands tighten around your waist.

He will bruise; his shoulder will ache; he’ll roll out of bed tomorrow morning and pop his shoulder, only to fall back onto your sleeping form and wake you with a dramatic sigh as you flail under him.

But he will heal.

“I can make your bruise worse, you know,” you playfully narrow your eyes. But you can’t help the smile that curves over your lips when you catch the crinkle at his temples as his brows slope soft and find solace in you.

“You think so?” he teases.

“I know so.”

[pa-panda-heroes]

heya! how about a scenario where shiggy accidentally hurts the reader with his quirk and like, freak tf out? angsts with lots and lots of fluff, please! ty! ♥︎

Okokok imma do my best for my first angst!! Also I added Dabi because I got a request for him a while back and I’ve wanted to write him for a bit, now <3 hope that’s okay!

I think this was a bit longer for a scenario but... I enjoyed writing it so :>

Warnings: language, mentions of violence(? Eh...)

Tomura/Dabi accidentally hurt reader with their quirks!

Tomura:

It happened accidentally. You knew that. Right? It wasn’t his fault, but his damn quirk’s fault, the one that he never asked for and the one that never allowed anyone to get close. Rather, he never let anyone get close because of it. He’ll admit he was always proud of its destructive capability as a villain, but now that it had hurt you, he wish he’d never boasted to a soul.

Twenty-three times. He had called you twenty-three times. And twenty-three times you didn’t answer. What was he to do, now? There was no stopping the decay borne from his fingertips once it had set in, and considering you wouldn’t answer your phone... it didn’t look good. Kurogiri had whisked you away before Tomura could even utter an apology, which looked to him as though Kurogiri did so in order for him not to witness your death. Kurogiri told him something about a doctor, but Tomura figured him a liar.

He couldn’t breathe. You shouldn’t have been hurt. Literally. Tomura hadn’t so much as touched you with a single finger; if anything, he was trying to protect you from the stranger grabbing you. It happened so fast, all he remembered was his quirk activating and the stranger vanishing before he heard your cry of pain and saw the skin of your arm drying out, much like he had done to that hero at U.S.J. He couldn’t tell, but it somewhat looked as though the decay was limited to just your bicep. That could’ve been hopeful thinking, of course, and he knew it.

So he sat there, all alone and hunched over on the couch in the bar, with misery and dread coursing his veins, accelerating his blood pressure to concerning levels. He had nothing to look at but his shaking palms and red shoes as he tried to even out his breathing - to no avail. Then, he felt the weight of someone sitting next to him, and instantly recognized how far the cushion next to him sunk in. And yet, he couldn’t look at you.

“Thanks for that back there,” you say quietly, afraid to startle him, but you recieve no response. “Y’know, I’m not sure what would’ve happened if my knight in shining armor hadn’t showed up!” You knew he felt guilty. Why wouldn’t he? But he shouldn’t. You wanted to convince him of that.

“Didn’t go far, huh,” you hear him mumble, nodding his head to your bandaged left arm next to him. There was no life to his voice and before you can say anything, he speaks again. “It won’t happen again. You’re not coming around anymore.”

“Hey, wait! That’s not your-“

“I’m the leader, and I say so! You can stay in the League, but you can’t... be close to me. You’ll get hurt.”

You stand up in defiance and put your hands on your hips in defense. “I’m not leaving you! First of all, I can take care of myself. Second, look at the League. We have a bloodthirsty serial killer and a cynical pyromaniac constantly lounging about, and you’re worried about some one-in-a-million freak accident happening again?” Patience was key with Tomura, and you knew that, but he could be stubborn and unreasonable, and when it came to you, stubbornly, unreasonably protective. “Besides, with the world as it is, I could get hurt doing something as mundane as taking out the trash, like I was when I was attacked!”

He finally looked at you, the look of a whipped pup on his face and while you knew he wasn’t doing it on purpose, you felt guilty for raising your voice at him. You sigh quietly and sit back down next to him, reaching for his hand and settling for his knee when he yanked it away. You snuck your arm around his shoulders and plopped your cheek on his shoulder, knowing all too well he would welcome it despite his standoffishness - and he did. Tomura didn’t pull away or push you off. But he hid his face. Your fingers on his left shoulder rubbed at it, his clavicle prominent enough you almost cringed at how thin he was. Your other hand on his leg idly toyed with the seam of his jeans, not having anything better to do.

“I’m sorry.” It was unclear as to whether he was apologizing for hurting you, or for demanding you keep your distance from him. Either way, it was undoubtedly genuine and soft.

You sat up straight and hugged your leader and lover from the side, gliding your fingers through his hair as you gently guided it to you. He hesitated slightly before burying his head into your chest and latching onto your ribcage for dear life, muttering the weakest “Don’t go, please,” anyone has ever heard. The desperation and vulnerability in his voice elicited your arms to wrap around him in a tight, warm embrace, your chin digging into his hair when you peck it, again and again and again. You stifled a giggle at how soft and ticklish his hair felt, electing to gently shush him.

“I just told you, didn’t I? I’m not going anywhere, even if you tell me to. I love you, silly.”

Dabi:

Dabi let out every curse known to mankind - and then some - as he rushed over to you, the bastard thugs the two of you had been after now burning alive and falling to the street. He would have sworn on his life you were not within range of his flames, and yet here you were, on the ground clutching your burnt leg and cringing away the searing tears of pain. Maybe you didn’t see him readying the attack and charged in? Maybe one of those thugs diverted his attack? He wasn’t sure.

“Y/n-“

What little color he had in his face drains completely, and his fingertips are already trembling.

“Dabi, I’m fine,” you tried to assure him. “It’s not that bad! I’ll just need a little first aid.” It hurt like hell, a white-hot, pulsating pain, you couldn’t lie. You just weren’t going to tell him that. It stretched from just below your knee to a hand’s length above your ankle and covered only the side of your leg, thankfully. The affected area was an awfully dark pink and honestly, it was hard to look at.

He practically scoffed at you. “Y/n, you’re fucking burnt. Don’t tell me that shit.” From the look on his face, it seemed bad.

That was the most cross he’d ever been with you, despite his brash and vulgar nature, and you couldn’t help but retreat a little as he knelt down to you and pulled his phone out of his pocket to make a call. “Y/n’s hurt, get us to the bar or something.” He grabbed your leg - surprisingly gently - and seemed to examine it. He paused as if to listen to the other end. “She’s burnt, does it matter? Just get us the hell out of here.” He must’ve called Kurogiri, as the next thing you know there’s a warp tunnel summoned next to you.

You tried standing on your own to leave, but the burn decided it didn’t want you to do so, and so you dropped back to the ground and bit your lip at the shockwaves of pain crawling up your leg. Dabi said nothing and helped you up himself, grabbing your arm and side to help you walk through the warp. Once through, he set you down on the couch, still eerily quiet, and left you there. The pain was so bad at this point, you began to think you’d faint, your head feeling fuzzy as tears run down your cheeks.

The stapeled villain returns with a bucket of ice water, towels, and what looks to be a first aid kit. But he stops for a second when he sees you hunched over with a death grip on your knee and the seat beneath you, and it takes all he has to hold it the fuck together. He’s unreasonably angry, and he’s not sure why. He wants to tell and scream, maybe at you, maybe not, he’s not sure. His quirk’s only quality was destructiveness. It was damaging not only to his enemies but also to his own body - and now, you.

He hurt you. Accident or not, he hurt you. The lump in his throat was suffocating.

Dabi knelt down and soaked a towel in the cold water before wringing it wordlessly, then gently tapping it to your leg and pulling back when you hiss. He seemed to notice it but didn’t outwardly acknowledge it and contintued to use the cold towel on your burn. As more time passed, the more convinced he became that it was a second-degree burn, meaning the second layer of your skin, the dermis, was badly burnt. He had no doubt it would scar, and at the thought the breath was pulled from his lungs. Dabi muttered a curse and suddenly rested his forehead against your knee, his right hand holding the cool towel to your leg.

“I’m sorry. It’s all my fault, fuck.” His voice was low, and if you looked hard enough, you could hear that it was forced out through a tense throat. He was nearly in tears, wasn’t he? He wasn’t an overly emotional person by any means, but the fact that his quirk hurt you, with its history, it hurt worse than if you would’ve left him for a hero. He hated himself. His quirk didn’t have a single redeeming quality, and he began to think the same of himself.

“Dabi, don’t, okay? I’ll be fine, really.” You can’t help how weak your voice sounds, being in so much pain, but you nonetheless plant a hand in his hair and rub his scalp.

Dabi lifts his head to look at you, and the look in his eyes isn’t something you’ve seen before. His free hand comes up to rest on your thigh, and you can feel it shaking. “It might scar, y/n. Don’t you get that?”

You huff. “So? If it does, I’d be pretty cool with that, all puns intended,” you try to giggle at your own pun and can practically feel him rolling his eyes, “Besides, I’d kinda match you, wouldn’t I? It’ll be like a couple’s tattoo sort of thing!”

He rests his chin atop your knee and a look that only be described as a pout crosses his features, but he says nothing and you can only smile. Dabi deadpans when you say nothing, forcing yourself to beam at him with bright eyes and a smile. “You’re a weird one, ya know that?” he muttered.

“You’re even weird for falling in love with me,” you teased after he began to work on your leg again.

“Pfft.”

[motherofsquirms]

Fever Break: A Stricklake Short

"You are sunlight and I moon Joined by the gods of fortune Midnight and high noon Sharing the sky We have been blessed, you and I"

Walter padded lightly into the dimly lit bedroom wearing slippers and carrying a tray with a glass of water, medicine, and a plate of dry toast. Barbara was lying on her side under the covers, sleeping soundly on the far side of the bed. She was facing the doorway, one arm under her pillow, the other resting on it. Walt walked quietly over to her and set the tray down carefully on the nightstand. He gently checked the temperature of her forehead with the back of his hand. Good, he thought, the fever had broken. Thank goodness she had not needed to go to work, otherwise he’d have had to try to convince her to stay home, a losing battle if there ever was one. He had played the “this is your body telling you to rest,” or the “you would not want to give this crud to your patients” cards already a few times. The welfare of her patients usually won out, the exhaustion of her body and mind less so.

He ever so carefully drew a fingernail across her cheek, hooking and repositioning a stray lock of hair slightly damp from sweat back behind her ear. Her auburn hair reminded him of late summer and sometimes the bright colors of early fall; its radiance rivaled the sun, and her eyes when opened the color of an intensely blue and cloudless sky, which he was now unfit to enjoy. She was his sunlight now, as she had been and continued to be for so many, giving them life; a bright star that his world revolved around. He did not mind. Such a bright star; so bright in the darkness of the world. Were the decision to trade one for the other an uncomplicated choice for him and him alone, the warmth of sun versus the fiery incandescence of her whole person given generously to him, he would take that trade a million times over and without a moment’s hesitation at that.

They had learned to lean on one another, ministering to the other’s pain or discomfort, offering sanctuary from the storms of life. She and Jim must have been like that, he thought, but their relationship, his and Barbara’s, was more balanced, that of capable and responsible adults. Jim was capable and responsible, no question, but parents were supposed to take care of and watch out for their children, not the other way around; this era of human history had at least THAT part right. Walt sighed and rolled his eyes, because there was no telling Jim anything once he had made up his mind to do something. Must have been a Lake family trait.

No, he corrected, no that was not the case at all. The tenacity, the grit, the determination to stick it out, that was all Barbara’s side. James Lake Sr., that idiot, that insipid cur, that— that— Walt closed his eyes and took a calming breath else he may become apoplectic and snarl involuntarily. His loss, the blind fool, Walter concluded, calming himself. His momentous, egregious mistake; a reeeeaaaal piece of work, that James Lake Sr., wherever the hell he was.

Anyway, Jim was away frequently and often for long stretches these days, off with Toby, Claire, and the crew, handling the hiccups of troll-kind and valiantly trying to right the wrongs of the world, mend its ills.

He, Walter, was her *rock* now, Barbara liked to quip. Har har, he’d say, very amusing, knowing full well it was an exceptionally fitting Waltolomew Strickler joke. He adored her for that. They could riff off one another, each dedicated to their deadpan delivery, sometimes even darkly or mock-acerbically, until one of them broke, unable to stifle a laugh. Other times they were droll or punny, playfully bouncing cringe-worthy wisecracks between them like a ping pong ball. Goodness knows they needed the laughs, especially him; so unfamiliar a sensation it was in his troll form that his chest even ached in the beginning.

Walt belonged to her and she to him. Refuge, confidant, and lover; those things toppled his extreme cynicism like a house of cards. He had worked so hard and so long to build it up too, darn her.

Now in the cocooning, quiet darkness of the bedroom, Walter could not resist tenderly touching the smooth softness of her cheek and letting his hand fall to the side of her neck. He thought he saw her wince briefly before she noisily inhaled and stirred though still asleep. She smiled faintly and murmured a “Walt” sweetly, and almost longingly, her voice thick from deep slumber and a pillow denting her cheek. The changeling’s ears perked up, his maudlin smile and eyes nearly breaking his face at hearing her.

The euphoric feeling was short-lived, unfortunately. The wince bothered him. Had he really seen it or just imagined it? Had she felt a twinge of pain from that old wound because of his touch? Had he also at that same moment felt the same on the left side of his own neck? Was there still something remaining, some lingering fragment of the binding spell? Of the injury? His face fell and he panicked just a bit at the memory of her pain, a suffering which he had caused.

He had tried to forgive himself — but it seemed he never could, he reflected ruefully, despite how things had turned out, despite his sincere efforts to let go, despite her insistence that he should, she had forgiven him long ago— he sighed and tried his best to remember, to drill home into the bedrock of his mind that he could not change the past. “Silly Walt!” he chastised himself finally, shaking his head as he peered down at Barbara’s sleeping form. Even if Barbara had winced she was, in all likelihood, reacting to the coolness of his hand on her neck’s sensitive skin. His own extremely minor twinge a psychosomatic response, or a random nerve ending deciding to speak up at some minuscule outrage – a change in air pressure, perhaps - as they sometimes did inexplicably.

There had been nightmares, though; he did not hide them from her but he was reluctant to do much about them, as he considered them the most minor of penitence for all of the wrongs he had committed. Gruesome dreams plagued with scenarios where they did not make it to Trollmarket in time, Barbara did not survive, Jim getting crushed by the grief, and Angor Rott laughing, his sinister laugh rising in intensity after each breath from his gravelly growl to a high-pitched, ear-splitting scream. Walter would then abruptly wake to an alarm clock blaring it’s demonic electronic guts out.

He sucked in air and squeezed his glowing eyes shut, trying to rid himself of the sour taste of bile rising to his mouth. There may come a time when my debt is paid, he told himself, but not yet.

“I must bear this as a true Lake would,” he muttered resolutely to himself.

He relaxed and quieted the noises in his head by again peering down at Barbara, dreaming peacefully. How long had he stood there for? Too long. The toast on the nightstand had been patiently cooling, but it would have to wait a while longer.

Carefully Walt lifted the covers on the bed and cautiously crept in next to Barbara, slippers and all to keep from scratching her. He tucked his right arm under the pillow and deftly snuck his left under hers, wrapping it around her midsection, the palm of his hand cupping the space on her side above the right breast. Slowly and simultaneously he brought his head and horns down with deference to the pillow, burying his nose in her hair and nuzzling the back of her neck. Even now just after battling the illness she still smelled faintly of sweet, night-blooming jasmine and the tang of a weather-worn, wooden walkway along a sandy beach, baking in the sun.

She stirred again, moving the hand that rested on her pillow and wrapping it around his, lifting it and pressing it closely to her sternum, fingers lightly entwined.

“I love you, Walter,” she yawned softly, before her breathing quieted back down and became regular again. He gently kissed the back of her ear and whispered into it softly, “I love you, too, Barbara. So very, very much.”

[shhh-no-ones-home]

personal jesus* frank castle x reader

+++++++++

I don't usually add these disclaimers but this fic is nothing really close to anything I've written before so we'll add 'em anyway. And usually my stories are between 800 and 2500 words but I've exceeded that on this one so I'll add that too.

Wc: 2741

Warnings: canon level blood and gore mention, stitching him up, bad words, smut, and the likeness. It's very vulgar.

*- this is nothing but smut. Porn with a little bit of plot basically. Thigh riding, nipple play, not really a blood kink but like maybe if you squint, dick riding, unprotected p in v (please use protection in real life), and I think that's it. Enjoy 🥴

Song: joker and the thief by wolfmother

tag list: @cynic-spirit

+++++++++

I sat on the couch reading, enjoying my late Saturday evening, the coffee sat under the lamp next to me long forgotten. I was all but consumed and was ready to ignore my alarm telling me to go to bed in the next couple minutes. It was almost midnight but I was determined to finish this book. After all, I only had twelve chapters left. Work could wait.

I flipped the page, new chapter, alarm began to ring. I turned it off and kept reading. Turned my attention to the next page and there was a knock at my door. I rolled my eyes. It's midnight, it couldn't be anyone that important. I flipped the page. Then the banging on the door started. Once, then another time, then another.

"Alright, I'm coming."

I mumbled under my breath, setting the bookmark in the spine and setting the book next to the mug on the side table. There was another slam of a fist against my door as I peaked through the peephole. It was frank and he didn't look great.

"Shit."

I mumbled under my breath as I fiddled with the door chain quickly. In a matter of rushed seconds the door was open and he was stumbling forward into my arms.

"What the fuck frank?"

I inquired a little annoyed, kicking the door closed and walking him to the kitchen table.

"I was gonna go home but your place was closer."

He groaned as I set him in the leather chair.

"And if I don't get this taken care of I'm gonna bleed out."

His voice was gruff, head dropping back against the back of the chair as I assessed him. He was covered in blood and I couldn't tell if it was his or someone else's. But knowing him it was probably a mixture of both. But as my gaze traveled up his torso and to his neck I noticed something.

"How far down does this go?"

I asked, touching the cut lightly with my finger tips and he jolted upright, grabbing my hand tightly in his own.

"I can't fix it if you don't let me at least see it."

I said and he let out a long shaky breath.

"Start with something else first."

He demanded, voice deep and strained like he'd been yelling. I shook my head.

"I'll be right back."

I look over him one last time before disappearing down the hall. I got in the closet first, getting everything I needed out of it before going back to the kitchen and filling a bowl with warm water.

"So, how much of this is yours?"

I asked, pulling up a tv tray and setting the bowl on it, soaking a wash cloth. He sent me a look, resituating in his seat to get comfortable, legs spread wide and one hand resting on each thigh.

"No, answer, per usual. That's fine."

I mumbled under my breath as I got to work wiping the blood off his face. I was careful not to push on the bruises I could see, taking extra care around the cuts and scrapes. There was a small one under his left eye, another deep into the brow bone. That One he hissed at when I went over it. I shook my head.

"I need to see this at a batter angle."

I stated boldly before straddling his left thigh and tilting his head up and to the side for more light. He looked at me for a moment, holding his breath as I rinsed the rag and got back to work. It took him a second to let the air back out, when he realized I didn't care what he was doing beneath me.

"This must've been some fight."

I mentioned more to myself than anything. He stared back ahead of him, swallowing hard.

"You should see the other guy."

He said quietly and I snorted, wiping the remaining blood off his face.

"Something tells me he'll be in the paper later this week under that section in the back titled 'obituary'."

He side eyed me, tightening his jaw as I moved to open my kit. I started with q-tips and rubbing alcohol, and setting out a few small butterfly bandaids.

"This is gonna hurt."

I said and he huffed a laugh out, as if to say sarcastically 'and you think it didn't hurt when it happened?' But I just ignored it. I dipped the first q-tip into the alcohol and pressed it to the cut under his eye. He hissed and jerked away and I sent him a look.

"Sit still or it's gonna get infected."

He drew his brows at me before going back to where he was before.

"If it hurts that bad, just squeeze here."

I said, grabbing his hand that had been situated under me on his thigh and placing it against my hip.

"But don't move."

I said firmly, holding his jaw tightly with one hand and getting back to work. His breathing was unsteady as I ran a new qtip dipped in alcohol over the cut. It was still trying to scab so I was getting more coagulated blood than I had originally bargained for. He kept his jaw locked in place as I added the bandaid to the cut under his eye. Now onto the brow bone. It was deeper, still running blood down and almost into his eye. It was a race between me and it and luckily I was winning. When I touched it with the qtip he squeezed my hip so tightly i made a pained noise.

"Shit."

We said in unison and I shook my head.

"Sit still."

I said annoyed, grabbing another bandaid and positioning it around his eyebrow. When it was on I moved his head again via his jaw to make sure there weren't any more. I had cleaned all the blood off already and the only traces of the fight that were left were the deep purple and yellow bruises littered under his left eye and across his nose and right cheek. I nodded once in content before pushing his head to look up and inspecting the deep cut that started at the base of his jaw and got thicker the further under his shirt collar it got.

"I need to look at this now."

I said and he sighed.

"Fine but don't do that shit you just did to my face."

I rolled my eyes.

"Big baby."

He glared at me before letting his death grip on me go and lifting his shirt. My eyes went wide as his shirt hit the table in a wet heap. The cut went all the way to his sternum and was all but gushing blood.

"Why the fuck didn't we start with this?!?"

I said in a loud, angry tone, looking from the cut to his face.

"Didnt want you to worry."

He managed and I shook my head, getting my stuff out quickly.

"No, you don't get to do that. All this time and you could've been dead in my kitchen."

I said a little more pissed off than I meant. I started again by wiping the blood away, holding a dry wash cloth to his chest to stop it from bleeding more.

"Hold this, lots of pressure."

I instructed, his right hand coming up and doing as told. His left hand went back to my side as I started cleaning the small part of the cut at his jaw.

"What did you do frank?"

I inquired, again more as a 'thinking out loud' than looking for an actual answer.

"I backed up before he could run me all the way through. Damn ninja. Sliced up, almost took my fucking ear off."

I sent him a look, one he returned as I cleaned the thinner part of the cut, adding butterfly bandaids; two on his throat, one on his collar bone, one just below it on the edge of his peck.

"That's gonna need stitches."

He sighed, sinking further into the chair and his lower stomach pressing against my thighs.

"Alright. Let's get it over with."

He complied and i bit my tongue. I quickly got everything out, sterilized the needle and he moved his hand. It was still bleeding and I knew this would be messy. I leaned forward to get a better look and his hand went with my hip.

"Why don't you just sit."

He said and I looked up to him, brows drawn.

"What?"

I asked and he rolled his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips but it was barely there.

"Sit."

He said, grabbing my waist and pushing me down onto his leg. I made a surprised noise and he laughed, groaning a bit.

"fine, but don't move, I don't want to make it worse."

He stared down at me intently as I got to work stitching him up. His gaze was intense and he kept his iron grip on my hip the entire time. I would be flustered if I weren't so focused. The stitches were barely helping as I sewed against his chest. It was still bleeding a lot. And when the stitches were done it seemed like I had more work to do than when I started. I moved to clean it and he caught my hand.

"Is that really necessary?"

He asked and I deadpanned.

"Yes frank now let go."

I said sternly and he did, brows drawn as I poured the alcohol over his chest. He hissed, throwing his head back as he bruised my hip more. The blood ran freely down his torso as he breathed heavily, it rippling against his abs as they tensed. I took another dry rag and wiped it off. The bleeding was starting to slow now that the cut was together and I was more relieved. He looked back down at me, his chest rising and falling quickly.

"Shit woman you sure know how to do a number on me."

I smirked at him as I leaned over and put the stuff back on the tv tray.

"I've had a lot of practice."

I said a little cocky and he smiled.

"Good thing too."

He said and I rolled my eyes playfully.

"You're a menace frank castle. But I wouldn't want it any other way."

He just stared at me for a second and then I realized I was still sitting on him and should probably get up before it gets weird. I placed my hands at his shoulders and tried but he still had a grip on me that was prohibiting me from doing so.

"Frank?"

I asked and in a second his lips were against my own. It was then that I'd realized he had a cut on his lip. He tasted like iron and hissed through his teeth when I ran my tongue across it. I smiled against him but he kept going. It was needy and rushed and everything I had imagined it would be. Not that I had thought about it often but he wound up in my apartment covered in blood a couple times a month so I'd be lying if I said it hadn't crossed my mind once or twice.

"Frank."

I moaned against him as he kissed the side of my mouth, then my jaw, then across my neck. My arms were around his shoulders now, holding on for dear life as his hands roamed my body. I adjusted against his thigh and he growled against my ear, his hands guiding me to do it again. I did it without even thinking, pressing my core further against him if that was even possible. I could feel myself getting wetter and wetter and before I knew what was happening my own blood soaked shirt was off and sitting next to his on the glass table.

"I've been wanting to do this for a while."

He confessed through staggered breaths as he undid my bra, his mouth traveling across my collar bone and down my chest. Then my nipple was in his mouth and I was moaning again. I scratched lightly at the back of his head with one hand and trailed my finger tips down his torso with the other, being careful not to touch the cut. As I got further down his motions slowed, and when I began palming him through his jeans he rested his forehead against my chest and breathed heavily.

"Shit."

He breathed out and I laughed, his hips pushing up to meet my hand. He was already hard and I could tell he wanted more. As I undid his pants he sat back upright, kissing me again like his life depended on it. It was just as harsh and sloppy as before but he froze when I took him out of his pants, stroking him lightly. His eyes were closed and his mouth hung open and I could feel his hands at my thighs trying to push into my pajamas shorts. I kissed across his face, feeling his hot breath fan over my jaw and neck.

"Need you. Now."

He said, finally looking at me. His pupils were blown out and his eyes were black with lust as he pulled my one leg over his right one so I was sitting on his lap properly now. I kissed him again as he pushed my shorts and panties to the side, holding me against him. I looked down long enough to line him up and sank down onto him. I moaned at the new feeling, watching as he dropped his head back against the chair, his brows knitted together as he screwed his eyes shut. I kissed across his exposed neck and chest as I moved on top of him. His legs were still spread wide beneath me, helping me out as I rode him.

"Shit. Faster."

He managed, looking back to me as his hands gripped my ass tightly.

"Yes sir."

I said playfully, and he groaned. As I did as told he slapped my ass and I squealed in surprise, clenching around him. He screwed his brows together, watching my every move with intent as I bounced on top of him quickly.

"Frank."

I moaned, reaching down to circle my clit as he kept me steady on top of him.

"Keep going beautiful."

He encouraged and I dropped my head back, feeling the knot build in my stomach.

"Frank."

I whined again, my legs beginning to shake.

"Just a little bit more."

He grunted out, thrusting up to meet me as my movements got slower.

"Oh god."

I said panicked, as I felt closer, him pounding up into me.

"Oh my god."

I yelled as my body shook, my orgasm ripping through my body, pussy clenching around him. He held me close as I shook on top of him, riding out my high as he chased his own.

"Y/n."

He moaned, his thrusts getting harsher.

"Y/n."

He said a little louder and I could hear the chair creak. I lifted up and dropped to meet him and he moaned loudly against my neck, hand placed firmly at my back as he came in me. I could feel him twitch against my walls as his pace slowed. We both breathed heavily, sporadically, as we calmed down. We still had a death grip on each other, my arms around his shoulders, his arms around my waist, our heads pressed against one another. It was like the aftermath of a hurricane.

"Thanks."

I said through a breathy laugh and he sat up, brows drawn in confusion. His hands were at my hips now and I could feel him going soft in me.

"For what?"

"For the great ride cowboy."

I said with a wink and he smiled, shaking his head at me.

"Is that a fair trade off?"

He asked and I shrugged.

"I stitch you up and you cum in me, I don't know if that has the same affect."

He laughed, kissing my cheek.

"Would it make it better if I helped clean up?"

He asked, gazing up at me, an innocence to him that I hadn't seen before.

"How about this. We go take a shower to get this blood off both of us and then we'll see where that takes us."

He kissed my jaw, tracing his fingers lightly up my back.

"Sure thing doc."

[windblooms]

eeee I loved your headcannons for Xiao’s love interest!! Your writing never fails to make me smile, may I request for Diluc’s love interest?

:’) reading your message made me smile too anon 💛

diluc isn’t one to go out of his way to socialize.  coupled with the fact that he prefers to work alone professionally, i can see him feeling the most comfortable with someone who isn’t loud or showy, and is instead level-headed.

however, someone with quick wit and sense of humor would catch his attention quickly – and in a good way!  

diluc is dry™.  he isn’t just brooding in a corner, complaining about the knights all the time.  he’s snappy when he talks, with a tone so deadpan that you might not be even sure he’s joking; he has mirth in him, even if his perspective is cynical.  so, someone who can catch his drift and even add onto his comedy?  that'd be perfect. 

he’s got some old wounds to heal that aren’t apparent in the current storyline.  kaeya is a sore topic for him, or really anything that has to do with the knights – but if someone he’s interested in is affiliated or part of the knights, i can see him mentioning at least once that they shouldn’t. 

he’ll respect your choice if you decide to stay, since you’re strong and capable enough to make your own choices.  but if he can protect those he cares about, he’ll make his stance and opinions very clear.

but to the point – if they’re apart of the knights, that won’t deter his affections. 

diluc, again dispite his portrayal, has been shown as very loyal and has the well-being of others in mind (see here if you’d like examples).  so someone who is firm in their perosnal connections would also jive well with him!

[veorlian]

sacred rituals

for @kanejweek day 5: love (atypical affection & domesticity)

pairing: Kaz Brekker x Inej Ghafa

rating: T (they're talking about murder)

set a few weeks pre-canon so only minimal spoilers!

read it on ao3 here

Kaz rarely spent time on the main floor of the Slat unless he had to. He didn’t want the Dregs getting the wrong idea; he wasn’t their friend. Kaz Brekker wasn’t anyone’s friend.

Instead, he spent most of the time in his office, when he wasn’t walking the uneven streets of the Barrel. It was quiet, far removed from the raucous laughter and fighting and close quarters that generally filled the Slat. It was mostly warm, and mostly dry. Generally, everyone left him alone, and that was the way he preferred it.

Almost everyone.

The fact of the matter was this: Kaz preferred solitude, but he always kept his window open. Even on cold nights, when the wind chilled to the bone. Nights like this one. It was a kind of standing invitation, although he would never admit that. It was an invitation that was nearly always accepted.

He glanced down at the papers on his desk, and he felt the air shift almost imperceptibly.

“Hello Inej,” Kaz said, not looking up from his ledgers. The Wraith moved silently into the room, tugging down her hood.

“How do you do that?” she asked, not for the first time. His eyes flicked to hers before looking away.

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” he said. “Now, what did you find?”

She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she shrugged off her cloak and moved closer to the fire, stoking it from where it had burned down. Kaz pointedly did not pay attention to the way the firelight danced along her hair, the graceful movements of her hands as she warmed them.

“I checked every inch of the washroom, and I don’t have the faintest idea how they pulled it off,” Inej said. “It’s more secure than most mercher safes, from what I’ve seen. No trick tiles, no removable mirror, no vents. The only way in or out is the drain pipes, and I doubt anyone’s managed to train rat assassins.”

“If it was possible, I’d have done it by now,” Kaz replied. Inej snorted, and Kaz’s heart stuttered briefly.

“So that rules out rodent killers, then,” she said wryly. “Floor plan?”

“No trap doors, no secret entrances. No way in or out other than the front door.”

“The locked front door,” Inej finished. “You’d have to walk through walls to get in there. Maybe we’re looking for something otherworldly. Ketterdam’s got no shortage of ghosts.”

“None of whom can hold a knife,” he pointed out. “Present company excepted, of course.”

“Got any theories?” she asked.

He shrugged. “A thousand. None likely.”

“Tell me,” she said. She settled down next to the fire and took out her knives, one by one. There were three new ones, he noted. Soon enough he wouldn’t have to worry about her being injured at all — she was effectively wearing chainmail. Not that he spent time worrying that she’d be injured.

Kaz unfurled the floor plan on his desk and motioned for her to come look. Inej only raised a dark eyebrow.

“I’m half-frozen, Kaz. I’m not getting up until I thaw out,” she said.

“I don’t pay you to relax,” he replied, but he moved over to the fire and set the blueprints down between them. Inej leaned forward, tugging the paper towards her. Her eyebrows knitted together as she looked more closely.

“Where were the guards positioned?” she asked.

“Here, and here.” Kaz used a pencil to mark down the locations. “The main event was taking place here, and there were people with a view of the door here, here, and over there.” He sketched out the lines of sight, and made a note of the guard rotation.

“Whoever it was, they certainly didn’t make it easy for us,” she murmured.

"I doubt they had us in mind when they made the plan," he said dryly.

"Do you share your rapier wit with everyone, or am I the only one that has to suffer it?" she asked, not looking up from the blueprints.

“I notice you haven't offered any suggestions," he said. "Giving up already, Wraith?”

Her eyes met his, holding his gaze for a moment. “If I figure it out first, I expect waffles.”

He couldn’t help the wry smile that flickered across his face. “Dream on, Inej.”

She had perfected the art of silence, and she didn’t make a sound as she looked over the blueprints. The only sounds Kaz could hear were the gentle crackle of the fire and muffled fighting in the distance, filtering in through the open window. He looked everywhere in the room except at her.

“Alright,” she said at last. “Venomous snakes.”

He must have heard her wrong. “Venomous snakes?”

“Trained venomous snakes. Send them up through the drain pipes, they bite the victim, and then they’re well on their way before anyone’s the wiser.”

“There were no bites reported by my source,” Kaz said.

“That doesn’t mean there weren’t any. You know the coroners of Ketterdam aren’t renowned for their attention to detail. And if someone paid them to look the other way…” she let the sentence hang in the air a moment.

“Corruption and bribery? Awfully cynical of you,” he drawled. “What ever would your Saints say?”

She scoffed. “Moral posturing? From you?”

“Me? I’m a pillar of the community. Never set a foot wrong in my life,” he said, entirely deadpan. The look on her face was something that he might well treasure for years.

“Do you think I’m right or not?” she asked exasperatedly. Kaz shook his head, running a hand through his uneven hair to hide the small smile on his face. He realized with a jolt that he was having fun. It wasn’t a feeling he was familiar with.

“All the pressure coming down from the top brass on this one, I doubt that kind of detail would be left out,” he said.

“And what’s your brilliant suggestion, Kaz?” she shot back. Good question, he thought.

“Easy. They bribed the guards and re-locked the door on the way out.” As he said it, he knew that it was weak. A rookie tactic, not something you’d pull to assassinate a high-ranking politician.

“Too risky,” Inej said, confirming his own thoughts. “Too many people there, and there’s no guarantee the guards wouldn’t sell them out. Like you said, too much pressure from the top brass.”

“I’m open to other ideas,” he replied, crossing his arms. Inej shrugged.

“Maybe he killed himself?”

“No weapons found. It’s like you’re not taking this seriously.”

“Still better than ‘they bribed all the guards and re-locked the door at a crowded political event,’” she said, in a passable impersonation of his voice.

They tossed ideas back and forth, each more unlikely than the last. Inej cleaned her knives, quietly setting each down next to her. The fire slowly burned down, casting long shadows across his office. At some point, Inej went to grab some food from the kitchen downstairs. She brought a mug of hot, bitter coffee and set it down next to him.

“Why, thank you, Inej,” she said, in that same rough impersonation of his voice. “How considerate of you to enable my caffeine addiction. So thoughtful and kind of you, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Why would I bother thanking you when you do it for me?” Kaz asked dryly. Inej flashed a rude gesture in his direction before tucking into her dinner.

“It has to have been a Grisha,” Kaz said thoughtfully.

“I’m eating, Kaz, wait a minute,” Inej said around a mouthful of food. She looked pointedly at the second plate she’d brought up. “And it wouldn’t do you any harm to eat something other than coffee.”

Kaz narrowed his eyes at her, but he picked up the food all the same. They were quiet for a few minutes. When she’d finished, Inej shut her eyes and leaned back against the wall. There was a pause, long enough that Kaz began to wonder if she’d fallen asleep.

“That’s not how Grisha work,” she said at last.

“We’ve ruled out every other option,” Kaz argued.

“If Nina or Jesper could pull off something like this, we’d know about it,” she replied.

“And they’re the experts?”

“Certainly more than you are.”

“...I suppose.”

Inej raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Is Kaz Brekker admitting that I’m right?”

“Don’t push your luck, Wraith,” he warned. Her smile widened, and Kaz felt dizzy looking at her. He focused on his too-bitter coffee instead. He heard her let out a sigh.

“I don’t like this, Kaz,” she murmured. “If there’s someone this dangerous out there, I want to know who they are and what they're after.”

He risked a glance at her. The candlelight haloed her face in a way that bordered on angelic. He wondered — not for the first time — if her hair was as soft as it looked.

“I'm sure we'll find out. Someone with this kind of power won’t stop at one hit. I know I wouldn’t.” His voice was calm, but she was right. Anyone that could walk through walls was a very real threat, if only because they were competition.

“Should I go back to have a second look?” she asked. Kaz shook his head.

“If there was a way to crack this, we would’ve figured it out. The truth will come out sooner or later. This city leaks information like a sieve.”

They wouldn’t learn how it had been done for a few weeks. But by then, of course, they had other things to worry about.

[pentacass]

The OC ask for Milah: 6,7,8 and 9

<3

ah...the og oc 🥰 salutations to you, my sweet goodest sir!!

(art by the one and only @hana-blogs of course uwu)

6. in what ways are they most like you?

errr Milah is probably the OC that’s least like me 😅 so she’s most like me in that we are...both hella gay for Ana Amari yas

7. in what ways are they least like you?

She’s a survivor and so damn strong. If I were left behind to die by my squad and suffered through such shit in wartime, uhh not to be dramatic but I would’ve lied down and waited for the earth to take me 

AND she can cook well. And she can ride a motorcycle. And she’s a fierce authority figure. This is gonna take 10 years so let’s stop here lmao

8. what line of dialogue best displays their sense of humour?

"Both have much historical significance," Kamilah deadpanned, cracking Ana's smile into a grin. "I mean you're old."

"Sure. And your complexion can rival that of Cleopatra's."

"Thank you."

"The dried up husk of Cleopatra's remains."

"Thank you," Kamilah repeated drily. "Speaking of remains, shouldn't you be dead?"

(dry humour that goes straight for the jugular)

9. what line best shows who they are? - 2 paras cos i say so :3c

“Kamilah didn't disagree – after all, she considered Hana a part of her family. Much like she did with Angela, and all the other agents who would trudge into medbay and bear her chiding with a sheepish smile.

Somehow, despite her old grudge against Overwatch, she'd accepted them all as family. The irony was not lost on her.” 

Milah might be a grumpy ass and terrorise those around her, but her heart is actually pretty soft. She does care, it’s just hidden behind her particular touch of tough love and a disillusioned, cynical outlook on life.

[linddzz]

my favorite way to imagine willzing as a ship is the stupidest and most hilarious version of "it isnt unrequited they're both just dumb" because in so many ways they get on like a house on fire with their deadpan banter and dry sass combined with being totally down for whatever batshit scheme the other has but when it comes to getting anywhere relationship wise you can see this looming wall of

William "asking any information not freely given is the Pinnacle of Rude Behavior" Laurence

Vs.

Tenzing "if I ever express any feeling beyond dry sarcasm I WILL catch on fire and die" Tharkay

Vs

William "the only thing bigger than my dragon is my imposter syndrome and I don't actually think any of you like me" Laurence

Vs

Tenzing "I can only communicate in the form of cynical hints and smirks" Tharkay

Vs

William "I wouldn't know a hint if it hit me in the face with a brick" Laurence

And it just...makes it hilariously easy to imagine them in the same house with an increasingly frustrated Tenzing physically incapable of expressing more than Maybe Joking Maybe Not hints and watching every single one go sailing over Will's head while this himbo keeps going "I hope us living here isnt a bother my dear friend :(" every day for YEARS until someone snaps