#or mass headcanons? not sure yet

[rippersz]

(Also thank you for the support, I love all of you kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss) - Rip xxxxx

[umemiyan]

𝙋𝙐𝙕𝙕𝙇𝙀 𝙋𝙄𝙀𝘾𝙀𝙎.

( 𝖪𝖨𝖭𝖪𝖳𝖮𝖡𝖤𝖱 𝖶𝖤𝖤𝖪 #1 ･ 𝘖𝘔𝘌𝘎𝘈𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘚𝘌 )

𝗔𝗟𝗣𝗛𝗔!𝗪𝗥𝗜𝗢𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗦𝗟𝗘𝗬 𝗫 𝗕𝗘𝗧𝗔!𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥. ⌇ 18+ only, mdni / omegaverse / reader has a vagina but no gendered pronouns / some imbalanced power dynamics due to wriothesley's position / very brief mentions of + allusions to: crime, prostitution, underage sex / elements of size kink / knotting / biting / a bit of blood / 4.2k words

i know what you're probably thinking: robin, why not omega reader?? well, i thought about it, but then i liked this idea better lol. one of my favorite personal omegaverse headcanons is that betas are able to somewhat hormonally shift to try and temporarily fill the role required by an individual they are in close proximity to, and if exposed long enough, can even become almost a pseudo version of an alpha or omega—at least when it comes to pheromones and maybe some slight physical and behavioral changes. so that's my inspiration, and there are definitely some elements of it in this piece. i hope you enjoy! (dividers by cafekitsune)

The Duke didn’t earn respect through fear but instead through actions that proved he deserved such esteem; however, you had become aware of the fact that he’d always been rather adept at keeping secrets, and while it was more often than not for the good of others, you couldn’t help but wonder what sorts of things he kept locked away for his own sake as well. 

Wriothesley was notoriously difficult to get close to despite his knack for making connections, and after becoming more acquainted with him following your arrival at the Fortress, your curiosity was inevitably piqued. It was nigh impossible not to be intrigued by the highly competent and fiercely handsome administrator of exiles, especially when he had always treated you like something of an equal—a friend, even—yet kept himself at an emotional distance. You concluded it was silly to assume you might ever have a chance at being privy to his private thoughts, but it couldn’t hurt to daydream of the possibility once in a while. There certainly wasn’t much else for you to do down here.

But what you hadn’t really expected was for one of his secrets to be revealed like this.

Sure, he had the disposition for it; in fact, your original inclination upon meeting Wriothesley for the first time was to think that he could be nothing other than a true alpha, his burly figure and authoritative presence lending well to most of the stereotypes. But he never commented on the matter, nor was there any other indication that such was the case. Your fellow inmates held speculation on occasion, but generally came to the conclusion that the Duke was nothing more than a beta gifted with the chops to get things done.

They were wrong. Because that’s what he wanted them to think.

Wriothesley detested the thought of the masses believing his accomplishments were due to his status as an alpha. That was simply never his goal nor his motivation, for all he’d ever wanted was for everyone to be on a relatively equal playing field. In all honesty, his biology had been nothing more than a distracting irritation along the way, clouding his mind when he usually preferred clear judgment. He wasn’t a stiff without a penchant for fun, but being forced to surrender to the impulses of his body hadn’t always gone well for him in the past.

His self-control was unparalleled when assisted by the strong cocktail of hormonal suppressants that Sigewinne was able to regularly administer to him in secret. Not everything was completely erased after having been on the medication for so long, but it was usually more than enough to keep himself in check without having to go to extremes. But it seems his luck had finally run out.

Wriothesley’s office has become a prison within a prison, keeping him locked inside whilst keeping everyone else at bay.

“Please do not disturb the Duke. He is recovering from an illness,” Sigewinne had said, but even several days later, you haven’t seen a single trace of him. You wonder just how bad of an illness this actually is to have him isolated in the administrative office rather than the infirmary, and it leaves you feeling worried for the man you trust most down in this little corner of the ocean. 

Perhaps it’s silly, but having a chat with him after bringing the latest edition of The Steambird to his office every day has become your most beloved routine. It makes you feel as though you’re doing something worthwhile, and it gives you an excuse to see him more regularly than most might—perhaps even have a warm cup of tea if you’re lucky. He also seems to enjoy your company well enough, or at least that’s what you’ve always hoped.

With fresh newsprint between your fingertips, you think surely it can’t be too bad of an idea to check up on him now.

You convince the guards to let you through with the promise of leaving the paper at the inside of the door along with some items you had bought at the cafeteria with your extra credit coupons. You’re sure someone had to have been bringing him regular meals, but it couldn’t hurt to have a little something extra if he had the appetite for it. Warm food could do wonders when you weren’t feeling well.

Upon entering the large doors to the office, you call out, “Wriothesley? Sir? It’s just me. I’ve come to bring you the paper and a few things to eat.” 

You hate to sit the items directly on the ground, so you use one of the spare boxes in the lower lobby as a makeshift table, hoping it’ll be easier for him to reach as well. 

“I know you haven’t been feeling well, but I just wanted to check in on you.”

You are met with nothing but silence and assume that perhaps you had stumbled in on Wriothesley while he was sleeping, but as you grow closer to the winding stairwell, your ears pick up on the faintest of noises; it sounds like someone huffing and groaning in discomfort, and you are immediately stricken with concern.

Taking the next few stairs upwards, you call out once more. “Your Grace? Are you alright?”

It’s really none of your business, but you simply can’t help yourself.

“I’m fine,” he rasps between heavy breaths, making you freeze in your tracks. “Just… stay down there.”

You are inclined to obey given his insistent tone and subsequent silence, but the moment another painful-sounding cry pierces the air, you can’t stop your feet from scrambling up the rest of the staircase. 

As soon as you reach the top, your eyes begin scanning the room for the visual of an ill and impaired individual, expecting to find him immobilized on the office’s sofa or even the cold, hard floor, but you are met with nothing of the sort.

Wriothesley sits limp in the desk chair with an unbuttoned vest, shirt and trousers, skin drenched in a feverish sweat, and a heavy, swollen cock pulsing out the remnants of an unsatisfactory orgasm. His legs are spread wide and covered with release, chest heaving and glistening in the low light alongside the protruding knot that your gaze can’t help but fixate upon.

“I told you to stay away,” he says with breathy defeat, far too exhausted to try and cover himself up like any half-decent man might. He’s been caught and seen for the animal he truly is, so there’s no use in attempting to deny it now. He hasn’t the energy.

With wide eyes, your heart pounds. “You’re an alpha,” you state rather matter-of-factly, frozen in place, almost as if trying to convince yourself of the reality staring you straight in the face.

“What gave it away?” Wriothesley replies while wiping the sweat from his brow. He apparently still has the capacity for a touch of sarcasm.

You can smell it now—the potent pheromones circulating throughout the air, casting a thick shadow over the room, even for someone with the nose of a beta like yourself. Wriothesley is so deep in a rut that it’s impossible for anyone not to notice, which is precisely why you assume he’s been locked here in the office with no contact for days on end.

And by the look of him, isolation hasn’t provided much relief.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were—“

“Don’t,” he stops you, finally working to shove himself beneath the confines of clothing despite the perpetual aching hardness between his legs. “Just… please don’t tell anyone about this.”

You cannot begin to fathom why that is his first request, but you have no reason not to try and honor it. It seems you’ve finally gotten your glimpse into the Duke’s private life, albeit not quite in the way you had anticipated.

Searching for the right words to say, you try and open your mouth to form some sort of response before he speaks again.

“Sigewinne is the only one who knows,” he adds, sinking further into his chair, “but I wouldn’t put it past Clorinde to have some idea.”

You are able to infer from that information alone that he has been using the medical expertise of the head nurse to conceal his biological truth, but it would appear that not even her assistance is enough to keep such things indefinitely at bay. You deduce that Wriothesley has been sentenced to ride out a rut that is far overdue, judging by the iron grip it currently has on him.

You are glued to the spot, standing and staring as you sort each piece of information within your mind. Meanwhile, Wriothesley steeps in the humiliation.

He wishes you would go back down the stairs, taking the secret and your increasingly potent scent with you while leaving him to hope you might have it in your heart to keep this to yourself. He’d rather not be gawked at like an animal in a cage, but he supposes that’s more or less what he has actually come to be. Perhaps it’s what he’s always been.

But you don’t leave, and he doesn’t have the strength to make you. Even if an aggressive streak were to be triggered and brought to the surface, Wriothesley doesn’t think he’d be able to make you the subject of it. Ironically, that frightens him.

He finds your presence alluring but your silence deafening, his own heavy breaths being all that fills the air until you finally decide to make a move. 

Instead of walking away, you step forward. He eyes you, almost as though you’re predator and he’s prey.

“I can help,” you say, a certain decisive tone coloring your voice.

“What?” he replies, taken aback. It’s an admittedly enticing offer given his current state, but is entirely inappropriate nonetheless. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not? I’ve done it before. Once.” It’s a half-truth—you’ve been with an alpha once in your life, but it was in exchange for mora, and certainly not during a rut. But something is compelling you to convince him of your capabilities.

Wriothesley’s cock throbs with each step you take closer to the desk, the energy in the air intensifying beyond comprehension. He can’t imagine using a beta to ease his suffering, forcing someone’s body to accommodate him when it isn’t truly meant to, but every second that passes brings him closer to seeing that he’s fighting somewhat of a losing battle.

It’s not that he hadn’t thought of it before; hell, you’d flashed through his mind several times before he’d blown a thick, wasted load all over himself to try and break the fever. But to succumb to this weakness… it would damage his pride, and the walls he’d so expertly built around himself along with it.

When you’re inches away from the front of his desk, Wriothesley uses his remaining willpower to rise to his feet and make a display that will hopefully ward you off. He plants his palms flat against the wood, leering forward with an expression that looks more pained than authentically wrathful. “You need to leave. Now.”

Were this any other situation, you might be stricken with fear that would prompt you to obey such an intimidating command, but just as he feels compelled to preserve his dignity, you feel the pull of biology and personal conviction keeping you rooted in place. The Duke’s voice does indeed cause your stomach to flip with the sting of anxiety, but it ultimately doesn’t affect your decision.

You lean forward and mimic his position, pressing your weight against the desk until you’re at eye level with him, resolve completely unwavering. “Wriothesley. Let me help you.”

You possess a determination he can’t help but respect, padded with a layer of genuine concern, and he can feel your breath like a warm breeze dancing across his skin. Mixed with the modest yet sturdy quality of your scent—an aroma that he swears only keeps getting sweeter by the minute—it dopes him up like a drug.

Neither of you is entirely sure who was the first to lean into the kiss, but Wriothesley does know that he had every intent of doing it regardless. And now that your lips are on his, coating his tongue in a layer of honey, he finds himself somehow possessing both a raging inferno of thoughts and the utmost clarity of mind.

Truthfully, he hasn’t done this in years. Not since he’d first presented as a teen and mindlessly tracked down the nearest omega in the Fortress. She had been more than willing to break him in, and Wriothesley still has yet to decide whether that was a blessing or a curse.

You’re uncertain of whether you’re driven by the physical need to ease another’s pain or your own selfish inner desires, but none of that will really matter by the time this is over with. All you can focus on in the present is the way he pushes his tongue into your mouth like he’s exploring, consuming, rectifying. There’s almost something juvenile about it.

You climb over the width of the desk to lessen the distance between you, knees dragging over wood until you can properly sit yourself in front of him. Wriothesley happily accommodates you with a couple of strong arms pulling you forward so that he may press himself between your thighs, opening them up to provide him with more access your scent.

“I could smell you coming up the stairs,” he pants between frantic kisses, bulge grinding against your center like an omen.

“You’ve been pent-up for way too long if you’re smelling betas,” you reply. It’s not untrue, but the smell of him has weaseled its way around your senses as well, stronger and with more allure. Perhaps this is what happens when you accidentally spend too much time with an alpha in hiding.

Writothesley nudges your jaw with his nose and cascades kisses down your neck like he’s been your lover for a hundred different lifetimes. “Yeah, well maybe I just really like this beta,” he says before tonguing over your scent gland with a nice, slow drag, instincts more in control than anything. You’ve broken him down like a man made of straw.

Little by little, he practically coaxes the pheromones out of you, your body working on overdrive to try and compensate for what you lack. It doesn’t hit quite the same as it might if you were an omega, but Wriothesley hardly knows this difference, and even if he did, he doesn’t care; this is the only relief he’s felt in days—years, even.

Your fingers wrap around his length, and he hisses against your throat, hips reflexively bucking forward in the search for more. He’s hot and throbbing, aching to be buried in a warm cunt that he can claim with a knot, and it’s never felt so good to be completely at the mercy of his own instinctive drive. In his compromised state of mind, Wriothesley wonders why it is that he’s been fighting it off for so long.

“I think that’s just the rut talking,” you say, breathing into his mouth as you pump his cock a few times for good measure, every inch already standing at attention for you. A fountain of pre-cum dribbles from the head and down the underside of his shaft, and you’d like to believe it’s because of the way he feels about you, but you wouldn’t be willing to bet very much on it.

However, he challenges your sentiment.

“Not a chance,” Wriothesley states rather assuredly, slamming his lips into yours for another selfish taste. You’re curious as to whether or not it’s the truth, and if it is, how long he’s been managing to keep this secret as well. But, once again, the logistics of it don’t matter, because he’s leaning you back until your spine makes contact with the desk, completely intent on sealing the deal either way.

Your shoes are pulled off with haste, as well as everything from the waist down, his brute strength hardly requiring him to fiddle with any intricacies involved in your clothing. Wriothesley is simply desperate to see your dripping slit with his own eyes and run a thumb through it, spreading the relatively meager amount of slick around your folds and sizing up the little hole that’s tucked inside.

He won’t fit. He’s not supposed to.

But it’ll be tight. So tight. He can already feel the squeeze.

With a bead of sweat racing down his temple and a rough thumb circling around your entrance, he asks for clarification. “Are you sure about this?”

You wish he’d move higher, press his fingerprint to your clit or at the very least stick the digit inside you, but he exercises more patience than your typical alpha might. How long will it last? You don’t dare try and find out, instead nodding your head with confidence. “Yes. I’m sure.��� Your back arches off the surface, seeking more stimulation between your thighs. “It’ll be fine.”

Your scent swirls around his head like an aphrodisiac, and the consent is all he requires to further indulge. Wriothesley steps back and bends forward to seek the smell at its source, letting the fantastical feeling overtake him and launch a wave of desire straight down to his cock. His nervous system is ordering him to do nothing other than fuck and fill, but even so, he licks filthily up your slit with desperation, collecting you upon his tongue to get one last hit to fuel the high.

The sensation pushes a shiver through your center all the way to the tips of your fingers, and you’ve never fed off of someone’s need in a manner such as this until now. You might not offer exactly what nature dictates he requires, but the utter lust that drips from his mouth and the gaze of those icy blue eyes makes you believe for a moment that perhaps you really do. He taps the heavy head of his cock between your folds, and it somehow feels more right than most anything thing else in your life leading up to this point.

Wriothesley is captivated by the slick sensation of sliding himself along your pussy, watching the sticky fluid claim the majority of his length with its clear shine. His heart pounds from the intimacy of it until he’s pushing inside, no longer able to keep himself from being inside you.

It’s a quick coupling—pulsing tip dragging forward until it reaches your limits a second later, parting you around him with a burn that makes your nostrils flare. He doesn’t slam his hips into yours because there’s still a few spare inches he can’t quite work inside, and now that you’re stretched around him, you’re grateful for His Grace’s mercy.

Your determination had caused you to overlook the sheer size of him—or rather overestimate your own ability to receive it—because Wriothesley fills your insides to a degree with which you were hitherto unfamiliar. To turn back now, however, would be to admit cowardice and defeat, an embarrassment you should not wish to bring upon yourself were he even to allow you, and truthfully… you aren’t entirely opposed to this feeling of fullness, whether it brings discomfort or not.

Your thighs tremble at the same frequency as your lower lip, but you otherwise maintain a face of bravery as the Duke begins to move his hips, forcing you open again and again until you begin to accept his body as part of your own. He drops to hover over you with a growl that echoes along your throat before teeth graze over it, keen on sinking into flesh but still strong enough to refrain—that is, until your first moan wraps around his ear like your arms around his back, coaxing him into allowing himself to be free.

Wriothesley’s fingers anchor themselves into your hips as he moves into you with an increasing intensity, pushing a little more of his length into you each time now that your cunt has decided to receive it with a sticky, wet noise upon every thrust. He can feel your walls trying to allow him to carve a space inside them despite the lingering resistance that dizzies him, making him have to add a little more force behind each movement of his hips so that you can’t successfully shut him out.

It’s as though he’s invading your entire being—cock reaching your throat and stealing your breath, heavy rib cage weighing upon your chest until it seems as though your bones might fuse together into an anomaly. If he could speak or show you the inner workings of his mind, you’d know that he feels the same way, and while the overwhelm brings forth a sudden surge of anxiety, neither of you would alter the suffocation. 

Who says your bodies weren’t meant for each other? Sometimes the wrong puzzle pieces still fit together.

Once he’s managed to nestle every inch inside of you, even down to where the knot will start to swell sooner rather than later, the force of Wriothesley’s thrusts reach a caliber that shifts the massive desk beneath you. He bruises your hips with every slam and every squeeze of his fingertips, but it all pales in comparison to the way the pleasure blooms within you each time his broad tip nudges against your favorite spot. That paired with the dark, coarse hair that grinds into your clit makes you incapable of acknowledging anything else.

Your fingers grasp at his shirt while he huffs and grunts in your ear, cock stretching out your hole and effectively making it his, even if only in his mind. He kisses you until someone’s lip is nicked open by teeth and spreading copper between your tongues until moments later, you sense an increase in his pace.

“Bite down wherever you can,” he tells you breathlessly between the groans falling from his lips, and you search his face with a confused look in your eye. “Just do it,” he insists.

Wriothesley feels the base of his cock beginning to swell, release inevitable now that he’s had his fill. He buries his face so that he can feel your pulse and push into you with all he has, and as he feels you obey his command, teeth sinking into the flesh of where his shoulder meets his neck, he can’t help but return the favor, stinging you with his own canines.

The rush of pain and the growl he emits has you spasming around his cock in an instant, vision going dark and a small gush of fluid splashing around the knot that pops into your hole immediately after. Your eyes shoot open at the feeling as Wriothesley stills himself almost entirely, cum rushing out against your womb in thick ropes until you feel completely full of fire. All you can do is bite down harder with a whimper as your entire body tenses from the pain, meanwhile Wriothesley mindlessly rocks his hips like an animal to fuck himself deeper until there’s absolutely no room left for him inside you. 

Tears brim at your eyes even after the worst of the burn is over, and you didn’t think you could feel any fuller than you did before, but he has proven you wrong once again.

Wriothesley shudders and heaves for breath above you, releasing you from his bite and re-orienting himself post-euphoria. You follow suit and slowly bring your mouth away from his skin, only to see a small trickle of blood making its way down his collarbone and dropping directly onto your clothing. You hadn’t even noticed the metallic taste on your tongue until now.

He takes note of your wet lashes and feels an ache of regret deep within his chest. Although he could hardly begin to describe the heavenly experience that had just consumed him, he is unable to separate himself from the guilt of what he has done to you.

“Let me take you to the infirmary,” he pants, even as his body grows boneless while he is still locked inside you indefinitely. You find it ironic given that he is the one who drips with blood, but you wouldn’t even notice if you had been punctured as well.

Your body learns to relax around the intrusion and lets you finally release the breath you’d kept trapped high up in your lungs, granting you the faculty of speech.

“No,” you reply, knowing full well that having the Duke escort you in his arms across the Fortress, each of you doused in sweat and each other’s scent, would only mean the mass unveiling of his secret. “Just… let me rest here for a moment.” Given the way his hips are sealed against yours, rest is your only option.

Wriothesley admittedly cares little for his reputation at the moment—not when your well-being has crept into his chest and taken immediate priority. He certainly isn’t opposed to spending an inappropriate amount of time welded against you, appreciating how beautiful you look misted by sweat and bearing the imprint of his teeth, but he knows that the longer you’re here, the more he’s going to want you for good.

“I’d be happy to oblige, but…” he pauses and presses his forehead to yours, “if you stay here, I’m only gonna end up wanting to do that all over again.”

[duck-a-doodle]

COD Headcanons: Soft Intimacy

SFW thoughts on what would unravel the COD boys. This is my first post for this fandom, and my entry point to it was the MWII campaign and a few comics, so it might be slightly OOC. In the meantime, I will keep doing research and I hope this brings you joy! :-) -CH

Masterlist 7/14/2024

Simon "Ghost" Riley silently relishes light scratches. The kind that runs slowly, gently down the scalp or round the ears, feathering across his scapula over the thin fabric of his shirt and the underside of his arms. He shudders at getting his spine or ribs traced, head spinning at the idea of fingers so tender taking long, tantalising hours to outline all of himself, the electrifying comfort flickering his heavy eyelids. Heavy as he is, the man is quick to persuade that you rest your weight upon him during such domestic ministrations; he curses, however, at your much more compelling affections, falling prey to the charms of your worship. Slowly, but surely, he leans forth — first dropping his head to your shoulder while languid nails crawl down his cheek, then falling to his hands and soon, his elbows — gliding his head down your collarbone and onto your beating chest, where he recognises that you are most ardently obsessed of him as he is of you. “Obsessed” is much too simple a word  and “reverent”, too large an understatement. His skin is yours, his mind is yours, his breath, his tongue, and every crevice of himself he can count; a gift and homage to your hands, his temple. As he finally sinks all of himself into you with a groan and a sigh, he gingerly lifts his heavy hands, resting them warmly by your sides and over your ribs, in hopes to return all your love with the altogether humble gesture. On days which he stubbornly wishes to do the same for you, he mimics the way you touch him, in every precise manner and every exact order, seeking nooks and crannies that warm your skin or hitch your breath. He will weakly protest, however, moments which your hands reach too close to him outside of these intimate instances, causing light, inadvertent whimpers from the back of his throat.

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Captain John Price likes using his hands for carrying. “Brutish” is an adjective familiar and frequent to his bear paws, trained to caress cold, carbons steel and paint itself in red, smelling only of matches and rust.  The warmest things his hands have known are the arms and backs of his fallen men and the barrel of his heartless iron, the touch of it comparable to a Londoner’s December. You, in place of the metal, you, strong yet brittle and you, lighter to him than a C4, grenade or flashbang, are his respite, reprising over the smoke of his numerous deployments, where his hands took more than they gave. He cannot help the pliant hips and waist that fit his palms seamlessly, more harmless than the many miry grounds he trekked before — a kind, relenting texture which spoil his weathered, calloused digits with the knowledge that they are utterly malleable to you, benign to you, void of all menace. Coarse fingers drag and curl your silhouette as your mass rests weightlessly on his arms and shoulders, yielding to his calculated strength. That he can evoke a laugh or an exclamation of surprise is a source of endless pride; a gentle nudge that the Captain John Price can tickle fancy by exercising a fraction of his brawn on something worldly. He could lift your groceries, the couch, your books — but  he likes to sweep off your feet the most. Trailing your thighs, calves, the small of your back are the hands that seek reminder of his humanity, tendons and phalanges flexing with every curve it meets, venerating eyes never leaving yours which watch his display of muscle with great wonder. For you, he would carry the world. Thus, in his words, “my back is strong enough to carry both our weights for a lifetime, if you’d let me.”

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John "Soap" McTavish has developed a habit of pawing. The abundance (if not exclusive presence) of tough military equipment, smoking alloys and dogged combat routines necessitated his use of hard, impenetrable gloves. Its rugged, protective textile has unwittingly sensitised his hands to various surfaces, including bare skin. He hesitated to touch you, timorous from his own want, curiosity and the unknown. Gone are his inhibitions when graced with your guiding hands, easing the earth-riddled cowhide off his palms. Aimless hands follow your lead, pressing into you over his Henley you borrowed. Finding purchase upon your stomach, he gradually grows accustomed to the fondness of your abdomen, shortly braving his way to your chest with sturdy yet clumsy paws. A current crackles down his body as he toys with the ripples of fabric adorned by your skin, indulgence rapidly surging from his fingers to his giddy head — he is soon to be all over you, his newfound contentment switching into overdrive. Respiration turning laboured, those once shy hands grow ravenous and wayward, roaming under the influence of his enthusiasm; every sharp inhale and strained noise he extorts from you only serves to encourage him further, inciting cheeky gropes at your sides, inner thighs and behind. What would eventually drive his mind over the edge, when you finally decide he is too much, is your folding a very surprised McTavish down onto the couch over you, keeping his head to your tummy and his hands tucked to your sides, imploring him to behave himself. Chiding him to act proper was an error on your behalf; his demeanour shifts, mischief clear in his eyes as he unabashedly explores all of you, pawing at you with every naughty intent fathomable.

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Kyle "Gaz" Garrick is crazy about being sat on. By no means a foolhardy nor gormless soldier, he holds himself to high decorum with immense discipline, ever an air of diplomacy about his person. None would have imagined that a simple act as sitting on his lap would send him reeling, rendered silent for fear of speaking with neither form nor cohesion. He turns light-headed watching your thighs pool like molten lava, quads sweltering from mere contact, let alone the pleasurable tension of your weight balancing precariously off his trembling knees. Worried that his legs would tire, you made to rise, wanting to relieve him of your own gravity but you were firmly held in place; two large, veined hands anchor you resolutely onto unmoving thighs, and any attempts of persuasion, made in the interest of his own comfort, faced flat rebuffal. Gratitude towards Lady Luck nearly spills from his lips, numb with inadvertence, as you nestle your heft upon him, for want of better comfort. You mistaking his lap for an empty stool was akin to setting his legs on fire, but to make yourself comfortable against him? For a man who prided himself for his class and propriety, he quickly found himself immensely burdened with sin, and subtlety became a language long forgotten. Had he any sense left in him that was not knocked out of the ballpark by your charming self, he would not be finding himself gently playing with the hem of your shirt, folding funny shapes with the fabric between his clammy fingers. Savoury dreams of you enticed him, swimming behind his glossy eyes that are unresponsive to the lights that danced across his features. Oh, you were so much trouble to him, colouring him brazen and so very warm. He loves it, however, and you will soon find what a fiend and a devil you can be when you later use this against the soldier's poor heart.

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Alejandro Vargas will die for your scent. Tantamount to a hound, no vaquero could catch the winds of change for miles around the way he could. The smell of burning tyres against the asphalt of the streets, the oils and perfumes of the same shop houses, the settling dust of his own base, and the routine spritz of air freshener that now smelled of lemon instead of mint ever since the new hire came on duty. Where Alejandro worked, the bittersweetness of gunpowder that sweeps his olfactory is his peace, and the constant heatwave that boils a Proust phenomenon out of the hanger persists in the back of his senses, subtle yet certain. No delicate change challenged his sharpness. He has a full bible to list it all, memorised from the front to back — and though he may not be religious, he is a madly devoted man. A hypervigilance that cannot be removed must find a reprieve, and only a single odour, long seared into his mind, pulls at him not first from the mind but from the heart. You, who smelled of his blankets, you, whose shampoo and T-shirt he recognised not from the brand but from its lingering aroma, and you, who could never surprise him with your presence because the scent of you would enter the room before his name falls from your lips, and before his eyes could reach yours. You remain the only person who turned his head with such impassioned and obsessed vigour, and he knew he was done for ever since. He would press his nose deep into your cheek, your neck, or the back of your nape and find himself at home as he stood in a room full of coldhearted artillery. No proper explanation was ever given when you find a shirt or two missing over the months of his deployment, but secretly, you had always known. And like the cheek you are to his mischief, you bask in the darker colour of his cheeks when you find that mysterious missing shirt hidden in the pile of laundry from his deployment.

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Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra likes soft whispers. Such light, airy and vertiginous words that kiss the shell of his ears — they would rob the man of his joints. Everyday exchanges of each other’s day ground him and ruin him, discernible only by both your ears. While he lends his body to the field, bloody and savage, in his heart there stands a single white flag signed in your name, by his hand; in a head overrun with sounds of distorted infrared voices, caterpillar tracks crushing against gravel and of heartless iron shells dropping at two hundred rounds per minute, your quiet words remain. A man of few words must have so much thought that weighs on his tongue, until it becomes too heavy to express. Surely, you must be a godsend. The way you effortlessly loosen the words from his hardened teeth, clenched too tightly still lest a bullet comes to bite, pulls shivers from his lips and down his watery lashes. Something about your bottom lip renders him helpless, and he finds that he must rest his thumb on your lower lip to lessen the giddiness that threatens to beat his heart out of his flaming chest. Permanently latched onto the rich timber of your voice was a man desperate to preserve you, so much that he keeps all your voicemails to him and labels them by the topic, just so he can find exactly when he needs to hear, when he needs to hear it. Moments of quietude in his bunk led one thought to the next, and he often ended the day with your voice embracing the deepest parts of his soul through an old, wired earpiece, wondering if you knew what gravity you had upon him. Perhaps you do know, he believed decidedly — because when he played a new recording you sent him during his deployment, his fingers violently mashed the volume-down button of his device at your rather unique choice of words, spoken at a careless whisper. You knew he had listened to it, as the first thing he did when he returned was to hold you in your place, and return all the salacious whispers he received right back to the bane of his heart. Ten-fold.

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König has an obsession with trapping. Hugs come rare to a man of his nature; imposing, wild and unacclimated to the civilised world. When arms do find their way around him, his own snakes around them, encircling the sensation, holding it close and praying that it seeps into his skin, permeating his senses to remain seared in his remembrance. Yet, more than once, he finds the same arms, over and over, routine the way the birds must sing and the poets must write. Always your arms, by his initiative. Greed will be his downfall and he knows, and he gladly embraces his defeat, relenting to your winsome self without remorse. Never would he deem himself a small man, albeit despite the notion, he shrinks; younger and younger he becomes with you, compressed to his front as much as your skins would let, as much as his strength allows without colouring your flesh a bluish-purple, until he is but a boy cradling his most dear Bärchen, unwilling to let go. He watches with blooming gratification, the exhale that falls from your lips as you press together, eyes drooping from the pleasant pressure that grounds you to earth, all because it is he who holds you. He drinks the sight and lets the view inebriate his already intoxicated mind. On the occasion when he becomes the bear-trapped, he will amuse himself with your too-small arms that fail to close around him, and will quickly turn the tables, subjecting you to his drunken coos with an onslaught of “mein Schatz”es, “Schnuckiputzi”s and “liebling”s. Greed will be his downfall, but you must be his renaissance.

P.S.: Can you tell that I read Pride & Prejudice before writing the TF141's and König's parts? I can. :'-)

[flawseer]

On Mudwing Culture

My last deliberation on Seawings and their eccentric insult vocabulary seemed to be well-received, so here is another one of my headcanons:

Mudwings are seriously into food.

I know, pretty revolutionary take when there is only a handful of named Mudwing characters, and two of them love eating so much that it either almost or entirely eclipses their personality.

But Clay and Ochre are not what I am talking about. This isn’t about a love of eating (though many Mudwings admittedly do have that). I’m suggesting that, out of all the tribes from Pyrrhia, Mudwings are at the forefront of food preparation and culinary innovation, to the point where a large part of their culture revolves around it.

The State of Food Preparation on the Continent

Pyrrhia as a conglomerate of different cultures largely sustains its populations through hunting and gathering. The average dragon, when the hunger pangs set in, will make a hasty trip into the nearest forest, cave, or scavenger den and round up some prey animals. In most cases, this prey will go straight from the talons to the mouth, or, if the hunter is a bit more forward-thinking, into the pantry, and then from talons to the mouth.

There are a few variations of this practice; Skywings may give the carcass a quick roast on an open flame before eating it, Sandwings may dry the meat out so the excess moisture does not upset their internal water balance, Rainwings will prefer fruit over meat. Icewings will nearly always consume their prey raw and unseasoned, as their extremely delicate palate is easily overwhelmed by intense flavors that may be released through cooking.

More complex forms of food preparation seem to exist mostly outside the scope of the general populace. The practice of “cooking” appears to be limited to the ranks of aristocracy, with dedicated cooks only found within the court of a queen or in private households of other high-born individuals. It creates a sharp divide between commoners and social elites, between the wealthy and (as Sea Queen Coral once put it so succinctly) the “eel-eating masses”. All exemplified through the differing standards of food.

And yet somehow, standing in stark contrast to everywhere else on the continent, nearly every Mudwing-- from the most low-born runts of the Diamond Spray Delta to the most decorated head advisors in the Queen’s palace --knows how to cook, and will do so regularly.

Why is that, and how did it happen?

Historical Benefits of Cooking

Most things that form the backbone of a culture usually start with some ancient practice that was useful at some point in time and then, as people kept doing it, eventually got absorbed into public awareness and became “the way things are done”.

Mudwings face a unique challenge compared to anyone else, as they are the only tribe whose combat prowess is significantly affected by their environment, specifically climate, weather, and temperature. Sure, you can take any dragon, drop them into an unfavorable climate, and they will generally perform worse than under normal circumstances. But the unique weakness of Mudwings is that they lose their breath weapon when they get too cold. Place an Icewing into a burning room and they will still be able to use their frost breath. Pluck a Sandwing from their dry environment and drop them into the humid, sweltering hell of the jungle, their natural weapons will still function. But make a Mudwing cower between two piles of snow for a while, and their internal fire will go out quickly.

As you might imagine, this is a bit of a liability when you have to defend your territory from Skywings hiding and scheming among the frozen peaks bordering your country.

So the ancient Mudwings had to figure out a solution to their conundrum, and what they came up with was this: They got a large pot and filled it with water, threw in all manner of meats, plants, and herbs, whatever they could find where they were holed up, then boiled it until it was good and filling. The hot food in their bellies helped them stay warm even at high altitudes and allowed them to stand their ground against the northwestern invaders.

Soon it became tradition for troops to share a hotpot the night before battle, and a rich variety of hearty broths and stews developed from there, as these were simple to make from scraps and could be reheated easily. The practice became so popular, the Mudwings kept doing it even during peacetime. Soon, in addition to the hunting of prey animals that was commonplace, Mudwings began to cultivate vegetable gardens to have access to a more stable supply of ingredients. Eventually, their growing understanding of agriculture allowed them to grow rice, which was especially well-suited to the abundance of wetlands found in their territory. Everyone was cooking now.

The Role of Food in Mudwing Society

If you ask several Mudwings which core values represent their tribe best, many would likely put forward some variation of “camaraderie”, “family”, or “loyalty to your sibs”. They are a very social people who form deep bonds with those whom they grew up with, and one of the most direct ways to grow close to someone is to share your meals with them every day. As such, the preparation and consumption of food is a vital part in maintaining cohesion between members of a Mudwing sibling group.

Every one of these groups will have a “Bigwings”, which is understood to be a combination of a leader and caretaker role. The Bigwings is aware of all of their sibs’ culinary preferences and needs and has all of the troop’s recipes memorized. When mealtime approaches, he or she makes the call on what kind of dish will be prepared and delegates roles and tasks to the troop. This is a daily exercise that builds the Bigwings’ authority and communication skills, and reinforces trust and familiarity between all siblings.

Next to the Bigwings is the Gatherer, which historically was a role assigned to one or more troop members who foraged for wild vegetables or hunted more prey if the previous communal hunt did not yield enough. While this is still true today, many Gatherers also maintain a garden or wet patch to source fresh vegetables or grain for meals.

And lastly there is the Communicator, which is a role usually assigned to the most social and charismatic sibling. The Communicator is vital for coordinating battle strategies with other troops, which, while very important, is not really all that relevant for this deliberation. What is relevant however, is the role they fulfill during peacetime, which is to set up joint meals between two or more sibling groups. This practice is critical for maintaining morale, as doing this regularly helps expand the troop’s palette and keep their Bigwings inspired. That way the troop’s collection of recipes stays fresh and innovative instead of turning stale and rigid.

Of course how much each troop values culinary exploits varies between individuals. Some Mudwing groups are outspokenly passionate about cooking and advancing their craft. They might view their work as an expression of art and get very upset or offended if you indicate that thinking about food is unimportant or a waste of time. Some extreme cases may even get angry at you if you waste ingredients or refuse to elevate a dish to its fullest potential by not seasoning it well or doing something else to ruin it. Other groups may be more relaxed and casual about food preparation, and a few might even not think about it much at all.

If a Mudwing invites you to dinner, it is paramount to figure out which of these groups they belong to beforehand, so you may get an understanding of how much of a threat this outing may pose to your health, especially if you are an Icewing or Seawing with a limited palate.

Is there any evidence for this in the books?

To my knowledge, there isn't much. Mostly because there isn't much about Mudwings and their culture in general. Across all the books, only one of them has a Mudwing protagonist, and the vast majority of it is spent in the Sky Kingdom, so his roots don't get a lot of exposure. Then whenever another Mudwing comes into the story, they tend to exit it very quickly after, without being able to share more.

I made this theory for myself largely in response to Mudwing culture being such a big question mark. I initially came up with it when I saw a Mudwing gardener in Escaping Peril and thought "That could be a cool direction for the tribe." The guidebook that released recently gave me some additional pointers with regards to a few of the looser points of this theory.

I'm hoping it is interesting, or at the very least entertaining in some way.

[numberoneredriotfan]

Rodydeku headcanons part 1 :)

I'm going insane over these two hggggg-

(this screenshot from the movie makes me cackle everytime-)

• Rody fell first, no questions asked. Deku fell a bit later when he actually had the time to consider his feelings when he WASN'T fighting villains and dealing with vestiges every three seconds.

• Before they parted after the humarise crisis, they exchanged numbers so they could still talk. And, I kid you not, as soon as Deku got home he called Rody immediately. Rody played it cool like-- "damn, miss me already hero??" As if he hadn't been staring at Deku's contact for the past ten minutes wanting to call him but not wanting to seem like he missed him or anything (he really, really missed him).

• From then on, they pretty much call each other every other night when they're free, giving each other general updates (or just to hear each other's voice) (Rody's like kicking his feet and twirling his hair during these calls-)

• Rody's contact for Deku is "mass murderer (heart emoji)" the heart emoji was added a little later on when Rody worked up the balls. Deku's contact name for Rody isn't anything special, just his name with a little ":)" on the side.

• Rody's crush is soooo bad. He definitely keeps up with anything hero-related on the news just so he can talk about it with Deku during their next call.

• I think Rody's voice helps Deku relax a lot, even if he doesn't realize why (keep this in mind, it'll come into play later).

• Rody thinks about the time when Deku spiderman-ed him around Otheon. A lot.

• Deku told everyone is class 1-A about Rody, more than he talked about the actual humarise crisis.

• During Rody's visit to Japan (in the spin off "team up missions" manga), I like to think he started developing a bit of an inferiority complex to Deku's friends.

• Like, who was he to Deku compared to all these friends that had been through so much together?? Compared to them, he was literally just some guy he saved the world with once.

• It didn't help hearing all the stories about Deku solving villain crisis after villain crisis with said friends.

• Of course Deku didn't think that way, and considered Rody a friend just like he considered everyone in class A a friend (with something a little extra there but he hasn't realized that yet).

• Deku once sent a picture of him and Eri during a little playdate to Rody the backflip his heart did when he learned that Deku was good with kids-

• Also, seeing Deku get along and be sweet with his siblings almost killed him.

• Sometimes, Pino will steal Rody's phone and send a random cluster of emojis with ninety percent of them being hearts. Deku was a little confused when this first happened, but after Rody (frantically) explained it was Pino, whenever it happens Deku just goes "hi pino!"

• Deku grows to be able to read Rody pretty well, even when he hides Pino from him. Although, having a friend with a built-in lie detector is pretty convenient.

• "Have you been missing me at all??" "Pssh, nah, you cause way too much trouble for me-" *distressed chirping in the background* "PINO." "I miss you too Rody :)"

• Rody pokes fun at Deku for the mass murderer incident all the damn time. "I don't know man, do I really wanna hang out with a mass murderer??" "Oh no, please don't hurt me mister mass murderer."

• Deku going on hero rants and Rody going on plane rants and both of them listening to each other with full attention :( <3

• Okay let's get into the more angsty stuff.

• After the war, and after all the villains escaped tarturus, and planes stopped getting to Japan and stuff, Rody was kinda worried (he was VERY worried).

• He was at work when all the commotion was on the news, and he completely froze when they mentioned UA high school. As soon as he got home, he tried to call Deku to make sure he was okay, but he got no answer. Because by then, Deku had already left UA high.

• Deku didn't want Rody to worry about him, so he pretty much ignored all his calls (feeling incredibly guilty as he did so) (also for the sake of it let's pretend he still had his phone).

• Rody tried so many times to call him, wanting to pull his hair out every time he was sent to voicemail. He was losing sleep just worrying about him, and Rody's siblings noticed. They tried a lot to try and get Rody to cheer up, which he did appreciate despite still being worried.

• He wasn't picking up his phone, and leaving a text just wasn't enough. So, eventually, he decided to leave a bunch of voice messages, as some way to make himself feel better.

• They started off with him trying not to sound too worried:

• "Hey, Deku! It's been a little while since I've heard from you. I know you're probably busy with everything happening in Japan right now. Call me back when you get the chance."

"The past few weeks at work have been exhausting. People are acting like the world's gonna end, but I'm sure things'll be alright. That's why we have heroes like you, right?"

"I was able to take Roro and Lala out yesterday, I sent you the pictures. Did you know Roro grew a whole inch?? Soon he's gonna be as tall as me!"

• Until they eventually grew more and more concerned and desperate:

• "Hey, I saw the news this morning. Japan is in really bad shape right now. Is everyone in UA alright??"

"You are getting these, right? If you have, please at least send me a message saying something. Roro and Lala have been worried, you know."

"Deku, I know things have probably been rough for you over there. For you and everyone else. I know I don't know you as well as your friends at UA, and I know that in the end I can't understand what's happening over there. But whatever you're dealing with right now, I'm willing to listen. So...please. If you're getting these- if you're even alive- just let me know. I'm worried, okay...?"

• At some point, Rody gave up on trying, only hoping that somehow Deku was okay, and that maybe he just wasn't getting his messages.

• But Deku was. And he listened to every single one, resisting to the urge to send him something, or call him. But he told himself it'd cause Rody more trouble if he responded, so instead, he just listened to each voicemail over and over, finding comfort in Rody's voice (he also looked at pictures of him with his friends for comfort as well but this isn't about them/j).

• After class A dragged Deku back to UA by the ear, once he was finally able to rest, he couldn't help but think about Rody and finally responding to him, but he wasn't sure what he would say, and he had a bunch of other things to worry about at the moment, so it slipped his mind.

• But eventually, as Rody was laying in bed thinking about Deku (as he had been doing for the past few weeks), he decided to try calling him again cause god damn it why not. He wasn't expecting a response, but at least he could say he tried.

• And to his surprise, Deku answered.

• At first, Rody just kinda sat there in shock, trying to process the sound of Deku's voice. And finally, weeks worth of emotions came spilling out and he just started ugly sobbing while yelling at him and questioning where he's been. Deku tried to calm him down a little, which only made Rody even more upset because how DARE you tell him to calm after you up and disappear for weeks without any sort of communication!!

• Knowing Rody's anger was justified, Deku told him he'd explain everything. And he did.

• He spent the next hour explaining everything that had happened to Rody. From the very beginning. How he was originally quirkless, how he got one for all, one for all's vestiges, the league of villains, All for one, Shigaraki. He explained everything, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders as he did so. Rody, though confused and confounded, listened intently.

• Once he was finished, Deku apologized profoundly for not telling Rody any of this, and how he just didn't want him to be put in danger. That's when Rody realized just how big the burden Deku had been carrying all this time, all by himself, truly was.

• "You've already put me in danger once before, hero." Rody said jokingly, trying to lighten the mood. Deku let out an weak, involuntary laugh. "You didn't have to hide this from me...you listened to all voice messages right? I meant it when I said I was willing to listen. You really don't have to carry that all by yourself..."

• Deku really couldn't help but sob once again at the support he got from one of his dear friends. And hearing Deku cry, Rody said he was a crybaby while also starting to cry as well.

• Just like that one time, both of them started to laugh together while still crying.

I love them so much :(

[sectumsempraaa]

Being coworkers w/ the Slytherin boys (headcanons)

feat. Draco, Mattheo, Theo, Blaise, Lorenzo

this one’s for the working folks bc you KNOW these guys would make work so much more fun!! :)

Draco:

- extremely punctual

- judges you for how you write emails

- picks you up in his car before your shift every day

- has a kettle plugged in AT his desk for maximum tea drinking

- will often leave you a cup on your desk too without you asking for it

- writes 95% of paperwork by hand

- kisses ass to your boss but vents to you later about how much he hates them

- overdresses even on casual fridays

- takes his lunch break with you every day and has your meals delivered (doesnt even ask what you want, he’s just good at this)

- gets turned on when you sit on his desk and look down at him

Mattheo:

- consistently 5-10 minutes late but everyone’s just kinda used to it

- takes mass transportation bc he keeps failing his drivers test

- stops to get you both coffee before work (thats why he’s late!!)

- will respond to emails you’re too scared to answer

- similarly will pick up the phone when you don’t want to

- office pranks galore with this guy

- calls you from his desk (it’s next to yours) to ask you to meet him somewhere so y’all can makeout

- also calls you when he sees someone he KNOWS you hate trying to talk to you at your desk to get you out of it

- post-shift treat several times a week

- most likely to pleasure you from under your desk 🤭

Theo:

- gets distracted easily and falls behind on work

- is so quiet no one really even knows he’s there

- bribes the office manager into making you his secret santa

- has a private email thread between the two of you that goes on and on all day with complete nonsense and memes

- visits your cubicle and sits there for like an hour at a time

- holds your hand under the table during meetings

- “ugh can we go home now” “theo we haven’t even clocked in yet”

- hacks the system to change the schedule around so you always have the same shifts

- cooks your lunches at home and brings them to work for you

- 100% takes naps under his desk when you’re out sick and he’s alone/bored

Blaise:

- gets along with everyone

- often leads meetings and presentations bc everyone trusts him

- winks at you from across the office several times a day

- has everything in his desk from stain remover to first aid kit to microwaveable ramen

- checks each paycheck (and yours) to make sure y’all get paid RIGHT

- hugs you from behind your chair like 1000 times a day (ft. neck kisses)

- flies paper cranes into your cubicle with cheesey pick up lines

- knows how to get your fav snacks from the vending machine without paying

- will randomly do some of your tasks bc he’s so ahead on his

- LOVES a business trip and gets you two ALL the travel upgrades

Lorenzo:

- does not give a fuck about getting anything done

- but somehow is pretty much always caught up/in good standing

- does the bare minimum but makes up for it by being extremely charming

- faxes you (yes, faxes) memes when he is extra bored

- steals people’s things off their desk if he doesn’t like them

- never abides by the dress code

- lies to your boss to get you out of meetings and leave work early

- convinces you to call out with him so you can spend the day together

- has a keycard that opens every door in the building, don’t ask how he got it

- switches nametags/IDs with you and thinks its the funniest thing in the world

- headphones in 24/7

ALL of them love to say “if you ever leave i have to quit too. i can’t work here without you” and they MEAN it!!

[slowd1ving]

Hiiiii can u write Kim Dokja x Goth!Male!reader this sponsor constellation is Apollo and The reader is a simp for Dokja ( I love this man )

LOVE LIKE BLOOD ・゜゜KIM DOKJA

“The life is short, and I’m running faster all the time, Strength and beauty destined to decay, So cut the rose in full bloom.” By chance you meet him, by chance you become his friend, by chance you stay by his side; until it cannot be called fickle, capricious chance any longer, but an example of the inevitable law of universal attraction between two starving masses. art by @ 1L9l2Aa8UCL0IGJ (blackbox) on x! also thank you anon this ask was so big brained I yapped on for like 5k words (very sorry if you wanted headcanon/drabble form I got the most profound inspiration for this at like 3am :3) also damn you have no idea how many song titles I was perusing trying to find a suitable one for this... pairing: kim dokja + male goth reader warnings: pretty graphic metaphors, child abandonment/implied parental death, child neglect + abuse, alcohol, smoking, depression + bullying, hurt/comfort, injury, violence (as it's orv), does 10+ year long pining and oddly tense homoeroticism need a warning, anon I hope you ENJOY reading because I enjoyed writing wc: 5.6k (YAP because i love this silly man, I've never written so much for a request before lmao)

ORV MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Fundamentally, you and him are the same. 

There’s a sense of loss that’s too heavy for either of your bodies to comprehend. Rather than a heart, there’s a black hole right where the organ lies; so greedy, so hungry for acknowledgement. Born blue into this world—deprived of oxygen yet wailing, screaming for your voice to be heard—it’s little wonder you’ve always been avaricious for the love your parents could never give. The hands cradling the babe were never loving; they were clinical, they were covered in sterile blue gloves and they smelled only of caustic antiseptic. There was no kiss on your slimy, puckered forehead. There was only the sting of alcoholic sanitiser. 

Kim Dokja is similar, yet his parents wouldn’t (rather than couldn’t, for in your embittered mind the two concepts were so different as to be alien) spare him scraps of care. Rather than press a kiss to their son’s awaiting cheek, only bruises blossomed where the love should’ve been. No flowers were given for Children’s Day—only oily blood spilling and macerating against his chubby hands as a last, vibrant gift for their son. 

These two black holes sputtered on their axes while they spun round each other: gluttonous, esurient for care that didn’t come with bruises and wailing grief. 

Seoul had been unusually cold; blue afternoons spanned across the school rooftops. They were frigid and foggy—perfect for avoiding detection. Thus, the boy without kisses (only contused skin) encountered another like him on the rooftop that day. Against the haze, your own cigarette smoke had dulled the edges of what he saw—a boy canted against the railing with rippling earphones and a head tilted so far back he could taste the polluted mist. 

A merger had occurred. 

And though neither of you said it, there was an unspoken recognition of each other’s greed in that moment. Your eyes, ghosting over his injuries while the heavy bass played and the prussic wisps trailed around him: deep reverberations sounding a bit too like his careening heartbeat—as he made sure no one had followed him up here, that he was safe. And his umbrous eyes—honed in on the cigarette wedged between your lips, now stained black from the gloss decorating your humourless smile.

Maybe it was just that inherent feeling of kinship that came with avariciousness: a snarling sort of camaraderie that snagged at your skin with its claws. The wounds left behind were tender, but tender was precisely the adjective you were looking for—as was he. 

And so, Kim Dokja found himself coming to this particular rooftop the next day. When his breathing came ragged and his vision began to swim, he instinctively sought the numbness the frigid azurine firmament would bring. Like a wounded animal, he sought safety. Flight over fight—a lesson he’d learnt too late. Bruised fists would never save him. 

There you sat—eyes closed and lips still glossed in modest black. There were silver rings on your hands; rings he’d seen flashing before his eyes before he was hit, that those people no longer sported. Quietly, he matched up the scrapes on your own knuckles to the ones decorating their faces: to their unusual sullenness today. They’d furtively sequestered themselves in a club room all break, touching their swollen lips and eyes with bruised fists. Bruised fists. Like trophies, the achromatic metal glinted against the cobalt haze, and for once, his heart didn’t skip any beats at the sight of the gleaming metal. Neither did you acknowledge his presence nor their sins, but still, he sat on the same bench you were sprawled upon: hugging his bag to his chest while he scrolled the hallowed pixels of Ways of Survival. 

There was no grand exchange of words, no heartfelt conversations between Kim Dokja and the boy with a messed-up uniform. 

This was how tentative company was kept for a fragile week. 

Tuesday was the day that fragility finally shattered. He still remembers every detail about it—down to the particular cigarette brand you’d purchased that morning, down to the chips in your dark nail polish, down to just how many rings you’d worn on your left hand (three—it was three rings). Tears had spilled down his cheeks that afternoon; they warped and distorted the words that had saved him thus far, evoked from the pain in his purple ribs and his empty stomach. Somehow, the salt he’d kept tightly bound had been coaxed by your cold presence—perhaps, knowing your indifference made it easier to cry pathetically in front of you. 

You still didn’t speak, but you did hand him a tissue. You still didn’t speak, but you did press your shoulder to his own trembling one: smelling of caustic smoke, and something rich and sweet lingering beneath the plumes. You still didn’t speak, but your rings clinked on your left hand as you unhooked the earbud in your pierced ear and offered it to him: fingers brushed against his palm as he was forcibly shocked out of crying any further, like a blubbering child faced with such a conundrum that their little brains focused entirely on that rather than the reason for their tears. 

Melancholy had streamed out of the device. Doleful chords twined against threnetic voices—which he could not translate nor understand but could feel in pulsing waves. 

In that short whorl in the great machine of time, in the chill of the blue hour, he could not help but feel warm.

And thus, that Tuesday changed the trajectory of this merger somewhat. A deafening hum had finally blossomed from the gargantuan event; your presence could no longer be described as distant. 

When he went to class the next day, you were in the seat next to him: a mirage brought on by his lack of food, no doubt. He limped to his desk, but there your corporeal form remained: this time with silver chains lining the base of your throat and a dry, sharp grin decorating your face. Sure, he knew there was a student that never showed up in his class, but he wasn’t expecting it to be you: your name now a permanent fixture in his mind. 

There was a new name for this phenomenon: friendship. 

The boy, with the pensive music and trophies stolen from Dokja’s tormentors, smiled up at the reader staring at him. It was an inviting gesture: the proverbial hand reaching out, the hand which he took.

You weren’t a particularly talkative friend at first: preferring to simply share your music rather than speak much. That was fine with him—it wasn’t like he wasn’t used to reading alone. Then, you started bringing boxes of food alongside your cigarettes: containers that lacked the refinement of store bought meals. One for you, and one sheepishly thrust out to him with a smile bright as burst yolk and as messy as it too. Consequently, he returned a wobbly, unsure smile back at you—not mentioning that the vegetables were slightly burnt, slightly too salty. But that was fine. The more lunches you brought, the more skilled your hands became—until he never felt truly full unless he was eating what you gave him. 

In return, he cracked open his soul: pried its rusted walls with bleeding fingernails in a gesture never before seen, not since his childhood when he still knew what hope meant. Dokja for once didn’t blubber apologies and pleas for mercy—but became a teenager rather than a groveller. He complained about teachers, he discussed Ways of Survival at length (noting how you listened even when you showed no particular interest in reading it), he finally developed his own, modest aspirations for his own life. Lying in his bed in his lonely apartament, it suddenly didn’t feel so claustrophobic (yet somehow far too big for one) when you were there with your shoulder just brushing his own. 

You were not as cold as you seemed: though this was always obvious from that fateful Tuesday. You made fun of and empathised with the eternal regressor; you diligently stood at his half-broken stove frying meat and vegetables; and you talked at length about whatever band you were currently into—“I’ll take you to one of their concerts when we’re older,” leaving your lips, for your dense black-hole hearts did not conceptualise a future where the other was not present. He saw your loneliness—heard the rumours of you bouncing around from orphanage to orphanage, roaming the streets and working nights rather than return to that boreal home. 

So, more nights than not, he woke up from his nightmares to see you sleeping on the small couch in his home—legs just about peeking over the armrest, for your avarice didn’t only cover the abstract but the heaps of food you swiped from the canteen (and over the past two years he’d known you, you got your growth spurt far more obviously than he had). It partly contributed to almost skittish aversion his tormentors had of him—one you never did acknowledge, and so he learnt quickly to not mention it either. In this way, he too never mentioned why he invited you to sleep over more nights than not. And so, neither of your selfish hearts ever spoke a word of pity, but rather conveyed an unspoken understanding that bound the two of you in this merger. 

This routine continued.

He enlisted after graduating from the local university, and so did you—suffering the eighteen months of hazing with the smoke lingering on your skin and that same, humourless smile he first saw on your face. Frigid mornings turned his own lips as blue as the sky, yet he found it was harder to feel the chill when he saw you. Just like back then, you wore the same smile that brimmed with such colour it was practically incandescent with its heat. 

Two outcasts. It was hilariously terrible. Two outcasts, still sharing a pair of earbuds that had seen better days—blaring out the dolorous music that had grown on him, that described this situation perfectly. Stars were strewn in the fabric enveloped around you: memories that would continue to shine even after the world slowly marched towards its apocalypse. 

In that cramped bunkroom, it had been just like school—blue nights with the moon just barely peeking through the window, with your leg still hanging off the side of the bunk and within his field of vision. And he still found the steady rise and fall of your breathing far more comforting than any white noise: like a guard dog, almost, you still shielded him by his proximity to you throughout the brutal eighteen months of mandated service. 

Adulthood had crept up unbidden. In his single-room apartment, he sat on his couch with your legs sprawled just as lazy as they had been eight years prior. Though, your appearance certainly had changed—beneath the loose material of your tank top, he could see the ink seeping and decorating your skin. He’d gone with you to the underground artists right after the discharge: worriedly biting his lip while you simply grinned at him as if there wasn’t a needle pressing into you. And despite his initial concern, he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away—sneaking glances even as he browsed through job sites since the winding patterns under the fabric and silver jewellery was oddly entrancing to the eye. 

In the end, he applied to the same company you had done on a whim: Minosoft, where you carefully wiped off the black residue on your lips and the smudged pencil round your eyes. You still shared your earbud with him on the subway (though you’d sent him your playlist aeons ago), you still smoked the same brand you did eight years ago, you still occasionally put on those rings you’d kept as prized trophies, you still made two sets of lunches for work. You still listened over drinks while hammered Dokja updated you on the latest update of Ways of Survival. You still angled your body just so, so that you would bear the brunt of Han Myungoh’s scolding rather than him. 

You hadn’t changed. 

But in some ways, he could no longer see the same boyish guy who’d awkwardly offered him his earbuds nine years ago. The look in your eyes was far more intense, the messy smiles splitting your cheeks were sharper, more overwhelming, and there was no longer any clumsiness in your movements from your sudden growth spurt from years prior. Even the very hand that occasionally clasped his shoulder, even the legs that you still casually flung over his on his beaten old couch, were far more scorching than he remembered. 

You had changed. 

And in the end, it was him who was left behind. 

Eternal loser, Kim Dokja. 

Though, he could never find fault with you for that. Not when you leaned over the tangle of limbs on his couch, not when he caught the thread of oud lingering beneath the smoke on your throat, and not when you thrust your phone screen at his face with that stupidly boyish grin that only peeked out when you brimmed with excitement—with a “look, I finally got us tickets for this festival!”. And he knew at that moment that you weren’t leaving him behind: stretching out your rough palm just like you had more than a decade ago. 

He let you tousle his hair to give it more spikes. He let you dress him up in your clothes—they sat too large on his frame, but he found himself unconsciously burying his body in the fabric that smelled like your laundry. He let you slip your rings onto his fingers: slender digits jolting at the sensation of the cool metal and the action itself. 

Finally, he let you rub your dark pencil on his lashline—lids fluttering up at yours while he did his best to not avert his stare. His gaze traced the bold lines of your brows and eyes, and finally onto the dark stain on your lips as you bit them in concentration. “There,” you’d murmured, gently grasping his chin. “That looks pretty.” 

And just like the loser he was, he felt his chest tighten at the casual compliment, for seemingly no reason. 

Over the din of the hall, he could barely hear the ebb and flow of music. Goth chords jostled him, weaving past the throes of post-punk and metal as band after band took the stage. In this crush of people, he was more focused on how your index finger threaded through his left-most belt loop; linking the two of you just enough that he wouldn’t get thrown into the mosh pit. No doubt the buzz of cheap liquor contributed to his distracted train of thoughts—he never was the best at handling alcohol. His hazy gaze distorted his view of your side profile; in the dim lights, obviously the wide smile (yolk-like, as was your grin years back) couldn’t possibly be that bright. 

It was at this moment that sentimentality got to him. He was thankful that his friend had stuck by his side for so long: gazing so softly at your happy expression he was unaware of his look himself. 

This was the night before the apocalypse began. 

When the crowds trickled out, when the reverb of bass still played through the club, you hugged him tight for coming with you. Outcast with the outcast, you’d thought introspectively. There were cheap spirits clouding your mind that night—a hangover would surely strike you come morning—which was why you weren’t as reserved as you usually were. As you leaned down to press the man into your arms, your lips had brushed past his cheek accidentally, and you could feel the black hole in the centre of your chest constrict. 

Profanities had whirled through your mind when the dark smudge remained on his cheek, and especially so as he made no move to wipe the umbrous gloss off on the subway back. Or maybe he just hadn’t noticed—not with the flush on his cheeks from the alcohol in his system. There was a terrible, discordant crescendo to your pulse as you gazed at him. The gloss, from where it smeared slightly past the boundaries of your lips, burned your skin. But you made no moves to wipe the corners either—for this night only, there was something linking Kim Dokja to you. 

Thus, for the first time since he was a mere babe cradled in his mother’s arms, there was a kiss planted on his cheek that wasn’t from a fist. An accidental one, but one that could not be considered devoid of affection. And though neither of you remembered it after the hazy stupor faded, it did not change the fact that it happened nonetheless. 

A small snippet of joy in the bleak landscape. A caesura found within the long, winding elegy of this world. A reprieve before tragedy. 

It was a fitting conclusion for the night before the end. 

✦ . 　⁺ 

[The free service has now been terminated.]

Back in the carriage, wedged between Yoo Sangah and Kim Dokja, the two of you had shared a glance confirming the unspoken truth. Minds intrinsically linked together—he did not need to speak for you to understand his thoughts immediately. And Yoo Sangah had recognised this—as did she remember the devoted gleam in your eyes whenever you spoke to or of the man seated adjacent to you. Yet ultimately, her lips would remain closed. 

When the scenarios began, it was Kim Dokja’s turn to repay you. He would be your shield moving forward—protecting your messy smile even as the world burned away. He vowed this to himself, and though the promise was heard only by him, it did not change the fact that the constellations watching him and his companions could see the oath brimming from him as he put you first. 

[Almighty Sun has sponsored you.]

Even when Apollo chose you as his incarnation, even when you were just as capable as you had been before the cataclysm occurred—he could not help but feel his fists clench as you put yourself in danger. 

“Hold on,” you’d murmured, rings flashing as you’d caught his wrist in your firm grasp. Even with his coins improving his stats, he still felt so much weaker than you—still the boy who ran to the rooftops while your fists bruised against the faces of those who tormented him. 

Had your touch always been so scalding?

Privately, he thought Apollo had chosen the right person—smile bright as the sun, skilled fingers deft enough to play the electric guitar you’d bought on a whim, presence practically a healing balm for his soul. 

“You’re injured, Dokja-ya.” And the words had made him shiver as the syllables ghosted over his flesh—your face was too close to his chest where he’d been slashed by a monster, while the affectionate tone added to his name made this situation far worse than it was. Secluded like this, in an abandoned corner of the station, it was easy to misread the situation; this was the only reason his face flushed red. His friend was far too close. When those aforementioned fingertips brushed over the wound—just grazing the wounded flesh—he jolted. From the pain, of course. 

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire has sponsored 200 coins.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire would like to see more action.]

“Steady.” You eased him against a pillar while ignoring the message—ignoring how your pulse was now leaden in your mouth, how the golden gleam stitching flesh back together seemed far more shaky than usual. Though, you couldn’t ignore the pain you felt as you saw the rise and fall of his torso grow shallow; you were useless when it counted—arrows meeting their target far too late. 

“Dokja-ya,” you breathed, sweeping the hair that plastered to his clammy forehead. He didn’t meet your eyes, and the heavy feeling in your chest grew more burdensome. He was supposed to tell you what was wrong; as his best friend, you duly heard his complaints and dealt with them where you could. More often than not, you could intuitively tell what bothered him; much like you had from the very first day you saw him all those years ago. And as time passed, the object of your adoration only grew easier to read. 

But he was never avoidant like this. 

What happened? As you watched him leave with heavy steps and not a glance spared back, you could feel the crushing weight of the sky drop back down on your shoulders. Fuck. Burying your face in your hands, you barely registered the message that popped up. 

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire expresses her sympathy.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire says she knows how the two of you can make up.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire sponsors 69 coins.]

[The Almighty Sun tells the Demon-like Judge of Fire to not be stingy.]

[The Almighty Sun sponsors 6969 coins.]

[The Almighty Sun empathises with a lover’s quarrel.]

“Shut up,” you seethed, and the bad mood carried on late into the night. It was obvious to anyone with eyes; the conjured lamps lining the perimeter of camp had seethed with you. Gold had been interspersed with bleeding red—crackling like true fire, though it was anything but. Even the tattoos that lined your skin had begun eroding into ember-like patterns, as though lava was breaking through the dermis of your skin. 

Unsurprisingly, it was Yoo Sangah that had approached first: past the harsh glow of your lamps, gracefully weaving through the brightness with the light steps that belied her nebula. She’d taken a glance at the incandescent splintering of your body, your hands furiously working away at the guitar plugged into your practically-bulletproof earphones, and finally the imposing frame of Yoo Joonghyuk only a few metres away as he stood guard tonight. 

But when you paused, when you hastily yanked the buds from your ears, she could also see the wobble in your lip. The furrow in your brows wasn’t angry, it was anguished, while the fearsome glare in your eyes contained only pain. If she was being honest, it was hard to approach you at work and even nowadays—with ease, you picked off enemies from a distance and your longbow conveniently morphed into two curved daggers when it came down to it. You were a maelstrom with the capacity to take lives—stained with blood as you bared your proverbial teeth at any threats to Dokja. But it was precisely that that allowed her to see your stupidly blind adoration of this man. 

(“Your devotion will only hurt you,” she says, as if that will dissuade you. You’ll take whatever feeling he gives you: greedily swallowing each and every morsel of emotion. Tender is your heart, but tender is good. It means you aren’t going mad over the situation you’re in.

“Yoo Sangah, I appreciate the advice,” you reply politely—you do respect her, after all. “But I do not mind that.”)

Yoo Joonghyuk had bemusedly watched as she left: staring the the dim red tattoos strewn across your body as if they could possibly help him decipher the fool in front of him. His Sage’s Eye flashed as golden as your lamps for a brief moment—detecting that your statement had, in fact, been true. 

Fool, he’d said as your hands flew over the fretboard once more. Fool, as you disappeared up the stairs to the rooftop. Fool, when your lips had pressed together tightly against one another. 

You did mind, even when you thought it was the unequivocal truth that you didn’t. 

Maybe it was futile to even think it, but he thought that idiot didn’t deserve the long-standing care in your hands, and the veneration in the timbres of your voice. It was pointless to get attached to someone like that—especially when the end of the world was upon you. 

But you wouldn’t know that, since you could not read his mind. But you wouldn’t know that, since he would never explicitly say it. But you wouldn’t know that, since you’d long-since accepted your self-torture as perfectly and utterly a part of what came with knowing Kim Dokja for as long as you did. 

The rooftop was like all other rooftops. Similar. The same. Azurine fog was at your fingertips: just like that day all those years ago. Except this time, Kim Dokja was not in your sights, and you were left alone with wisps of smoke trailing from your lips and no other company save the glowing stick in your fingers. Just like it had been; before you met the boy with a heart as greedy and all-consuming as yours. Before the merger between two black holes occurred. Before he ran up to the rooftops with bruises on his face and placed new stars in the endless vacuum of your universe. 

There was no charge in your phone, but the song that played that day still rested heavy in your neurons as you sprawled out on the bench. Mindlessly, you summoned the lyre-turned-guitar: doleful chords germinated, flourished and withered away once more under distressed fingertips. It was a night between scenarios; another caesura in this ceaseless tragedy. Though those days were filled with an empty stomach and an endless struggle, they were your halcyon days. 

Just like that time almost twelve years back, it was a blue Monday once more. 

Just like that time almost twelve years back, you didn’t hear the heavy run of footsteps through the heavy burr of music. 

Just like that time almost twelve years back, Kim Dokja’s black hole heart pulsed with each discordant twang of chords—though this time the link was acutely clear to him. 

The boy who once tasted the mist and tilted his body into oblivion was no longer there: replaced by a man who’d faithfully stayed by him for more than a decade. Though you hadn’t changed, not at all; not when he could still see the rings you took off his bullies, gracing your fingers just as they had back then. A trophy, dedicated to his protection. When his plans involved his sacrifice, you were the first to reach him. Your face was the first he saw, tears brimming from your lash line. For despite how you’d grown into your looks, you wore your emotions clear on your face. Your heart had been taken from the cavity in your chest and replaced with a dense core that greedily always wanted; yet it had been sewn messily onto your sleeve rather than discarded. 

Kim Dokja suddenly remembered another interlude. A club, where the amorphous ebb and flow of bodies could not sweep him away from your side—since you kept him there, treasured his presence enough that you hooked your finger firmly into his belt loop and rooted him there. An anchor: you’ve always been the rock beneath his shaky feet, after all. He remembered that, and not the endless churn of music that made your face glow with happiness. 

(A black smear of gloss left on his cheek. His hands, carefully wiping eye pencil away yet not touching the remnants of your lips—not until it smudged away on its own, forgotten for all of time but this day.)

A sun of his own. The reader trod his slow orbit around you long before he could conceptualise the gravity that drew two masses towards each other. Newton’s theory of universal gravitation be damned; you were the only centre of the universe, the only body that ever existed to draw others towards your brilliant light. 

His eyes flickered over the smoke in your lips: the dim embers of a glow from the lines in your skin made it seem as though you were alight yourself. Instinctively, physically, he was compelled towards the patterns just like he had been all those years ago: your music, your stupid piercings and your stupid discussions about bands and the stupid way you listened attentively to his yapping about Ways of Survival. Stupid, because why did you do that? Why did you convince him to make a shrine for you in his heart? Stupid, because why is it only now that he can see what exactly lays atop the stone altar?

“Kim Dokja,” you spoke through your plumes, formal in the way he knew you spoke when you were upset and trying to keep it together. He swallowed, and he could feel the same pitter-patter of his pulse as he did all those years ago—heartbeat colliding loudly in his ear drums while he steps towards you, unsure. You didn’t let up with the strum of strings: electric in the drizzle of rain and wind and cold Seoul air. 

For once, he was the one looking down at your impassive face. He was the one brushing his fingers through your hair, he was the one whose hands made themselves comfortable on shoulders—for it’s always been you wrapped around him, you whose legs wedge on top of his domestically on his shitty couch in his shitty studio flat. 

“It’s Dokja-ya,” he corrected: tongue thick and leaden. It constricted his larynx and made his cadence oh so small at this moment. Tentative. Because he was your close friend and you his. He was the one who knows all your expressions—even the ones you deliberately tried to hide from everyone. He was the one who’s been with you the longest: always staring up at the muscle of your back while you act as his shield. He was the one who’s been blind. 

Your fingers halted against the strings and the instrument dissolved into the wind; the concert for two had reached its conclusion, just like it had all those months ago. For despite being packed full of people, the club only ever had two people in it for him. 

Lazily, those same hands that have bruised for him—but somehow had a touch that was far more painful than any torment that was physically inflicted on him—wrapped round his own that rested neatly on your shoulders. 

“Dokja-ya,” you answered, and the axis the world tilted on is finally righted. This man, Dokja thought—and his umbrous eyes traced down the warm lines of your face, stopping on your lips. Bittersweet. 

“Don’t leave me,” he all but begged—voice only a whisper. Don’t die on me, the black hole wanted to say instead; selfishly wishing for you to always be by his side so he doesn’t see you depart this world first. That would end him more than anything else. 

“I can’t leave you,” you murmured, and oh, the hand brushing his tear-stained cheek suddenly made more sense. “Dokja-ya, I should be telling you that.”

He pressed his face into your warm palm—scorching even with the boreal damp settling over his skin. There was something twisted within him that revels in your admission: that you, too, feared him abandoning you just as he feared you leaving him behind. 

“Idiot.” And he twined his fingers in yours, seeing the surprise on your face bloom—for he’s already established that you’re ever so easy to read. Idiot, because it’s ludicrous to even think that he’d ever willingly walk away from you like that. 

“You’re the idiot,” you whispered as your phantasmal hand ghosted from his cheek to his collar, yanking him so he fell onto the firm sprawl of your legs—in a way he’s never felt. So warm, he thought through the haze as he straddled your languid body—fit so right against you that there was none of the tension nor the anticipation that he might’ve felt. His hands splayed out onto your chest, feeling the steady beat of your heart, tracing the glowing lines he adored on your body. 

So warm, he thought as your hands gently cupped his face—for you’ve never been anything but soft with this stupid man perched on your lap. 

So warm, as your lips met his and he melted into your body. He could taste the acrid smoke on your tongue, but he could also taste the food you’d prepared earlier for him, and the traces of whiskey you’d scavenged. All traces of you; his insatiable heart could not help but want to merge into you. 

So warm, as your tongue melded against his and he could feel the seam of his mouth against yours grow ever more ragged and messy. His hands desperately curled into your shirt, and he could feel your palms pressing harshly against his waist and canting his torso into yours more—something which his avaricious heart eagerly swallowed. 

On a blue Monday just like this one, two boys met for the first time once more on a rooftop just like this one. 

Again. Like and like created a merger for the second time, or perhaps it was already the third. Or fourth. Or the thousand-eight-hundred-and-sixty-third time this has happened—over and over and over and over. 

Fate has a funny way of bringing people together, or maybe it’s just the intrinsic law of gravitation that binds two black holes in a binary system. 

Blue Monday. What a silly notion, when the man beneath Kim Dokja is as warm as the brilliant sun. 

✦ . 　⁺ 

Fellas is it gay to pine after your best friend for over ten years and have oddly homoerotic moments with them

✦ . 　⁺ 

EXTRAS

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire returns from her work and asks what she missed.]

[The Almighty Sun keeps his lips shut.]

[The Abyssal Flame Black Dragon stays silent.]

[The Prisoner of the Golden Headband, perhaps not fearing his imminent hair loss, opens his mouth.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire promptly goes catatonic and explodes.]

[xarology]

Zzzt! - Transformers X Reader 18+

I saw a post on twitter about using shock collars on bots but instead of hurting them it does the exact opposite and makes them feel so good!!! and I had to run and write something down because oh my god!!!

Starscream snippet at the end :3c

General Headcanons

Though maybe instead of collars they’re located near their interface panels? I’d imagine a low dosage shock to them would be similar to a vibration.

If I were to really describe it, shocks are a numbing buzz that you can feel circulating throughout parts of your body. If in direct contact, you can feel the energy the most but it slowly dissipates through their body. So really these shock devices would be a cool edging tool to keep their focus on their interface panel.

But that’s with low dosage shocks. Higher dosages yield for crazier results!! If some bots are into masochism then maxing out the shocks is basically sending them to the gates of heaven (well of allsparks?). On a full dosage they’re able to feel the shock throughout their whole body and then some. It blanks their processors out and they’re left a horny mess. Would also be great for those who love dumbification as their processor would be left scrambled for a bit

There’s a risk factor if you’re human. Their tolerance is CRAZZYY so if you’re giving them a high amount and end up touching them then you’re dead for sure. This is such a risk I cannot stress this enough, please throw on some thick rubber elbow high gloves, boots, ANYTHING.

———

With no mass displacement, imagine,,,,

Leaving Starscream a whimpering mess.

His hands tied together on the berth as he jerks his hips up to find stimulation. The device is placed right above his spike on one of its highest settings, curtesy from you of course. You’re standing to the side a fair distance away from him. Close enough to see the details, yet far from danger.

The pace is too slow for his liking. He’s so used to a nice hard frag. So used to being the one to tease you. So used to having you underneath him as he ruts into you like an animal. He doesn’t have to wait and think about a growing ache in him as he frags your brains out. But with you in charge, he thinks.

Starscream is running with thoughts, working overtime to delete warnings and stupid pop ups that tell him to ‘overload or overheat’. He doesn’t want to admit it but he likes this torturous buzz. And so, he chooses to overheat. His fans do little to help him as the volts short circuit it over time. He’s left to manually cool himself through large intakes of air. Focused on trying to cool now, his processor is so full that it blanks. He’s left a mumbly whiny loud mess. His valve cycles around nothing and he wants nothing more than something to pound into him. To touch him, to do anything.

His thighs are squeezed together by the time you walk near them, no longer grinding against air as he lays somewhat still.

His thighs snap open, obscenely wide at your command to open them. Bright pink fluid drips from his valve, and lots of it.

Don’t move, you tell him. He scrapes his pedes against the berth as he tries to keep them planted away from you. He doesn’t want to hurt you but he can’t help it when his hips grind against your gloved hand on his node. He doesn’t want to hurt you but frag, does it feel good when your other hand enters his valve.

His babbling turns into whines as your hands move faster. Then rougher. And now he’s trying hard to not fall into stasis as he overloads. Your hand is dripping with fluid and you’re quick to leave him. His thighs close together and he can still feel himself overloading, the charge dripping onto the berth and making a pool near his aft.

He’s out like a light when you turn off the shock device. You’re left to clean him up while he recharges. His spark swelling when he wakes every so often to see you polishing him up!!

————

Tons of aftercare after all that I promise he’s getting the princess treatment

[skunkox]

Darlin's Jacket Headcanon

Been sitting on this for weeks , so just hear me out rq.

Dalrin's jacket was a gift from Asher. It was a present to cheer them up while they were on punishment when they were young. Possibly a birthday? Grades? Faught a kid? Embarrased their parents in front of the pack? Havent worked out the details.

It's a letterman jacket from a band they were really into. But the issue? It's a gooddam Unisex XXL, and the twerp of a Tank is like, barley 14 with not real muscle mass yet. My Tank at least is 13 when they make the move and join the pack in Dahlia while the main shaw pack kids are 14.

▪︎■▪︎■▪︎■▪︎

"Ash. Remind me again why you dragged us to Hot Topic." Milo asked, reluctantly following a brace faced Asher into the cramped, and dim lit store.

"Cause Half-pint, your comrad in short arms has been looking miserable. Or at least, more so than normal." Asher snickered, slowly getting more, and more side tracked as he wandered farther into the store. It wasn't long before David grabbed the boy by his collar and dragged him to the back of the store. Milo flashed him a cocky grin while Asher stumbled behind David.

"We got a problem. You said it was this one, right? It's too big." David released Asher to nealty pick up the jacket. "I mean, I know it's the thought that counts, but it's just not practical, Ash."

Asher was already looking through the piles. Wanting to be 100% sure they weren't missing anything. Starting to feel defeated. There was no way Asher was going to ask the clerk if there would be another shipment. Nor would he be willing to wait for a possible restock. Milo looked at his friend. He could tell those puppy dog eyes were gonna start bulging soon. A huff escaped his lips, and he stood straight with his hands on his hips. Trying to seem cool and a little bit taller.

"It's not like they're done growin'. And a jackets a jacket. If it's coverin', it's good." Milo couldn't stop the noogie barreling his way.

•●•●•●•

The handoff was swift. Just as the troublemaker was mounting their skateboard outside their middle school's gate, a familiar truck rolled up. From the truck's bed, Asher gave a quick "Heads up!" Before giving the equivalent of a basketball pass with a heavy black bag. A cackle could be heard, and the truck road off. Leaving them bamboozled.

It wasn't until Tank got home that they viewed the contents of the bag. The biggest, and goofiest smile spread across their face. They couldn't give two fucks about the size. It was from their favorite band. It was a gift. Someone cared enough to gift them something. Anything. But the fact that the few times they did speak, they were actually listened too. It nearly brought the runt to tears. It did. They won't admit it though. That's just embarrassing.

Really embarrassing. They were given a jacket by a boy. An upper classmen boy. A boy who was a part of their pack. Who they'd have to face on a regular basis. They did the jacket at the back of their closet. Still in it bag.

The disappointment in Asher's face really couldn't be hidden. Mostly for the fact that though the week of quick pass bys,they didn't wear the jacket. But he noticed at their next pack meeting, they'd give small waves now. Small smiles were attempted. This continued until Tank would inevitably start sitting near Asher during meetings. Or willingly go on group outing. This snowballed to the occasional video game or movie hangouts.

Still mostly lingering around Ash, or him leaning on them. When he did so, Tank would get flustered. But in true Tank fashion, would give his sides a punch or his legs a kick. Never hard enough to leave heavy bruises. What can I say? They play hard.

As oblivious to this Asher was, it was almost too embarrassing a site for the other second gen pack members. Cristian would poke his fun while Asher was away before Amanda could put him in check. Milo genuinely wanted to see how things would play out. David called them the "Disaster Duo" for a long while.

In true 2008 middle schooler cringe, Tank was convinced that the might have had the tiniest crush on Asher. But they denied it. Denied it so much that the others couldn't be convinced it wasn't true. There were lots of little arguments that summer. But Tank would immediately shut up when ever Asher came around.

•●•●•●•

Freshman year was something......

The teasing started to get out of hand. Asher would definitely hear the snickers and teasing. Especially now that it was directed towards him by his classmates. Asher would deny it during classes and lunches that they were just his "Lil Buddy." It's not like he really helped the situation. Hitting a growthspurt over the summer, it was easy to see him from down the hall. He'd wave and call Tank's name out into the crowd. His little buddy was drawing in a sea of students.

He'd elped them get to their classes by becoming a meat shield. Tank was just barely able to keep up. Asher once thought I'd be funny if he could heave them over his shoulder like a cheap, stringed gym bag. Tank was flustered but kicked and punched all the same.

The teasing one again grew when Tank finally decided to wear the damn jacket during school pictures. Not wanting to be remembered in the preppy outfit their parent picked out for then, they stowed the jacket away in their backpack.

The little smile on Asher's face couldn't have been bigger when he saw them in it. He was on his way to take pictures, and Tank was headed back to class. He pulled them off to the side of a couple half functioning vending machines.

"Sooooo? How're liking the jacket? I know it's too big but you said you like listening to the band. That, and I've never not seen it in your discman. I'm sorry I got it so big. It was t-." Asher's lip got stuck on a braces bracket, and he began to fumble his words. Quickly second-guessing if Tank even really liked the damn thing.

Giggling could be heard from a couple kids passing by. A light shove was made by another to Ash. A quick "Dork." was thrown his way. Heat rose in his face. In Tank's too. But out of frustration. Asher didn't do anything wrong. He was just trying to be a good friend.

And it clicked for the freshman. Why overthink and cause trouble for Asher if they could be a friend? That could be comfortable. They wouldn't have to avoid him like an unwanted puppy. He'd been their friend. Or at least trying to be. Shit didn't have to be weird.

"Hell yeah, bro! It really saved my ass today. My parents wanted me to look like some sort of outstanding citizen or some shit. Can't wait till I can bulk up some, though. I'll totally be able to take on David one on one." Tank beamed and jabbedAsher in the arm with quick fist. This was the loudest they had ever been as far as he knew. His goofy ass grin was back on his face. Before Asher could get out a word, Tank ran past him.

"Thanks dude!" They called out from the crowd, not looking back and focusing on making it through the herd of upper classmem.

•●•●•●•

The following years, Tank continued being bro-y with Asher. He laid off of a lot of physical contact in turn. But this was comfortable for them. Not real close like he was with the others but it was what Tank wanted. They seemed happier that way.

Tank absolutely wore the jacket every chance they got. Around their waist if need be. Ruined absolutely every single yearbook photo. Every pack meeting. Every fight. Even when they felt there was no one to run to for comfort. That jacket had been through hell and back. However, you can only stich fabric so many times.

It looks ratty, but there is no way they're giving it up any time soon. Even if hugs are always offered or dare I say mandatory.

Tank was now yelling at Asher for kicking their controller from their hands during their match of Mario Kart. Hands were thrown, but carefully so. The group of 8 were hanging out at David and Angel's after all. There was no way either of the two were willing to take beating from David. At the very least, another ban from the house. Laugher roared in the home from all sides. Of course, Sweetheart, being an opertunist, took first place of that round.

David and Sam had been in the kitchen, taking a break from the roundy bunch. He had asked Tank about the jacket on multiple occasions, but never gave a straight answer. He'd at least wanted to get it professionally fixed up. Tank had gotten used to all the stains and tears. Saying it was like "The scar that protected their scars." And was proud of it for always being there.

David was willing once again, shed a little light on the troublemaker. Sam let out a chuckle. The next round was starting, and he wanted to make sure he wouldn't be playing doctor that night. The two men returned. David taking his corner seat next to Angel. Same made his way to the recliner. His Darlin' not missing a beat, taking a seat on the beanbag they claimed earlier in the night between their mate's legs. All the while, raspberries were exchanges between them and Asher from across the room. His own mate laughing at their childsh antics.

This was all the comfort they could ask for.

▪︎■▪︎■▪︎■▪︎

Jacket really be a security blanket, tho. Sorry for the shit grammar. Caught some kind of cold, and my vision is absolute shit.

Bromance anyone?

[terabyteturtle]

hey!!! Can I have Jin Kazama x Pregnant wife (who happens to be a model) Reader headcanons. An idea I have is what if they have to keep the pregnancy a secret from Kazuya due to a fear of harm??? Make it fluff with a bit of angst

Jin Kazama x Pregnant Model Wife Headcanons

Once again, I apologize for taking so long! I tried my best to encapsulate everything you put in the request. Hopefully, it's what you wanted!

- It takes him a while to process the fact that you're pregnant. When you first break the news to him, he's just in shock. He experiences so many emotions at once that his mind just stops working. You better have a chair ready because Jin will need to sit down and process everything for a few moments.

- Once it sets in, he becomes angry with himself. He took every precaution to prevent this from happening, and yet somehow, it still did. It's his fault. It has to be. Jin blames himself for burdening you with a child potentially capable of mass destruction, and although he's tried to separate you from his family feud, you're bound to get dragged into it anyway, and it's all because of him.

- The fact that you're a model only makes matters worse. You already get a ton of publicity and exposure on a daily basis, but now that you're pregnant, that'll increase tenfold. With help from Lee and Lars, you and Jin have managed to keep both your relationship AND your marriage a secret so far. However, with a child on the way, it'll be impossible to keep that secret any longer. People will ask questions about the father's identity, and it's only a matter of time before the paparazzi find out the truth.

- Upon realizing this, Jin launches into full-on panic mode. As soon as he's revealed as the father of your child, his face is going to be all over the media. And Kazuya will be the first one to see it. Jin isn't entirely sure what his father would do, but he has his suspicions. He can only imagine the sheer horror of G Corp soldiers busting down your door, hunting you down like hound dogs trying to take you and the kid. If those suspicions are correct, then you'll likely be forced into hiding until the war is over. As long as Kazuya retains his powerful position, there's no telling how much danger you'll be in.

- Additionally, the people closest to him are sure to freak out. Xiaoyu and Hwoarang would panic, and he already knows Lars won't take kindly to it. He's not sure how Lee or Alisa would react, and that uncertainty only makes him more nervous. Jin knows that he should tell his loved ones before they find out through the media, but the mere thought of mentioning it makes his heart skip a beat.

- To top it all off, Jin's main mission is to exterminate his bloodline once and for all. The fact that you are now pregnant is pretty much the opposite of what he wanted.

- His course of action was to take Kazuya's life, then take his own. He was ready to sacrifice himself so that the Devil Gene would no longer exist. As much as he loved the people closest to him, as much as he adored and cherished every moment with you, he knew deep down that the world would be better off without people like him.

- But now, this complicates everything. He doesn't want to take his own life and leave you to raise the kid by yourself. Sure, friends and loved ones might help you out, but at the end of the day, you're going to have a lot of responsibility on your hands. Additionally, Jin knows how it feels to have grown up without a proper father figure, and he'd seen how difficult it was for his mother. He knows how it feels to have lost a parent, and no matter how much time passes, it will always hurt. Does he really want his child to witness those same struggles? To feel the same pain? Does he really want to leave you behind, after everything you've been through?

- Beneath that cold, edgy exterior, there's a soft spot in his heart that truly wants to settle down with you, but he doesn't believe it'll be possible.

- As he tries to solve his dilemma, a million questions race through his mind. Like, what if the kid has the Devil Gene? Will he have to kill his own child? But it's not just his child; it's your child too, and he can't bear to imagine the pain you'd feel if that were to happen.

- But then, what if the kid doesn't have the Devil Gene? What if they turn out to be a normal kid? In that case, he'd care for them and love them until the end.

- But that's when a thought strikes him.

- Why does it matter whether they have the Devil Gene or not? They're still human, after all. They still deserve love and compassion and nurturing. Just because they have the Devil Gene doesn't mean they're inherently evil; they still deserve a chance. Hell, Jin himself has it, and although he's done some terrible things, he's trying his hardest to atone for them.

- Maybe Jin could help teach them how to control it. Not that he really has control over it himself, but that's okay. Maybe they could learn together. Maybe that could be their way to bond.

- That's when he starts to realize how happy this truly makes him. He loves you more than life itself, and the fact that he's going to have a child with you is one of the greatest blessings life can give him. Being a father will come with a lot of responsibility, but Jin is willing to bear it and do the best he can for his kid. He realizes that he is willing to undergo the trials and tribulations that loom ahead, and he will fight to the ends of the Earth to keep you both safe.

- Jin will try and convince you to take a break from modeling and lay low for a while, as any publicity will become more dangerous as time passes on. You think it would be suspicious to just drop off the face of the Earth, which is why you let your agency know beforehand that you're going to be taking a hiatus for personal matters.

- As the baby starts growing and it becomes progressively obvious that you're pregnant, you will be heavily discouraged from going outside at all. For the baby's safety as well as your own, it's best that you refrain from going out in public where the paparazzi are bound to catch you.

- Naturally, Jin becomes very protective over both of you. He starts treating you like a glass vase because he's scared of hurting you somehow. He also gets slightly paranoid around the others and sticks by your side to make sure nothing happens to you.

- He still blames himself a lot for everything that's happening, and he's sorry that you can't just have a normal pregnancy. You have to reassure him that no one's at fault for this, and you're just as willing to fight for the baby as he is. If you have to break away from your normal life to keep them safe, then so be it. It'll all be worth it in the end.

- With a lot of encouragement from you, Jin confides in his friends, starting with Lee, who is happy to help you guys out. As the CEO of a well-known company, he can try to pull some strings and get the press to leave you alone. While it's no guarantee that they'll be gone completely, Lee will try his best to hold them off for a little while. He'll also give you a secret place to stay, stocked with plenty of food and water.

- Lars almost freaks out but manages to keep himself composed. He congratulates both of you and agrees to help you out in whatever way possible. If there's anything you need, be it more food, more water, or just more paper towels, he and Alisa will go out shopping and get it for you.

- Alisa and Xiaoyu are super excited and happy for you. Although the circumstances are not ideal, they still want to make sure that you enjoy yourself and celebrate your pregnancy. In fact, they've already started planning your baby shower.

- Hwoarang also ends up being super supportive. Though he makes himself out to be a tough guy, he has a big soft spot for babies. Rest assured, he will fight tooth and nail to keep this kid safe. Also, Hwoarang has officially proclaimed himself the child's godfather, and there is nothing you or Jin can do about it.

- If Jin's stressed out, you let him lay down and press his ear to your belly. Listening to the baby and being physically close to you has become the most calming feeling in the world to him.

- If Jin doesn't know what to do in certain situations, he'll stop and ask himself what Jun would do. He loves his mother deeply and thinks very highly of her. She was a loving and nurturing woman, so when it comes to taking care of you, he tries his best to emulate that kindness. Jun was a wonderful parent, as well as an excellent role model. When the baby arrives and he officially becomes a parent, Jin deeply hopes he'll turn out to be half as good as she was.

- He will constantly ask you if there's something he can do better. From this point forward, Jin will always be questioning whether or not he's doing the right thing. Your input is valuable to him, and if there's any advice or guidance you have to give, he'd greatly appreciate it.

- At the end of the day, Jin wants to be the best father he can be. Your child's happiness, as well as your own, mean the world to him. No one can take either of you away from him, and Angel have mercy on those who dare try.

[buddiebeginz]

I swear to god i just found the funniest example of projection I've ever seen in my life. Like the call is seriously screaming from inside the house.

Pretty sure it wasn't Buddie fandom who bought a shirt simply because Lou wore it in a cameo once and then posted pics wearing said shirt tagged as louniform like you were all under mass hypnosis.

Also pretty sure it wasn't Buddie fandom spending hundreds of dollars for an actor’s headcanons on our ship.

Remind me again who's giving cult behavior?

It’s Buddie fandom that was saying for years that Buck was not straight. We were the ones that saw the signs for it and we were the ones who pushed for it. Without our support the show very likely wouldn’t have made bi Buck happen.

Also Oliver has confirmed that things like us reading the scene where Buck first sees Eddie as him being attracted to Eddie was right. Oliver also said that bi Buck was supposed to happen in s4 but Fox wouldn’t let it. Buddie fandom are the ones who saw things in s4 like Buck talking to his therapist about how he hides his feelings and how the shooting was coded like a scene between lovers not best friends. It’s not just us seeing what we want to see. It’s deliberate scenes they chose to include in the show.

Like even in season 7 they deliberately chose to pan to Eddie when Buck got his medal. They deliberately chose to have Eddie dress in a couples costume with Buck and have him stay not Tommy. They chose to have Buck’s coming out ep be heavily focused on Eddie. You can call us delusional all you want but we’re just seeing what’s canon and pointing out what is the most logical place for the story to go. B/T had almost no development in s7 where as Buddie had plenty.

You all want to believe T*mmy is the bestest boyfriend forever and B/T are going to get married and live happily ever after but there is zero indication of that happening. You call us crazy for thinking two men who have a deep bond stronger than friendship could fall in love yet you constantly twist every scene with T*mmy to mean way more than it was ever intended to.

[ozzgin]

So I was wondering how Lisa Lisa, Caesar, and Joseph react to accidentally awakening Pillar woman reader( who is EXTRA Buff) . And while the three of them think Reader’s a threat, the reality she’s just a gentle giantess. And just pats Joseph head, and doesn’t seem to understand that they’re humans per say, but thinks their younger Pillar men?

Love the idea! After writing the Baki x JoJo crossover my mind has wandered to a Pillar Woman, too. A proper one. I also played around with Midjourney to see if I could get a glimpse at a potential Pillar Woman, and it’s not as muscular as I would’ve wished but it looks interesting nonetheless.

JJBA Headcanons: Pillar Woman! Reader

Featuring Lisa Lisa, Caesar, Joseph, and an awakened Pillar Woman that’s not as threatening as her male counterpart.

Joseph and Caesar are not only irritated by each other’s company, but by the sheer pointlessness of this task that has interrupted their training. Three Pillar Men have emerged from this site and fiddling around unturned stones only serves in delaying their fight. Their whines are quickly silenced by Lisa Lisa’s orders to continue their search. If they have time to moan, they have time to look for clues. The UV lights have long been discarded after the gory incident, so the narrow rays of flashlights only add to their frustration.

A faint sound catches their attention and they simultaneously turn towards a pillar at the end of the chamber. “Is that an unfinished sculpture or something?” Caesar ponders as he gazes as the bizarre block of stone with a vaguely chiseled arm protruding out of it. “I can’t believe this. I should be perfecting my deadly moves and here I am listening to your art commentary instead. Should we have a little séance session so you can ask them directly?” Joseph responds in a mocking tone. Their bickering continues under the scolding glares of the woman supervising them.

Her sigh of annoyance is abruptly drowned by the loud cracks of collapsing rubble. The bulky pillar seems to be disintegrating and they quickly cover their faces, scrambling to avoid the thick clouds of dust rapidly flooding the room. Once the smoke clears out, their faces twist in shock at the sight of yet another Pillar person that has somehow evaded the previous investigations. Although this one seems to be a woman.

The group is taken aback by the colossal size of this specimen. She’s significantly larger than all the Pillar Men they have encountered, with impressive muscular mass. Joseph and Caesar have already positioned themselves in strategic fighting stances and Lisa Lisa bites her lower lip, stressed by the unexpected encounter. They haven’t managed to lay a finger on the original Pillar Men. Would they stand a chance against this behemoth of a creature?

You stretch your limbs and lazily scan the area. How long has it been since you’ve gone to sleep? You don’t recognize a single thing. The humans before you are small are slender. Children? You’re not quite sure. You hear them mumble among themselves and you realize it’s a language foreign to you, although you quickly pick up the vocabulary. You approach Joseph and place your large hand on his head, trying to reassure the young boy of his safety. “Are your parents nearby? Perhaps they could explain my situation better.” You state in a soft voice. Caesar cannot help the laugh that erupts out of him, having to rest on his knees to manage the convulsions. Joseph barks at him, annoyed and embarrassed, and politely removes your hand, explaining he’s a grown man. You can only stare in shock.

Once it is confirmed that you are indeed no threat, Lisa Lisa describes the recent events to you. You listen intently, arms crossed. You don’t particularly care for humans, but you don’t like the cockiness displayed by the awakened Pillar Men, nor their supposed intentions. In your current state, you could use some entertainment. You might as well lend a hand to the amusing individuals that found you.

[shadybiotics]

PT2 | MAUGA & VENTURE × READER headcanons

[ PT1 HERE ] writing some more for them cus i cant get enough of their dynamic

Mauga wouldnt mind sharing you, polyamory was nothing new to him and he knew better than anyone about the need of exploring ones options and the fun that can bring. Plus, whats better than one lover?

Venture on the other hand... was not so keen on the idea. Not at all actually. They werent so much the possessive type and felt quite secure about their relationship with you, but what really irked them was that it had to be him out of all people.

Not only was Mauga full of himself but he also had no respect or consideration for anything other than materialistic goods and shiny things, or at least thats how Sloane viewed him.

If you had some fun with Mauga, Venture would know. Not because you bragged about it but because the sneaky bastard would leave hickeys only others could notice. Some behind your ear or the back of your neck, something you could, and often did, very easily miss.

If him and Venture had yet another argument prior, he would no longer bother trying to hide his markings. Instead, he would make sure they were as dark and as many as possible and would then leave the problem of covering them to you. He knew that Sloane would know it was him and that only irritated the archeologist further.

Forget about Mauga, what irritated Venture the most was how he pulled these little stunts and played these games at your expense.

But Venture was no better. Venture tried being the bigger person but they just couldnt. They were both childish in that sense.

So Venture played along. And when you spent the night with them instead, they'd make sure to leave something for the eyes too. Something for theirs and Maugas eyes only. Little bruises and marks along your chest, ribs or thighs, something they knew only Mauga would have to see sooner or later. Venture would then coax you to mark them as well in easy to spot places; neck, jaw. Hoping for that to be a silent but strong enough 'fuck you' to Mauga. They would even strain their neck and keep their chin high to make sure he would notice.

Even tho they disliked eachother they knew how to act civil and put aside their bickering when they wanted to. Sometimes, all three of you needed a break, some time to relax, so you would go out to a bar. Sometimes it would be a club, depending on the mood.

Mauga would keep ordering you a round of shots or some fun sounding cocktails, or whatever you picked out when he offered to get you something. It was cute at first, issue was he didnt know when to stop. Or he didnt want to stop.

With one large arm around your shoulders, he would pass you drink after drink.

Whatever you picked he ordered for himself too. There being a very obvious difference in mass, he wouldnt feel a difference while you felt the alcohols effect very quickly. But Mauga didn't see a problem. You were all here to let loose, no?

Venture would juggle between nonalcoholic beverages and some light booze while they cautiously watched you drink, unsure of Maugas intentions. With each passing glass they saw you get more bubbly, more chatty and more touchy... with everyone.

For the sake of your own dignity, they told themself, Venture would keep you close to them so you wouldnt wander off getting touchy feely with some stranger, or even worse, Mauga.

They'd keep you close as they held you by your waist. At this point you were practically wasted, your eyes could barely stay open, so you were both sat. Venture was sure you wouldn't be able to stand if you tried to. Your hands still feeling grabby held tightly onto and squeezed their arm as you leaned heavily into their body.

Mauga, enjoying himself like nothing, would try and snatch you away for a dance, feeling only slightly tipsy now, but Venture would quickly swat his pesky hands away letting you rest unbothered some more.

[gg-neptune]

Hello ☺️ do you take request ? If yes, could you make your eating disorder headcanon into a fic ? Anyway, I like your Severus version and can’t wait to read your next work.

A/n: Hiiii!!! Yes I do take requests. Thank you so much! I love your works too. I love the way you write Severus but also Sinclair as well the way you portray him is so good I just love it. (I love your works as a whole the way you write is so yummy tickles my brain good) Also sorry it took me a few days I have to write things like this in moderation, but I hope you like it. <333333

Also this is related to my experience with having an Ed and my safe foods. I know not everyone can relate to an exact T, but I still hope if you are struggling with anything like this it can help you. If you know someone who is struggling or if you yourself is struggling, please reach out and get some help. You are not defined by a number or what you eat. You are so much more than that,

Warnings: fear of food, eating, ED, kind of panic attack, talks of feeling sick, anything I missed please tell me

It had been a long day of classes. Nothing terribly bad had happened, but it had just been a long day. Your head seemed to pound harder with each step you took. You were trying to make it back to Severus’ chambers. You two had been in a relationship for the better part of a year, and it was coming along great. He was beginning to warm up to the idea of someone being around. He no longer flinched as you brushed past him. He was now accustomed to sitting together on the couch, and on some days you might even get to sit on his lap. You know most things about him by now. He had slowly opened up to you, spilling out his heart for you. You had done the same. However, there was something you had not told him yet.

Finally, you had made it to the dungeons. Quickening your pace, you walk straight to where Severus is, hoping you don’t run into any students. You two had not been caught sneaking into each other's rooms before, but you had both agreed that if it ever did happen, you would say you were dropping off potion ingredients. Or if he was going to your room, he needed to borrow a book, or, in his words, “I’ll just threaten detention for a month with me one on one; they will leave.” Finally, you find your way to his room. No students were around, so you just slipped inside, not bothering to knock in case a student did come.

“Hey Sev I’m here,” you call out. The loud sound of your voice was like a knife into the skull. Your eyes unfocus as you sway back and forth a bit. Quickly,  you lean against a wall, attempting to steady yourself.

Before you appears a mass of black, “Hello.”

Severus lifts his head up a bit so you can actually see his face. His dark eyes look tired as ever as he looks you up and down, taking you in. He stands there for a moment before pulling you off the wall and leading you into his small sitting space. He had only bothered to furnish it when you had come along.

“You look a bit pale,” he stares at you while he says this, scanning over your face as he lightly pushes you down onto the couch. The plush of the cushions enveloped you as you sunk into them, letting your body relax as you held out your arms for him to join you. He does, carefully sitting beside you, wrapping an arm around you as he still stares at you, carefully examining you.

“I don’t feel all that good,” you reply, trying to downplay it.

“Well, not to be mean, but honestly, you look awful. Your pale and almost green,” concern is laced through his voice as he says this. He pulls you closer to him, keeping you firmly placed beside him. “Have you eaten today?”

“Yeah,” you keep your answer short, not sure if you could keep up lying to him.

“Really? Well, what did you eat then?” He’s on to you, and you know it. His voice is monotone as he bares holes into your eyes, staring down at you like he’s reading your mind.

“Well, for breakfast I had some blueberries and yogurt, and then for lunch I had part of a sandwich,” you gaze up at him, hoping he believes you. His eyes are narrowed into slits, and his mouth is pressed into a thin line.

“I didn’t know lying in a relationship was acceptable,” he states plainly, fixing his posture as he pulls you into his lap, cocking a brow at you. “Now one more time. What did you actually eat today? And don’t lie to me this time.” He isn’t mad, but rather just concerned.

Words choke in your throat as you try to come up with something to say. You can’t lie this time, but what do you say to him?

“I already know you didn’t eat anything, so I will rephrase the question. Why have you not eaten anything?” he questioned. This time his tone was more authoritative. You lean forward and rest your head on his shoulder, not wanting to look him in the eye at the moment, or rather, you don’t think you can.

“I just—um, well, I didn’t feel like it,” you reply. This was not entirely a lie. The entire day had gone by, and you had not felt like eating. However, there was more to it than that alone. 

“How about I go get something from the kitchen right now and bring it back? You need to eat,” Severus replies, rubbing your back as you lean on him. His other arm is wrapped loosely around your waist.

“No, it’s ok, I’m not hungry.”

He stops rubbing your back and lifts his arms up to your shoulders. He pushes you back and makes you look at him, “Liar.”

You don’t know if it was being made to look at him so intensely, or him being on to you like this, or not being as close to him as you were, or the weight of your own thoughts, but your eyes begin to well with tears as he says this. He keeps you held by your shoulders as tears fill your eyes, but his expression softens.

“Please tell me. I can fix it if you tell me,” the man's voice is almost begging as he looks at you. He pulls you back to his chest and gently strokes your back again, attempting to offer comfort. Tears fall from your eyes, but luckily his shirt is there to soak them up. “I’ll fix it; just tell me what’s wrong,” he whispers out into your hair. His voice is breaking the sight of you crying into him like this is breaking him. Of course he already knows why, but for once in his life, he is hoping his Legimens skills have led him wrong.

“I need to—I just lose some weight, you know?” You try your best to keep your voice steady as you say this. He almost instantly wraps his arms tightly around you as if he is trying to shield you from your thoughts as soon as you say that. You shove your face in his neck to hide your tears, and you take a deep breath to try and steady yourself, but you find it a tad hard to breathe. Severus’ grip on you has tightened so much.

“Sev- I can’t breathe,” you choke out, still fighting back tears. He loosens his grip but still keeps his arms firmly around you as you say this.

"No, you don't; you weigh perfectly fine. You need food,” his voice is no longer breaking but rather strong and determined now as he stands bringing you along with him. He sets you down back on the couch. “Now. You stay here, here take this,” he grabs a large quilt from one of the choirs in the area and drapes it over you, bundling you in it, “and then when I get back I’m going to have food. And you're going to eat. And you won't gain weight because food doesn't work like that. Am I clear?” His hands are on his hips as he stares down at your teary eyes. His expression is soft, but his voice is showing much concern. He leans down and gently wipes a few stray tears from your eyes. 

"No, no, I can’t,” you cry out. The thought of food is making you feel sick. “I can’t eat; I can't, Severus.” Your voice is weak and trembling.

"Yes, you can, and you will. It won’t be a lot, I promise, but you will eat.” He says this like it is the most simple thing in the world. Like you, eating would be simple for you. However, you knew better. You have been struggling with your relationship with food for a while now. Everything about it seemed to make you sick. You tended to avoid it because of this fact. However, when faced with a situation where you had to, it would manage to find its way up one way or another.

Severus presses a kiss to your head and then your lips before speaking, “I promise it will be ok,” his voice, gentle and soothing, “you need to eat pretty. I’ll be right back, and I will be here with you the entire time, I promise.” With that, he leaves, going to the kitchens leaving you with your thoughts for a few moments.

What would you do when he came back with food? You had not eaten in so long; you were not even sure if what you were feeling was hunger anymore. How are you going to deflect it this time?

Thoughts race through your head a mile a minute. It seemed like no time at all that Severus was back. Immediately he was in front of you again, attempting to soothe you. You had not realized, but your hands had gone to your hair, gripping tightly as if you were trying to pull your own hair out. Your breathing was rapid and shallow as you pressed yourself into the back of the couch, trying to enclose yourself in a space you deemed safe.

“Love, please look at me.” His voice was almost pleading, but he was making a great attempt at keeping it strong and steady for you. Slowly you lifted your eyes up to him, trying to calm down your breathing, but it was as if your hands were not your own, as they kept gripping tighter and tighter no matter how hard you tried to relax them.

His hands lift up to yours and gently cover them in an attempt to get you to relax. “Relax, it’s me. Just me. You and me.”

Slowly your hands relax, and he removes them from your head. “You're ok, come here; you're safe; it’s ok.” He pulls you to his chest, pulling you into his lap. He lifts himself onto the couch, sitting with you curled in his lap, completely safe.

After a while of silence, he was just holding you close. You began to hope he was going to drop the idea of making you eat something, but soon he crushed your hopes. “I brought mainly really light stuff. Nothing heavy like soup.”

He leans forward, and with one hand (the other still wrapped around you), he grabs a container and opens it, and inside is plain, uncooked broccoli.

“I used to eat this all the time when I was younger and I felt bad,” he says happily, taking a piece for himself and eating the top of it, smiling down at you.

“Severus, I'm not eating uncooked broccoli.”

“Why not? I’m here for you, love. I promise throughout it all I will be.

“It has nothing to do with that; it’s the fact it’s plain and uncooked. I’m not eating it,” you huff out. You lean back against his chest as he eats the rest of his broccoli and then reaches forward for the next container he brought.

"Well, fine then. I brought yogurt as well and this granola bar. Any of that sounds good,” he looks down at you. His eyes are filled with nothing but love. No judgment is present at all, only pure unconditional love.

“I guess, I dunno,” you respond, shying away from his eye contact. You hide your face on his shoulder. His arm comes back to you to wrap around you again. He begins to stroke your back again.

“I’ll be here. How about a few bites of the yogurt, hm? Then your stomach will have something on it, at least, ok.” His voice is gentle and calming as he whispers into your ear.

“I don’t want to gain weight,” you whimper out into him. Your arms wrap tightly around him, clinging for support. 

“Love, you won’t gain weight from this. Not fatty weight, at least, ok? A couple of bites of food won’t do that to you. And even if it did, you would be beautiful as ever, you hear me? You need to eat. I can’t stand to see you not, to see my girlfriend wasting away, and I know that might sound dramatic, but if you keep this up, you will. Let’s conquer this together, ok? I know you can, and I will be here with you to help you throughout everything. I am always with you through everything. Always.” He tries hard to get these words out, as he is not good with them. He struggles to say things in the heat of a moment, but he wants desperately to comfort you right now. He wants you to know there is nothing to worry about with him there. He’s going to keep you safe regardless of what you think.

He reaches forward and picks up the tub of yogurt. It’s your favorite flavor. You don’t know if you’ve ever mentioned this to him, and if you did, it was in passing, but regardless, he remembered. He grabs a spoon and opens the container. “Now don’t be frightened by how big the container is; I don’t expect you to eat all of it. Let’s go for at least 5 decent bites, alright?”

You nod in agreement, “I’ll try.”

He dips the spoon into the container and then lifts it to your mouth, offering it to you. For a moment, you stare at it wearily. Before coming up with an idea, “Severus distract me. Tell me a story or something.”

He puts the spoon back into the container and looks at you curiously. “What kind of story?”

“Just be descriptive, something to take my mind off what I am doing.”

"Well, all right,” he picks the spoon back up and begins telling a story of a dragon.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Once there was a dragon. He was dark purple with sharp horns sticking out of almost every inch of his skin. Many dragons in his area with horns were red or orange and not purple, making him very undesirable to the female dragons in his area. By the time he was just a baby, he had already discovered he was undesirable and unworthy of those around him. His odd coloring and horns were a result of his mother and father breeding from different tribes. This was forbidden in his land.

The dragon lived a lonely life. He lived atop a mountain and came down once a day to drink and eat. Each time he came down, he saw the same old other dragons who looked at him with judging and disapproving eyes. He had been met with this type of gaze his entire life. No one else was dark purple and had horns like him.

However, one time, on his way down to drink, he spotted another purple dragon. He at first suspected it was from his mother's tribe (his father having the horns, his mother being purple); however, the closer he got, he realized it too had horns. He knew immediately he had to go see up close.

As not to frighten the other dragon, who was drinking from the river, he went on the opposite side and pretended to lap up some water himself. His eyes stayed on the other purple-horned dragon the entire time, never leaving it. He was used to the judging stares he got, so he always suspected he was rather ugly; however, looking at the dragon before him, he could not help but think it was a beautiful sight.

Seeing it up close, he realized the dragon was a female dragon. She had the same coloring he did and the same horns all over as him.

She looked up, having sensed eyes on her, and was immediately met with his eyes gazing at her. He was almost too scared to move, but he managed to try to muster up the best smile he could.

He was unsure what her reaction would be for a moment, but soon she was flying over to his side of the river to join him.

“Who are your parents?” she questioned. Her voice was strong but still held a hint of curiosity in it.

“Norbert of the West and Falkor of the North.”

She studied him for a moment, almost trying to see if he was lying before her muscles seemed to relax.

They fell into easy conversation after this. They shared many of the same experiences throughout life, making it easy to bond. When it was nightfall, he offered his mountain up to her, and she happily agreed to the sleepover.

It was the first time in both of their lives that they did not feel alone. 

Many months passed. They had flown everywhere together, both having found a new spirit to go and explore the world. After a while, they settled back down atop the mountain since winter was fast approaching. 

“You are welcome to stay with me.”

“I would love nothing more.”

And that was the tale of the two odd dragons. One might believe that they will never find their one, but they will eventually. You are never truly only. Your person may just be a tad lost in finding you. Or, hell, you might be the one lost.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Before you knew it, you had eaten your 5 decent bites and even a few more. Severus realized, but you had now. Transfixed on his story, you had lost count and pushed the thoughts away from your mind as best as you could any time they would come near. He reached the end of the story at last.

“I made that up on the spot completely,” he admitted somewhat sheepishly, “but I think it was good.”

“It did what it was supposed to,” you respond. You lean back over to Severus once he has put away the yogurt and other food items, sending them to the kitchen with a flick of his wand.

He opens his arms for you and leans back against the armrest of the sofa, holding you to his chest once more.

“How do you feel?”

“Ok.”

“Just ok? No bad or good feelings, just ok,” his eyes meet yours, and you can tell he is genuinely concerned. He wants to see you eat, and he wants you to be healthy.

"Yeah, I’m just ok.”

Silence is cast over the two of you. You bask in his warmth, and he basks in yours. He makes a point of keeping his arms tightly wrapped around you, like he is scared you will slip away.

“Promise me something,” he breaks the silence. His baritone voice is almost jarring with how quiet it had been.

“Promise when you're struggling like this, you’ll come to me. I don’t care what I’m doing; I want to make sure you are okay.”

You grip his arm tightly, processing his words. In a perfect world, you would immediately just say that you promised, but you knew how it could be sometimes. Sometimes it wasn’t that easy. But look at you now. You're not feeling as awful as you were. Your headache is beginning to fade a bit, your stomach is not aching like it was, and now you are getting to be held by Severus. So maybe you could promise.

“I will be there for you anytime you need me; I promise you that. I swear to you I will be. I just need you to promise that you will tell me when you need me.”

“I promise to try my best to tell you when I need you,” you respond, knowing full well this was not a lie. You would do your best in the future to try to tell him what you were going through.

“Thank you, beautiful. Get some sleep, ok? I can tell you're exhausted. You did so good, you’ve earned it.”

Humming in response, you press your ear to his chest, wanting to listen to his heartbeat, and close your eyes. Very soon you drift off safe and sound in Severus’ arms. Perfect just the way you are, no matter what you eat, because you are not defined by calories or your weight.

[krowlovesinazuma]

How have you been? I have returned for more headcanons! And I am not insane yet again! ...Ei, Kujou Sara, and Kokomi with a reader that has a gun (pistol in this case) on them

Okay fine I am a bit insane

Read this prologue for context!

Scenario: Reactions to a modern pistol

Characters: Ei, Kujou Sara, Sangonomiya Kokomi

I'll be honest, you should make sure that Ei manages to fully understand the advances and culture of the present day Inazuma before you show her new tech. It will spare much confusion.

Ei isn't interested in military advancements at first, but once you perhaps bring it up as a small comment, or she sees it, she will bring it up, and once you mention it as a weapon, she'll definitely be interested and want to learn more.

Remember, she used to be a military leader, so she still has a keen interest in these things, even if she wishes to not wage a war again if she can stop it. So when she learns about it, she might start to asks questions that not many may know...

How does it work? Why is it so deadly? Can it be mass produced? How does one train to use it? She becomes very curious in very little time, and she may be a little disappointed if some questions aren't answered.

Doesn't matter if the questions tire you out or not, her curiosity is lit up, and eventually she'll start asking about a whole bunch of other things as well! The gun might not amount to much, but it caused a definitive change in her mind about your world!

She doesn't really see it as a threat, nor as a weapon she could possibly use, as she's confident in her own techniques, and power. She leaves it in your hands, and leaves it be, without much hassle.

However, if you're interested in self defense and weapons, she'd be happy to show you how it works in her world, while witnessing it first-hand! She might not be the best teacher, but it's the least she can do to pay you back!

"From your expression, I'm guessing you liked the demonstration. Isn't it beautiful? At first, I didn't think of it that way myself, but the more I thought about it, the more I came to understand how it can be enchanting to watch. Why am I... W-well, it's to return the favor, isn't it obvious?"

At first, she won't ask many questions about your world, or your belongings. It's not surprising, given her tendency to not make small tall, and her respectful nature about her superiors. Get her to loosen up first, then maybe she'll notice and ask.

When she learns about the gun, she'll pay very close attention. She doesn't like putting in her personal feelings towards military matters, but from the way you talk, she eventually notices that it's more of a casual talk than anything.

Once she relaxes, she'll ask more questions, and show curiosity, much like Ei. Her questions are straightforward, and objective, like how to use it, about the ammunition, and its use as a weapon.

When realizing it's value as a self defense weapon, she leaves it in your hands, although she can't help but think about it at random times afterwards, especially when she's relaxing.

After this, she asks about the possibility of other firearms, how they work and what they look like! It might be just memories at this point, but she can't help but be curious... It's a good topic to keep her engaged, and just chat.

This will eventually lead to her asking about military matters in your world! If you do know, expect to be asked about wars, tactics, and other technology used in them. Perhaps you could spare her some gruesome details, but she does listen to whatever you may share.

In exchange, she'll eventually speak about military matters in Inazuma, perhaps some that you weren't aware of when watching everything from outside! Just make sure to let her know that you're actually learning, and not omniscient...

"You don't mind that I'm asking questions like these, correct? I understand that war is now something of the past, and I should enjoy other things in this world now that it's behind us, but... No need to explain? Are you... Hm. I'm... Grateful."

Time for something a little different, as Kokomi is naturally curious of other cultures aside from the one in her home! So whenever you mention your past life and world, she naturally starts to ask questions!

If you show her your gun, she's immediately examining it, with just her eyes if you don't let her hold it, and the texture is just so strange to her... She examines it almost as if it's a relic of some kind!

Once you explain its functions as a weapon though, her more childish curiosity drops for a few moments, just in case it's something more serious than she assumed at first...

If you do let her hold it again, she'll be much more careful with it, and her eyes will lose some of that glow, getting sharper... Just ensure she doesn't overthink things, she's already done plenty of that.

Much like the others she'll leave it in your hands, but it's not hard to tell how interested she is! If you bring it up later, she'll definitely show how much she's been thinking about it constantly...

Once you let her though, she'll definitely storm you with more questions about both the weaponry, and the way it's used in your world, amongst other related topics! Much like the others, but there's a tone of spark and excitement in her voice...

She's definitely the one that remains most interested in the weapon out of them all, even if it's not to use it herself. It's to the point you can sorta predict what the two of you will talk about next time you two meet...

"I can't believe how far technology has developed... I can't help but wonder, how else has it developed? Even more, how far have other things developed? Ways of thinking, religion, warfare? So many wonderful possibilities to think about..."

[bogwaterparasite]

Could you please do 2004 Tord x reader, pls? He's my comfort character x(

(btw, pls make him as an adult if ur comfy with that! The TeenTord headcanon makes me uncomfortable x(

(not forced!)

Hello why of course!! I’m gonna be completely honest, last I watched Eddsworld was back in 2014?? So my interpretation might not be the best 🙏🙏 either way I hope you enjoy!!!

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Pairing : 2004Tord x Reader

CW : none

Wc : 639 (wow so short)

A/N : I actually quite enjoyed this one? Im writing this at night and I didn’t have much of an idea of what else to do/ where to take it, but lowkey I can see it possibly becoming an actual story rather than a one shot. Who knows, maybe if I’m feeling inspired I’ll make it into a series

Sypnosis : You’re a mechanic working late one night when someone bursts into your workshop

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the cluttered garage. It was well past midnight, one of those rare moments when the world seemed to pause, allowing you a precious slice of personal time. Your own projects—the ones that never made it to the top of the priority list—were finally getting some attention.

Being a mechanic wasn't just a job; it was a calling. Each day brought a wild mixture of characters: stubborn old men who looked at you with skeptical eyes, convinced that youth equated to incompetence; entitled customers who argued over every dollar; self-proclaimed experts who believed YouTube tutorials made them equivalent to professional technicians. You'd seen it all—or so you thought.

The sudden crash of the workshop door made you jump, your wrench clattering against the concrete floor. A lanky figure burst in, light brown hair slightly disheveled, eyes wild with an intensity that immediately set your internal alarms ringing. Your gaze shifted towards the window, the LED sign with the words “Open” was shut off.. there was no way he actually thought the shop was open.

Before you even had the chance to protest, to tell him that right now you weren’t under working hours, blueprints exploded across your workspace like a paper hurricane, accompanied by several heavy metal boxes that looked like they'd been "borrowed" from somewhere decidedly official. Immediately, your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, who the hell was this lunatic?

You didn’t have much time to question his theatrics as he soon began to explain his plan. Something about a robot.. approximately 10 meters tall? Looking down at the prints on your desk you weren’t able to tell if this was just some geeky fascination or something that you should genuinely be worried about. Regardless, it was something way out of your budget and league. Despite your interest and knowledge on cars, you weren’t so sure it applied to.. this..

"Look man, I dunno…" you started, your voice wavering between professional skepticism and genuine confusion. "I'm a mechanic, not a manufacturer. A twenty- thirty.. something foot robot? That's way beyond the standard automotive repair."

The stranger—dressed in a vibrant red hoodie that seemed almost too casual for the plans now scattered before you—let out a low chuckle. It was the kind of laugh that suggested he knew exactly how ridiculous this all seemed, and yet, didn't seem to care one bit.

"Not asking for mass production," he said, his accent carrying a hint of something Nordic—Norwegian, maybe? "Just one. Perfect prototype. Think of it as... a special order." His hands remained casually stuffed in his hoodie pockets, but there was nothing casual about the calculation behind his eyes.

The blueprints were meticulously detailed. Intricate mechanical designs intertwined with what looked like weaponry specifications. It was.. almost scary, how someone as simple as he looked was able to acquire such things, ones of such magnitude to say the least. This wasn't just a robot; this was something more. Something potentially dangerous.

"Split the profits," he continued, watching you carefully. "Fifty-fifty. All I need is your technical expertise and this workspace for a few weeks."

Something told you this was more than a simple business proposition. The boxes of materials, the precise blueprints, the way he'd so easily found his way into a private workshop, everything screamed of a deeper, more complex story.

And yet, a part of you was intrigued. Curiosity had always been your weakness, and this stranger had just presented a puzzle too compelling to dismiss.

"Who are you?" you found yourself asking, knowing the answer would likely raise more questions than it would resolve.

The smile that crossed his face was equal parts charming and dangerous—the smile of someone who knew exactly how this conversation would end, even if you didn't.

“My name is Tord, What about you, Stranger?”