#so what i had built has been burnt | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yenhan · 23 days ago

Text

TF141 & International student neighbor pt. 3

Next - Masterlist

Synopsis: dinner with the Lads.

Doing a walk of shame to their place while holding a Tupperware container filled with your contribution to dinner, two boiled eggs and a single sad tomato, made you feel silly. You were inventive, you could come up with something to bail last minute. But the alternative was another night alone with leftover rice and the sound of next door laughing without you. Did you want that? No, you were miserable enough already.

The door to their flat opened before you even knocked. Johnny must’ve been watching from the peephole like a feral dog. “Took ye long enough!” he held a beer out like a bribe.

“Do I look like I can be bought with alcohol?” You brushed past him into the warm, curry-scented room.

“Ye look like ye want to be. C’mon, hen, shoes off, drama on. We’ve just started burnin’ the onions.” You’d never noticed how sparkling his eyes were. Soap really was the life of the party; you could learn one thing or two.

“They’re not burnt,” Gaz called from the kitchen, “they’re caramelized.”

“What’s this arson smell, then?” You replied, stepping in.

The first thing you noticed was a humongous laundry basket full of tactical gear shoved under a coat rack. How did you even know the word ‘humongous’? Fan fiction, probably. The IELTS certification abandoned in a box under your bed hadn’t helped with half of your English vocabulary till this day. Above the basket, a paper sheet had been attached to the wall; it had tally marks and the boys’ names on it.

Days since retirement – John: 243, Simon: 197, Kyle: 243, Johnny: 425 Months since the last ‘gear wash’ day – John: IIIIIII, Simon: I, Kyle: IIIIIII, Johnny: IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

“Do I want to know?” You let out a small, dry chuckle.

“Price and I washed our military uniforms on the day of our retirement. Johnny has been out for 14 months, but those are 25 lines.” Gaz leaned with both elbows on the kitchen counter.

Ah.

…

“Gross! Johnny, I can’t believe you!”

“Wot? I dinnae wan’ to erase ma masculine scent, bonnie!” The Scotsman defended himself with a way-too-childish pout.

“Stay away from me, I’ll sit next to John!”

He raised a finger, as if realizing something. “Technically, ma name’s John, too—”

“Vade retro! Shoo!”

Johnny’s questionable hygienic habits aside, there was a lingering scent of spices and beer hung in the air. It was the most lived-in place you’d seen since arriving in the country. Soap motioned you to a stool by the counter, then dramatically gestured to the stove. “Feast your eyes on our gourmet operation.”

“I’m scared.”

“You should be,” Ghost muttered, appearing from the hallway like a haunted Victorian widower in grey gym shorts. You jumped slightly, he always moved too quietly for a man built like a fridge.

“Are you cooking too?” You asked, trying not to show how much his presence still intimidated you.

He stared. “No.”

Right. Of course.

“I supervise,” he added after a beat.

Price was at the dining table with a bottle of dark ale and a frown carved into his face. You’d seen it before. The dad face. He motioned to the other chair. “Sit down. You eat with us, you eat properly.”

You obeyed instantly.

Gaz passed you a bowl of rice and a second one full of fragrant chicken curry; your stomach made an embarrassing sound. Aunt Wang’s fried rice hadn’t been enough.

“So,” John started, tilting his head, “you survive the immigration office?”

You groaned into your spoon. “Barely. They lost my file again. I think I’m being cursed by a low-level demon who feeds on administrative dysfunction.”

The youngest of the sergeants nodded seriously. “Aye, they dae. Our Lt. once swore blind a goat farmer in Al-Amarah’d cursed the whole unit.”

“I said hexed,” Ghost corrected without looking up from his bottle. “Get it right.”

You snorted and rolled your eyes. “Do you ever have a normal day? Like, just one?”

“No,” Price said flatly.

—

They let you vent. Not the polite nod-and-smile kind of listening that the cashier at Tesco would offer while you bagged the groceries, they were listening; locked in and taking notes. You told them about your classes, how your advisor always forgot your name, and the time your essay got an Upper Second-Class Degree because you put a capybara emoji in a pargraph to see if the professor actually read assignments.

You ranted about the cold, about how people said “cheers” for everything, and how your landlord responded to maintenance requests with philosophical questions like ‘what even is a functioning radiator, really?’. A practical ‘You’re not Nietzsche, Truth isn’t a human construction for you. Just fix my shitty apartment,’ shut him up.

“God, I missed student chaos. It makes me feel young again.”

“Aren’t you the one who insists he’s still young?”

“Dunno. My knees disagree.”

“You’re all really weird,” you remarked, curled up with a glass of lemon soda. You’d been warned the beer they bought wasn’t that nice, but… jeez, it tasted like grief and Simon's black face paint.

Gaz raised a brow. “You’re one to talk. You translated Aunt Wang’s death threats and then thanked her with a bow.”

“She gave me extra rice!”

In the end, Johnny did read aloud from your anthropology textbook. Kyle played a Spotify playlist titled Chicken Curry Vibes, which included a weird mix of Arctic Monkeys, Pitbull, and a loud Bollywood remix.

Ghost didn’t read the villain lines in your favourite cheap romance novel. He did, however, steal your naan, then feigned innocence like a cat caught getting inside the microwave.

You didn’t feel so helpless anymore.

This wasn’t home yet.

But it was beginning to be yours.

And the 141? Oh, they already belonged to you.

318 notes · View notes

another-fantasy-world · 26 days ago

Text

Turning Tables

→ student!agathario x professor!fem!reader

word count ~ 2.1k

summary: You built your reputation on cold stares, brutal grading, and a mind sharpened by trauma, spite and caffeine. But when Agatha Harkness and Rio Vidal, two academic legends cloaked in power and mystery, walk into your classroom as students, everything shifts. They watch you like a challenge. Like a hunt. And for the first time, you're not sure who's in control. What begins as a lecture in literature turns into a slow unraveling of self; tense, electric, and laced with something far more dangerous than desire. You were the one meant to teach. So why do you feel like prey?

authors note: my first agathario fic skfnfkjx panicking so much. i've longed to write for this fandom yet has been scared until I swallowed my fear and asked @saphiccarma for help. So, I dedicate this to her, and to all of the members of the lesbian army behind agathario. I hope y'all like it 😔🦶

content warning(s): minors do not interact pls, sexual tension in the classroom, unhealthy dynamics, older students agathario and younger professor reader, might be smut in future chapters, psychological unraveling, loss of control, shitty writing, non-canon compliance, shitty characterization

═════════════

If someone had told you you'd become your mother before hitting thirty, you'd have told them to shove a pipe cleaner up their ass sideways.

But here you are, burnt coffee in hand, fake smile plastered on, trapped in the sacred hellscape of the faculty lounge. Surrounded by crusty relics in crocheted cardigans who quote Plato like it's a kink.

The worst part? You're one of them now. A professor. A fucking academic.

The university, though? Disgustingly prestigious. The kind of place that gets whispered about in overpriced cafés and college admissions horror stories.

State-of-the-art everything. A three-story library that's still expanding. Gyms that smell like money and ambition. Dorms so cushy they might as well be hotel suites.

With that kind of setup, it’s no wonder people assume you slept your way into the position.

Would’ve been easier if that were true.

But no. You didn’t climb the ladder by seduction. You clawed your way up fueled by childhood trauma, hatred, and a PhD’s worth of spite.

Now you’ve got two jobs, more money than you know what to do with, and just enough friends to keep from being labeled a total psychopathic freak.

A poetic little fuck-you to your dead mother who said literature was a waste of time.

You’re on your third cup of disappointment, pretending that bitter caffeine will buffer you from the social agony of the faculty lounge. It doesn’t. The couch springs are older than you. The conversation stinks of tenure, arrogance and ego.

At least your office is far enough from these fossils. Shame they won’t let you bring your own coffee machine, something about “budget regulations” and “fire hazards,” as if anyone here had enough energy to spontaneously combust.

“Professor Sunshine!”

Your eye twitches.

The nickname is less about warmth and more about fallout. You burn too bright. Students flee like they’ve looked directly at you for too long, and sometimes, they have.

You don’t mind. You get paid whether they cry or not.

“It’s Doctor Sunshine to you, Mr. Maximoff,” you say flatly, turning to the walking sports drink in khakis.

Pietro Maximoff grins like a frat boy who never quite grew out of hazing rituals.

“I see the sun’s shining less today,” he quips, snatching your mug and taking a bold swig. He grimaces. Good.

“Let me treat you to something better.”

“I make more money than you,” you shoot back.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Then I’m a miracle.”

He snorts. “Okay, hot stuff. Heard you’ve got two world-class historians in your class.” He wiggles his eyebrows like a cheap sitcom extra.

“And?” You're used to having famous people in your class, you wonder why Pietro even mentioned such a thing.

“Nothing… Just betting five bucks you can’t make them drop.”

“What are you? A college frat boy?” You scoffed at him, raising an unimpressed brow

“He was,” a silken voice interrupts, light and amused.

Wanda Maximoff appears beside him, graceful as ever, red hair tucked behind one ear like she’s the muse in a painting no one’s allowed to touch. She taps Pietro’s head with her ring-heavy hand before turning her attention to you with that knowing smile she always wears; soft, maternal, quietly terrifying.

The siblings were opposites. Complete opposites.

Sokovian History professor. Faculty darling. Her evaluations read like love letters. Where Pietro was all sweat and chaos, Wanda moved like silk in a summer breeze; graceful, calm, but with an undeniable weight to her presence. She was the kind of woman who didn’t need to raise her voice to be heard. When she walked into a room, conversations hushed, not out of intimidation, but reverence. Her voice, laced with a gentle Sokovian lilt, wrapped around every word like a spell cast with scarlet gloves.

Students clung to her every word, enchanted by her quiet brilliance. She didn’t lecture; she wove narratives. In her class, history wasn’t a timeline, it was a living, breathing creature, resurrected by the soft cadence of her voice and the stories that lived in her gaze. She taught with the care of someone handling old wounds, her fingers gentle on the past, her eyes sharp enough to see through it.

And there was something ethereal about her, something in the way her rings caught the light as she gestured mid-thought, or the way she always seemed to know more than she let on. A mother to her students, yes, but a terrifyingly perceptive one. She noticed everything. Remembered everything.

Even now, she was looking at you as if she already knew where your story ends.

Meanwhile, Pietro teaches Sports Science and gets fan mail from student-athletes and wide-eyed girls auditing his class. Last year, he lost the “Hottest Male Professor” poll to Professor Rogers and sulked for weeks.

“Fifty bucks,” Pietro says, doubling down.

You flash him a predatory grin. “Deal.”

Wanda sighs, long-suffering and elegant. “One day, you two will outgrow your pissing contests.”

You doubt it.

You brush off Pietro’s smugness, but his words stick like a dare. You don’t believe in omens, but something about today feels off.

You were right.

And fuck Pietro. You're never taking another bet from him ever again.

You enter the lecture hall like always: bored, bitter, buzzing on burnt caffeine. The room smells like old textbooks and anticipation. You’ve locked the door behind you; your usual ritual of academic sadism. No latecomers. No mercy.

But something’s off.

There’s a weight in the air, heat, almost. Not temperature, exactly. Just the kind of heat that coils down your spine, instinctive and ancient. You feel it before you even meet their eyes.

When you scan the room, your gaze skips past the sleepy freshmen and hungover upperclassmen until it snaps, front row, dead center.

Two women.

They sit like they own the space. Not trying to. Knowing they do. Confidence was oozing out from them in beautiful waves, they seemed like the embodiment of professional arrogance. Their eyes, although different in color, stare at you the same way. It felt heavy, yet not suffocating. It felt strangely comforting, and that thought alone sent shivers down your spine.

The one on the left has dark eyes like bruised velvet and a mouth made for ruin. The other leans back with a legal pad and the posture of a queen at court; unbothered, unreadable, untouchable.

Their gazes land on you with perfect stillness. No blinking. No flinching. Just that weight again.

And in that exact moment, you know.

You’re fucked. Deeply. Profoundly. Existentially.

They don’t look like students. They don’t look like anything you’ve ever taught.

You grip the podium like it’ll anchor you to reality.

You cleared your throat, breaking eye contact like it burned.

“If you're here because you thought this class would be easy. Get the hell out.”

The words came out flat, practiced. You always open this way, your voice is steady. Cold. Scripted. It’s the same line you give every year. It usually works. The scared ones scatter. The cocky ones get humbled after the first exam.

But not them.

They don’t even blink.

The tension didn’t lift. It coiled.

Like they were waiting for something.

Like you were the one being tested.

“If you’re still sitting here in five minutes, you’re agreeing to read the blood and bones of every civilization that ever wrote a word. You’ll write essays that rewrite your brain. You’ll drown in dead languages and sleep with metaphors under your pillow.”

You click the remote. The first slide glows behind you.

No one moves.

Especially not them.

The woman with dark brown yet silver-streaked hair leans back in her seat, languid. Deliberate. Her fingers trace something into the spine of her notebook, though you’re too far to see what. Her gaze flickers to you—sharp, ancient. Not tired, but measured. Like you’re a puzzle she's already halfway through solving.

Beside her, the one with a jaw like carved stone and a stare like a held knife to your throat doesn’t even try to pretend she’s paying attention to the slides. She only watches you as she nibbles on her pencil in a playful and annoyingly seductive way.

Then it hits you, like a brick that fell from 15 stories high.

You do know who they are. Everyone on campus does.

You mentally kick yourself for not realizing it sooner.

Dr. Agatha Harkness, expert in ancient texts, dead languages, and cryptic footnotes that even seasoned scholars refuse to touch.

Dr. Rio Vidal, historian of legal theory and the laws no longer written. To make it easier, she's a historian of law, but not the kind written in dusty textbooks. The kind etched in blood, carved in stone, whispered across centuries.

They’re legends in academia. The kind of people who give guest lectures that make other professors take notes. The kind of names that carry weight, and bite. Both with credentials that make your curriculum vitae look like a high school résumé.

They’ve taken classes before. Rumor has it that they're working on a PhD that you're pretty sure they already have. Wanda, in particular, had thoughts. She blabbered for an hour straight in your apartment once, her voice shifting from frustration to reverence and back again like she couldn’t decide whether to curse them or canonize them. You’d laughed at her, teasing her for being so dramatic.

Stress, admiration, annoyance, arousal, she cycled through all of it in a single paragraph.

You remember thinking she was overreacting.

Now, standing in front of them, you’re not so sure.

You didn’t look at your roster. You never do on the first day.

And maybe that was a mistake.

Because you didn’t know they’d be here.

You didn’t know they’d be like this.

You didn’t expect the air to shift with their gaze. You didn’t expect to feel watched. Studied. Hunted.

You turn back to the projector screen like it’s armor. Like it can block the way their eyes follow your every movement.

You speak. Words about Gilgamesh and Sumerian cuneiform fill the room. You’ve said them a hundred times before.

But your voice feels foreign in your mouth. Your pacing is off. You almost trip over a quote from an Epic because-

You can feel them.

Not in the way students usually feel. Not in the twitchy, distracted, too-online way. They’re quiet. Still. Intent.

Like they’re dissecting you. Or worse, understanding you.

Your pulse skips a beat. You’re hyper-aware of your throat. Your instincts whisper one word: run.

You clear your throat again. You’re not nervous. You’ve taught this class for years. You've spoken at conferences with stricter crowds and colder rooms.

You’re not nervous.

Your hand tightens around the remote. It was an attempt to keep composure, to stay strong.

“Attendance is irrelevant,” you say, voice clipped. You make yourself sound bored. Detached. Like you’re above this.

“This class will not cater to your schedules, your feelings, or your GPAs. You’ll pass if you earn it. You’ll fail if you don’t. I don’t do second chances.”

It comes out clean. Sharp. You're good at this.

You move through the next slide, keeping your eyes away from them. You’re aware of their presence like you’re aware of gravity; constant, invisible, undeniable.

“This is not a course in reading comprehension. We’ll be dissecting context, subtext, and cultural memory. We’ll read what was said, what wasn’t said, and what was forbidden to say.” You continue

You hear the faintest sound, a slight rustle of fabric followed by the soft creaking of university issued plastic chairs, and maybe a breath caught at the wrong moment. It’s quiet, but your brain latches onto it like a warning.

Still, you push forward. You have to.

So you did. Despite the magnetic pull they seem to both have, you managed to keep yourself together until the end of your orientation and the short discussion of your syllabus. You might be cruel, but you're not a monster to immediately begin a lesson on the first day.

The class ends like any other. You dismiss them. They rise.

And yet they don’t rush. In fact, they stay behind, the last students to ever walk out your doors.

Agatha meets your gaze for a breath too long. She doesn’t smile, not really. But her mouth moves like she might.

Rio tilts her head slightly, like she’s filing you away in a mental drawer.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, Professor,” one of them murmurs.

You don’t remember which.

You stay frozen long after they’re gone. Only whispers of their presence remain.

You’re used to narrating the room like a well-worn novel; predictable, underlined, annotated. But now, the chapters are being rewritten without your consent, and for the first time, you don’t know if you’re the author… or just a footnote in someone else’s story

You're definitely losing that bet.

#flor writes #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x rio vidal x reader #rio vidal x reader #agathario x reader #agatha harkness #rio vidal

204 notes · View notes

withering-bloom · 3 months ago

Text

Another Arlecchino x reader from me…wow what a surprise.

This is kinda angst if you really really squint alittle but I cried too much last night that all the angst is out of me 😼 This is more comfort drabble :3..this was also kinda rushed

@edgeray I luv you thank you once again 🐺‼️

“You never take your gloves off.”

Your voice was quiet, barely more than a breath between the two of you. Your fingers hesitated just above hers, waiting—always waiting—for the moment she would pull away. But this time, she didn’t.

Arlecchino only watched you, expression unreadable, her crimson eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite name. She had built walls so high, so impenetrable, that you had long since accepted she would never let you past them.

And yet, here you were.

Slowly, cautiously, you reached for her hand, your fingers slipping beneath the edge of her glove, tugging at the fabric. It should’ve been a simple thing. And yet, she had never let you do this before.

The material slid off too easily, and what lay beneath made your breath catch in your throat.

Her skin—if it can even be called that anymore—is blackened like burnt embers, veins dark and twisted beneath the surface. The curse warps the flesh, creeping up past her wrists, disappearing beneath the sleeves of her coat. It doesn’t stop there. You know it doesn’t.

Her hands curl into fists, a reflex she can’t suppress. “This is why.” Her voice is low, rough. “This is why I keep them covered.”

She expects you to recoil. To shrink away. To confirm what she has always known.

That she is something to be feared.

You don’t move.

Instead, you reach out, slow, deliberate. Fingers ghosting over the darkened ridges of her knuckles, tracing the places where the curse has twisted and burned. No hesitation. No revulsion.

“You should let them breathe.” The words are soft, a sentiment you’ve repeated countless times. “Even just for a little while.”

A sharp exhale. Her gaze flickers to your hands—unmarked, untouched by horrors like hers. You are everything she isn’t. Everything she has convinced herself she doesn’t deserve.

And yet, here you are. Holding her like she isn’t a monster.

Like she isn’t cursed.

A scoff, more exasperation than anything else. “You’re a fool.”

But she doesn’t pull away.

For a moment—just a moment—she allows herself to be selfish. A breath, a shift, and then her lips find yours. Fleeting. Desperate. Burning with everything she refuses to say.

And just as quickly, it’s over.

She tears herself away, slipping the glove back on with swift, practiced movements. As if it erases the moment. As if it never happened.

“I have to go.” Clipped. Final.

You nod, even as something inside you feels hollowed out.

She turns without another word, the air thick with everything neither of you are willing to face.

Because Arlecchino was never meant to hold something as fragile as love.

And even if she wanted to—her hands were never meant to touch something as soft as you.

Godbless Pinterest

#genshin arlecchino #genshin impact x reader #arlecchino x female reader #arlecchino x you #arlecchino x reader #arlechinno x reader #arlecchino x y/n #genshin wlw #genshin impact

220 notes · View notes

azullumi · 1 year ago

Note

trying different types of kissing with scaramouche?💔 like forehead, neck kisses, hand or anything at all....

“say yes to heaven” ; wanderer/scaramouche

summary — ultimately, he really does just want to be loved, behind the many layers of him to hide all that yearning and longing. but how can he say it when love, for him, was a synonym to forgiveness; alternatively, different kisses with him, with each one signifying a progressing relationship.

pairing — scaramouche/wanderer (w/ gender-neutral reader) ; could imagine this with either but i wrote this with wanderer in mind

tags — established relationship, fluff, a little bit of angst, not proofread, 1.1k ; ficlet

note — i needed an excuse to write a fic that is just all about kissing him and also comforting him (but still, i hope u like this nonnieee!!)

i. hand

You hold his hand and press small kisses on his knuckles, a little bit ticklish it was for him but he doesn’t retract. The feeling of it makes something in his chest ache with an unfamiliar sensation, and he knows it’s not his heart because he never had any.

You kiss the back of his hand, an intimate gesture, like devotion, like he was something—or someone—that should be adored.

“I am no god.” He was no deity to be worshiped so why are you so gentle to him? He wasn’t made of glass nor is he fragile; he was born from ashes of a burned home, he was carved out of war and winter storms and everything that you could ever pray against, he was a symphony composed of nothing but bad luck and conflicting melodies—he was not the kind people would choose to be around, much less adore.

And as if you bear a part of him in your mind, you understood what he was trying to say, could hear the questions that tormented him, could see the conflicted look on him as he looks at you with a gaze that seems to scrutinize your being when only he is looking for an answer. He tries to look for a crack, a gap in your expression, so that he can look through it and see what you’re really thinking.

“You don’t have to be one to be loved.” You press one last kiss on his hand just as you finished speaking, looking up to him. Indigo blue orbs met yours in a gentle gaze, eyes filled with affection only for the other to drown in. If he could put all that he was feeling, all that he was asking and seeking an answer to, into a simple word, it all condenses to: why?

“Do you still have doubts?” You ask, despite knowing the answer. He opens his mouth only to close it again, looking for the words that he should say but chose to be silent instead. And you smile—not a beaming grin nor a subtle paint on your features, but something gentle and comforting as if you’re assuring him: it’s okay, I understand you. I know you.

“You’re not unloveable.”

Loving him wasn’t the hardest thing to do, it came to you naturally as if breathing but the man thinks otherwise. A burnt child who loves the fire will only hear the fact that he is loveable, people just choose not to.

“How do you know that?” You know him well enough to hear the way his voice trembles at the effort to allow himself to be vulnerable. Long was the fall of the tall and formidable walls that he built around him.

“You’re not unloveable.” You repeat, taking hold of his fingers to kiss his hand once more. “Am I not enough proof of that?”

ii. forehead and cheeks

You cupped his cheeks and kissed his forehead, an unspoken language of tenderness in which he took a long time to understand. When love and affection has finally been given to him after decades of yearning, he’s unsure of how to hold it in his hands—does he gently hold it with both? Every bit overwhelms him to the bone, the gratifying yet intense feeling seeps through his being and settles inside of him in a way that it slowly consumes the crevices of his mind, until all that is left of him is nothing but a starved man who only longs for the feeling of your skin against his own.

There was a flicker of warmth in his expression and he closed his eyes as he relished in your kindness, your hands cradling his cheeks with warmth that coaxed his entire existence, your lips pressing against his forehead softly. Then, you started to pepper his face with small kisses and the man could only surrender to your touch, a dance of vulnerability and intimacy as he crumbled into your hold.

No one has ever come this close to him (a closeness that was a stranger to the pages of his past, a tender note composed solely for him), no one and nothing.

You spoke, murmuring against his skin and close to his lips: “Sunshine.” Humor weaves through your tone, teasing the absurdity of the mismatched title and the man who wears it with subtle grace.

“Don’t call me that.” He snarks yet no bite. It’s ironically funny how you use that nickname on him despite him being the complete contrast of it; he stands as the living paradox of the word itself.

The sound of laughter bubbles up in your throat and you answer, “Why not? It suits you perfectly, don’t you think?”

What else should you call the man who grasps the warmth and tender light in his chest only the sun could give? To be with him was to sit in the autumn sunlight, to sleep in the comfort of your sheets when the rain patters against your window, to walk barefoot on the sand even if it feels like shards of glasses against your sole, to be with him was to simply exist; you’ve never met anyone who had the sun for a soul and he has never met anyone who had the stars in their eyes, and while you had the universe etched on the palm of your hands, he has your name engraved on his.

iii. lips

Your lips ghost against his own, albeit in a tantalizing manner, teasing and quite slow—but he wasn’t a patient man.

“Are you going to kiss me or what?” He whispers and you don't waver at his straightforwardness, having been used to this note. There was no hostility in his tone, just pure and raw desperation and desire to feel you.

You could imagine the eye roll he would give you had he not had his eyes closed at the moment, could imagine the frown on his expression while he spoke and could imagine it faltering soon when you finally kissed him, slow as if to savor the softness of his lips and how it reminds you of spring; he could not properly express the warmth on his chest at the thought of how you love him when he still tasted of heartache and war.

You part from him but remained close, foreheads pressed against one another, breathing heavily, and looking into each other’s eyes. You wanted to tell him that you will find him in every lifetime, but the silence between you two was enough to convey such strong affections that you could hear him respond: And I will love you in each one.

(And he somehow finds himself thinking at the same, this is what he deserves. He’d do these, these vulnerable moments where he lays himself bare for you to touch and hold even if you’ll see the scars and cracks on his skin, the falling and getting hurt despite the fear, the burning and constant searching for something, he’ll do it all over again—if it’s you.)

If someone were to ask him what forgiveness tastes like, he would utter your name—everything that he has ever longed for came in the form of you. And he fears that this longing will last forever even while you’re here, that this longing will grow even when he crumbles to dust, that this longing will outlive this body and weave life into the earth that swallows your existence.

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #genshin impact x reader #genshin fluff #genshin #scaramouche fluff #scaramouche x you #genshin scaramouche #scaramouche imagines #scaramouche x reader #wanderer scaramouche #genshin wanderer #genshin impact wanderer #wanderer x reader #wanderer fluff #wanderer genshin #azul.writes

2K notes · View notes

monimccoythings · 7 months ago

Text

Feral!Logan drabbles

Oooh finally did it. Couldn't resist to write some silly Feral!Logan drabbles. Wanted to use a pic of Hugh in the first movie but this one was too perfect for what I had in mind. I love this little feral hairy man.

Reader is female.

So Reader is a mutant with light based habilities. She can absorb electricity from devices and machines and turn them into blasts of light (kinda like Starlight from the Boys)

Reader's on the run from the American government, they want to harvest her powers and use them as a way of 'defending' themselves from mutantkind. For the last year she has been running. Right now she has crossed the border and is currently in the middle of a blizzard in the Canadian Rockies.

She's tired, hungry, cold and there's no electrical current in miles, so her powers are basically rendered useless. And they keep chasing. She doesn't know how much longer she's going to last.

Reader can barely see and trips on a branch, knocking herself out.

Feral!Logan has been living in the mountains since he escaped from Weapon X, probably in the 80s. Has no memories, no social knowledge, just survival instincts.

Feral!Logan hates when strangers enter his territory and refuse to leave. Those are his hunting grounds, not theirs. He swiftly disposes of the agents and approaches the unconscious Reader.

He feels a weird tingling on his chest when he sees the pretty human female laying on the snow. His fingers slowly caress her soft features. He decides that moment he must have her.

Believing her to be a mate for him, Feral!Logan carries her back to the cave where he lives, placing her carefully on the pile of furs he has collected from his hunts.

When Reader awakes, she finds herself laying in a makeshift bed of animal fur in some random cave instead of a government jail cell. She immediately panics, not knowing where she is.

She tries to leave, but is stopped by a wild looking man covered in dirt. Taller than her and built like a fridge. He's half naked, his only clothing are two dog tags hanging from his neck and some undergarments that leave little to the imagination.

Under all that dirt there was hairy body rippling with muscles more fitting of a bodybuilder than a man who lived by himself in the mountains. Jeez, you could grate cheese on those abs. Reader can't help staring.

Feral!Logan roughly pushes her back against the furs. One single hand is enough to keep her still, which speaks volumes of the kind of strength he possesses.

The rugged man starts sniffing her everywhere, her neck, her collarbone, he kepts getting lower, grunting approvingly. When he's about to reach that part of her anatomy. She grabs his dishelved hair, trying in vain to keep him away. He looks at her, annoyed at having been denied of his prize; but, surprinsingly, obeys.

From then on, Reader's entire life becomes that cave and her mysterious savior/keeper. He provides her with shelter, warmth, water from a nearby stream and food from his hunts. Feral!Logan wants to prove himself as a worthy partner for her, catering to her needs.

Reader didn't spend most of her childhood summers in camps to eat now raw meat, no matter how little Feral!Logan seems to care about it. So she teaches him how to light a fire the old fashioned way, lamenting she can't use her powers so it'd be easier.

And he freaks out.

After a while he gets used to it, he nearly gives you a heart attack when he touched it and his burnt hand healed almost instantly. He rumbled pleasingly when you held his large hands between yours, marvelled at his healing factor.

At night, they sleep together, in the makeshift bed of animal skins. His arm engulfs her waist, pressing her smaller body towards his powerful chest. It's nearly impossible for her to move away.

Like hell he's going to let her go.

#wolverine x reader #logan howlett x reader #james logan howlett x reader #x men x reader

379 notes · View notes

kitty384 · 1 month ago

Text

This Is What Home Feels Like

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: In the quiet moments of a morning at home, Bucky reflects on how far he's come—and how deeply he's fallen in love with the life he's built with you and your daughter.

Warnings: Fluff, domestic family life, softness, implied healing from trauma, dad!Bucky moments that will melt your heart

I never thought my life would feel like this.

Quiet.

Warm.

Safe.

I wake up to soft snoring beside me—Y/N, curled under the quilt, her hair a wild halo on the pillow. Our daughter is tucked between us, cheeks smushed, arms flopped above her head like she’s been in the middle of an epic toddler dream battle.

I blink against the sunlight sneaking through the curtains and smile.

I’ve been smiling more lately.

Not because everything is perfect.

But because this? This feels perfect.

I slip out of bed carefully, grabbing a hoodie from the chair and tugging it on as I head into the kitchen.

Coffee first.

Always coffee.

The dog’s nails tap against the hardwood as he follows me, tail wagging lazily.

“Morning, buddy,” I whisper, reaching down to ruffle his ears.

He yawns and flops onto the kitchen rug like he’s already had a hard day.

The coffee pot gurgles to life, and I lean against the counter, listening to the house breathe.

It’s quiet.

Not the scary kind of quiet I used to know. Not the quiet that came before pain or orders or something dark.

This is the kind of quiet that holds peace.

The kind where I can hear my daughter humming in her sleep. Where Y/N’s breathing is soft and even. Where the fridge hums, and the floor creaks under my steps, and everything feels lived in.

It feels like mine.

When I walk back into the bedroom, Y/N’s stirring.

She blinks at me sleepily, then stretches like a cat, arm flopping onto the pillow our daughter’s now rolled away from.

“She’s in your spot,” I whisper, holding out the coffee cup.

Y/N smiles, still half-asleep. “She’s in your hoodie.”

I glance down and see that our daughter has somehow pulled it halfway onto her tiny body like a nest.

My chest tugs.

She really is mine.

Y/N sips her coffee and leans into my side.

“Happy?” she asks, voice rough.

I look at the two of them.

The love of my life, wrapped in blankets and sleepy kisses.

The child I never thought I deserved, now tangled in my clothes and our laughter.

“More than I knew I could be.”

The rest of the morning is a beautiful blur of small things.

Pancakes that are slightly too burnt because our daughter insisted on flipping them herself (“I’m so strong like Daddy”).

Cartoons playing in the background while we all sit cross-legged on the living room rug, building the world’s most structurally unstable block tower.

Y/N sneaking a kiss while the kid isn’t looking.

Me spinning our daughter in circles while she shrieks with laughter and demands to go “again again again!”

And when she crashes on the couch mid-snack—apple slice in hand, blanket falling off her legs—I tuck her in and just… watch her breathe for a second.

Because I still can’t believe she’s real.

That they’re both real.

That I get to keep this.

Later, Y/N’s doing laundry and singing softly to herself while our daughter tries to “help” by folding clothes and mostly making a mess.

I stand in the doorway, arms crossed, just watching.

“You’re staring,” Y/N says with a smirk.

“Can’t help it.”

“You okay?”

I nod. “Just… taking it in.”

She walks over and rests her head on my chest. “You do that a lot lately.”

I slide my arms around her waist. “Feels like if I don’t soak up every second, I’ll miss something.”

She leans up and kisses my jaw. “You’re not missing anything. You’re right here.”

Our daughter yells, “Look I folded a shirt!” and holds up a balled-up pair of socks with pride.

Y/N and I both clap like she’s just invented electricity.

She beams.

And I think—this. This is what I fought for. What I clawed my way out for. What I never thought I’d get to live long enough to see.

And now that I have it, I’m never letting go.

That night, after books and baths and bubble-covered floors, we crawl into bed again—our girl fast asleep in her own room for once, the monitor resting on the nightstand.

Y/N curls into my side, tracing circles on my chest.

“Today was a good day,” she murmurs.

“They all are,” I whisper back.

“Even when she throws applesauce at your face?”

“Especially then.”

She snorts, then kisses my collarbone. “We made something really good, didn’t we?”

I nod.

And then I whisper something I’ve never said out loud before.

“This is what home feels like.”

Y/N pulls the blanket tighter around us. “Then let’s stay in it forever.”

And I swear to god—I will.

Masterlist

Request

#domestic!bucky #dad!bucky #dad bucky barnes #father bucky #husband bucky #bucky fluff #bucky barnes #bucky x reader

122 notes · View notes

ruesol · 27 days ago

Text

catalyst - epilogue

Life has many twists and turns- yours included getting rejected from med school and ending up as a manager for your burnt-out pro boxer ex. (sukuna x reader)

fanfic masterlist

You sigh as soon as you drop the last box down. “Ugh, starting a business is no joke. We still have to clean up the gym before the setting up the equipment,” you groaned as you sat on the curb in front of Sukuna’s new gym.

After announcing his retirement, Sukuna wasn’t really sure about what he wanted to do. All that was familiar to him was competitive fighting. That was until Yuuji had the genius idea of suggesting that his older brother become a coach and start helping young fighters so they don’t go down the wrong route.

So Sukuna sold his high rise apartment and gathered funds to buy a building for his gym. Two grueling months later, he was able to score a nice place with a reasonable price. His connections from his championship days came in handy.

And so here you were, sitting in front of Sukuna’s most prized investment (after Yuuji’s college tuition, of course.)

He hadn’t hired any help to save initial costs so he could buy better equipment. You and Yuuji groaned when you heard Sukuna needed free manual labor but your love for him trumped the pain. At least your boyfriend knew the best chiropractors in the country.

So far, Sukuna was progressing well, especially considering that he had already built up a steady waitlist of clientele. It was only a matter of time till he’d start making the kind of money Coach Yaga was.

You, on the other hand, were still stuck in the transitional phase of your life. You’d finally submitted your med school applications for the second time, and it had been about three weeks of waiting.

It was agonizing, it’s like you’d screamed into the vastness of the universe for help, and stayed stationary just to hear a decibel back.

But, if it all goes to shit, you can always work at Sukuna’s gym. It’s not like you’d be complaining about it anyway—it would just be one more place where Sukuna fucks your brains out.

Yuuji plops down next to you, popsicle in hand. It still baffles you that he chose to wear shorts even when his legs were sporting angry red sunburns from your beach trip earlier that week.

You stare at the cherry flavored treat in envy. “Hey, I want one.” You try to grab it from him but he pulls it away quickly.

“Go ask your man for one. He bought it for me,” Yuuji teases. You roll your eyes and slap his calf, which makes him screech and glare at you.

“I’m gonna be your sister-in-law in a year so you better treat me right.”

Oh right, and Sukuna had also proposed to you the night after his final match.

Sukuna walks out while dusting his hands, he had probably organized all the boxes you and Yuuji had left scattered because of the exhaustion. Compared to Sukuna’s stamina, all you and Yuuji had was sheer will to push yourselves while doing manual labor.

“Hey, pretty,” Sukuna says as he kisses your scalp. “Your phone buzzed so brought it for you.”

“Aw, thanks, hon,” you grin up at him, and he takes a seat next you. You sigh as you unlock your phone to check what your notification is about.

Yuuji fake gags, and this time, Sukuna reaches behind you to slap the back of his head. “Just eat your popsicle, dumbass.”

You’re about to make a sarcastic comment about Yuuji being jealous and lonely until you notice what’s written in your email. “Holy shit,” you mumble.

Yuuji rolls his eyebrows and leans over to you to read what has shocked you and his his eyeballs nearly pop out.

“Holy shit!” he parrots. Sukuna groans. For the past few months, you and Yuuji have turned into twins, sometimes teaming up against the former pro-boxer. It annoys Sukuna to the bone, but he makes his peace with it by demanding an apology kiss from you.

“You guys are such clowns,” he complains as he leans over to you as well, reading what’s on your phone.

The brothers look up at each other at the same time, eyes wide, and look at you, who’s trying not to tear up.

“My girl’s going to med school!” Sukuna exclaims as he picks you up and twirls you around.

#jjk x reader #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #sukuna x reader #sukuna fluff #jjk sukuna #sukuna #sukuna ryomen #sukuna x you #sukuna x reader fluff #sukuna ryomen x reader #Sukuna ryomen x reader fluff

119 notes · View notes

vinylfoxbooks · 7 months ago

Text

October 13 - Wave | @into-the-jeggyverse | wc: 963 Implied NSFW at the end

Regulus hates this. He hates the beach, Sirius knows that. And yet he still dragged his little brother along on his little vacation trip with his friends -- and it’s not like he had the courtesy to invite any of Regulus’ friends.

The sun is too hot, there’s sand in places that Regulus would rather not talk about, the children that are everywhere are loud and running along the beach, and he’s so pale, that he has to hide in the shade otherwise he’ll end up cherry red and in pain -- Sirius doesn’t seem to care about it, despite being just as pale as his brother, though Remus is pushing to make sure Sirius walks out of this only slightly burnt. Regulus would like to read his book but all of the conditions are preventing him from doing just that.

Specifically the one condition of James running around without a shirt on.

Regulus is but a mere gay man, and James is built like a literal god. Who gave them the right to walk around without a shirt on when they’re built like that. All of their tattoos are on display -- mind you, Regulus didn’t previously know that James had any tattoos other than the ones visible on their arms -- and they’re laughing and messing around with Sirius in the water shoving each other into the waves, making their swim shorts stick to their thighs and water glisten on their skin. And, fuck, the reminder that they’re his when he sees the engagement ring sitting on his finger.

“You look like you might combust.” Remus muses from next to Regulus, bookmarking his own book, “Are you alright?”

“Mhm.”

“You’ve never been to the beach with James, have you?” Regulus shakes his head and the older laughs, “You poor thing. Just don’t let the jealousy get to you.” “What do you mean?”

Remus hums and gestures to the beach around him, “I mean, we’re in a place full of half-clothed people, many are probably single or teens that think they might have a chance with him and I mean… you can admit how your fiance looks.”

Regulus feels his face heating just a bit at the mention of his relationship with James, “If people start flirting with them, we’re never going to the beach again.”

The older barks out a laugh, “You and I both know that they’re too oblivious to realise that people are flirting with them.”

“That makes it worse.” Regulus pouts. Remus laughs and is going to say more, but Sirius comes up to them and starts dripping water onto his boyfriend, taking a second to shake out his hair like a dog and spraying water all over them, which gets him yelled at by both.

Not long after that, James comes up to them and takes a towel to run it through their hair -- like a civilised human being, unlike his brother -- before moving to settle down on the large towel Regulus has sat on, “Hi baby. Enjoying the beach?”

“Not really.” Regulus hums, “But you seem to be having a good time.”

James smiles but doesn’t otherwise respond, leaning down to pull him into a quick kiss, “You can always head back to the house, you don’t need to hang out here if you don’t want to be here.”

“You say that like Sirius won’t force me to stay here.”

James hums, “I can get him to let you go, you’ve spent two hours here, that should be enough for him. Could you grab me the fruit?” Regulus nods and fishes around in the mini cooler that they brought, pulling out the plastic container of fruit that he and James cut up earlier, handing it to his fiance. James thanks him quickly and starts eating, feeding a couple blueberries to Regulus when requested.

The rest of the day goes alright. Regulus stays at the beach to monitor the people that approach his partner, only to be shocked when a woman around his age walks up to him and starts flirting with him, which Remus snorts at. And while Regulus is fully aware of what is happening, he isn’t quite sure how to respond because of all the people at the beach right now, why would someone want to flirt with him? The antisocial, ‘sickly victorian boy’ in Sirius’ words, that has been huddled in the shade the entire time with as much skin covered as possible -- in the back of his mind, he can hear Remus remarking that some people are into his look while gesturing to James.

Just as he’s figuring out how to tell the girl that he’s very not into women, James comes storming up to them. They smile softly at Regulus and sit down next to him, wrapping their arms around his shoulders, “Hey baby, who’s this?” And Regulus gets the delight of watching as realisation dawns on the girl. She stammers out an excuse to leave and walks away to where her friends are sitting, watching them and giggling.

“Were you jealous?” Regulus asks as soon as she’s out of earshot.

James hums, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You just looked uncomfortable.”

“Mhm,” Remus nods, “And you don’t want to go back to the house right now?” And James’ face lights up at the suggestion and they nod frantically. Regulus laughs and leans up to kiss them before pulling them to a stand. James goes easily. They say their temporary goodbyes to Remus -- who laughs, probably knowing what is going on -- and waves to them, telling them that they’ll explain to Sirius. Then James is practically pulling Regulus to the vacation house that the group rented.

Regulus thinks he’s starting to like the beach, so long as he’s the one being flirted with.

#marauders #james potter #regulus black #dead gay wizards #jegulus #james x regulus #starchaser #sunseeker #sirius black #remus lupin #sirius x remus #microfic #nonbinary james potter #jeggyverse microfic

149 notes · View notes

14dayswithyou · 1 year ago

Note

Meowdy Saint! ^^ lolol hello hello o/ hope you are doing good!!

So this masterpiece of a game has been invading my mind with ZERO chill lately which directly translated to me coming up with a TON of questions orz I really didn't realize how many I ended up compiling lol

If you don't feel like answering this many please feel absolutely free to ignore this ask or only answer the ones you like the most, the last thing I want is for you to feel overwhelmed! ^^

ALRIGHT LET'S-A GO

-does he know how to give massages? :00

-during day 1, how did Ren come up with a book on the local flora?? It seems like such a random topic to pick when put on the spot without already having a genuine interest in it lmao

(I am not sure if this⬇️ questions falls under character deaths, if it does I really apologize and absolutely feel free to ignore it ^^)

-uuhh I know there is already a lot in this ask(im seriously sorry orz), but I was wondering if we will eventually get an SFW alphabet for Ren/[REDACTED] for the folks who don't care about the nasty 👉👈

-THIS IS THE LAST THING I PROMISE 👹 will there be a guide to get all the endings? I'm not sure if there is one already and in that case I missed it 100%

Also I find it ironic how the fandom is trying to find out every single aspect of Ren/[REDACTED]'s character the same way he must do with angel lmao

ALRIGHT THATS ALL IM SO SORRY FOR ASKING SO MUCH THE REN BRAINROT HOURS ARE SO REAL IM LOSING BRAINCELLS orz Remember to take care of yourself drink water and take breaks!! ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

(Also sorry if some phrases don't make sense, english isn't my first language as I am 🤌 lolol)

✦゜ANSWERED: Under da cut because this got long >:3

-do Rendacted's memories remain intact when he resets the day or do his wipe too with everyone else's? Also is there an in-universe answer for why he has these glitchy powers or is he just Built Different™? Ren's memories remain intact!! I mean... He remembers each time you get a bad end and sometimes says something different... >:3 There is also an in-universe reason as to why he has his abilities — I won't spoil anything, but his real name (along with River's and one other character) have a reeeeally big tell. But what this tell is is for me to know and you to find out >:3

-if angel made it VERY clear that they would be mad asf and prolly even start hating and leave Ren/[REDACTED] if he were to hurt their friends(or killing people bc this man needs to chill fr), would he listen to them? Bc I know that if he touches Violet, Elanor, Kiara or god forbid Moth I'm personally deleting his kneecaps 🥰 Ren (and by extension [REDACTED]) knows not to harm anyone if he knows you won't like it — and even then — he won't actively show that murderous side of him in the first place. To Angel, Ren is just a timid, normal guy.

-since it seems to me that Ren/[REDACTED] is only kinda meh at cooking I was wondering if he actually made the not burnt pancakes in day 3 or if he had some store bought ones that he passed off as his own lol Ren is actually good at cooking, he's just a bit out of touch since he doesn't normally cook for himself! It's normally microwave meals or takeout for him... ^^; And yes, Ren did burn and burn the pancakes in Day 3 — he was distracted by something on his phone :3

Bonus cut Day 3 content: I took out the scene where Ren started to profusely apologise for burning the pancake because he often had to cook when he was younger. Given the dynamic of his family and the environment he grew up in, Ren didn't have much room to make mistakes ;n; I cut this scene out because I felt bad ksgskd So y'all get to have flustered, happy Ren instead!!

-does he know how to give massages? :00 If that was one of Angel's interests or desires, then sure!! ^^

-during day 1, how did Ren come up with a book on the local flora?? It seems like such a random topic to pick when put on the spot without already having a genuine interest in it lmao Someone else likes flora too, and it sure would be funny if Ren (eventually) starts to mimic certain traits and interests of the person you have the highest affinity/relationship points with in order to make himself look more appealing… >:3c

-if I understood correctly Maple should be Jae's dog right?? Did you have a specific breed or age in mind when creating her? I got curious because in my head she automatically popped up as a young australian shepherd to match with Jae's hyperactive dumbass energy lol❀⸜(˶´ ˘ `˶)⸝❀ It was mentioned in Jae's lore post (I'll link it here once I find it), but Maple is a Labrador! (Leon would be Jae's Australian Shepherd hehe) In my mind, Maple is only 2 or 3 years old, but that wouldn't really fit the official timeframe... ^^; Jae adopted Maple during high school so he wouldn't feel lonely at home, and it's been over 6+ years since then.... hgdshjg

-staying on the dog topic lol, in day 1 when angel gets up from the couch to get Ren the inflatable mattress(iirc) and he follows right behind them i immediately thought he acted like a puppy lmao. So would he mind being called 'puppy' as a pet name? Angel affectionately calls Ren a puppy during the scene in Day 1 where they meet up after work, so that nickname definitely could work!

-from an ask from last year it seems [REDACTED] would ultimately kill angel if there was ultimately not way to enter in their life?? Gotta say I was very taken aback by this, would this still be the case after a year of building more to his character? (Ok I went back to check the ask again but I can't for the life of me find it anymore maybe I dreamt it up idk😭😭 im really sorry if that is the case jdkslajdl) aaa I think you might be mistaking that ask for something else? ;v; [REDACTED] would NEVER harm Angel in any capacity, and they're a very patient person. Even if it took decades for Angel to fall in love with him, they'll wait.

-THIS IS THE LAST THING I PROMISE 👹 will there be a guide to get all the endings? I'm not sure if there is one already and in that case I missed it 100% I've shared a spreadsheet that lists all the available choices, the points you earn from each of them, and the endings you can get — however it's only available on Discord and I don't really want to share it outside of the server and potentially put it in the hands of minors. Sorry!!

Also I find it ironic how the fandom is trying to find out every single aspect of Ren/[REDACTED]'s character the same way he must do with angel lmao Hehe >:3 There's a loooot of lore that won't ever be mentioned in the game (since it doesn't seem fitting/I don't see a reason to), so I'm happy to provide it here!

#💌 — answered.#💖 — 14 days with queue.#to be tagged later #icant-pickthenameiwant

280 notes · View notes

sv3t1ana · 15 days ago

Text

<< Master list ⋮ Next chapter >>

SYNOPSIS ᯓ A Bonnie and Clyde-esque, high-stakes, multi-chapter smut romance that follows a deadly criminal duo whose intense, chaotic love becomes as dangerous as the heists they pull off. Trust forged in blood, bonds built on risk.

PAIRING ᯓ Criminal! Sukuna x Criminal! Fem. Reader

WARNINGS ᯓ protectiveness?? themes of depression, mentions of weapons, planning for a heist, cute FLUFF for two criminals, stealing a vehicle, cigarette smoking, scouting, he calls you good girl!

WORD COUNT ᯓ 3.0k

Chapter 6.

Sukuna shakes you awake, palm pressing into your shoulder, fingers heavy and warm. The weight of his touch lingers, an anchor dragging you back from the depths of sleep.

“Wake up,” he says, voice slow. His sharp face is too close, the burn of his eyes the first thing you see as your eyes flicker open.

“The hell is wrong with you?” Your voice groggy, thick with sleep.

“Got somethin’ lined up. You in, or you need more beauty rest?”

You blink at him, mind tangled in the remnants of sleep. Something feels off. Not wrong, just different. You don’t remember your dreams, but you can usually recall the weightlessness of them, how your body sank into rest so deep it felt like falling into nothing. And yet, here you were awake, feeling clear-headed. The best sleep you’ve had in years, despite the circumstances. Despite the ache in your limbs and the scratch of an old blanket against your skin.

“Fine. What’s the job?” You push at his chest, a futile attempt to get him out of your space. He settles back into his haunches.

“Bank vault. Big payout. But it’s not some dumb smash-and-grab. We do this clean.”

He stretches, body shifting as he sits at the foot of the bedroll, taking up too much space, always too much space. His presence is a silent command against your senses. You sit up, rubbing your eyes.

“So why the fuck are you waking me up now?”

He shrugs. “We gotta move. New hideout. And we gotta figure out how the fuck we’re pullin’ this off.”

The drive is long, leaving yet another city. Another desolate stretch of nowhere, just far enough from prying eyes. The motel Sukuna picks is a step above the last, a rare indulgence. Two beds, fresh sheets, bulbs that actually work. Apparently he has connection here, someone on the inside slipping him a room off the books. It’s cleaner, quieter. The kind of place people check into but never talk about.

He moves like a man with a ticking clock beneath his skin. Always on edge, always looking for the next move. You’ve never seen him sleep, not really. Even now, after hauling bags into the room, he’s grabbing your wrist, pulling you back outside.

“Let’s go.”

The car is stolen, rusted, an old sedan sure not to draw attention. It sputters to life as he navigates through empty streets.

The restaurant is one of those places that exists outside of time. A 24-hour diner tucked between a pawn shop and a liquor store, the kind of place where the coffee tastes like burnt rubber and regret. The sign outside is sun-bleached, letters peeling at the edges. The door creaks when pushed open, the smell of stale cigarettes filling your nose before you even took a step in.

The floor is sticky, red leather booths cracked and patched with duct tape. A lone jukebox sits in the corner, humming some slow, bluesy song. The waitress behind the counter looks like she’s been working here since the place opened.

Sukuna slides into a booth near the window, stretching an arm along the back of the seat. You settle across from him, glancing at the laminated menu.

“Really? Out of all the places, this is where you bring me?” you ask.

His teeth flash. “What? Too fancy for you?”

You snort. “I think I can feel the FDA violations from here.”

He gives a short chuckle before glancing out the window, expression unreadable. The street outside is slick from last night’s rain, broken blinds casting thin lines of light across his face.

“So,” you prompt, “you gonna tell me more about the heist, or are we here to test our immune systems?”

He flips a sugar packet between his fingers before tearing it open and dumping it into his coffee.

“Bank vault. Big score.”

Your eyes narrow. “Yeah, you mentioned that. But you still haven’t told me how we’re getting in.”

He grins, unbothered. The waitress sets down a plate in front of you, waffles, burnt at the edges, cold in the center. He ordered for you, of course. Asshole.

“That’s where you come in,” he says, pouring way too much syrup over his own food. You never pegged him as the type to have a sweet tooth.

“What do you need?”

“I need you to scout. Go in like a regular customer. Watch the guards. Count cameras, exits, all the good shit.”

“Alright, what else?”

“There’s an alley behind the bank. Check for a back entrance. Some places have emergency exits leading to employee-only areas. We could use that for our escape.”

You nod. “So what’s your lazy ass gonna do?”

He laughs, unbothered. “I’ll handle the fun part. Gettin’ our weapons and gear. Can’t exactly walk in there with no armor and expect to come out alive.”

The morning passes like this, half-eaten food, plans laid out between sips of burnt coffee. Sukuna finishes your waffles without a second thought, barely reacting when you push the plate toward him in disgust. He eats just like he moves and fights, deliberate, all-consuming, like the world owes him everything and he’s here to collect.

After the horrible meal, you both walk over to the pawn shop. It’s dimly lit, air thick with dust, the scent of old metal and desperation. Shelves are stacked with stolen jewelry, forgotten heirlooms pawned for rent money, and cheap firearms locked behind a scuffed glass counter.

The man working behind the counter barely glances up. He’s burly, shoulders hunched forward with exhaustion, the kind that settles into the bones. Bags sag beneath his eyes, beard unkempt and flecked with gray.

“What do you need?” He rasps, voice scratchy from too many cigarettes.

“Two phones. Cash deal.” Sukuna’s voice is measured, no room for negotiation.

The pawn shop owner grunts, barely acknowledging you two as he bends to drag out a plastic bin filled with burner phones, cheap, pre-paid models with screens cracked like old porcelain, key letters worn to nothing. He slides it across the counter. “Pick.”

You sift through them, fingers brushing over devices that have passed through too many hands, seen too many secrets before being discarded like spent bullet casings. You pull out two of the least battered models. Sukuna doesn’t even hesitate before throwing a few crisp bills onto the counter, more than enough to cover the cost. An unspoken message, keep the change, keep your mouth shut.

And the owner takes the money without counting, these types of transactions routine, another brick in the foundation of his co-conspirator lifestyle.

When you step outside, Sukuna hands you one of the phones, the weight of it insignificant in your palm, the implications heavy.

“First rule,” he murmurs, sticking his pointer finger in the air. “Take the SIM out.”

He moves without hesitation, sliding the back off his phone, plucking the tiny card out with a flick of his fingers. You follow suit, prying the fragile thing loose, watching as he drops both to the ground and grinds them under his heel. Circuity crunching beneath his shoe like brittle bones. Final, absolute.

No trace.

Never a trace.

Today was like some fucking field trip, because before you knew it, you were hitting up a gas station, buying different pre-paid SIMs with cash, and now you were in some abandoned lot near a scrapyard. The scent of rust and oil clinging to your clothes.

Sukuna gets out first, and you follow suit. His eyes scan the graveyard of dead machines, picking through them like a vulture. He settles on an old black ‘97 Honda Civic, all worn down and paint chipping. No modern security, just a simple lock and ignition begging to be exploited.

He turns toward you, hands on his hips, wearing that menacing look like you’re a student getting scolded. “Lesson time. You ever hotwire a car before?” His voice turns up at the end, like he already knows the answer but wants to hear you say it.

You roll your eyes at him. “You really gotta ask?”

He nods toward the car, a silent command. “Then show me.”

You approach it, eyes flicking around the lot to see no cameras or eye witnesses, nothing but silence. From his bag, you fish out a thin metal tool, sliding it between the window and door frame, fishing for the lock mechanism. Your first attempt is shaky, a slight fumble. But with your second try, the door pops open with a satisfying click.

He leans against the hood, ankles crossed. “Not bad. Now, the fun part.”

You slip into the driver’s seat, ripping off the panel under the steering wheel. A nest of wires stare back at you. Your fingers work at it quickly, stripping the two you need and twisting them together. A few sparks leap into the air, then the engine roars to life, coughing out a growl like some beast being dragged from its slumber.

You glance at Sukuna, grinning for his approval. “That good enough for you?”

He chuckles before sliding into the passenger seat, legs sprawled out like he owns the place. “Drive.”

So you peel out, tires kicking up dust, heading toward the bank to scout it.

You park in a narrow alley, nestled between brick and shadow. It hums faintly, engine cooling. Close enough for escape, out of sight enough to be nothing at all.

Sukuna lingers near a newspaper stand, idly thumbing through a tabloid, its pages whispering beneath his rough fingers. A performance. He doesn’t care about ink-smeared scandals or drying print, his interest is elsewhere, tracking your movements like a silent god surveying the faithful.

The bank stands with an emblem of trust, the downtown of this foreign city thrumming around you. Voices overlapping, horns sharp in the distance, the scent of fresh espresso curling through the air. Life moves forward, blind and oblivious to the shifting current beneath its feet.

Inside, the bank breathes in wealth. Polished marble underfoot, ceiling high enough to inspire confidence. Recessed lighting gleams off the chandelier like a quiet promise to the money moving within the walls.

A glass partition is separating customers and tellers. Beyond it, a hallway stretches into the building’s bones, leading to the secrets.

Security stands at quiet attention, five in total. Two flanking the entrance, their presence seeming more like a formality than a deterrent. One stationed in the lobby, hands clasped while his gaze sweeps with absent authority. Two more are near the back hallway.

You don’t move for the counter, instead lingering in a side alcove stacked with pamphlets that promised home ownership and financial freedom. A glance, a whisper of calculation. There, in the far right corner, a door.

No keypad or reinforced lock, just a push-bar exit meant for employees. It leads somewhere, a maintenance alley? Parking? Either way, it’s a way out.

The burner phone is cool in your grip as you lift it to your ear, expression usual as you murmur low, a quiet thread only Sukuna can hear.

“Five guards. Two at the entrance, one on patrol, two by the back.”

His voice slips through the other line. “Armed?”

“Standard pistols. No rifles, no vests.”

A soft scoff. “Tch. They’re underestimating us.”

“There’s a back exit too, no security lock, just a push-bar.”

Silence, then, “good girl. Then that’s our way out.”

The counter gleams sterile as you approach. The teller, a woman in her late thirties, offers a practiced smile, so professional and polished.

“Welcome. How can I assist you today?”

“Thinking about opening a business account.” You let your tone dip into casual interest, the edge of idle concern. “Just wanting to know how secure you guys are. I had some issues with my last bank.”

She adjusts her glasses. “We take security very seriously. Armed guards during business hours, 24/7 surveillance, timed locks on the vault.”

“Timed locks?” You feign curiosity, tilting your head just enough. “So, like, no one can just walk in and open it?”

“That’s correct. Even employees can’t override the system. It’s a built-in safety measure.”

As she speaks you shift, angling slightly so you get a different view through the glass partition. Past the hallway you can see the vault, a steel monolith, matte black, heavy. Positioned at the end of a short corridor, tucked just out of sight from the main lobby.

You nod, taking a pamphlet at random, flicking your gaze across it without reading. You step away after thanking the teller, slipping between civilians.

Your phone is back at your ear before you reach the door.

“Got everything we need. Meet me back at the car.”

His reply drips with amusement. “Try not to sound so smug about it.”

The alley yawns ahead, Sukuna waiting, a smile carved into his face like a wolf at leisure.

Time to plan the hit.

Later that night the motel room is quiet, save for the distant sounds of traffic outside and the slow, steady burn of your cigarettes. You and Sukuna sit on opposite beds, mirroring each other, the space between you thick with smoke.

He takes a drag, eyes half-lidded in exhaustion, watching the ember glow at the tip before exhaling. “You ever think about the past?” His voice is rough, casual, like he’s not about to admit something real. “There used to be a time where I didn’t give a shit about anything. I was in and out of jail for small-time robberies to get by, some real dumb shit.” he laughs, amused at his own recklessness.

You study him through the haze. “Why did you do it?”

He hesitates, just for a second. Then his eyes drop to the floor, fingers tapping against the cigarette in thought. “My little brother, Yuji.” His voice quieter now, rough in a different way. “I wanted to make sure we had enough, y’know? I wasn’t trying to be some big-time criminal, just wanted ‘em to be safe.”

He flicks the cigarette into the glass ashtray, watching as the ashes scatter. “It just spiraled. I got in too deep, so I just roll with the tide now. Stay a step ahead.”

There’s a pause, he glances at you. Catching your face, expression dull, something that makes him sigh as he rests his elbows on his knees. “But what’s the point of thinkin’ about it now? Shit’s already been done. No turnin’ back.”

He leans back against the mattress, arms folded beneath his head and exposing the ink on his bare chest. You let your eyes trace the dark lines, the stories etched into his skin before finally speaking. “But don’t you ever think about getting out? Like, retiring? A family? A house? A life that doesn’t involve all… this?” You gesture vaguely to the scattered weapons on the floor, the silent proof of the world you live in.

He tilts his head at you, abs flexing as he shifts to meet your gaze. His lips curl, laughter slipping past them. “Me? A house with a fenced-in backyard? A fuckin’ dog? You got a beautiful imagination, doll.”

But there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t quite match the smirk on his lips. It’s gone just as fast as it appeared, but you caught the crack in his armor.

So you press. “Yeah, but no, really. There should be more to life than just being on the run always, right? Don’t you want more than this?”

His expression shifts as he weighs your words. Then, he tilts his head, all playfully like a puppy. “What about you, huh? This what keeps you up all night?”

You blink, caught off guard and accidentally answering too honestly. “No. I don’t think about it. I never even thought I’d make it to this age.”

That does something to him, and you see it. It’s subtle, the way his jaw tenses, the way his fingers twitch slightly before curling into his palm. His expression softens, just slightly, gone before you can call him on it.

He pushes up from the bed, discarding his cigarette before clapping his hands against his thighs and standing. The floor creaks under his weight as he moves to switch off the light. “Tell you what,” he says, voice lighter. “If we pull this off, if we can make it through, maybe I’ll think about it.”

Without another word, he’s climbing into bed, back to you, leaving you sitting in the dark with a cigarette still curling between your fingers.

So you retreat as well, crushing the cigarette before turning and tugging the sheets up.

Sukuna.

A man of contradictions, cold and calculating, ruthless and strangely human. There’s a darkness in him you can’t grasp, a hunger that keeps him moving forward. And yet, in the flicker of a moment, his guard falters and you catch a glimpse of something softer. Not exactly vulnerability, but the remnants of a past he can’t outrun. A past that continues to shape him in ways he doesn’t even seem to understand.

You can’t figure it out. Shifting under the covers and exhaling into the air.

Part of you wonders if there’s more to him than just bloodshed and violence. Maybe he’s a man trying to make sense of a world that’s constantly breaking him. Or maybe, he’s simply a monster who’s learned how to wear the skin of someone who isn’t.

And then there’s you. Why are you still here? Why do you play this game with him, knowing full well what he’s capable of? Why does the weight of his eyes make you shiver and pull you in simultaneously, tethering you to him in ways that feel inevitable?

It couldn’t just be the thrill of the job. You know that much. If it were, you would’ve walked away after the first heist. Instead, it’s something about the way he moves through the world, something about the way he doesn’t apologize for who he is.

Is that what you want?

He’s the chaos you don’t know how to escape, the question that never stops echoing in your mind.

You don’t trust people. That was something you established long ago, only engraving further in your mind when Hakari turned his back.

Why you? You’re subpar at best, not the smartest nor the most experienced. He could have anyone. But he keeps offering you these jobs, willing to teach you if need be.

You stare at the ceiling, probably for the thousandth time in your life.

You might be starting to want it.

taglist: @cutesytwt, @tojis-ball-sack, @gojoscumslut, @sukubusss, @vicravluv, @newasskid, @grignardsreagent, @garden0fyves

61 notes · View notes

mostly-marvel-musings · 1 year ago

Text

So Inappropriate

A/N: Alright, you guys wanted it, here it is. This little ficlet based off of the video that’s got our Stark Squad all riled up. Leave a comment, heart or reblog if you enjoyed it.

Pairing: Tony Stark x F! Reader

Warnings: 18+ smut-ish fluff. There is a significant age gap between the reader and Tony (say 20 years?) Also the reader is Bruce Banner’s assistant.

Word count: 1896

Tony Stark Masterlist

You were just about done arranging the equipment in the lab when you heard the door slide open.

“Dr. Banner, I’m done for the day unless you need me for anything else!” you called out without glancing up, not realizing the person who had walked in certainly wasn’t your boss.

“Dr. Banner has left the premises for the day, Miss Y/L/N. But I might need you for something.”

Tony Stark made an appearance, his signature smirk adorning his face as he traipsed in closer, his walk oozing all sorts of confidence and authority. Of course, your face did very little to hide the blush that creeped up, heating your cheeks in an instant.

Why did this man have such an influence on you? You’d never know.

Well, not exactly. It was pretty obvious. The genius, billionaire, playboy and philanthropist had this effect on most individuals. His natural charisma and intimidating presence was all wrapped in an impeccably trimmed-goatee-bearing handsome package. The guy was senior to you. Much senior. But there was something about him that always drew you in, an impish charm that was all too endearing, his commanding aura that compelled you to behave. Almost challenged you to confront your deepest, darkest desires.

“Earth to Y/N?” he snapped you out of your reverie, making you accidentally knock over a set of beakers kept on the platform.

Cursing under your breath, you bent to pick up the shattered glass as did Tony, resulting in your head banging against his, further adding to your embarrassment.

Just great!

“Careful, you’re gonna hurt yourself.” Tony murmured, taking the shards of glass from your hand as Dum-E, one of his bots zoomed in to sweep it all away.

“Thank you, Mr. Stark. I–I’m sorry.” you fumbled, wincing as you saw you an angry drop of red ooze out of your finger from where you had evidently cut yourself.

“Ah, you poor thing. C’mere.” not awaiting a response, Tony clutched your hand and brought it to his lips, gently sucking on your index finger all while his eyes bore into yours.

A part of you wanted to run away from the scene like a scaredy cat but, the other part was completely rooted to the spot. Not daring to move an inch, as if if you did, your little daydream would break. Your cheeks probably burnt with the heat, and you could feel your pulse rush to the part of your finger that was currently in his mouth, smarting. His tongue soothed over the cut softly, sending tingles of desire down your back, the moistness between your legs increasing with his little action.

He is your boss. Not exactly but he built this place. He was your boss’s best friend. These thoughts were quite inappropriate.

Almost as quickly as it began, he let go of your hand, his touch still lingering strong as you cleared your throat, watching his bot whir away from the scene.

“Thank you, I think. Um. For your help.” you stared at your feet, unsure what to do next.

You grabbed your things and stuffed them in your bag, very aware of the fact that Tony and signature smirk were following your every move.

Why was this man allowed to have this effect on you?

You stopped right by the door, turning back to face the man who hadn’t moved from his spot.

“Uh, Mr. Stark? You said you wanted me for something?”

“Right! Well, we have a charity, inauguration, felicitation, something here at the Tower in two days. I wanted you to come.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking at you intently as he waited for an answer.

“Oh! Are–are you sure?”

That was a surprise. You had been working with Dr. Banner for a better part of a year now however it had always been strictly professional. You were aware of the many, many galas and events that took place, you were just never a part of them. Until now.

“Yeah. I’ll have Big Green send you the details. You can bring a date. Or not.”

He winked cheekily, walking up the stairs right next to you before the doors slid open once again, gesturing you to go first.

Needless to say you were flabbergasted. A rush of excitement brought a pep in your step as you headed home, going through your wardrobe in detail and what could be a Stark-party-worthy outfit.

Tony’s eyes scanned the room, eager to find you in a sea of impeccably dressed people. He couldn’t shake you off from his thoughts. Not for a while now, if he would admit to himself.

His curiosity grew ever since he saw you for the first time, entering the lab and giving Bruce Banner a shy smile, eyes locking with him and holding his gaze, almost unable to look away. He sensed you were nervous, it was cute. It made his cock stir. He could not remember the last time he felt this way. You were a young, smart, vivacious thing that was too young for him, and yet he couldn’t resist you.

Not that he tried. You drew him in right from the start.

Tony had found you chatting animatedly to your boss some time later. You looked stunning in the floor-length number you had decided on. Your features were beautifully highlighted with the hair and make-up you’d chosen.

His wish to have you closer had been fulfilled as the party warmed up, people sat around in groups, drinks in their hands while conversation flowed. Of course, the Avengers had a favorite corner they had gathered at, the center of attention being the one and only, Iron Man. He was awarded a trophy for his philanthropic work earlier which now sat in his lap proudly, an almost phallic-shaped glass that had his name etched.

“I can’t be the only one thinking this.” Tony smirked, holding the award against his crotch and earning collective groans from the crowd around. The action brought warmth rushing to your cheeks, your wildly imaginative mind pictured him doing that to his member, letting out soft grunts.

“You alright, Miss Y/L/N?” Your attention was captured by someone standing next to you, pointing to your dress.

Unknown to your preoccupied self, the filled glass of wine you held had tilted enough to spill on your dress.

“Oh God! Shit!” you exclaimed, turning a few heads your way as you grabbed a few tissues to blot the spilled liquid as much as you could. The darker color of your dress masked the big stain that had probably formed.

It was hard to miss Tony’s piercing gaze as he gave you one of his lopsided grins, clearly giddy with the reaction he had hoped his stunt would achieve. If anything, one fact was becoming clearer by the day.

Your attraction towards this man was increasing and it seemed he was equally interested in you too.

It had been a hectic week, you sighed and leaned back against your chair, closing your eyes for a moment as your exhausted body relaxed momentarily. You couldn’t wait to get home and soak your butt in a hot bubble bath.

With the events of Ultron, there had been extra work load that you had volunteered to help out with at the Tower. You didn’t mind, of course. It meant spending a lot of time with the Avengers and a particular one at that too. Tony spent hours, sometimes days holed up in the lab, working with Bruce and yourself.

It was almost impossible not to be distracted or turned on by his presence there. To see him laser-focused at work, fingers gliding over keyboards and holograms in front of them as he paced about the space. It was all too hot.

Shutting your computer for the day, you grabbed your things and made your way out of the lab. Tony had retreated back to his floor some time ago and had promptly forgotten his phone on his work desk. It rang with a start, catching your attention and making you walk back in to grab it.

It wasn’t uncommon for you to bother the billionaire genius in his home since there had been multiple occasions where Dr. Banner asked you to summon the man whenever he got a lead on Ultron.

The elevator dinged to a stop, the doors opening to his grand living room that offered a view of New York people would kill for. His bedroom door seemed left ajar as you made your way over, stopping in your tracks as you heard a muffled groan.

Curiosity got the better of you as you sneaked a look inside his bedroom, not able to stop yourself as the sounds increased.

You felt your mouth go dry at the sight before you. Tony lay on his bed against the pillows, eyes scrunched up, pants undone., soft sighs leaving his lips as his hand moved up and down on his erect cock.

It felt so wrong to watch him pleasure himself in the privacy of his own home and yet so right, you felt yourself blush at the sight. It was like you were unable to look away, he had his fingers wrapped around his shaft, moving at a steady pace as you saw precum leak at the tip of his head. His pretty, thick lips were parted while his chest rose and fell, eyes shut in ecstasy.

You were about to peel your gaze away from the scene when you heard a faint whisper of what you thought was your name.

“Oh Y/N..” his breathy moan sent desire to pool right between your legs, a part of you still processing the whole thing while the other wanting to push that door open and join the man or perhaps help him finish.

His thumb swiped across his red tip before the pace of his strokes increased, his pants echoed in the room while you felt your entrance clench around nothing, desiring the very man who was masturbating while thinking of you.

You were sure your panties were ruined by the time Tony’s hips jerked and you saw him climax, ropes of cum spurting from his cock and spilling on his hand and lower abdomen. That had to be the hottest thing you’d seen in your life.

You definitely needed to take care of yourself after this, that bubble bath was going to be an elaborate one. His softened cock still lay open for your eyes to feast on, his cum scattered on his body begging you to be licked clean.

Your thoughts came to a standstill when the phone you held in your hand rang terribly loudly, interrupting the little moment. Your scramble to hide or run was rendered useless when Tony glanced outside and saw you.

“It is rude of you to just stand out there and watch, Miss Y/L/N. So inappropriate.”

#tony stark x reader #tony stark fanfiction #tony stark fluff #tony stark smut #tony stark x y/n #tony stark imagine #tony stark one shot #tony stark fic #tony stark x you #the stark squad #marvel fanfiction #mostly marvel musings #tony stark

364 notes · View notes

alcoholfreenayeon · 9 months ago

Note

The Ryujin headcanon’s were so spot on, could I request a Yeji version please?💕

Yeji Girlfriend HCs

SFW HCs

The silliest and sweetest person ever. She’ll be so loving and caring towards you. Always ready to do anything for you.

She shows her vulnerable side to you, expressing her concerns, issues and feelings to you frequently yet at the same time tries to brush it off because she sometimes feels like a bother.

When she’s tired she clings on to you like a koala. Resting her head on your shoulders or chest.

She likes to send you lots of selfies when she’s away. She gets worried about you easily, constantly asking if you have eaten well and slept well. She always secretly steals a shirt if your when she’s away so she can keep your scent.

She doesn’t have a favorite spot to kiss you, instead she prefers that you kiss her instead. She’ll get close and either stare at you or keep shuffling restlessly until you give her a kiss to calm her down.

She puts herself under more pressure and stress than necessary because she feels like the oldest member and leader she has to be the example, set the standard and not show weakness.

She sometimes tries to cook for you but her clumsiness makes it more challenging than Yeji would like. Once you were napping and woke up to smoke and panicked thinking it was a fire only to find out Yeji accidentally burnt the cookies she was trying to make.

Her smile always makes you feel weak, she’s just that pretty.

Yeji introduced you to the rest of Itzy quite easily, she was proud to show you off and was happy to have you. The other members did try to tease her a little but her spirits were too high for some teasing to faze her.

Whenever she wakes up before you, she likes to confess how much she loves you and how happy you make her feel. But she says it quietly because she doesn’t want you to wake up and feels too shy to saw it when you are awake.

NSFW HCs

She’s quite loving but can also be a little insatiable at times. Especially when she’s been away for a while, Yeji just can’t have enough of you.

She can make out for hours with you, her hands roaming everywhere.

She likes it when you talk dirty to her though whenever you mention it afterwards, she just covers her ears and tells you to shut up, her face completely red.

Always leaves marks on your neck. She just has to, the idea of kissing and biting and sucking your neck is so appealing to her.

She likes being gently choked a few rounds in so things feel even more intense.

She doesn’t mind being bold in public, sometimes when you both are out for dinner, you’ll feel her leg touch yours, tracing upwards slowly and dangerously all while she her face is innocently listening to you.

Car rides tend to get heated, teasing and suggestive comments, lots of touching and results in a lot of built up sexual tension so either you both end up heading home early or pull over to….release the tension.

Recently Yuna accidentally ended up walking in the dressing room because she saw Yeji was alone there only to hear you and Yeji on the phone saying something she definitely didn’t need to hear. To make matters worse worse, she had walked in noisily, calling out Yeji only to hear you speak about the things you and Yeji would do when she comes back.

She always dresses up, trying out different styles to see what she likes and what you like.

She likes the idea of roleplaying but hasn’t really done it yet or asked you because she doesn’t know how to bring it up without feeling embarrassed.

#ask me anything #answered asks #anon ask #kpop gg #kpop scenarios #kpop imagines #kpop headcanons #reader x idol #itzy #itzy fluff #itzy smut #itzy x reader #itzy scenarios #itzy yeji #yeji #hwang yeji #yeji x reader #yeji smut #yeji fluff

267 notes · View notes

coffeegnomee · 4 months ago

Note

I feel like Ls!pangi doesn’t get talked about a lot like tr!pangi and I see analysis of other Lifestealers(mostly zam) and pangi just feels like a side piece for character development and want to see some love to ls!pangi

So Pangi on lifesteal doesn't get involved in the lore for like 90% of the time he is online. He used to a hell of a lot more back in s4, but around s5 he really started to hit his stride with his silly, more laid back video style. And in s6 he well full-out on making silly videos because he wanted to publish a video every single week from the start of the season to the end of the year. And in order to make people feel comfortable coming to his recordings, he became a pacifist and did not enter into the lore unless he found it absolutely necessary.

So that's the backstory on why people don't really write about ls!pangi. There just isn't that much to write about. And he isn't active, spending a lot of time on the realm (which is great).

He joked to Flame on the last session (saturday) that on lifesteal he is the weakest player, but on the realm he is the strongest. And that makes him approach the realm so completely differently.

That being said, his pacifism has strangely endeared himself to Flame, who generally hates pacifists but also loves Pangi's silly videos and wants to make sure Pangi can record. He went out of his way to help with the warden situation when mapicc dropped a bunch of wardens on Pangi's Christmas set, he helped stop the fire on the Christmas tree when Mane burnt it down and reprimanded Mane for being too much of a menace, and he is borrowing Pangi hearts (from his own secret backup in-case-i-get-banned-off-the-server-and-need-hearts stash) so all the chunguses involved in his Hunger Games will have 10 hearts.

Charmander duo is amazing and pangi's origin story with the lore is one of my favorite times of ls!pangi

In the early days of the season Flame decided to blow up spawn and Pangi decided to take it upon himself to talk to Flame, give him pseudo-therapy which turned into a really good mutual-understanding session that genuinely transformed Flame's mindset towards blowing up spawn more. He had Flame build a house and was incredibly supportive as Flame reluctantly approached building, and gently encouraged him to think about how much care people put into builds and how much pride you can have in your own accomplishments in building.

Flame was dead set in not playing along. Dead set in not getting any attachments to this house. Determined to say none of it mattered.

Pangi says he will blow up the house, to see what Flame really thinks. Flame gets really sad and asks him not to, and eventually Pangi relents giving the obvious analogy that clearly Flame care about this house and would rather not see it blown up, just as they would rather not see spawn be blown up.

The next day Flame threatens and does blow up spawn because nobody shows up for the fight, but when zam goes to investigate the damages, it is no where near as bad as the first time.

A couple days later, Pangi has been trying to coordinate the server into doing the 10v1 that Flame wants, but when he logs on, Mane starts being a menace to him. Mane stops being a menace to have a convo with Flame and Pangi about the fight, and everything is set. Pangi gets Flame to promise to make sure spawn doesn't get blown up again before the fight.

Pangi leaves but soon enough wemmbu shows up as well and starts threatening to blow up mapicc's castle. Pangi tries to get Flame to see that this is his responsibility, as a teammate of wemmbu, to prevent the destruction as per their agreement. Flame is lackluster and basically taking absolutely zero responsibility for wemmbu and mane, only saying he will not blow up spawn. Wemmbu is his ally, not teammate, he insists. This isn't good enough for Pangi, but Pangi leaves saying anything more and the deal is off.

Five minutes later Flame calls him back to his house, the one they built together. Wemmbu has blown it up. He mocked Flame for having a house then destroyed it in front of him despite Flame's pleas to stop. Flame is absolutely despondent about not being able to stop wemmbu in the slightest and doesn't know what to do. Pangi can see this is a huge struggle for Flame, but still insists Flame is the only one who can do anything; he can't and the server can't. They part for the evening.

Well, low and behold, mapicc was not happy in the slightest that wemmbu blew up his castle (for the second or third time at this point) and he tnt minecarted the circle of fighters that Pangi got together: 6 kills in one cart. It was legendary. Best cart in lifesteal history.

With the failure of this fight, Pangi gave up trying to be involved in the lore. He did what he could. Flame also more or less let go of the spawn battle, waiting a few weeks for a session and arriving with 1000 dogs and just killing whoever was around.

This was an Amazing series of Pangi lore, honestly one of my favorite couple of streams of the season. Watching Pangi genuinely approach the lore without great seriousness, actually using all of his brain to come up with ways to convince Flame and Mane and Wemmbu to stop, dealing with being helpless but pushing though despite it all because he believed Flame had a good heart. It was amazing pangi lore.

It was also in August. (8/25 to 8/29)

So.

Not too recent.

#lifesteal #gnome rambles #asks

81 notes · View notes

sheirukitriesfandom · 3 months ago

Text

Headcanons about Thalmor institutions in Skyrim

After voicing my dissatisfaction, I thought I might as well share some HCs about Thalmor infrastructure in Skyrim.

The Thalmor Embassy

A representative building primarily used for negotiations (and “negotiations”) as well as direct communication with the Dominion and the overseeing of other Thalmor institutions in the province. Agents new to the province go through an onboarding process at the embassy.

It's also where Justiciars undergo further schooling if ordered.

The Committee for Artistic Exchange and Cross-Cultural Relations

Located in Solitude proper, this institution is in charge of censorship and propaganda*. It controls the vast majority of publishing in imperial Skyrim. It both distributes propaganda from the Dominion proper and develops more tailored to the political situation in Skyrim. It has/had offshoot branches in Markarth and Windhelm, the Stormcloaks having burnt the one in their city to the ground.

*When I say propaganda, I mean both the blatant rallying, ideologically obvious kind and the more subtle kind promoting Altmeri practices and traditions—even travel reports about Alinor.

Bureaus of Civil Security

Originally operated by the imperial administration rather than the Thalmor themselves, these bureaus existed in every major city pre civil war. This was where “concerned citizens” could make anonymous denunciations against their neighbours. Since the outbreak of the civil war, these bureaus have either closed, transferred their duties to resident Thalmor (like in Markarth) or been so understaffed and overwhelmed that a denunciation rarely leads to any consequences.

Thalmor Logistics Inspectors

These Thalmor agents cooperated with imperial toll controls as well as import and export at the border. Their job was to make sure no ideologically unsound/illegal material was moved in and out of the country. Since the civil war, their numbers have dwindled, as have imperial border controls overall.

Undercover Couriers

The average Thalmor courier has two things: a family and no money.

They're also hardly ever Altmer, Bosmer or Khajiit as that alone raises suspicions, though Khajiit are the most common exception. The rest is picked from among the other races, often hiding as pilgrims, wandering nobles, mercenaries or even priests.

An undercover courier is paid handsomely. The Thalmor provide housing and medical care for their families and, throughout the courier’s training, will infiltrate every aspect of the courier's life. This is what makes undercover couriers incredibly dangerous: they're trained combatants who'll fight to the death because they know if they fail, it's not just their life that's over.

The Cross-Cultural Formation Initiative

A civil branch of the Thalmor focused on ensuring Thalmor influence over labor and academic training. It provides training and research opportunities but demands reports, loyalty and adherence to Thalmor values in return.

It also doubles as a propaganda tool since it provides training for people who otherwise wouldn't receive any. It also ensures Skyrim’s Thalmor institutions are safe from sabotage, as they've built an inhouse stock of craftspeople.

With the civil war, the Initiative has come under scrutiny, as a good number of its beneficiaries defected.

#elder scrolls #skyrim #the elder scrolls #headcanon #tes #thalmor #Not gonna talk about the secret prisons because there's not much to them.#it's a secret prison they're more or less the same no matter which irl counterpart you look at #just some are more inhumane than others...

65 notes · View notes

glamourscat · 4 months ago

Text

OKUMURA BROTHERS ANALYSIS

I want to sympathise with Yukio, and in some ways, I do. He grew up in such an erratic way, forced to train at just seven years old and put under a level of stress no kid should ever face. Forced by his father figure to join the exorcists, explicitly for Rin’s sake, because Yukio had to “look out for him.” So, he starts training, becomes one of the youngest exorcists in the order, and develops this perfectionist mindset where mistakes simply can’t exist in his world.

The truth is, both Rin and Yukio were raised by a man who wasn’t even sure how to be a man himself. He had no clue what it really meant to live as a human being. He was raised as a machine by the order and whether he meant it or not, he ended up raising Yukio and Rin to be machines too, because that’s all he knew.

Then everything falls apart. Rin’s a mess, blaming himself for their father’s death and Yukio is emotionally and mentally burnt out after years of acting like a parent to Rin (who lets no forget got a completely different childhood than Yukio) and to himself.

So no, I don’t necessarily blame Yukio. As someone who’s been parentified myself, I get his anger and frustration. Feeling invisible while your sibling gets all the attention. Drowning in your own pain while everyone assumes you’re “strong enough” to handle it.

The difference comes when Rin, unlike Yukio, begins to confront his powers and accept them as part of who he is, Yukio doesn’t. He sees his powers as a flaw, proof of everything he hates about himself. He doesn’t understand them and doesn’t want to.

To Yukio, control equals survival. And his “powers” are nothing but a miscalculation in his perfect equation. Rin is a bursting flame (pun intended) who cannot be tamed. Rin’s carefree nature and willingness to accept their chaotic world, threats the fragile wall Yukio has built around himself. Rin challenges everything he knows and believes in just by existing.

While Rin’s arc is about self-acceptance, Yukio’s is about denial. He can’t reconcile his human (and that hint of a possible demonic side) so he lashes out at the person who reminds him of everything he’s running away from, Rin.

Ultimately, they’re both products of a system that values survival over happiness. Rin fights to break free from it, while Yukio becomes more entrenched, continuing the cycle that hurt him. Because that’s the only thing he knows. And the only thing he is allowing himself to know. So no, I cannot blame someone who was never taught how to deal with their own feelings and thus, explode when everything becomes too much.

What I do blame him for, though, are his calculated actions. What Yukio went through is an explanation on why he acts a certain way, but not a pass to excuse his actions.

Hurting his own brother, even when he knows it’s wrong. Shooting Rin whenever it’s convenient. Cussing him out. I get why he’s like this, I really do. I just can’t ignore, though, how the victim in this situation turned into the one doing the harm. He’s letting the cycle continue. Father Fujimoto trained him to be a soldier and without even realising it, Yukio keep pushing those same ideals onto Rin.

The sad truth about the twins is this: Yukio can keep hurting Rin over and over again and Rin will still forgive him. Because Rin loves his brother with all his heart. And Yukio? It’s not that he hates Rin, he does care, but he doesn’t have enough self respect to know what it means to properly care and show that care to someone he loves.

#Rin Okumura #yukio okumura #okumura brothers #blue exorcist rin okumura #blue exorcist yukio #rin blue exorcist #yukio blue exorcist #blue exorcist #ao no exorcist #ao no exorcist rin #ao no exorcist yukio #rin okumura headcanons #yukio okumura x reader #rin okumura x reader

134 notes · View notes