#to you be for real sir*

[artkaninchenbau]

A h-heartfelt reunion..?

Bonus

[kavehayati]

MR LOVERMAN !!!!

[musubiki]

balor 🥰

[snaileer]

I’m a Size Medium, Thanks - 2

Part one: https://www.tumblr.com/snaileer/766471879423885312/im-a-size-medium-thanks

Danny stares into the eyes of what has got to be the grumpiest looking 12-14?10? How tall are children?- year old he’s ever met. And he grew up with Sam!

Danny looks back through the door, hoping to everything that an adult walks through. He is disappointed.

“Well?” The boy snaps, foot tapping.

“Uh, can I help.. you?” Danny says, voice ticking up. That’s what you’re supposed to say at a job right? Or maybe the kid wasn’t supposed to be here, “Do you need to call someone…?” He hopes not, he doesn’t know how or if the shop has a phone, and his… well his is wired through a realm of the dead so enough said there.

“My name is Damian Wayne.” He says primly. And expectantly.

Danny looks outside again, past the neon sign he specifically hadn’t turned on, then back at the Damian kid, blinking. There’s no way this was that ‘Mr.Wayne.’

The kid rolls his eyes impressively well then drops his glare back onto Danny, “Has this absurd incense burned away whatever meager sense you were born with? I am here to have a so-called ‘reading’ with a medium.”

If Danny hadn’t seen this Damian kid walk in with three whisps of shades wrapped around his arms, Danny would have questioned why, but he did, so he doesn’t.

He does, however, say: “Aren’t you a little young… to be like.. talking about death or something?” Though honestly, the incense is a real concern, Danny hadn’t even lit any today, Claire had just left it burning and the whole room was saturated.

“Will you fulfill your job description or not, you peasant?” The kid grits out.

Danny would really rather not. Like really rather not. But nOoo, here he was, waiting for a portal that could show up at any time, pretending he was a medium for a 7 year old just because he could talk to ghosts.

Danny sighs and drags himself around the counter to go into Claire’s weird little seance room. Maybe the fumes will kill him before the embarrassment does.

The kid follows.

Danny drops himself into Claire’s chair with weirdly plush armrests for still being so uncomfortable.

“Alright then, let’s get this over with. I’m Danny, the -ugh- medium. Whatdya wanna know?” Danny says as he kicks his leg out to hit a shade getting agitated and grabby by Damian’s feet. They got way too much of a spiritual boost from this room for Danny to be comfortable with it.

Damian watches him with a raised eyebrow, still not sitting down, “Aren’t you meant to lead the seance?”

Danny’s lip curls in distaste, he huffs a sigh and lets his shoulders drop, opening his mouth to tell this 9-year old something easy about one of his shades and be done-

He spots a sticky note stuck on the crystal ball.

-Danny, don’t forget, the showmanship is important! I trust you know how to meet expectations! Happy first day!

- Claire <3

Danny feels his face go deadpan. He was going to have this woman committed. That’s what he was going to do. She could be studied for the degenerative cognitive effects of being freaking bazonkers.

Danny plucks the note off the crystal ball and crumples it, letting the trash drop to the abyss that is Claire’s plush carpet.

He sighs, looking back up at Damian. The kid snaps his head towards him from where he’d been poking around the curtained walls- weirdo- but Danny beats him to the snappy comment.

“You got any spiritually charged items? Or like… something?” Danny says, taking a guess, he can make the thingy glow, say some nonsense, get paid, and close.

Damian narrows his eyes at him, but slowly moves to sit in the other chair, perched on the edge of the seat. He pulls something from his pocket and sets it on the table.

Pearls.

It’s a clump of shiny white pearls.

Absolutely dripping in ectoplasmic blood stains. So lovely.

Does Claire have biohazard gloves because oh gosh-

Danny hesitantly reaches for the pearls, lifting the strand between two fingers as he looks between it and the 12 year old. “You sure this is what you want to ask about?”

The kid’s glare turns challenging, mocking, “What? Admitting you are nothing but a charlatan?”

Danny grimaces, “Not quite. I mean…” He looks at the pearls again, then at the shade trying to hack away at the kids neck, “There’s definitely someone or something attached to this it’s just… not .. yours.”

“Tt,” the boy clicks his tongue at him, “and how exactly would you know that, charlatan?” Damian levels a mocking look up and down at him.

Danny’s eye twitches as he grimaces a smile, “Part of the job-“ brat. Danny doesn’t say that. Danny can’t say that. Danny has to deal with death obsessed TODDLERS who want to talk about some rando’s gruesome murder just so he can eat tonight. Or find somewhere to sleep. He doubts this will be enough for both.

Maybe if he’s dramatic enough.

Alright get to it then, Danny.

He sighs, dimming the light with Claire’s little remote- he is not so far gone as to turn them green like she had- and actually focusing his energy on the pearl necklace.

“What are you-“

Danny holds up a finger at Damian to silence him, which surprisingly works. He closes his eyes and starts trying to absorb the vibes of ectoplasmic remains as slowly as he can.

Feelings of course come with it and- well what’d ya know, he can definitely feel this attached to a ghost somewhere in this city.

“It’s a woman’s… younger than she should have been when she…”

He can hear Damian scoff, “Obviously, anyone could tell me that.”

Danny rolls his eyes under his eyelids, debating the merits of opening one to glare at him when his eyes are definitely glowing.

“She’s still here but-“ Danny says instead, trying to pull on the connection wandering out into the streets, “She can’t come here here.”

“What do you mean?” The boy snaps.

Danny tries to focus harder on it himself, he’s never done this before, tried to find or communicate with a ghost from an object… it was like Pointdexter and his mirror.

“She’s stuck somewhere… somewhere more important.. it’s dark and narrow and Danny mentally rears back as images flash into his mind. Accompanied of course by a woman’s scream.

An alley. A gun. A man stepping in front of her to protect her- no not her- a kid- Damian- not Damian- looks like-

Danny opens his eyes and drops the necklace. There’s barely any ectoplasm left on it.

Fine with him, he never wants to touch it again. But yuck that means he absorbed it!! Oh ewwww-

“Well?” An impatient voice asks and- oh yeah that’s right, the rude ass kid.

Danny pushes the pearls across the table with a finger and looks up at him, “Woman in an alley, that familiar to you?”

Damian’s eyes narrow, “Anyone who knows who I am could tell me the same.”

Danny snaps, “I don’t-!“ This is a child Danny, a child, he takes a deep breath, “Well she was scared for the kid, and now is… proud of him? There’s a lot of concern there, but she still watches him I guess, so that’s all I got for ya.”

Damian scrutinizes him for a minute, silent. Darn, weren’t mediums supposed to be vague as heck so that anything could apply and the person would find their own meaning? But did it count if he was just translating the vibes off a shade half a city away?

“This is…. acceptable.”

Danny nearly sags in relief and moves to stand, “Cool, then-“

“Wait.” The kid holds up a hand, “You said something regarding a disparity in the proposed ownership of the apparition you believed to be related to this jewelry.”

Danny blinks at him dumbly.

Damian scoffs again, “That the apparition attached to this necklace was ‘not mine,’ as you said??” He snarks, putting air quotes up.

Danny slowly sinks back down into the chair. “… Well yeah I mean..” does he tell this 8 year old about the slightly murderous shades he’s got around him? “You have… you have a couple… apparations… yourself. Not related to the pearls that is.” Danny says hesitantly, eyes skipping over said shades.

Damian jerks his head to follow his eyes and Danny shirks back, eyes back on the kid.

“Who are they? Tell me now,” Damian demands, standing to loom over the table.

Danny puts his hands up in surrender, “Whoa, I don’t know about that, they don’t really seem too happy with you-“ Another one tries to slice his hand through Damian’s neck, “I think you did something to them or made them angry at some point. I don’t really think you should try to contact them-“ Danny winces, that could end very badly. Thank goodness for limited ectoplasm access.

Meanwhile, his answer seems to have only made Damian more upset, his eyes wide as he stares down at Danny.

Suddenly the kid turns and stamps towards the door, leaving Danny to hurriedly push the chair out and chase after him to the main room.

Except-

When he gets there Damian is already shooting hushed insults at a man standing amongst the crystals.

The man looks vaguely like Damian, black hair, blue eyes, lithe build, and oh also- surrounded by shades of course.

These ones seem less vicious at least.

Please don’t be here for him. Please don’t be here for him.

Danny really doesn’t want to try and fake his way through another hour or however long it’s been of that.

“Hey there! I’m Dick, Damian’s brother!” The man says suddenly, pushing Damian aside and coming forward with a cheery grin, “Thanks for humoring him!”

Danny tilts his head to see Damian’s scowling face behind the man. Right.

“Uh huh… I’m Danny.” He says, trying not to be distracted by what he’s pretty sure is a baby elephant’s ghost behind him.

“You’re the medium right? We were just so interested to see if that old family heirloom would have anything or not. We-“

“We?” Damian cuts him off with a scoff, “I will meet you in the vehicle Richard. I will not spend another minute in this house of charlatans.”

They both watch as the kid turns and stomps out the door, uncrossing his arms only to open the door and stomp out. The stupid bell rings merrily.

This time it’s not Danny who sighs.

“I wish he wouldn’t say things like that,” Dick says wearily, “I grew up in places like this.” There’s a note of nostalgia to his voice. Danny just eyes the bowl of ‘fertility’ crystals warily, what kind of place??

Dick must see him do it because he huffs a laugh, “I grew up in a circus originally,” he explains, “So psychic places always just kinda remind me of my auntie’s tents.”

Danny glances at the elephant shaped ghost again, “Wow that makes so much sense actually.”

The guy raises a confused eyebrow at him.

Danny coughs awkwardly, waving it away, “So, money?” He claps, “I’m guessing you’re paying since Damian is…” Danny trails off, opting not to make a final guess on age and embarrass himself.

Dick laughs again and they go over to the counter, “Yep, here-“ He pulls out his wallet, rifling through cash before pulling some out, “Cash only yeah? This should be enough.”

Danny stares at the stack of slightly rumpled bills, “But- huh?…” that was… that was so much…

“Oh I added extra since I’m sure he probably said some things he shouldn’t have, don’t worry about it.”

Dick is already halfway out the door when Danny reloads and jerks upwards, “Wai-“

Could Danny really stop him? Should he? He needed this money but… he stops to count it. $20..40..60..80..100..120….140……160….180……….$200.

Danny blanches. He lurches for the door, no way he can take this much money just for basically acting as a glorified ecto-translator.

Danny stops in his tracks as he steps outside the shop and spots Dick and Damian speaking to a third, much older person, over the hood of a sleek black car.

This person, of course, also has several, several, shades around them.

What the hell was wrong with this family?

Damian turns and glares his way.

Oh ancients what if they were part of the mob or something.

Danny spins around on his heel-

And smacks straight into the glass door of the shop.

…

Ow.

Danny rubs his nose as he fumbles around for the door handle, acutely aware the death covered family was probably staring at him.

He grabs the handle and pulls-

Danny freezes, hand on his sore face stopping. He opens his eyes as he yanks again. Nothing.

Oh heck, he just locked himself out didn’t he?

No please no, they were so definitely still staring, no way they weren’t. Danny pulls again and it finally-

He looks at the door handle in his hand.

Then at the door still closed in front of him.

Then back at the door handle.

Just the door handle.

Crap.

Danny nearly weeps, clumsily fitting the door handle back on and still adamantly refusing to look and see if Damian and his absurdly rich family has left yet. Other people on the street are also starting to stare. The same reason he can’t just use his powers.

He finally gets the handle back on and gingerly lets go of it.

Ok. Deep breath.

Claire warned you about this. With a sticky note, but all the same. Extra key is taped on the bottom of the fire hydrant right outside the shop. You’ve got this.

Danny turns, kneels, and frantically begins trying to find the key on the absurdly dirty fire hydrant.

His hands come away black with grime, but thankfully he has the key.

He puts it in the lock and turns it, hearing what may very well be the newest sound of his nightmares: a snap.

Most specifically the sound of the key snapping in Danny’s very hands.

Danny stares at the half of the key still held between his fingers.

Did he do something to this city? Was this his fault? Could he not just sit in a closet and wait for the portal to open and go home?

Danny sags against the door, and resigns himself to his fate. Maybe he can go get food… with the money he left on the counter. Great.

Danny peeks his eyes sideways and catches the guy, Dick, finally getting into their car.

Okay, just a tiny bit just a bit. Danny holds the key again, focuses on the lock in the door jam and….. intangible!

He yanks the door open and jumps inside, door closing against the flutters of quickly fading shades on the street.

And more than one scream at them but hey that’s not his problem.

Mostly.

Danny revels in the cool lighting of the shop, glaring at the stupid broken key in his grimy hands. He drops the useless bit of metal on the counter, pockets the cash and wipes his hands on the backside of one of Claire’s million wall curtains.

It leaves a black stain that basically disappears when Danny folds the fabric over it.

Oh well.

Technically the shop was still open.

And technically, Danny didn’t know if the lock did or didn’t work right now.

He moves to find whatever storage closet Claire used to store her absurd number of crystals.

He finds it- finally- and using the keys he left in the store to begin with, he is able to unlock the perfect place to sleep tonight amongst several packages of…. Some kind of incense powder… or something. He doesn’t really care because that plan of hiding in a closet till the portal opens? Yeah, Danny’s putting that into action right the frick now.

He bends down to start to lay out his sweatshirt over the cardboard bed-to-be.

A bell rings in the distance.

Danny is going to destroy that bell on the door, he swears it.

[potatopassenger]

Crocodile is low-key obsessed with manners like he tells Vivi he didn't expect a princess to be so foulmouthed (he's caused a civil war) and he gets mad at Sanji for being rude over the phone (while he's threatening him) All his employees' codenames start with Mr. or Miss. He's even trained his deadly attack crocodiles to queue nicely for their food!

[temeyes]

simon riley, ang panget mo talaga (affectionate)

[thepunkmuppet]

HAPPY GERARD DAY HELLSITE!!!!!!!

YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!! YIPPEE!!!!!!

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

EVERY TIME I WATCH A HORROR MOVIE AND VINCENT PRICE'S NAME POPS UP!

[m1d-45]

room 11-13

summary: albedo is weird. no, not just weird- disgustingly strange.

word count: ~2.5k

-> warnings: implied stalking [him -> you] ; he is a weird creep!! brief + non described mentioned nudity (of reader, within a drawing)

-> gn reader (you/yours) in a modern au !

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @ryuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

your roommate was… interesting, to say the least. not that you really had many expectations—unlike apparently everyone else, you didn’t come to university with a plethora of friends packed in your bag. you had no names to list on your housing contract, no familiar faces to look forward to when you came home, just you, a handful of cardboard boxes and a lingering sense that you’d forgotten something.

there was nothing you could pin about him. nothing in specific, no one catalyst you could point to. sure, you don’t see him often, but that isn’t inherently a bad thing. there’s nothing wrong with not going out much, there’s nothing wrong with being a quiet person when you’re living with a stranger. the common room is clean, the sink is (relatively) empty, and none of your things in the fridge have been eaten. he really, by all standards, should be a perfectly fine roommate, but…

albedo was a quiet man. you first met him when you moved in, delicately pouring exact amounts of water into a small tins over the sink without a single sound or stray droplet. he looked up, you exchanged names, and that was that. the rest of your day was spent unpacking in your room, barely hearing the click of his door closing.

you never quite asked what he was doing that first day, but you could put two and two together. he had a habit of leaving pencils or erasers or other supplies on the coffee table, and you often ran into him when he came out of his room to fetch them. you’re not quite sure how you never see him in the living room when you never told him your schedule, but… well, whatever. it didn’t take a genius to know that the guy with charcoal smears across his hands was an artist. and, if you’d somehow missed those, you sometimes ran into half-used palette in the fridge, beads of paint in a myriad of colors sealed neatly in plastic containers, changing every time you checked.

you weren’t sure why they were always there, as you’d definitely seen one when he was in the dorm, but… well, it’s not really your business, is it? maybe he’s busy, maybe he doesn’t want to paint, maybe he’s taking a nap, who cares. you grab what you need and go back to your room; there’s more important things to worry about than a stranger’s hobbies. honestly, you shouldn’t spend so much time thinking about him. you could hardly claim to know someone you never saw.

well, except when you did see him.

you grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge as you came back from your chemistry lab, not minding the usual palette of paint beside it. also as usual, you heard his door open as he remembered some random item, not minding the sound of his footsteps as you receded into your own room-

“wait! ah- please…”

you forgotten what his voice sounded like. it’s mostly out of shock, not recognition, that you turn around, seeing him lingering in the entrance to his half of the dorm. his hair is loose around his shoulders, catching the light from the window and glowing gold. his apron is stained with a rainbow of paint, matching the perpetual lines across his hands, and he seems a bit too nervous to be talking with someone he’s been living with for a few months now.

“…i couldn’t make it to the lab today,” he starts, words measured and not at all like his original call, practiced instead of panicked. “could i borrow your notes?”

…you’re in the same chemistry class? you’d never noticed. then again, you’re not sure you could pick him out of a crowd—it’s not like you two were exactly close… but giving him your data was honestly a non-issue. normally you wouldn’t think twice about it, except if he was in your lab section then he should know the rules about missing them.

“you’re going to have to retake the lab anyway, aren’t you? my report won’t help you at all.”

he blinks, like he’d forgotten that fact, and you half hope that’ll be the end of it. you still have your own work to get to, after all.

“still… it would give me something to reference, so when i do it i’ll know if my results are reasonable.” his brows are drawn, genuinely worried, crystal blue carrying a surprising amount of emotion despite the careful cadence of his words. “i’d greatly appreciate your assistance on this matter… i don’t have a reliable way to contact anyone else in the class.”

it only takes you a few moments to weigh the pros and cons. at worst, your partner can back you up if he tries to steal your work. at best, nothing happens and you’ve earned a bit of goodwill.

you shrug, taking off your bag and setting it on the counter, unzipping the main pocket and digging for your lab manual. you find it and flip to today’s lab, mentally wondering what an artist would think of the irritated scribbles down the side of the page. whatever the case, you hold it out toward the hallway he was before, only to find him barely a foot away. he’s stood over your shoulder, letting your manual bump into his chest without a flinch, without an ounce of the worry from before.

without an ounce of anything at all, really. his face is flat, empty, just staring down at the words in front of him without seeming to read them at all.

“…sorry,” you start, “i didn’t hear you-”

“don’t be sorry.” with a blink, he’s back, taking the manual with a gentle smile. “thank you for your help. i’ll return it by tonight.”

“…yeah, take your time.”

you’re not going to question what or why whatever happened did. it’s.. just easier if you don’t. you grab your bag and go to your room, focused on anything else.

you don’t find it in the common area, on the coffee table or by the sink or in any reasonable area. he doesn’t knock on your door to return it. no, instead, you trip over it the next day as you leave your room, squinting in the dark to see it laying on the carpet, a note taped to the front.

yeah, you’re not reading that. not now, at least. you’re certain albedo is a nice guy, if socially awkward, but… you can give him the benefit of the doubt later. you shove the note in a drawer and forget about it, going to class. if you just ignore it, you won’t have to deal with it.

it must not have been anything important, because he doesn’t ever bring it up again. it’s almost as if nothing happened. there’s a new pencil on the common room whenever you walk by, he ducks his head and smiles sheepishly when grabbing it, and nothing is new. you try to look for him in the lab, if only to be courteous, but never find him. it’s not a big class… but whatever, you’re not too familiar with his face anyway. after a week or two, you stop trying.

it’s wishful thinking, really.

you have to do a double take when opening the fridge one day, the paint on the palette looking, from the corner of your eye, like a human hand. it’s just skin-toned paints, delicately mixed into a color that somewhat looks like yours.. by the looks of it, he must have fussed with the tint for a while. normally there’s only small bubbles of paint, but this is excessively fine refinement.. he must just be a perfectionist.

you can’t leave your room without running into him. not just like before, with brief intersections as he grabs what he’s forgotten, but actual interactions. he sits on the couch, drawing in a small notebook, asking you about your classes like he’s not supposed to be in his own classes. sure, he could be taking some online, but it’s like he never leaves the dorm.

he asks as usual, one day, what class you’re going to. when you finally gather your courage and ask why he himself isn’t going to the lab, he startles, like he’d forgotten he was attending. there were plenty of reasons why he wasn’t going—maybe he was in a different section of the class, or he had a car and had reduced travel time, or quite literally anything other than silence. but he sat there, staring at you like you were the one who had mixed up your schedule, with the same painfully empty look as before.

you left soon after that.

if asked to describe albedo in three words or less, you’d fumble for a few moments before landing on “fine, but weird.” if asked to do so with any other level of detail, you’d probably end up saying the exact same thing.

and that’s fine. you didn’t really expect to become best friends with your roommate. but for archons’ sake, he’s just so… uncanny.

you’ve never seen any other food in the fridge but yours. you cannot remember ever seeing or hearing him leave or enter the dorm, or ever remember not seeing some sign of him being there. his door was perpetually closed, the faint sound of scratching coming from behind it, and he’d just… freeze at random. like he recedes into himself, leaving a hollow husk until he returns, eyes left as flat disks set into an unfeeling face. there’s nothing inherently wrong with not showing many expressions, but whatever he’s got going on is far more concerning than that.

so really, who could blame you for being curious? his sketchbook is just there, laying open on the table, only partially masked by the small bag of supplies next to it. the door to the bathroom is closed, you really shouldn’t be invading his privacy like this, but it’s not like he even bothered to close it.

still, it’s wrong.

still, having something solid to point to could really help if you ever need to make a complaint to an RA.

oh archons, this is such a bad idea.

before you can convince yourself not to, you walk over and sit in his usual place on the couch, picking up his sketchbook and gritting your teeth through the fact that there’s no way this is morally justified.

the current spread is plain. it’s entirely in pencil, repeated iterations of different kinds of jewelry. rings, with ornate spirals and diamonds along the sides, leading into a gem of many different cuts. some simple stud earrings, some hoops, a necklace draped around a half-drawn bust, the chain sketched to look like blooming flowers strung together. there’s some notes in another script, but other than that, it’s entirely normal. there’s nothing weird about a guy that draws bracelets in his spare time. but your mind itches to find a justification, searching for proof, and you’re already in too deep. despite your better judgement, you turn the page, doing your best not to drop it when you do.

it’s you.

you, at least six times on two pages alone. smiling, waving, fixing your hair, by the seven you feel faintly sick, fingers digging into the pages as you try to rationalize what you’re seeing.

it could just be a one off. maybe you have a particularly interesting face to draw? except the next page is the same, and so is the next, and you flip through them all with the edge of your thumb and it’s all you.

all of it. every single page that has ink on it has your face. from the very front to the very back, with only a page or two of white left, and it’s clear that the jewelry was an intentional decoy. there’s a spread dedicated to just your hands, one to various outfits he’s seen you in, one- archons, one in various stages of undress, barely granting you the dignity of keeping them from the waist up. the worst part, really, is how accurate they are, clear proof of just how much time he’s spent staring at you.

you recognize his voice now, quiet and measured as he calls your name. that could just be your heart in your ears, though.

he has that same blank expression again, standing in the doorway, looking between you and the book. you’re certain he can see the paled fingertips of your grip on the cover. “do… do you not like them?”

“…what?”

he settles back into himself, sad, shoulders slumping and eyes downturned. “they’re just practices, i promise. the actual painting looks much better…”

bile threatens the back of your throat. “the painting?”

“yes, the painting. the one i mentioned in my note…”

…the note. his note. the one you didn’t read. the one he gave you after a grand total of one significant interactions, before which you all but considered him a ghost. and he decided that making a painting of you was a normal thing to do?

“…it makes sense you forgot it. i can’t imagine i’ve ever come close to properly capturing your beauty… it doesn't matter the medium, i never seem to get it right...”

he crosses his arms, picking idly at his lips with one hand, like he’s discussing a particularly annoying problem on his homework and not the fact that he has drawings of you topless. after a few moments of mumbling, he shakes his head. “i’ll do better. i promise i will. one day i'll draw something that finds even a fraction of your perfection.”

you don’t care. all you want is to get out of here, to lock your doors and try not to call the cops while he’s in earshot. “it’s fine, albedo”

the lie is a poison that seems to sting him upon arrival, a ripple of shock crossing his impassive expression. “it's not fine, not at all. how can i call myself an artist if i fail to impress my muse? please, give me time, i promise i can do better-”

“it’s fine,” you repeat, setting the sketchbook down and realizing with another stab of disgust that he’s written your name on the front cover. you stand, hands buzzing with the echo of what you’ve witnessed, not caring for the crestfallen look on his face. “…you’re a talented artist,” you grit out.

and you’re going to be sick.

[inkykeiji]

⋆₊˚⊹♡ touya-nii + his nasty habit of sneaking into your bedroom

character: todoroki touya | dabi warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudocest, noncon, a slight bit of degradation, implied size difference words: 1.2k

he’s always careful when he starts. careful when he creeps into your room in the middle of the night, sock clad feet quiet against the hardwood; careful to keep the doorhandles latch from catching on the strike plate as he closes it behind him; careful not to wake you as he slinks into your frilly little bed, knocking stuffed animals and extra pillows onto the floor, as he worms his way beneath your pink-piped comforter and slithers his hand between your silky thighs—ah, good girl, you’re not wearing those pesky sleep shorts, just like he told you not to (good little sisters only wear panties to bed; and sometimes, they don’t even wear those, he had informed you)—and then wiggles his fingers under your lacy undies.

that’s when he stops being careful. 

because he loves that sharp gasp of surprise, that sheer unadulterated bolt that courses through your body—shock in the purest, prettiest form—that jolts you from your blissful slumber almost violently; skin shuddering, eyes snapping open, when he shoves two dirty fingers into your ill-prepped cunt. 

it’s his favourite sound in the world, he swears it is, swears he would bottle it up and keep it close to his heart if he could, swears he would wear it around his neck like the cutest, daintiest little noose, tethering him to you. 

but this is the next best thing, he supposes. 

your eyes slip shut again, so tightly they crinkle the corners and furrow your brow, and a whine of his name spills from your lips; first in frustration, then again all wispy and dumb when he curls his knuckles against that plush spot buried deep inside of you—that spot he knows so well, that spot he discovered, then claimed as his own. 

yeah, not so irritated now, are ya, y’little brat. 

no, you’re not. you’re sighing out his name in time with the pumps of his fingers, all melty and stupid and oh-so-cute, knotted with his honorific and seeping into your lace-trimmed pillows in little threads of drool. you’re grinding your ass back against his hard cock as you pathetically hump his palm, indulging him as his hips rut into your plush flesh, pre-cum steadily leaking through his thin pyjama pants, staining plaid in dark wet patches.

“touya-nii,” you whimper, back arching a little, nipples peaked through the thin cotton of your camisole. “stop, stop.” 

this is the routine almost every time, practiced and perfected through night after night of rehearsals, and you play your part flawlessly; effortless and enticing and full of emphasis, because you know he gets off on it—the no!s and wait!s and don’t!s, sometimes spit from your lips, sometimes dribbling out the corner of your mouth, only heightening the whole sordid affair.

because you’re just as fucking sick as your big brother is. 

he can’t stop, don’t you know?

it’s all your fault, he’s telling you, voice caught somewhere between accusatory and mocking. if you weren’t such a slutty little tease, nii-chan wouldn’t have to do this. 

but it’s all just a game; he knows you love it just as much as he does, knows you’re just as depraved as he is, because your actions don’t match your words, you bad girl, the rolling of your hips encouraging the rocking of his own, one of your free hands threading itself over his and guiding it to your breast, bony knuckles pressing into a soft palm as his fingers flex around supple flesh.

if you didn’t love it, if you didn’t want it, then why would you prance around the house in those short, short little dresses? the ones that fan out when you twirl to your music in the living room or ride up when you bend over while cooking in the kitchen, gifting anyone within the immediate vicinity (your vile siblings and their prying eyes) a coveted glimpse of the silk and lace clinging delicately to your cheeks; the ones that are an inch or two too short to be considered wholly decent, and the ones Daddy has repeatedly told you to stop wearing around your big brothers—especially the eldest. 

“m’sorry, touya-nii, m’sorry, m’sorry.”

no, you’re not, but that’s okay. he isn’t, either. 

at least you have each other.

your other hand snakes between your tensing thighs, cupping his own, little fingers layering larger ones as they try to speed up his motions, push his digits deeper, fuck you harder, give you more. 

these trysts never last long enough, though; no matter how hard he tries to lengthen them, to savour them, you’re both too eager, too hungry for one another, cumming too quickly in the dead of night as your bodies tremble together, as names shatter on tongues in sharp whispers and limbs seize and tangle and fuse into one.

it’s always so fucking messy, your cunt clenching around your conjoined fingers, slick dribbling down his knuckles in thick dollops to pool in his hand, to settle in the lines of his palm and streak his inner wrist in pretty shimmering streams.

it’s always so fucking messy, his grunts hot and humid against the nape of your neck, forehead pressed to the crown of your head as his cock throbs, filling flannel with copious amounts of burning, sticky cum—so much it seeps through the material to soak your scrunched panties, so much it dries in a hard glaze, welding lace to your ass. 

you don’t ever dare to wash it off, clean it away, eradicate the evidence, instead allowing each other’s pleasure to stain your skins, wearing it like a mark of honour, a claim of ownership, barely visible when it dries into something firm and translucent, but there nonetheless. 

his fingertips continue to flutter against that swollen spot until ripples of overstimulation are shuddering through your flesh, until your little hand is wreathing around his syrupy wrist and nails are biting into his flesh and tugging, tears beginning to bead your lashes.

only then does he chuckle and pull his hand free, knuckles hooking in an attempt to scrape your walls, a heavy coat of your arousal glistening on his fingers. 

“you cum so fucking much for your big brother,” he growls in your ear, lips wet against the cartilage, voice tapering off into a whine. “look at how wet you get for me.” 

two of his fingers flatten against your cheek and then swipe, slow and hard and thorough, smearing a thick film of your slick across your face, from the tip of your temple to the corner of your mouth, back and forth and back and forth until it’s been rubbed into your skin. 

callused fingertips push past your parted lips, weighing down on your tongue and cramming themselves into your throat, forcing you to taste yourself—to taste him, painted in you; spicy nicotine and heady salt.

“you’re fucking disgusting,” he pants out, but his pupils are gaping, watching as your gorge yourself on your big brother’s flesh, lips puckering and cheeks hollowing as your tongue curls around his knuckles and tries to siphon him further down your throat. 

a whine splinters in his chest as he pulls his extremities free from your voracious grip, slathered in spit, viscous cords strung between his knuckles as he spreads them apart. 

“yeah, you’re real fucking sick, y’know that?” 

“you made me like this, nii-chan,” you breathe out dreamily, already drifting back into sleep’s welcoming embrace, body going lax in his arms and snuggling back against his chest. 

yeah, he fucking did. 

and neither of you would have it any other way. 

[evelynpr]

You ever think about how All Might has two male exes that both have a child with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a big heart?

[beanghostprincess]

Walk him like a dog

[emositecc]

ITS STUCK IN MY HEAD I HAD TO-

Cover by @swiblettheduk

[ijzermansdriesen]

Mr. Yusuf Dikeç, the man that you are.

[miabbh]

to be right in front of him(them even).....

[hannahbarberra162]

Imagine interrupting Crocodile while he works.... (smut drabble)

There’s no justification for writing this lol. Pure smut no plot. What that hook do though... barely proofread, had to shoot this out of my brain before it lingered too long. ~300 words.

F!reader x Croc

Imagine bothering Crocodile while he was working…

You were bound and set on top of his desk like a decorative paperweight, the papers below you sodden with your sweat, drool, and juices as they dripped down your body. He said it was punishment for disturbing him while he was working but the glint in his eye told you that wasn’t quite the case. He’d hogtied you, bringing your hands to your ankles as you laid on your stomach. The gag in your mouth had been covered in honey, causing you to drool even more than usual - to Crocodile’s delight. That setup alone was uncomfortable but the real reason for your squirming was the yellow gold hook in your ass, a taut rope tied from the end of the hook to your ponytail to keep it in place. The hook was an exact replica of the one he wore on his hand though thankfully dulled at the tip. Crocodile told you he had it made expressly for this purpose, given that you were always interrupting during his reading time. Every movement you made forced the hook further and further into you while your bindings kept you spread for his pleasure. You’d squeaked at the cold metal of the hook when he’d first put it in but the metal had warmed rapidly. You desperately wanted to be filled by him, both holes with something of his, a finger, his cock, his tongue - anything to quell the hunger building inside you. 

Crocodile had other plans. 

Crocodile was idly playing with your sopping wet folds, one finger now grazing the outside of your opening. You could have screamed with frustration, he’d kept you on edge for at least an hour. Or so you thought, it was hard to tell. In your mind you willed him to continue stroking, to rub your clit or fill you with his thick fingers so you could finally come. But as if he was telepathic and heard your thought plea, Crocodile stopped touching your cunt completely, using his hand to light another cigar instead.

“Enjoying your new toy?” Crocodile asked, not looking up from his newspaper. 

“I’m enjoying mine,” he said with a satisfied grin as his wicked hand resumed teasing you.