#you get a... drabble? because there's no way I can draw the train

[technically-human]

Hi i'm absolutely in love with the reverse au!!

I want to know, in this verse does edwin still confesses to charles? if so how is it different? i feel if he did he would end it by apologizing, you know, religious guilt and all

There’s a train that goes through Hell.

Its journey starts in Wrath, and it departs already full of souls. It took Charles far too many years to realize that there were separate, more spacious wagons that demons could board. Not that he could understand why anyone, hellborn or not, would want to get into the damned thing. He certainly hadn’t.

Actually, Charles couldn’t recall ever boarding the train. As far as he could tell, he just appeared there one day, and had spent the next tortuous decades trying to get out. It was part of the torture. Getting out was entirely possible. More than that, it was necessary.

The train had no regular schedule that he could discern (not at first, though he had always been good at finding patterns, and was eventually able to crack it) but it would make quite a few stops before finally returning to the Wrath ring. Souls inside the train were already angry and far too close to each other (close, so close not even air could squeeze in) but when they got really violent was when the train made a stop.

Getting out didn’t mean you were free, no matter where you managed it, be it Sloth or Gluttony, Pride or Lust. No, as soon as the train finished its journey, you would appear back inside, in Wrath where you belonged, suffocating once again, getting ready to claw your way out for the millionth time.

Because if you didn’t get out, The Conductor would get you.

If he thought about it calmly, Charles could probably say that he got out of the train more times than not. Still, being caught by The Conductor once was bad enough, as there was no coal in Hell, and something had to serve as combustible. Souls could not burn to death, and the whole journey always felt longer than eternity when he was caught. Once it was over, he would be inside again, and fight with more desperation than before, not caring who stayed inside so long as it wasn’t him.

He couldn’t understand why anyone, hellborn or not, would want to get into the damned thing. He certainly hadn’t. But as the souls pushed and bit and clawed and punched their way out, Edwin boarded the train. And that wasn’t even the most groundbreaking revelation Charles had that day.

ko-fi

[nanaslutt]

on my knees begging and praying for more perv! geto🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🛐🛐🛐

Some PervyRoomate!Geto (and 1 perv Satosugu) drabbles for you :3

contains: voyeurism, stealing, fantasizing, Gojo makes an appearance, degradation, p*ssy eating, cumming untouched, restraints, masturbating, handjobs, unprotected sex, slight somno, overall creep behavior... pls be warned

note: i do not condone any of this irl :3

MDNI

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ

Perv!Geto who stands outside your door and jerks off to the sound of you getting your brains fucked out by your latest partner. If he closes his eyes and squeezed his fist hard enough he can almost imagine he’s the one fucking you. He’s timing his thrusts with the slaps he hears on the other side of the door to immerse himself deeper into his fantasy; and when you cum- he cums all over his hand while his other covers his mouth to prevent any moans from slipping through his lip.

Perv!Geto who steals your dirty panties, shirts, shorts--anything at all from your dirty clothes hamper and holds it up to his face to smell your scent while he jerks his cock furiously with his lip pulled between his teeth. You're just in the next room over, he can hear you giggling with Shoko at something funny she said, the sound spurring him on as he imagines you're laughing at him, at how pathetic he is for stealing your clothes to jerk off. Of course, when he cums he makes sure to make a mess all over the garment before he throws it back into your hamper. Maybe one day you would go searching through your dirty clothes and find the present he left for you and teach him a lesson for being such a perv.

Perv!Geto who sucks your fingers into his mouth while you ride him because he's been waiting for so long for this moment and he needs to taste you. Your neck, lips, thighs, hands- anything. He would gag and moan around your lithe fingers when they hit the back of his throat, jolting around in his mouth from the roughness of your thrusts on his too-sensitive cock.

Perv!Geto who sits on his knees with his hands tied behind his back, his heavy neglected cock and full balls hanging freely in the air as you grip his hair from his scalp and roughly shove his face into your cunt. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, his face flushed a gorgeous crimson color as you fuck his face while degrading him, telling him how filthy and dirty he is for being such a creep to his poor unknowing roommate (you). He would cum untouched with a pathetic whine into your cunt at your mean words, as he continued to suck and flick his tongue as he brought you to orgasm.

Perv!Geto & Gojo who FaceTime late at night to talk about all the filthy things they would do to you while they jerk off together. Sometimes when you aren't home they sneak into your room and jerk each other off on your bed, working each other up as they dirty talk each other about what you would do to them if you were here. "Yeah? You like the way they stroke your cock? Huh?" Gojo would groan as he twists his hand over Geto's tip while the dark-haired man has his eyes squeezed shut, pretending its your hand. "Yeah cum inside her Gojo fuck, she wants it so badd~" Geto would whisper as Gojo came all over your nice clean pillow. The two of them constantly plotted on how they would get you in their beds.

Perv!Geto who would sneak into your room at night and jerk off to your sleeping body only clad in tiny shorts that showed half your ass and a crop top that your breasts spilled out of. He never touched you, but he would get close, seeing how far he could test the limits before his cute roomie woke up to a face full of cum. He would jerk off right over your face, his heart racing out of his chest when you stirred in your sleep, the fright making him back up as he cums hard in his hand, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood as he tried to keep himself quiet.

Perv!Geto who would offer to stand behind you on the train while you wore a skimpy outfit so you didn't have to be pressed up against some olf perv. Little did you know he had the same intentions as them. He felt himself get hard as your ass bumped back agaisnt his crotch when the train ride got bumpy. He would pray for the time when you would lose your balance and almost fall so he could grab your waist in his massive hands to steady you. Your meek 'thank you Sugu' Going straight to his cock at how oblivious you were.

Perv!Geto who offered to sleep in your room to cuddle when your relationship ended. Who was he to leave you alone when you spilled the news to him with fat tears rolling down your cheeks, that made his cock twitch in his pants. He should feel bad about taking advantage of your vulnerable state right now, but how was he supposed to when your smaller frame was pressed right up against his body and his nostrils were filled with your scent from being smothered by your sheets? He wasn't able to stop himself from humping his hips into your ass when he felt your body relax agaisnt him, your breaths evening out as you slipped into dreamland while Geto used the friction of your soft ass to reach orgasm and cum hard in his pants.

Bonus: Perv!Geto who was more than happy to fuck you to back sleep when you awoke right when he released his load into his pants. Him getting off on you calling him needy while he fucked his next load into your cunt, not being able to stop himself from thinking how he wasted a perfectly good load in his boxers when he could've just woken you up and fucked it into your cunt as well :( How was he supposed to know you wanted him as much as he wanted you? You did break up with your boyfriend for him after all.

[starwovenkiss]

part two here

Because how funny would it be if Jason Todd had a nemesis who had a crush on him?

Jason, who is just trying to do his job and keep Gotham from burning for one night so he doesn’t have to hear his umpteenth lecture from Bruce about the responsibilities he holds from carrying the bat symbol, pulls up to you.

You had become a thorn in his side as of late, and he tries not to let his amusement show when he sees you waiting on a rooftop.

“What are you doing here, _____?” He knows what you’re doing. It’s the same game you’ve played for the past three nights, and when you turn and smile, glossy lips turned upwards, he can’t help it when his own lips mirror the reaction. It’s involuntary, and he knows B is getting on his case about how much time he’s wasting while not bringing you in—but how can he, when he has so much fun chasing you like this?

“You know why I’m here.” He does. According to Babs, you’ve robbed two banks along 81st Street, and although the amount is significantly less than what you were pulling before, it’s enough to warrant concern. To get his attention, like you wanted.

“You’ve got to stop doing this.” His voice sounds lilted even through his voice filter, and he watches your brow raise, pausing for a moment before stepping closer to him.

“Stop doing what?” you purr, moving in closer, looking like a feline ready to strike. It’s easy to forget about your mentor, how you two were raised on opposite sides of the coin—one trained in stealth and justice, the other in seduction and vice. And while Selina’s influence still moves through your every movement, he’s watched you grow from that first night you appeared on the rooftop of Gotham’s Metropolitan Art Museum. How you developed your own style of fighting, your own form of distraction that differs from your mentor in every way.

“Where’s the money, cat?” he sighs, looking down at you. Despite facing a former crime lord and one of the most terrifying vigilantes in Gotham, your body language is relaxed, as if this is another casual conversation to you. In fact, you merely sigh, as if he’s the one being ridiculous for asking such a question.

“What money?” you smile softly before running to jump off the side of the roof. Jason readies himself, loving nothing more than to chase you into the night before he registers his comm system crackling to life.

“Babs,” he asks, still keeping an eye on your shrinking figure as you jump from rooftop to rooftop deeper into Gotham.

“I don’t get it.” She laughs. Jason tenses, knowing that whatever is going to come next can’t be good.

“She steals almost $75K from the vault, triggers every alarm known to man, just to leave it hidden two blocks away.” Jason knows why you did it—he’s not oblivious to the way you act around him. However, admitting that means he’s signing up for no certain amount of teasing from Babs and a potentially very long talk from Bruce (as if the hypocrite should have anything to say to him).

“Maybe she’s bored.” He shrugs, keeping his tone as even as he can.

“A protégée of Selina? Doubt it.” Babs snorts. “I could think of another reason why she keeps drawing you out there.”

Jason pauses before responding. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Babs does a terrible job of hiding her laughter. “Sure you don’t, Hood. Looks like there’s another robbery downtown, and it seems legit this time. I’d head over there if I were you.”

a/n: i have written 10k words of a gaz fic that has no end in sight, and needed something to get me out of my head. so here’s a little drabble for my other favorite boy <3

[pixiefelixie]

hihi! I was wondering if i could request volleyball captain!chan who thinks is partner isn’t gonna go to his game(like the semi-finals to get to the nationals) due to studying but they manage to get their and cheer him on so he basically spanks the other team.

can be a drabble or little on-shot, whatever is easiest

—🐣📎

conveniently, i've been meaning to write a chan fic for the longest time so here you gooo 💙

pairing: volleyball captain!bangchan x reader (univeristy au) content: ~2.9k, fluff all the way

you noticed chan was fidgeting.

not leg bouncing or full-on pacing, but in the quiet way he only got when something was really on his mind. his fork kept spinning slightly in his fingers, twisting over and over without lifting a bite. the food in his container remained untouched, the chicken breast neatly sectioned off like he was waiting for someone to give him permission to eat it.

you shifted beside him on the stone bench, still chewing the last bite of your sandwich, pen poised over your notebook. you’d been working on flashcards between bites, not wasting a little minute to prepare for finals.

“you’re awfully quiet, channie,” you said, nudging your knee against his without looking up at him.

chan blinked like you’d pulled him out of deep water. “huh?”

you lifted your head, squinting a little. “you usually finish your broccoli in like two seconds,” 

he gave a short laugh—but it didn’t reach his eyes. “just not that hungry.”

which was a lie. bang chan was always hungry. protein, carbs, clean greens. like clockwork. you’d watched him inhale meals twice this size after practice, so the fact he hadn’t even stabbed a single broccoli floret was… off.

you leaned back a little, brows drawing together. “you have a game today.”

chan didn’t answer right away. he just let his fork clink softly against the edge of the container, eyes flicking down to his food like maybe if he stared long enough, it’d disappear and take the conversation with it.

“mm,” he hummed, noncommittal.

you frowned. “and you’re not eating?”

“i will,” he said. “just—slow start.”

you set your pen down slowly, letting it roll to a stop on the edge of your notebook before reaching over to place your hand gently on his. his fingers were warm—always a little calloused from weight training.

“chan,” you said, voice softer now. “i’ve got that lit review seminar tonight, remember? the one where we’re presenting in front of that guest prof from oxford?”

that got his attention—his eyes flicked up to yours, a tiny spark of recognition lighting behind the tired haze.

“right,” he said. “the scary british guy.”

you laughed, thumb brushing over the back of his hand. “exactly. he’s terrifying. like, i’m ninety percent sure he eats undergrads for breakfast.”

that earned you the smallest smile. barely there, but present. the kind that tugged one corner of his mouth up like he didn’t mean to but couldn’t help it.

“the point is,” you added, nudging his hand gently. “you’ve got your game. i’ve got my stress-induced academic torture session. we’re both gonna survive. and you know why?”

chan raised a brow, biting back a grin. “why?”

you held your sandwich up like a toast. “because we eat our damn broccoli.”

he huffed a quiet laugh, then finally, finally, stabbed a piece of broccoli and popped it into his mouth.

“happy?” he said around a chew.

“ecstatic,” you replied, leaning back and watching the tension in his shoulders begin to ease—just a little.

you gave him a knowing look before you turned back to your notebook and picked up your pen.

by the time you were halfway through, he’d already cleared most of his container. chicken, rice, broccoli—all gone.

you looked up just as he speared the last piece.

“told you,” you murmured.

he rolled his eyes, but his smile—his real smile—was finally there. “yeah, yeah. you win.”

you watched him chew the last bite, container now empty, and smiled softly to yourself before murmuring.

“i wish i could be there to see you tonight.”

chan’s gaze flicked up, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. just looked at you like he was trying to decide whether to downplay it or be honest.

then he set his fork down, leaned his forearms on the table, and said quietly, “same. i always play better when you’re there.”

“but,” he added quickly, offering a crooked little smile like he didn’t want to make you feel guilty, “i get it. you’ve got your own big night to win.”

you let out a quiet laugh, as he reached across the table, curling his fingers lightly around your wrist. 

“i’m still gonna give it everything,” he said. “i shouldn’t need to have you there to play well,”

your eyes flicked down to where his thumb brushed gently across your skin.

“but if we win tonight,” he said after a pause, voice a little lighter now, “we go to nationals.”

you nodded, already knowing that—but the way he said it made your chest flutter anyway. like he was letting himself believe it for the first time that day.

“and,” he continued, drawing little circles against your wrist with his thumb, “your exams would be done by then.”

you raised an eyebrow, catching the shift in his tone. “are you trying to pitch this to me like a vacation, captain?”

“i’m just saying,” he shrugged, but the glint in his eyes gave him away, “big city, fancy courts. you and me.”

you rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed. “you’re impossible.”

“and you,” he said, giving your hand one last squeeze before standing and tossing his empty container into his bag, “are gonna look amazing in the stands.”

you bit back a smile as he slung his bag over his shoulder. you stood too, brushing your lap and slipping your notebook into your tote.

“i’ll go,” you said casually.

“yeah?”

you nodded, stepping closer to adjust the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “yeah. just don’t lose tonight.”

he grinned, eyes shining now. “no pressure, right?”

“no pressure.” you leaned in. “good luck, captain.”

he reached out and rested his hand on your arm, his thumb brushing lightly against your sleeve. then, without a word, he leaned down and kissed you—slow and soft, like it was the only thing in the world he had time for.

when he pulled back, his voice was quieter. “love you. i’ll text you, later.”

“love you too,” you whispered back, smiling.

he took a step back, walking slowly in reverse for a few paces before turning toward the direction of the gym. and then he was gone—off to meet his team, off to win the game. off to prove that even without you in the crowd, he’d still light up the court.

and maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as busy tonight as you thought.

about an hour later, just as you were finishing up some notes in your dorm, your phone buzzed with an email notification.

you opened it without much thought—probably another reminder about quiet hours or a schedule update. but the subject line made your eyebrows shoot up.

[important] lit review seminar – change in plans

your professor had written a short, vaguely panicked message. apparently, the oxford guest professor had run into “unforeseen travel complications” and would not be able to attend the seminar after all. the seminar would be rescheduled, likely to the end of this week.

the email ended with an apology for the short notice and a very uncharacteristic “thank you for your flexibility” tacked on at the end.

you stared at the screen for a second.

unforeseen travel complications? issues?

you suddenly had no reason to stay. no reason to miss the game. no reason not to be there. your heart skipped. and just like that, you were already halfway to the exit.

your first instinct was to text chan. your fingers even hovered over the keyboard for a second, your thumbs itching to type something, anything, just to see the way he’d text back with that flurry of exclamation points.

but then you stopped.

your eyes flicked to the time. if you left right now, you could make it onto the first set. you could slide into the bleachers and wait until his eyes scanned the crowd like they always did—hopeful, then resigned, then…

surprised.

you smiled to yourself as you shoved your notebook into your tote and threw your jacket over your shoulder.

he didn’t need you there to play well. he said so himself.

no text. no heads up.

you were going to surprise him.

your heart was already racing as you sped across the quad, dodging clusters of students. the sun had dipped low enough to cast long shadows on the pavement, and the cool air hit your skin like a jolt of adrenaline.

you barely noticed.

because every step you took brought you closer to the gym—and closer to the moment you’d get to see the look on his face. that flicker of disbelief, followed by that smile and those dimples. 

the closer you got, the more the familiar sounds of the court echoed through the building: sneakers squeaking, balls thudding, coaches shouting instructions. it was warm inside the gym, the lights bright and humming, the energy electric.

you slid into the back entrance, weaving through the edge of the bleachers. you scanned the crowd, eyes wide.

you’d never seen this many people packed into the gym before—students, faculty, even people you didn’t recognize, probably from the rival school. you climbed the side of the bleachers slowly, keeping your head low until you spotted an open seat near the middle on chan’s side of the court.

you sat, heart thumping hard as you set your bag down and finally looked toward the court.

and there he was.

chan, standing just past the attack line, hands on his knees, sweat clinging to the back of his neck and jaw locked tight. his brows were furrowed in that way they got when he was trying not to let something get to him. his tongue was poking at the inside of his cheek, jaw ticking—a dead giveaway.

he only did that when he was frustrated.

you followed his gaze to the scoreboard.

13–14. 

it was so close. 

you watched as chan straightened up, chest rising and falling beneath his jersey, then clapped his hands once, loud and sharp. his teammates immediately turned toward him—reflexive, instinctual. even from this distance, you could see it in the way they responded. 

chan stepped into the huddle, gesturing subtly, pointing out something across the net. you couldn’t make out what he said but you saw the middle blocker nod, eyebrows lifting.

the huddle broke.

they scattered into their rotation, and chan drifted to the back of the court for the next serve. he was scanning the court, eyes sharp, reading the other team’s positions.

and then—he looked up.

just for a second. just a glance toward the crowd like he always did between plays, out of habit.

that’s when he saw you.

his feet stuttered mid-step, just slightly. barely noticeable to anyone but you. his eyes locked on yours, wide at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating—if the pressure, the lights, the crowd were playing tricks on him.

his entire expression softened. those furrowed brows loosened. his mouth curved, slow and real, into that smile—the one that stretched all the way to his eyes, pulling out those dimples that only showed when he wasn’t thinking about them.

you leaned forward just slightly, heart hammering in your chest, and mouthed: hi, captain.

he squinted, head tilting a little like he couldn’t believe it, then huffed out the smallest, breathiest laugh. confused—but in the best way. his eyes crinkled at the corners as he shook his head, a little dazed. he brushed it off with a chuckle, rolled his shoulders back, and turned toward the end line.

you knew his pre-serve routine by heart. you’d seen it a dozen times, maybe more. chan stepped to the end line, toes just brushing the edge. he bounced the ball twice with both hands. spun it once in his palm. transferred it to his left hand.

he inhaled. toss. jump. crack.

the sound of his palm meeting ball echoed like a gunshot.

the serve rocketed across the court, low and fast. the other team’s libero dove too late, the ball skimming clean past his shoulder before crashing to the floor with a resounding thud.

your side of the bleachers erupted. students stood, cheering, stomping on the steps. hands clapped. chan nodded in approval of himself, as the opposing team fumbled back into position. the ball was already being tossed back to him.

chan caught the ball with one hand, smooth and humble, as if he hadn’t just turned the entire momentum of the game on its head.

he stepped back to the line again, did his routine before glancing toward the net.

and another snap of sound as the serve sailed across.

from there, everything clicked.

his teammates moved with a new kind of energy, like his confidence had poured straight into them. his sets were sharp and decisive. he called plays clearly, his voice rising above the chaos. every block was tighter, every dig cleaner.

you couldn’t look away.

you watched the way he shouted encouragement across the court after a long rally, the way he clapped backs and held eye contact and nodded at the outside hitter after a solid kill, mouthing: exactly that.

before you knew it, it was match point.

24–21.

the rally was long. nerve-wracking. the kind that built so much tension it nearly broke the crowd. but when the final spike soared across the net and slammed into the court on the opposing side untouched—

the whistle blew.

the scoreboard flashed. 25–21. set and match.

the gym erupted again.

the bench cleared. players rushed the court. someone behind you screamed so loud your ears rang.

chan didn’t even flinch when the crowd exploded around him. his body jolted from the impact of his teammates slamming into him—arms wrapping around his shoulders, hands clapping his back, someone ruffling his hair—but he was already grinning, teeth and all, sweat-slick and wide-eyed.

he hugged the libero, said something into his ear that made the guy nod and laugh. every player on that court got a word, a nod, a "you did that." because chan didn’t hoard the spotlight. he never had. he shined by reflecting the light back onto everyone else.

and he was only just getting started.

the next set? they didn’t just win it. they owned it.

their defense kept the other team on their toes, and their offense flowed like they'd been born to play together. 

the final score of the second set read 25–17.

two sets. one win. nationals.

the second the whistle blew, the court turned into chaos. players shouting, laughing, piling onto each other like dominoes in knee pads. fans in the stands threw up signs, jerseys, even someone’s notebook went flying.

the coach was beaming, actually beaming, wiping his face with a towel while trying to high-five his whole team at once.

chan stood near center court, sweat glistening at his temples, curls damp and sticking to his forehead. his jersey clung to him, the “bang” on his back slightly crooked from how many times he’d been grabbed and hugged and nearly tackled by his teammates. he laughed at something the setter said, head tilting back just enough for you to catch a flash of his dimple.

you pulled out your phone without thinking and snapped a picture—then another. you weren’t even sure what you’d do with them, but he looked so in his element like this. 

across the court, the two teams began to line up—hands extended, brief smiles exchanged, a few lingering shoulder pats between familiar rivals. chan bowed slightly to their captain, said something respectful that made the other guy nod and grin despite the loss.

and then, just like that, the game was done.

he turned again, glancing toward the stands—and you moved.

you rushed through the row of seats, muttering quick apologies as you sidestepped knees and people trying to take selfies. your shoes thudded down the bleacher steps faster than you meant them to, phone still clutched in one hand, heart hammering.

“y/n!”

chan’s voice cut through the noise.

you looked up—and he was already moving. dodging teammates, brushing past sideline bags, crossing the court like he didn’t even feel the ache in his legs anymore.

and then he was in front of you.

you didn’t even get a full “hi” out before his arms wrapped around your waist and lifted you clean off the floor, spinning you once—twice—your laugh catching somewhere between surprise and pure joy.

your phone nearly flew out of your hand.

“you came,” he said breathlessly, setting you back down but not letting go. his face was flushed, chest heaving, but his eyes were so full of light it nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

“i couldn’t miss it,” you grinned, your hands pressed flat against the damp fabric of his back. “oxford guy flaked. something about travel issues.”

chan blinked, then let out a disbelieving laugh, forehead falling to your shoulder. “of course he did.”

you just smiled and squeezed him tighter.

“you were amazing,” you whispered.

and just like that, he melted.

you’d seen him like this before—quiet and warm, all that focused intensity slipping away until only your chan was left. the one who blushed when you kissed his cheek and got embarrassed when you called him handsome in public.

but for everyone else, this was a rare sight.

his teammates stole glances in your direction. you didn’t have to hear them to know what they were thinking. their captain—the unshakable, composed, untouchable bang chan—was standing in the middle of the gym like a smitten puppy. talking to you like the world had shrunk down to your eyes and your voice.

but chan didn’t care.

he kept looking at you like he was trying to memorize your face, like he couldn’t believe you were really standing there in front of him. his thumb brushed your side absently. his forehead leaned just a little closer.

“thanks for coming,” he said again, quieter now. “it meant everything.”

you smiled. “i’ll always show up for you.”

“next time you show up,” he whispered, “it’ll be nationals.”

“i’ll be there then as well”

you felt your cheeks flush as you pulled back to meet his eyes, breath catching.

“i should let you go,” you said gently, though your body didn’t move. “you’ve got your team, your coach—probably going out to celebrate.”

chan blinked, like he’d forgotten other people existed. “right. yeah. probably.”

his hands stayed on your waist, reluctant, like letting go would make you disappear again.

you gave him a playful look. “i’ll see you later, yeah?”

“yeah,” he said. “see you later.”

his hands gave your sides one last squeeze, like a quiet promise, and then finally—finally—he let you go.

you stepped back, your fingers trailing along his arm as you did, reluctant to break the touch entirely. he watched you every step, his smile lingering like it had nowhere better to be.

and just before you turned to head back up the stands, you looked over your shoulder and whispered,:

“proud of you, captain.”

chan’s smile deepened—dimples and all.

“i love you”

and that was more than enough.

[stellamarielu]

I know we all know how good Declan is in bed. How he caters to his partner’s needs first - how confident he is about it.

But I feel like his first time post Maude would be different. His confidence knocked down a bit. Idk. But just a possible fix/drabble thot 😬

THIS!!

I received a similar request about a month ago and I started writing a fic for it and never finished. [whomp whomp] so anon from december who asked for fluffy declan realizing sex can be about more than just pleasuring his partner, please take this little drabble as my formal apology.

he would be nervous and a little intimidated the first time he had you naked in his bed. he was doing everything in his power to remain composed and in control all evening, but now with you all spread out on his sheets, he felt tense and a little unsure of himself. christ-sake, he had been with the same woman for over twenty years, not to mention that woman had an affair. declan often wondered if it was more than just his work habits that caused his wife to stray from their marriage bed. he was so sure that she was always satisfied seeing as though every sexual encounter started with him between her legs, but now he was in his head wondering if maybe he wasn't as good as he thought he was. what if he wasn't good enough for you. fuck- what if he can't get you off? what if you think he's bad in bed? what if he does something you don't like? what if he doesn't compare to the other- much younger men you've slept with?

he couldn’t seem to stop the thoughts tumbling around in his brain. it must’ve been apparent because you sat up in front of him placing a gentle hand on his chest only to be met with the alarming rush of his heartbeat.

“is everything okay?”

“yeah, yeah.” he’s nodding and you’re not sure if he’s trying to convince you or himself that everything is fine.

“it’s just- i’m feeling a little nervous.” his voice is quiet underneath his breath.

you’ve never heard him sound so shy, it made you want to wrap him in a reassuring hug. the two of you were fully undressed in his bedroom, the situation already vulnerable enough without his worried confession.

“i’m not really used to this.” he’s motioning between the two of you.

“you know, sleeping with someone who isn’t my wife.” as soon as the words leave his mouth he wants to kick himself. what a way to start out– talking about his wife, or ex-wife, or whatever she was to him now.

“it must be strange.” your reply is soft, but still drawing him from his thoughts.

you don’t want him to be anxious, there was nothing to worry about. not with you.

so you take it upon yourself to spur his confidence.

“you know, i think about this a lot declan?”

“i daydream about what it would be like to be touched by you.”

the hand that's resting on his chest begins to brush over tufts of chest hair as it moves slowly, exploring his skin.

"what it would be like to touch you."

your voice is clear and clean but the words coming out of your mouth are so dirty. you have declan's complete attention now, his eyes are trained on you and his heart is still racing underneath your fingertips, only this time for an entirely different reason.

"but we don't have to-" you can't even finish your sentence before you're being interrupted.

"I want to." declan is rushing out his words of consent, his eyes searching yours.

"Good." your voice drops to something far more sultry as you sit up on your knees, using the hand at declan's chest to usher him backwards until he's the one laying on the sheets.

"Maybe I can help you relax a little bit."

you're kissing his neck, each groan that leaves his mouth cheering you on further as your lips descend down his body.

[megapteraurelia]

hiii just saw your post about needing distraction and if i can help you even a little bit then i’d be happy to!! so id like a drabble with akaashi, f!reader or gn!reader, fluff, at uni?? if that’s fine?? have a lovely day <33

ZEUGMAS AND FEELINGS.

🫧 SUMMARY; — akaashi keiji and you found each other while trying to survive deadlines. or: how to not get anything done because akaashi keiji is just so damn pretty.

🫧 WARNINGS; — meet-cute and fluff; fem!reader

🫧 WORD COUNT; — 4449.

🫧 AUTHOR'S NOTE; — elie, i love you, you precious!!! thank you for this and i'm sorry that i didn't keep to the idea of a drabble. for the life of me, i could NOT pass up writing several moments of akaashi so there's 4.5k words full of them instead T_T i hope i made it justice, though :3

please let me know what you think! -` ♡ ´-

the library was silent on sunday; eerie yet comforting in a way. 

the sun had long since set, the last of the rays that came through the windows bathing everything in a light that felt more nostalgic than it actually was before it dipped everything outside in a dark cloak. among the typing sounds on different kinds of laptops, their engines more than ready to take off after being used for so long, there was only the ticking of the clock, sometimes a soft clearing of throats or the gentle clink of a thermo cup being set down.

looking up from the mock exam you were taking for your cultural studies class, flexing your cramped fingers and rolling your shoulders, your eyes found the only other person sharing your space that late. you didn’t mean to look over at him lest you made anybody feel awkward, but in an entire picture of stillness before you, the movement drew your eyes naturally.

his fingers were swift, flying over the keyboard, gaze trained at his screen, trusting his hands to instinctively and automatically follow the letters. you couldn’t see his eyes properly, though, the glare of the laptop reflecting off his glasses. though you could see the little furrow of concentration in his brows, his teeth worrying his lower lip as he halted for a second, thinking. then nodding to himself, they resumed their display of a gear having turned in his brain. 

your eyes wandered away from him to your own screen, the words staring at you, and you wondered once again whether you should have chosen a different topic to cover in this assignment. would american history work better? did you have enough characteristics to explain the relevance in the corresponding text? or did you perhaps want to stay focusing on orientalism? 

after all, american history was your current topic discussed in class, its myths and ideologies, transformation of gender roles, the age of realism and science. it would be easier to just focus on any of those: the harlem renaissance, counterculture and postmodernism, the gilded age— 

you rubbed your eyes, and a sigh escaped your mouth, strong and carrying a lot of exhaustion; your lungs pushed the air out forcefully. you were too far in to scrap everything and start anew with a whole nother topic, so there was only one plausible and logical conclusion to draw:

get more coffee and force your brain cells to work.

standing up from your spot, senses tuned into the stillness of the library, you noticed something. or lack thereof. no typing noise anymore that had accompanied you for hours on end; the seat in front of the man’s laptop empty, his notebooks still open on the table, though no cup on the empty coaster. 

as you walked by with your empty mug and passed the little area that his pens and his dispersed papers claimed as his for the time being, you let your eyes flit over his screen. walls of paragraphs comparing two different works of literature on one half of his desktop, another document open with several similarities and differences listed on the other half. 

“japanese lit, huh?” you mumbled to yourself, tired eyes straying away from his possessions and your feet automatically carried you to the coffee machine at the entrance of the library that the students of various classes had invested in to aid them during their emotional breakdowns…uh, quest to finish their essays and assignments in time. 

zoning out, gripping your mug in one hand, you barely recognised the familiar movement of a person occupying the space in front of you out of the periphery of your eyes as you neared the coffee machine, so you only came back to reality when your nose was suddenly squished against a warm barrier that smelled like cappuccino and old books. 

“easy,” a deeper voice than yours called out close to your head, one hand having already come up to steady you when you lost your balance. his hand was warm against your back, the heat seeping through the layers of your woolen turtleneck, and for a second you both occupied the same space, the only sound the ticking of the clock.

“oh, sorry,” your response was automatic, sheepish and you stepped back, “i probably saw you but my brain didn’t work quick enough to actually see you.”

your gaze found the missing person whose laptop you snooped through (did it count as snooping if you only quickly looked at the screen enough to see what he was working on? you didn’t even touch anything, promise), and this time you could see his eyes, unhindered by any light reflection. 

pretty, you thought off-handedly, really pretty eyes.

“no stress,” one shoulder heaved up, and when his fingers stopped supporting you once he saw you didn’t need his help anymore, your back felt weirdly cool. it was nice having felt the heat of his arm around your body in the absence of any human contact in the face of studying. 

he filled water into the reservoir of the coffee machine, a cup of beans already measured from before you walked into him. you cleared your throat and nodded in thanks; he bowed his head quickly, waving off your thank you, his hand nudging up his glasses perched on his nose when they threatened to slide down. 

they were a bit big, but the earnest look of the dark blue eyes accompanying them made them all the more alluring; like they caged a ton of unsaid thoughts behind them, like there was so much those eyes wanted to tell but they had to get through the barrier of the glasses first. 

a transparent mask to hide behind.

“sooo, how’s the coffee?” you asked to fill the silence when your eyes met again, looking away just as quickly, because you hadn’t expected that his sharp pupils found you the same way your eyes found his. stupid question, to be honest, when the coffee machine whirred in answer, and there was a slight smile playing on his lips.

“i don’t know yet,” he held up his opened thermos cup to show you the lack of liquid that he could not judge on yet, and your cheeks flared up at the obvious demonstration, mumbling quietly to yourself, thinking that the coffee machine was too loud for him to understand: “sorry, that was…an incredibly stupid question.”

“you’re okay,” his quiet and steady voice came back to meet your ears, held back amusement lingering in the folds of his tenor. he heard you just fine, “though probably just like bitter water.”

leaning back against the wall, he joined you in waiting, and then there was comfortable silence between you both. he was close enough to feel the air warm up, close that if you glanced up again, you could see his lashes brush his cheek as he closed his eyes for a quick reprieve, the curls of his hair, messy and falling over his ears, his lips sitting together calmly, sometimes twisting when he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

you looked away again, to the coffee machine that went from grinding the coffee beans to finally pouring the hot water through it and dripping into the pot. you thought you recognised him from somewhere, this boy with the gentle, kind eyes and the charming glasses. you couldn’t help but steal another glance at him, trying to gauge where from, whether you had met him on campus before.

“i can feel you staring.”

whirling your head away from his still closed eyes and the fingers messing with his hair, you felt embarrassment brewing within your chest alongside the coffee in front of you. stupid, stupid.

“sorry.”

“don’t be. i don’t mind,” he said, still the same reserved amusement hiding behind his words, and then he did open his eyes to turn to you, and you returned the favour of looking over him again. your gazes met for a split second, dead-on, before they parted again to look at other features, “you’re in professor yoshida’s class, right?”

“right! that’s where  i know you from,” recognition finally bloomed, and you tested out the name that was continuously popping up in your mind during the short wait, wondering whether it was him, “akaashi keiji, right? you looked familiar.”

akaashi opened his mouth to respond, but halted for a split second; his cheeks and ears using this one moment to turn into a soft pink. when he caught himself and talked, you had an inkling that he meant to say something completely different: “yeah, exactly. what are you working on?”

“cultural studies. incredibly boring.”

“japanese lit,” he nodded in sympathy, then moved to pour coffee into both of your cups. you wanted to thank him, take the cup yourself and move, but he beat you to it. reflexes sharp and swift movement, he maneuvered around you easily to carry both of your coffee mugs back to the table you both shared. 

“thank you,” you said at last, seated away from him at your own laptop with the steaming cup warming your hands, the same old words on the screen staring back at you, and he responded in likes; his voice comfortable and easy, deep and as warm as the drink in your hand, “of course.”

both of you continued working, though amongst the clicking of keyboard keys and the silent breathing were the little glances both of you threw at the other now that there was some common ground found. when you got stuck with how to phrase a certain sentence, chin supported on your hand, your eyes wandered to him out of their own volition and instinctually, and you watched him focus on his work. 

the way his teeth would not stay still, constantly picking on his lips, his fingers rubbing his chin when he thought; the light warming up his face and making it seem like his hair was draped over him like a dark curtain. 

then you’d attend to your work again, and it was akaashi’s turn to let his eyes and mind wander over to you to watch you get stuck with another paragraph, biting your nail while the other hand was tapping on the keys lightly without pressing too hard, eyes intently focused on the words. 

you had an intense look in your eyes, and everytime, there were little butterflies erupting behind his ribcage when he felt you dedicate it to him.

those moments in between, when both of your eyes passed the others, belonged to nobody but the empty library. moments, in which you allowed yourselves to bask in the heat of fading instances, of arcane glances, interrupted by little sighs here and there or random occurrences, in which you both just couldn’t help but talk to each other:

“i’m jealous of your concentration,” you groaned at some point, allowing your forehead to thump onto your arm to bury your face away from the screen and its cruel, glaring light, “you look like you’re about to solve all the problems in this world.”

akaashi had stilled in his work, startled, eyes glancing up over the rim of his glasses up to you, and his teeth finally let go of his poor, swollen lower lip; mouth curling into a small embarrassed smile, “not quite. but i may be able to help you with yours, if that’s a start.”

you laughed at yourself for the strange thump your heart produced, hand waving him off, “sweet of you, but i just need some of that laser focus you’ve got.”

“sending you some.”

pretending to catch the energy he threw your way, you perked up in your seat and flashed him a grin, “you’re a lifesaver.”

“oh fu— shit.”

he was already beside you with napkins, big hands dabbing up the spilled lukewarm coffee as you worked to put away your electronics and books lest they’d get ruined by the deep brown liquid. he was close, leaning over you, hands working fast and precise, feeling his chest bump against your shoulders ever so slightly. your body warmed up at the contact, and you had to try not to lose your mind over that.

“ugh, i swear this is not my usual.”

“i’ll believe you when i see you prove the opposite to me,” he said quietly, a certain openness in his voice, a silent offer to spend many more moments together like this. 

you looked up at him, a smile stealing itself on your lips, “i suppose if you’re asking to be humiliated and be proven wrong, then i won’t say no.”

the skin underneath akaashi’s glasses had warmed up, and as he went back to his seat, he had stuttered back, “that’s— i didn’t— nobody said anything about humiliation! also, you’re the one who barely escaped electronic and academic death. gotta tone down the murderous intent a little.”

“never. every essay is my arch-nemesis, so they got what was coming for them.”

akaashi had shook his head, and laughed quietly to himself; the sound as honeyed as your favourite dessert. 

when he returned from his bathroom break later on, he brought you back a new cup of coffee, anyway, despite his fear of you murdering your hard effort of having added only three extra paragraphs to your text in all the time (you were a little busy staring at akaashi keiji’s pretty eyes; nobody was allowed to judge your slow pace).

you fell back with a big oohmpf and a yelp. 

dazed, you looked up at the ceiling, the low warm light of the library in the midst of the dark outside looking enticing enough to fall asleep right there. you stayed on the ground for a second, most of your fall cushioned by the chair, though your butt still throbbed with the impact. 

“hey,” a couple steps resonated before a messy head of curls peeked over you, one hand holding the glasses in place, while the other was reaching towards you to help you up, “you alright?”

“y-yeah,” you sat up, shaking your head a bit to clear it from the zoning out you were doing before gravity decided to take you down, “i suppose that’s why teachers always say not to rock your chair back and forth.”

suppressed laughter, mild concern, and a warm hand engulfing you, “what a delinquent. i bet the teachers loved you.”

“hey! what’s that supposed to mean? they loved me! incredibly so!”

“okay. i think i need help.”

“of course, what do you need?”

“do you understand what i’m trying to convey when i phrase it like that? ugh, i’m scared it’s too convoluted.”

“give me a second,” he finished up his sentence, then came over, “let me see.”

his chest pressed against the back of your (now upright) chair as he leaned over you to read your run-on sentence was distracting you. he wasn’t touching you per se, but the placement of his hands on the arms of the chair could cage you in, make you feel like he was embracing you from behind, so much taller than you. the warmth emitting from behind you made you want to fall asleep and let your head land in the crook of his neck.

he was breathing softly, the air caressing your hair, and when he reached out to point at your words, your eyes followed the red knuckles, his clean nails and the size of his hands. 

“you mean that the west created orientalism as a cultural and intellectual framework, right?” — a quick nod of yours — “alright, then i think if you cut this in two sentences, for one to showcase the interpretation of the east and then dive deeper into the colonisation in the next sentence — that would make it more understandable. say, am i making you nervous?”

blinking, “w—what? where did that come from?”

he leaned down slightly, face hovering next to yours, his voice slightly raw and close to your earshell, “don’t forget to breathe. also, you have a typo — row three, the fourteenth word.”

“evil,” your breathing was clipped from the insinuation that he may have had an effect on you, heart pumping blood through your body like crazy as if it was held at gunpoint, “i bet the teachers really disliked you.”

despite that, you brought him a cup of coffee when you returned from your bathroom break, too.

“you alright, akaashi?” you asked.

akaashi keiji looked up, his hand rubbing his neck, kneading the knots out of his tense shoulders. his eyes, until just short of when you called him, had been glazing over, a little bit of a vacant look entering the blue of his eyes, but when you called his name, he had snapped out of it, and his features relaxed slightly, away from his troublesome thoughts. his dark brows furrowed deeply above his eyes.

“yeah, just thinking about all the deadlines coming up. it’s…” he sighed, allowing his shoulders to sink, and he leaned back in the uncomfortable library chairs; another big sigh escaping him, “...a lot.”

“yeah,” you agreed and stood up, walking over to him. his surprised gaze followed you, and when you stood right next to him with his head tilted back, the wavy strands of hair following gravity, looking up at you with those eyes, you felt a tug in your chest that told you to kiss him. you didn’t. 

instead, you nodded to the window, “let’s take a walk and a breather,” and then, because you couldn’t help yourself, “a zeugma. get it, mr. japanese literature?”

his shoulders stayed relaxed, and he laughed again; a brilliant smile on his lips and you thought of how you wanted to kiss him even more. his eyes felt lighter, too, when he pushed back his chair and stood up, body entirely too close for what probably should have been appropriate for two students who had only properly met today for the first time. or was it already the next day?

but neither of you moved for a second, drinking in the presence of each other, before he grabbed his jacket off his backrest, “i think you can do better.”

“well, i think it was pretty good.”

akaashi shrugged, a teasing glint in his eyes, competing with the sparkle of the glasses when he turned and the light hit him just right, “and i think i have you beat there.”

you grumbled but caught up to him nonetheless.

it was cold outside. 

the kind that slithered through between the folds of your clothing to nestle deep in the crevices of your soul. the kind that had you shuddering and sending remnants of cannons into the air with every breath, the moisture immediately misting up. 

akaashi keiji was walking next to you, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, though his exhales were shaky too, chest trembling with compressed and suppressed shivers. you were already as close to him for warmth as possible without being weird or too straight-forward, though you wish you could just cling to his arm — it was that icy.

“i feel like i can’t even think,” you mumbled, already feeling your lips starting to numb, the tip of your nose burning. 

“me neither, but maybe that’s a good thing,” he breathed out, the warm air blowing past your temple, and his cheeks were so pink, it was cute, “sometimes it’s all too stressful, and i wish i could turn off my brain.”

“does that happen a lot?” 

you referred to the way his face looked like there was a headache incoming, how his fingers froze and his shoulders locked in; the way he seemed to absolutely crumble under the prospect of the things he needed to do and that awaited him. 

akaashi had an embarrassed smile on his face, shoulders drawn up for some warmth, the fuzziness of his jacket’s hood surrounding his reddening cheeks, “sometimes. there’s a lot of expectations riding on passing my classes. not just passing them, but passing them well.”

“by whom?” you leaned forward; curious eyes trying to catch his, “expectations set by the profs or by yourself?”

he stared at you, and his lips were slightly open; with every exhale, condensation snaked up the air like smoke, dissolving in the cold atmosphere all around you, though the air between you was slightly warm. his eyes looked kind and vulnerable for a second, “what a callout. guess i can’t even pretend that it’s not me, huh? you caught me.”

“not yet, i didn’t,” you dared say, and he stopped walking, even though it was colder to stay still than to move. you stopped, too. a snowflake floated between you, landing on his pink nose, melting at the warmth. 

the entire evening long — ever since you had bumped into him making coffee and you both went from studying alone to studying together, little jokes and jibes passing between you, curiosity and interest swapping between you with every glance, solitary and shared, you felt there was maybe a chance for something more. not necessarily all the way if it didn’t work out, but more to explore, more of him and you to meet.

“what does that mean, miss cultural studies?”

you blinked up at him, “i don’t know, mr. japanese literature. you’re the one who reads between the lines of books and analyses everything.”

“i’m not that far into my course,” he told you, seriously, and for a second you almost believed him, but then his eyes crinkled as he hid his smile behind the fluff of his jacket, and you pulled out one of your hands from the pockets of your coat to lightly pull his ear, not enough to cause pain but enough to chide him.

“you liar,” you said with no malice, voice soft and as your hand trailed down to hide your fingers in warmth again, his hand, fast as ever, pulled out of his own jacket, grabbed yours and stuffed both your hands in his pocket instead. 

incredibly warm, fingers locked between each other, soft skin kissing yours, “let’s go, it’s too cold.”

sometime around 2 am in the morning, you decided that you were going to fall asleep right then and there. sadly, coffee barely had an effect on your body anymore after having put your body through caffeine abuse for so long. 

during the hours of studying together, one of you moved closer to the other, so both of your books and notes were strewn together, sharing a space. his thermos cup stood next to a bunch of other cups both of you had drunk out of, because you kept forgetting to take the mug you were using with you and were forced to bring new ones. 

scrutinising a well-read book in the dim light, you ask, “is this mine?”

“unless you want to take home a copy of the setting sun with you and dissect the theme of youth in crisis, then i’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“ugh, i can’t even read anything anymore,” a beat of sly silence, “or you know, maybe i do want to. then i’ll have an excuse to see you again.”

“or,” akaashi butted in and gently offered you his phone, his smile straightforward yet a shy edge sweetening it up, “you can give me your number and we’ll meet up for another study session when you’re available. how’s that sound?”

in lieu of an answer, you saved your contact in his phone; your fingers caressing his under pretense of giving it back to him, and his movement was delayed, allowing the contact between you two to linger for a moment more.

“i’ll walk you back.”

“it’s not that far, so you don’t have to. it’s cold, too.”

akaashi sent you a look that very much told you he did not care how cold it was, there was no way he would let you walk alone at night. and when he did, your hands were buried in his pocket again. 

the world was quiet and still, as if you were caught up in another plane of existence for the past hours. a limbo of sleepy nature, perpetually falling snowflakes, the constant of the warmth akaashi offered, the bumping of arms as you walked in silence, subtly pulling him either to the left or the right when you needed to change the path.

“when is your assignment due?” you asked, lips barely moving from the cold, so you had to hiss out the words, barely understandable.

“four days ‘til friday. yours?”

“monday.”

another shaky exhale, the tremble evident in your shoulders, and you opted to walk a bit faster, even though you didn’t want to part with him yet. but cold was cold, and you would like to keep your toes still alive and kicking. so, it was no wonder that you arrived at your dormitory relatively fast, though even then, both of you stood in front of the entrance, not ready to say goodbye yet, not ready to leave the world of the dead and wake up the next day to greet the same usual bullshit. 

“meet me tomorrow,” he said with blue lips and red cheeks.

“okay,” you responded, heart fluttering when he didn’t let go of your hand. instead he took a step back and you were forced to follow, because you didn’t let go of his hand, either.

one step, another, a third one, then the tentative meeting of cold mouths. his breath was warm, his tongue warmer, and gradually your lips returned to their soft, mellow state. kissing him felt gentle, it felt safe and it felt like you could sink into him, like awaiting and catching you was a giant cloud that kept you floating up.

he kissed like he was a romantic. like he lived and breathed words meant for you, with the dedication and attention to detail only a writer or an artist could have, every stroke, every painted image on paper. he kissed like he had known you for a long time and intended to know you for even longer.

when you both parted, your lashes were brushing the rim of his glasses and your nose caressing his cheek, lips only inches away so it was only natural to kiss him again. 

“see you,” he let go of your hand at last.

later, an unknown number texted you, and you thought yourself corny, but you couldn’t help the smile that overtook your features at the cheesy line akaashi keiji thought he had you beat with:

from: +81 3 1762-3468 i left my other book and also my heart with you

and then:

from: +81 3 1762-3468 i really do need the book though, bring it tomorrow please :( goodnight x

[cheollipop]

HIII :D

Can you write a little drabble about dom Yunho and fem reader ignoring eachother after an argument and so y/n comes up with a plan to tease Yunho while he’s busy ignoring her and playing video games and then he ends up getting worked up and it then leads to rough sex 🙈 (sorry if this is too much lol)

2𝙠 𝙎𝙡𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙩

hi anonnie!! this... thisssssss egsjbks omg gamer bf!yunho AND mad!yunho?? yummy YUMMY- ahem, this was very fun to write, and i may have gone a bit overboard with it oopsie. also, been in a playful mood lately, so you get bratty!reader~ happy reading ^^

pairing: jeong yunho x fem!reader

w.c.: 1.6k

tags: smut, oral (m), make-up sex, lots of cum talk bc... teehee, yunho's kinda mad but turns soft, reader's a little brat ><

nsfw under cut—minors dni!

Eyes trained on the screen before him, spattered splotches of red masking his point of view as his player failed to block the incoming stream of bullets, his fingers stuttering over his keyboard as loud yelling blasted into Yunho’s ears, his friends’ voices contained within the worn-down cushions of his headset. His eyebrow twitched in annoyance, partly because of the insults being thrown his way as he struggled to aim his sniper, but mainly at his inability to recall how the argument he’d had with you a couple hours ago had even started. He wracked his brain for an answer, but all he came up with was the menacing smile stretching your lips when you walked into the room hours after he’d stormed off, opting to bully eleven-year-olds online with his friends, camping at their spawn point and watching them grow frustrated with his unfair tactics.

The situation flipped, though, once your smile disappeared underneath his desk, your body hidden under the polished wood, and Yunho nearly cursed at the missed view of your delicate hands undoing the strings of his sweatpants. He wasn’t mad at you, he could never be, even more so when you had your fingers wrapped around his cock, tongue drawing circles around his head and collected the occasional spurts of precum as he grew harder in your grasp. He shuffled in his seat, containing a groan before it could leave his lips when you took his length down your throat, your lips meeting the digits wrapped around his girth before pulling off for air. Yunho wasn’t sure how many games he’d lost so far, only that his friends were growing frustrated with his silence, but he didn’t dare speak, knowing his voice would give away the nature of the situation he was in.

Brushing off the blonde locks obscuring his vision, he attempted to return to his position at the enemy’s base, only for you to flatten your tongue along the underside of his cock while sliding him back into your mouth, waiting until the tip prodded at your uvula before swallowing around it. To his luck, the startled grunt drawn out of him aligned with his teams’ nth loss, and his friends returned to their endless berating.

You pulled off him again, resting your head high enough on his thigh to stare up at his flushed face over the edge of his desk—eyes glazed over and unfocused as they gazed back at you, his lips bitten raw and a pretty rose tinting his neck and the sliver of his chest peeking at you over his collar. Your hand remained on him to smear your saliva down his length, squeezing at his base and back up to twirl around his cockhead, all while watching his composure slowly breaking down and his impatience seep into his features. With hesitation, you moved your eyes off him and to the pretty, bright pink painting his angry tip while it leaked translucent liquid that mingled with your spit, leaning forward to lick a stripe over the throbbing vein decorating his shaft.

You heard deft fingers pressing over the keycaps followed by the loud clang of his headset hitting the wooden desk, his thighs retracting as he rolled his chair back, and his hands squeezed around your biceps to hold you up. Forcefully pulling you to your feet with him, the snarky remark died on your tongue as he pushed back onto the bed, a sudden exhale blowing out of your lungs when you landed under him.

“Had your fun?” the deep baritone sent a shiver down your spine. Looking up at him, you took in the sweat pilling on his forehead, and you unsuccessfully attempted to wiggle out of the grasp he had around your wrists.

You bent your knee enough to dig into his hanging cock, the corners of your mouth twisting upwards when he jerked back. “Seems like you did too.”

You saw his eyebrow twitch again before a firm hand grabbed at your jaw, his other hand working your bottoms down your legs, two fingers pushing between your walls before you could even think of a retort. But you simply giggled, amused by how worked up you’d managed to get Yunho. You pecked the palm covering your lips, breathing out airy moans as he repeatedly pressed his fingers into your g-spot. He scissored his fingers, watching hot arousal dripping out of your cunt to seep into his duvet, cursing under his breath while using it to lube himself up.

“Can’t believe you,” he mumbled after releasing your jaw, leaning down to press himself flush with your chest, hands on your hips while he sunk into you, a melody of grunts and moans bouncing off the walls as he ground into your pussy, making sure you took every last inch of him. “Fuuuck, so fucking tight for me, aren���t you? Even when you’re being a brat,” he pressed his lips to the smile stretching yours.

Your smile wavered, playfulness fading away as you held his face to gaze into his hooded eyes, “are you still mad?”

Your whisper halted his insistent grinding, sparing you from the delicious glide of his cockhead over your walls to press a kiss to your forehead, “I could never be mad at you, sweetheart. I’m sorry it seemed that way,” the hands holding your hips wrapped around you, one cradling the back of your head and the other on your lower spine, holding you so close you could hear his racing heartbeat.

You knew this didn’t solve the problem, and that you’d have to sit down and talk about it again soon, but Yunho’s hold—so warm and tender—set a veil of tranquillity over your moving bodies and erased any significance tied to your previous argument.

But Yunho was still desperate, brimming lust mingling with his desire to make love to you, his hold gentle and yet his hips were merciless. He slammed his cock into your cunt, breathy ah's blowing over the side of you neck while he drew out orgasm after orgasm from you, his length pulsating within your heat as pleasure seared through your bodies. Your thighs trembled around him, and your hips ached when he flipped you over, grabbing your ass to pull you back onto his cock while his other hand pushed your head down into the mattress, taking what he needed from you and revelling in the sweet moans he got in return.

Overstimulation mingled with pleasure, and you tuned out your surroundings save for the choked grunts Yunho blew against the shell of your ear, the flesh of your ass growing raw with his repetitive thrusts, the back of his thighs slapping roughly against your skin.

“gonna come,” he panted, “gonna fill you up all the way, yeah baby?”

You rambled incoherently into the sheets, the hand holding your head down tangling into your hair until dull pain shot through your scalp. Moaning a succession of “yes” and “please,” Yunho held you in place while he emptied thick ropes of his cum between your fluttering walls, doing just as he said he would: filling you up all the way, until the heat spread into your womb.

Yunho brushed the hair off your face to watch your pupils disappear, rutting his softening cock into you to push you further over the edge, aiding you down from your high with skilled rolls of his hips and kisses peppered over your skin, groaning at the tight squeeze of your cunt around him. When overstimulation jerked your body away from his grasp, you reached back with heavy limbs to push at his hips, sighing once his thick length slid out of you, and you missed the string of cum connecting his cockhead to your leaking hole. But Yunho eyed it until it broke, sliding his hands up your spine and flattening his body over yours, his weight held up by the elbows digging into the mattress by your head.

Pressing kisses to every patch of skin he could reach, yunho brushed away your tears with the plush of his lips, kissing over your shut eyelids while breathing in your uneven exhales. His pretty angel, he couldn’t believe how beautiful you were, especially after you’d milked him dry, always so beautiful when you were stuffed full of his cum. Covered in sweat, shirt sticking to your trembling figure, your cunt oozing the translucent liquid while it clenched uselessly around the chill air.

You craned your neck to look at the man hovering over you, clothed chest brushing over your back with every breath he drew in. He looked just as ruined—a pretty flush painting his cheeks, eyes soft and brimming with adoration as they mooned over your expression. You wondered what face you were making, and why it seemed make him so starstruck.

“We good?” You breathed out into the air between you, a hopeful glimmer in your eyes.

Yunho focused on the spit drying over your lips, the line of drool going down to your chin reflecting the light from his monitor. His cock twitched in interest where it lay snug between his lower belly and your ass, and he rolled his hips experimentally, your sweet arousal around the hardening length gliding smoothly over your skin.

He hummed, meeting your hopefulness with an innocent smile, though the hint of slyness hidden within the gesture did not go unnoticed. Rolling his hips once more, he enveloped your body completely, resting some of his body weight over you while he whispered in your ear, a dribble of his cum seeping out of you as you squeezed around nothing.

“I think I might need a little more convincing.”

[kylimarz]

A forgetfull morning

Loki x Reader

~1.7k

In the tower, just fluff, kinda a self indulgent drabble

Warnings: alcohol mention, memory loss vibes, emotional constipation (Loki), minimal pining

Just cute little fun writing I did while in the car on a trip

Loki wakes up with a headache, a blurry memory, and *you* in his bed. Which would be a lot easier to process if he didn’t already lowkey… highkey… like you. As he tries to piece together what happened the night before, he finds himself hoping—just a little—that whatever happened, it meant something. Even if you can’t remember either.

Because maybe it’s not the awkwardness of waking up next to you that gets him—it’s the fact that it doesn’t feel wrong. Not at all.

Loki woke up and immediately decided he wished he hadn’t…

His head throbs painfully from a night he can barely remember. Grabbing mindlessly at the air, he reaches next to where he is laying, searching for his glasses he’ll never let anyone know he wears. His hand grazes something that is very much *not* glasses. Slowly turning to the side, he sees you. Hair messy, mouth open, shirt askew.

Drawing his hand back, he turns quickly, hoping the moment he turned back you’d be gone. Much to his dismay, this wasn’t the case.

Here’s the thing, he tolerates your presence… maybe even likes you… ok definitely likes you, much to his dismay. But he has no idea why you would be in his bed. You are one of the few people he tolerates in this tower. Your powers are similar enough that he can teach you how to control yours, and you let him, even though you definitely don’t need the help. He hopes dearly you two hadn’t done anything last night. That would make things awkward… right? I mean, out of anyone in the tower to spend a night with, you made the most sense. But he’s a god, kind of… Thinking about it, he doesn’t have many reasons to *not* want you in his bed… maybe none. I mean you’re funny, entertaining, loveable, and tolerating of his unruly attitude.

Sure, he likes to wake up early to make sure you bump into each other on the way to the kitchen. He lives for the fact that when you laugh in the morning, it’s a little gravelly from sleep. He wants to be the first to hear you speak every day, and he wants you to be the same for him. And yes, he schedules his training to be at the same time as yours, but that’s just so he can help you with your magic. Maybe he doesn’t mind if you had done something together last night. Maybe he only resents the fact he can’t remember it.

Turning again, no longer ignoring your existence, he gently reaches a hand out to brush a small piece of hair from your mouth. You groan a little in your sleep and he has to stifle a laugh at how utterly *yourself* you are. If he can’t remember last night, maybe you can’t either… and if that’s the case, then he should make the morning less awkward.

Standing gently, he wanders to the kitchen, hoping no one else is awake. Looking around, he starts a pot of coffee, because he might as well, other people are gonna drink it eventually, it’s just more practical this way. Standing in the center of the kitchen, he tries to remember what your favorite breakfast food is. He’s not good at using a stove so eggs aren’t an option. He starts rifling through shelves looking for a waffle maker. He finds nothing.

In a last-ditch effort, he turns to the fridge. Inside he finds a granola bar… why… yogurt, and some fruit. Now *this* seems like something he can figure out. He makes the yogurt bowl quickly and turns as the coffee finishes brewing at the same time. Grabbing a tray, he assembles everything nicely, adding a cup of milk, a cup of juice, and some sweetener for the coffee. Slowly, he starts to lift the tray, which wobbles in his hand, before remembering…he can just lift it with magic. Doing so, he makes his way back to his room and opens the door slowly, hoping you’re still there.

Glancing in, he chuckles as he sees you now starfished in the middle of the bed. He carefully sets the tray on his bedside table and sits next to you in a small space of the bed you don’t currently occupy. As if sensing his presence, your body turns to curl against him. He freezes. He already has no idea what he was gonna say when you woke up, now he doesn’t know what he’s gonna *do.* Should he move?

A small groan leaves your lips and you slowly start to blink your eyes open. Internally, he starts to freak out, having no idea what he should do or say.

Sitting up and meeting his eyes, you give a sleepy grin. He awkwardly smiles in return, his hand fidgeting at his sides.

“Um… good morning, I made food… and coffee,” he can’t help but groan at how awkward he sounds.

You look behind him at the food, smiling wider. “Oooh, thank you!” you say, reaching for him to pass you the tray. Looking down, you giggle at how many cups sit there.

“I couldn’t decide on what drink to grab you so I just grabbed all of them…” he starts to ramble, staring down at the tray and pointing to things, “I couldn’t find a waffle maker so…” and “I know you like this brand of coffee so I made sure to brew that one…”

You place a hand on his fidgeting ones and urge him to meet your gaze. “This looks delicious, thank you. How’d you know I would be so thirsty I’d need three different drinks?” you say, lightening the mood.

He can’t help the genuine smile that rises. He’s glad the morning isn’t awkward. He feels a little forlorn you couldn’t remember the night either.

Pausing after taking a bite, you look up. “OH! How did the movie end, by the way?” you ask.

He just sits there, confused.

“I was so tired after training, I didn’t even realize I had fallen asleep. We probably shouldn’t have drank that whole bottle of wine after too,” you say, resuming your eating.

Oh… OH… “I fell asleep too,” he says, chuckling half-heartedly.

Maybe he should be relieved nothing happened between you.

And yet for some reason he’s not…

Guys I had to take a break on writing long for stuff so we have this cute little drabble. Lemme know if you like it!!! First time writing about my bae kind nervous hehe

[itsbubbleteataro]

It's currently storming and here's a little fun fact about me, I'm terrified of thunder. So here's a little hurt comfort Drabble with a reader who's spooked during thunderstorms. Please enjoy! Ps. The next part of "The Radio Host and The Reporter" is in my drafts ∩^ω^∩

Rain Rain go Away

Paring: Alastor x Fem!reader

Warnings: possible ooc Alastor

You've never been a fan of thunderstorms. Quite unfortunate considering that when you were alive you lived in an area that tended to get hit hard by thunderstorms when they did happen. Back then Alastor didn't know this till he found you burrowed under blankets like a small mammal.

This night was no different. It was a rare night in hell and a thunderstorm was raging on outside. As soon as your doe like ears picked up on the first sign of rain, you tensed.

"Hey (y/n) you good toots?"

Angel dust asked, snapping you out if your train of thoughts. Your ears were pinned back as you managed a smile and stood up.

"Yeah Angel. I'm okay"

And with that you left. You took a very shaky breath as you walked up the stairs. Of course Alastor had left to go see Rosie a few hours ago, none of you known it would rain. You just hoped it wouldn't end up a thunderstorm.

*****

Alastor was mid sip when his ear flicked, moments before rain started pouring down. He put his tea cup back down on its saucer. His ear closest to the window kept facing it, listening for signs of thunder while he kept facing Rosie. His smile was still casual as he listened at the latest gossip Rosie had been talking about. 

"Oh and Suzan came by. Still brutish as ever, came to me because she ended up eating her husband, can you bealive that?"

"Well it is Suzan Rosie, that woman even has me at the end of my rope"

Alastor's ear flicked and his grip tightened on the handle of his teacup. Moments later a blinding flash of light struck a tall tower, and a rumbling crack echoed down the streets.

His ears flicked downward and to the side for a moment before returning to their normal position. It was enough to tip off Rosie however,

"Oh go on Alastor. If you need to leave I'm sure it's important"

Rosie flashed him her usual smile, waving her hands in a shooing motion.

Alastor's eyes softened for a moment.

"Thank you Rosie. We'll have to catch up some other time. Thank you for the tea"

With that, Alastor shadow warped out of Rosie's emporium and into the lobby of the hotel. His ears flicked, the wind seemed to be stronger here and the rain pounded against the walls. A second crack of thunder seemed to shake the building.

"Oh wow this is a rough storm. I should go check on (y/n) she left a little while ago-"

"No need Charlie, I'll do it myself"

Vaggie looks up at Alastor for a moment raising an eyebrow before nodding and placing a hand on Charlie's shoulder.

"Let's go check on Angel dust instead. Does that sound good sweetheart?"

Charlie nods her head and the two of them walk down the hall, husk makes brief eye contact with Alastor before taking a bottle of cheep booze back to his room. Thunder shakes the hotel again and Alastor makes his way up the stairs. No one is around so he makes no effort in trying to conceal the urgency in his steps.

Alastor pushes open the door to your shared room, his eyes looking around for you. His ears flick as it thunders again, drawing out a whimper from within the bayou that he had materialized in his room.

Taking a blanket off the bed he walks through the bayou, going in a bit deep, following the hoof prints you had left behind. He finds you, sitting on a log, hands over your ears.

****

Shaking, you hear someone approaching. Alastor was making his movements known to you. Raising your head you look up at him, taking your hands off your ears and placing them in your lap. His eyes a softness reserved for only when the two of you were alone.

As if ok que, the crack of thunder shook the hotel, although it seemed a bit softer out in the bayou. You squeaked, curling up into a ball. Alastor sat next to you on the log. Since you've died and gained your doe like appearance, you've found that your hearing has gotten better. Your ears are pinned back in fear.

Your body uncurls itself as Alastor drapes a blanket he had gotten from the bed over your shoulders and pulled you into his lap.

"Oh my doe, my sweet doe. Come here. The thunder shouldn't last much longer"

You nod your head. The two of you spending the rest of the night in eachother's embrace while Alastor talked on and on about his day, taking your mind off the rain pounding in the only window in his room.

Soon enough you were starting to drift off to sleep in his embrace. Picking you up, he stood up with a hum. The last thing you saw before you fell into a peaceful slumber was him, smiling softly with gentle eyes,

"See my doe? I told you it would pass"

[minisugakoobies]

It's You - Choi San | First Kiss

Pairing: San x Reader Genre: smut, crack, fluff, angst, roommates to lovers, BFF's Lil Bro!AU Series Rating: M (18+) Drabble Warnings: angst!, mutual pining comes to a head, or more accurately to lips, aka kissing Word Count: 1.8k (ok it's a little more than a drabble) Disclaimers: NSFW, obviously I don’t own ATZ - they just inspire me

Summary: He was only supposed to be a temporary roommate. Your best friend's little brother, crashing on your couch for a few weeks. That's it. How did this happen?

A/N: Hi, I'm back. This is the first vignette that's not from an ask but just from my own head. I just really wanted to write their first kiss, so I did! I hope you enjoy. 🥰

Taglist is open! Reblog, comment, or send me an ask to be added! You can also send me any ideas/thoughts you might have for a future scenario - who knows, it might end up in a drabble! 💕

It's You Masterlist 🐈‍⬛ ATZ Masterlist 🐈‍⬛ Main Masterlist

A few weeks after Halloween, Hongjoong invites everyone to a friend’s deejaying gig on the other side of town. Your roommate opts out, saying she’d rather spend one of her rare nights off at her boyfriend’s, so you, San, Wooyoung, and Hongjoong check it out together.

After the gig ends, your ears still ringing, feet aching from all the dancing you did, the four of you make your way home. Wooyoung and Hongjoong both seem hyped from the show, talking excitedly as you wait for the train. You watch them with a fond smile, leaning against the wall and taking turns lifting your feet to take some of the pressure off. 

San joins you. “You okay, Noona?” 

“Yeah. Just wore the wrong boots tonight,” you say. “Didn’t realize we’d be dancing so much.” 

“Oh, yeah. I guess I could’ve warned you,” San grins. “Sorry. We’re not the type to sit through a set.” 

“Clearly,” you reply, smiling back. Honestly, you’d been pleasantly surprised at how well San and his friends dance. They were so free with their movements and their energy had been infectious. You couldn’t have stood still if you’d tried. 

Of course, now you’re paying for it, wincing as your throbbing feet scream at you. You shuffle again, and then, ever-so-gracefully, you lose your balance, tipping over, letting out a loud expletive that draws everyone’s attention. 

Hongjoong and Wooyoung cackle as San grabs your arm, pulling you back upright. 

“No worries, Noona, I’ve got you.” 

He murmurs the words reassuringly, arm sliding from yours to loop around your shoulders, squeezing you into his side, but only for a second, before he scolds the other two for laughing so much. You giggle along as Wooyoung and San pretend to fight, but your heart’s not in it, because it’s still yearning painfully for San to hold you again. Every time he touches you - hugs you goodbye, cuddles with you on the couch, even the briefest moments of contact like just now - it leaves this black hole inside your chest, an endless gnawing need for more and more and more. 

At some point, you won’t be able to withstand it anymore. You’re not sure what will happen then.

The train car is crowded when your group enters. Unfortunately for your tired feet, there's nowhere to sit, and blessed little space to stand, so everyone splits up, trying to find room for themselves. Except for San, who guides you towards the opposite doors with a gentle touch on your back, and then stands beside you, reaching overhead to hold on while your hands curl around a pole. 

Some creepy guy already too close on your right leans over, trying to get an eyeful of your chest, and San smoothly slides around, blocking you from the asshole’s view. You smile gratefully, and he gives you an intimidating look but undercuts his mean mugging with an eyebrow wiggle, and you giggle, which then makes him grin, a chain reaction of happiness that leaves you buzzing. 

The gentle sway of the car as it hurdles down the tracks shakes you. You bump into San with a horribly steady rhythm, feeling sheepish for not having a strong enough core to keep yourself upright and balanced for more than a second at a time. He just laughs, finally throwing an arm around your back to help.

His hold is light, leaving a big sliver of air between you, a respectful distance that frankly makes you wish he’d be disrespectful. But he maintains it, supporting you in the most polite way, and somehow it still makes your heart jump fast as the wheels spinning beneath your feet.  You turn your head, focusing on the window on the door, watching your reflection as the dark tunnels roll by. 

At the next stop, more people pack themselves into the car. The small bubble of space around you pops as the wave of humanity rolls you into San, and you bring your hands up, bracing yourself against his chest, eyes widening at the solid warmth beneath your fingertips. 

“Shit, sorry, sorry.” You apologize profusely, trying to step away, but the train jerks again, jostling you, and San tightens his grip, pulling you back into his arms. 

“It’s ok,” he mutters, in a quiet voice. “I told you. I’ve got you.” 

When your gazes meet, it’s like the air has been sucked from the car. Something shimmers in his dark eyes as they roam your face, and you utter his name unthinkingly, a tiny “San” just slipping from your open mouth, but it feels like a rogue confession of something you’ve been denying for so long. You’re not sure if he heard it but he definitely saw it because he’s been staring at your lips for a few seconds now.

You lean in at the same time he tilts his chin forward, and your mouths meet in the middle. A light kiss, feather soft, like testing the waters. The next one lingers, his lips firmer against yours. His hand splays on your back. You twist your fingers into the front of his t-shirt. 

A third press weakens your knees, as his mouth slots against yours. Lips move together, part, allowing him to breathe in your little gasp. 

The train emerges from the tunnel, and suddenly the lights in the car blast on as it comes to a slow stop at the next station. Immediately, you spring back, and so does San. 

His expression is searing, and you glance away, looking to see if any of your friends are nearby, but the only one you can glimpse is Hongjoong. He’s got his back to you, a few feet and a dozen people away. 

When the train starts up again, a few riders lighter, San loosens his grip, hand gliding up to a spot between your shoulders, far from the small where it had just been resting. By the time you reach your stop, his arm is more hovering than touching.

You and San find Hongjoong a few feet ahead of you when you depart. Wooyoung’s still on the train, since his place is closer to the next stop. Hongjoong slows his quick stride enough for you to catch up. 

“You guys up for some ramen?” he asks, like he always does on late nights like this. You and San look at each other, and you don’t know if it’s the dim streetlights or what, but you can’t read his expression.

“Nah, I’m good,” San answers.

“I think I’m just gonna go to bed,” you start to say at the same time, cutting off to let San finish and then repeating yourself with a nervous laugh.

“‘Kay.” Hongjoong bears the rejection with his usual nonchalance. “I’ll see you later.” He crosses the street, heading for the convenience store on the next block. 

And it’s just the two of you now, walking in silence. Two more blocks and you’ll be home. One more block. Just up the stairs now. Key in door, door closed, shoes off. 

You stare at each other. He blinks first.  

“Should we - “

“Did you want to - “

“Hey guys.” 

Your roommate comes padding out of the kitchen, cup of tea in hand. 

“Hey!” you nearly shout. “I thought you were staying over at Jongho's?” 

If she’s surprised by the volume of your voice, Haneul doesn’t show it. She shrugs. “Yunho was being annoying, so I left.” 

Yunho is Jongho’s roommate. He’s rarely at their apartment on the weekends. Just your luck that this would be the one night a year he strikes out and goes to his own bed instead of someone else’s.

Or maybe it’s for the best. Because it’s not too late to stop now before you do something else. Something potentially foolish. Let it just be a kiss. A one-time loss of rationality. Of caution. 

Even if you can’t stop thinking about that night at the bar. Sitting there with San’s arms wrapped around you just felt so right. 

Even if it’s been ages since you felt this way about someone. 

Even if you’re pretty sure you’re falling for San. 

“Are you going to bed or are you gonna stay up for a bit?” Haneul asks, taking a seat on the couch. 

“Um…” you fight the impulse to glance at San. “I don’t know. I’m not really tired or anything….” Truth be told, you’re a little wired now. “Why?” 

“I was thinking of starting that new drama Jongho told us about. Wanna join me?” She pats the space next to her.

San mumbles something about taking a shower. You watch him leave the room, and it feels like whatever happened on the train is already fading away. Did it really happen, or was it just a dream? Are your fantasies bleeding over into your waking hours now? 

San joins you and Haneul near the end of the first episode, taking a spot on the floor in front of the couch so he can stretch out. He looks so soft, with his dark hair freshly fluffed from a towel, dressed in his favorite hoodie and sweats, and it’s a struggle to keep your focus on the television and not wonder what would’ve happened had Haneul not been home.

Part of you wishes San would catch you looking. But you’re not sure you could handle it if you met his gaze right now and didn’t find what you were hoping to find. 

It’s actually a little odd how quiet he is, staring so intently at the show that you are completely ignoring. Is he doing the same thing you are, replaying the moment in his mind? Trying to freeze it in your memory?

Your stomach drops as you consider another possibility. What if he thinks the kiss was a mistake? 

By the time the third episode is over, you’re exhausted, from your night out but also from the mental gymnastics you’ve been performing, silently twisting yourself into knots thinking about San and the train and what could happen versus what should. So you excuse yourself for the safety of your bedroom, where you can dream in peace.

Nero’s already curled up on his favorite spot on your bed, right next to where you lay your head. He cracks an eye open as you flop down beside him, and you reach out to give him an apologetic scritch, when you catch a scrap of paper poking out from beneath him. A note, with San's handwriting. He must’ve slipped it on your pillow after his shower. The first sentence sends relief flooding through you.

I don’t regret it. 

But it’s what’s written next that has you rereading the note over and over. It’s a simple sentence, just a pleading command, but to you, it’s a revelation. 

Please tell me you want more too.

If you liked this fic, please consider reblogging! Likes do not help it get seen by other readers. 💕

Taglist: @sweetnspicy-noona @krystal-a @jennylychee

© 2023-24 by minisugakoobies. Crossposted to AO3. Please do not copy or repost. I do not allow translations of my work.

[satancopilotsmytardis]

Drabble-A-Thon 2 Prompt #9

Pairing: Shigadabi

Rating: Explicit

Prompt: Fully conscious, hypnotized Dabi entering a scene with Shigaraki. He is forced to put on an outfit that he finds humiliating. 

Contents: Non-con/Dub-con, hypnosis, feminization, lingerie, humiliation, cock and ball torture, riding crop, spanking, masochism, sadism. 

When Shigaraki called Dabi to his room after a day full of meetings that Dabi barely wanted to attend in the first place, he hadn't been very pleased. He wanted to go back to his room and sleep, maybe find something to take the edge off of this weird, awful headache that has been starting to bloom behind his eyelids since they were starting to wrap-up their business this afternoon. But he has been summoned by their Grand Commander, so he goes when he's called. He can't get away with the kind of insubordination that he used to when the League was smaller, not when any of his dissent could ripple out among their troops. 

He knocks on  the door lightly, not wanting to draw attention to the fact he's being pulled aside to have a talking to, and after just a second, Shigaraki opens the door. 

"Welcome back." 

Dabi knows that Shig's brain has been a little more scrambled than normal because of his trips to the monster maker, but they just saw each other earlier today, and he hasn't left base since. "Uh-huh, whatever, you creep." He steps into the bedroom and find that the lights are low and there is a... metronome sitting beside Shigaraki's bed. It's ticking out its even beat and that headache that Dabi had before is starting to ache through him even more fiercely. He doesn't know what's wrong with him, only that, whatever it is, it's making him feel like his body is swaying to that sound out of his control. 

"Do you remember why I called you here?" Shigaraki asks, letting the lock to his bedroom door side shut with a heavy click. The sound of that makes Dabi's head throb. 

Do you remember? You'll remember everything I've done to you when you hear this sound.

The tick, tick, tick of the metronome feels like it's echoing off of his skull, around it, making each beat batter against the wall in his mind that... that Shigaraki put there. That the other man used one of his secret new quirks to wall away the... ways that he's been bringing Dabi right back to this room to... hurt him for months now. Dabi does not tremble when the memories of that come flooding back. He does not waver when he knows that he is not going to get out of this room without being violated again. He holds his spine straight when he feels his quirk locked away under his skin from one of the bastard's old commands. 

"Fuck you, Shigaraki." He is allowed to speak. The fucker wants to hear how much he hates the things that he makes his body do. Nothing ever makes him fuck him harder than hearing Dabi snarl into his sheets how much he wants him dead for the things he does to his body. 

Duster comes around in front of him and Dabi is expecting it when he slaps him across the face so hard that his staples cut the inside of his cheek. "Someday, you're going to learn how to behave without me having to force you." Like hell. Shigaraki reaches down and cups his cock through his pants and Dabi wants to scream, wants to cry, because Shigaraki never ordered him to get aroused, but his stupid cock has been so well-trained by the other man's cruelty already that he's starting to harden. "See? Look at how much your body wants this. If you could just learn to behave when I give it to you, then you wouldn't have to be such a passive passenger during our encounters, firefly. If you could behave outside of our bed, I might even let you ask for special treatment in it." 

"I don't want anything from you." He snarls. There aren't many rules that Shigaraki has written into his body for these encounters, just three: Dabi cannot call attention to what they are doing in any way, he can not use his body or quirk to hurt himself or Shigaraki, and he must comply with any order directly given to him by Shigaraki. Everything else, the bastard said, he wanted to be Dabi's genuine reactions. He wanted Dabi to know that over time, his body has begun to crave the hard fuck the monster abusing him will give. 

Shigaraki squeezes his cock again. "You're being so bratty today, and I think that little brats should be put into their place. Luckily for you, I was anticipating that you would need to be punished today." 

Oh no. If Shigaraki was planning this instead of it being a spur of the moment thing, then Dabi is going to get fucked six ways to Sunday. 

"Strip." 

"I'm going to find a way to burn you alive for this." He isn't sure that he has much more of a window on that time now. When Shigaraki finishes his treatments, he's going to be completely fireproof and able to regenerate. If Dabi wants to have his revenge, then he has to take it before he goes into the tank, and he can't do that if he can't even remember wanting to burn the man once he leaves this room each time. 

"You're just making your punishment worse." Shigaraki tells him as he moves over to his closet to retrieve whatever new torture implements he's gotten to use on Dabi's body. 

He reluctantly strips down until he's completely naked and hates the fact that his cock is more than half hard already with his body's anticipation. 

Shigaraki clicks his tongue as he comes back out into the room, moving up behind Dabi's body and reaching around him with one hand to fondle his body, fingers gliding over his balls and along his cock before his hand falls away. "Spread your legs, brat." 

Dabi doesn't want to but his body has no choice but to comply. He stands with his legs wide under him and waits. There is a sharp whistle that goes through the air, and then pain explodes in his crotch and puts stars behind his eyes before he even hears the snap. Dabi's hands go to is cock, his balls throbbing as Shigaraki runs the riding crop against his knuckles as he tries to protect himself from another hit, his stomach rolling from the pain. 

"Naughty boy, I didn't tell you that you could touch yourself. Hands off." 

"I fucking hate you," Dabi is not about to start crying, but it's a close thing. He's not even sure if it would be the pain or the helplessness that would put tears on his cheeks, but it's sitting on the edge of his composure. 

"Such a brat," the next hit is just a little tap against his sore balls. "Especially when it's so clear that your slutty body likes it when I hurt you. I should have guessed. You couldn't even stay soft the first time I raped your tight little cunt," Shigaraki has moved right up behind him, body pressed against his own, so Dabi can feel how his cock is half hard, before his hand is squeezing at Dabi's again, showing them both, humiliatingly, that the pain didn't lessen Dabi's arousal. He's completely erect now, biting his lip hard as the touch feels like a balm against the hypersensitive, aching flesh. 

It takes him a second for his ears to fully process Shigaraki's words, his face going so hot. He fucking hates it when Shigaraki wants to play with him in this kind of scene because it means--

"Such a desperate little whore that you're not even going to be able to fit in your pretty panties tonight, baby girl." 

"I'm not a girl, you fucking pervert!" 

Shig's hand disappears from his crotch and the riding crop comes back hard again in the next second and Dabi lets out a cry, frustrated, pained tears misting over his vision. 

"You're whatever I say you are." He snarls back, moving away from his body and all but throwing the fabric he's selected at him. "And you're going to get dressed." 

His body picks up the clothes. His body doesn't tremble or hesitate to start pulling them over his skin as he stands in the center of the room while Shigaraki stands at the foot of his bed with the crop in hand. Dabi doesn't know if he hates his body more or Shigaraki's eyes as they linger on it as he pulls on a little lacy red bralette and a short, pleated skirt, so short that with his cock still hard, it doesn't even hang low enough to cover the aching curve of his balls. Humiliation screams over his nerves. He hates it when the other has time to prepare to torture him. It always means that he's going to be dressed up, that he's going to be forced to do new things, that Shigaraki is going to take him apart until Dabi passes out instead of just sending him away once he's finished. 

"There, much better. Now we'll see if you can learn to behave without my commands once you've gotten your punishment. Maybe if you can be a good girl, when those are all done, I'll help my little princess feel good too. Though," his eyes drift down to Dabi's cock that is still so hard even after the abuse he's already put his body through. "Maybe my little slut likes to be hurt so much he'll need a more long-term punishment if he cums before I'm finished with him." Oh no. Dabi does not want to find out what a 'long-term' punishment is, and his stomach sinks like a rock. He didn't even know he would... like it when Shigaraki hit him before. He doesn't know if he's going to be able to hold on throughout the rest of his punishment. "Come get on the bed, little girl, on your back. You're going to bring your knees to your chest and spread your legs wide." 

Even if the order didn't make his body move, Dabi would have gone over without argument, if only to hopefully make his punishment briefer. He lays himself out, blushing hotly at how the position puts his hole and cock completely on display. 

"Very good. Now you talked back to me and were very rude today before you came to see me. I think that you've earned... ten spankings." He trails the riding crop slowly along the most intimate parts of his body and Dabi starts to tremble. "Show me that you're not a disgusting, naughty whore who gets off on the pain, and then maybe we can do something special to help make your pussy feel good when we're done." 

At the first crack of the crop, the line of it going from his balls to across his hole, Dabi starts sobbing on the bed as softly as he can, the command robbing him of the wracking cries that want to slip from his throat. He can't bring attention to himself. He has to be quiet as he grapples with the hurts and the knowledge that they're going to get so much worse when he can’t hold on for the remaining nine as he gushes pre all over the underside of his skirt.

Thanks for participating! If you'd like to join in, consider checking it out here!

[spennsrs]

schlatt x reader that loves schlatt when he's put on a couple pounds :(( reader holding him from behind and just kissing his back when he doesn't have a shirt on in the kitchen or smth. "you're so beautiful, yknow that?" i have brainrot ‼️‼️ schlatt not believing reader so reader just has to keep praising schlatt every chance they get so they keep leaving little post it notes around the mirror about his body :(((((

(\ (\ („• ֊ •„) ━O━O━━━━━━━━━ ・:。YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ︳jschlatt x reader drabble ︳fluff ︳self indulgent bc i jst wanna tell schlatt how handsome he is :(( also MY BFFIE REQUESTING <3 /p + reader can cook rly well and they Feed our boy well

the house was quiet, the bedroom dark with drawn curtains. it was late at night... or maybe early in the morning?

schlatt didn't know, and frankly, he didn't care. he couldn't sleep. he didn't even know why he was up still.

it was probably silly. maybe it was the cause of his recent insomnia. there were great things about having a significant other who could outcook even the likes of gordan ramsey. well, at least schlatt thought so. said great things include being well fed and eating incredible food.

but there were also bad things. well, bad thing. he did let his walls down a little when he and [y/n] started dating, yet he wasn't one to voice his insecurities often. his main insecurity was the reason he was staring at the full-length mirror on the back of the door into the bedroom.

his weight.

schlatt stares at himself in the reflective object shirtless, careful to not break the silence the night brought to the shared bedroom. reflections were a weird thing, mirrors in general were weird. maybe vampires were on the right track with the no reflection thing. his hand rests on his stomach, pushing, poking gently... he wasn't necessarily angry or unjustly sad, just as much as he wasn't.. happy with how he looked. with a soft sigh, his hand falls to his side again and his gaze never breaks from the mirror. his eyes over examine every part of his body visible to his gaze, and oddly enough... that's when he spots it, on the corner of the mirror. was that... a sticky note? multiple? his hand reaches up to gently yank the papers down, reading the handwriting.

'you are so absolutely amazing' 'you're beautiful the way you are, inside and out' 'do you realize how incredibly handsome you are?' 'if you could see what i see, maybe you would understand why it is so easy to love you for who you are'

schlatt felt like he was going to cry. no had ever said such... gentle words to him, nor had words ever touched him like this did. he kept reading the words, then rereading... it was almost too good to be true. he knew he was way lucky in the significant other department, scoring someone as fantastic as [y/n] was a mystery he would never understand, and chose not to.

a warm pair of hands draw him from his train of thoughts, jumping a bit as his eyes are drawn to the mirror before him. schlatt could see the familiar arms of his lover wrapped around him, their left wrist adorned with the silver bracelet he had gotten them for their two year anniversary.

"did i wake you, sleepyhead?"

his voice is soft, and it's tinged ever so slightly with emotion as his hand comes up, gently caressing their arm. there's some movement against his back, and he deciphers its his lover shaking their head. that's good, at least he didn't disturb them.

"you're beautiful, jay." schlatt feels his heart constrict at those words. of course they knew. they had a way of reading schlatt like a book, often picking up on his turmoil on certain topics before he even knew himself. a small smile tugs at his lips as he pats their arm. no words came from him, none needed to. "no matter what you look like, what you sound like, or what you do, you will always be beautiful to me, and i'll always love you."

and maybe... just maybe... in that moment, schlatt could let himself believe it was true, because the love of his life said so. who was he to deny their words?

[endlessnightlock]

I began a story for the This Would Have Happened Anyway Challenge but didn't get it done in time to submit it. So I wrote a little more, and maybe you would call this a drabble? I don't know. I'm posting it here because it's a drop of water in my personal writing desert.

In Panem, canon-divergent. Everlark married instead of Quarter Quell Reaping.

"Are you coming downstairs soon?" 

Katniss is standing outside our bedroom door, watching me, her hand pressed to the frame, half in, half out. I was startled at her voice, unaware of her presence, and she smiled at the reaction. We've only been married and living together for a few weeks, and it's reassuring she knows me so well. It makes me feel better about our situation. 

I wasn't startled because it was Katniss there, catching me off guard—it was a knee-jerk reaction. I tend to get lost inside my head and zone out, and after years of Mother's insults (are you stupid? Why didn't you answer me?) slung my way like daggers, defense is my natural response. 

Licking her lips, she shrugs. "Your brother is here."

Ah. Now I know precisely why Katniss sought me out. At the ridiculous wedding reception thrown for us by President Snow, Rye pulled me aside to tell me he was planning to come by once we had a few days to settle in. Bring over some of my things from the bakery and a few things our parents want me to have now that I am a married man. Or a forcibly wed, frightened seventeen-year-old. You know, whichever way you choose to look at it. I digress. Katniss and I didn't choose this route. But I love her; she cares for me, and we're keeping our families safe. 

Back to Rye. He and I discussed it moments before our families left to catch the train back to Twelve—because even a victor's relations are limited on time they're allowed outside the District. This conversation was weeks ago, and I forgot about it. The memory lapse isn't like me, but I think it can be forgiven, considering how difficult it is to breathe under President Snow's intense scrutiny. I don't know how we'll spend the rest of our lives under his thumb. Who knows. Maybe we won't live long enough to find out. 

"Oh. Okay," I say. My eyes flit from Katniss's profile to the sketchbook in my lap. I feel like I need to collect my thoughts before seeing my brother. "Would you tell him I'll be down in a few minutes?" I venture. It's more a question than an answer.

She frowns. That's her answer: a firm no, Peeta. I won't hang out alone with your brother while you keep drawing. "Do you want me to send him up?" she suggests—more of a threat than a question.

"No, just give me a minute," I say, carefully closing up and laying my sketchbook on the side table before sliding off the mattress. I don't want to be cornered by my brother in our bedroom. Rye's itching to badger me with questions I sure as hell don't have any answers to.

She groans, and I laugh under my breath. If we were close enough, she'd pinch my side or smack my arm for finding humor in her misery. My family is standoffish with Katniss, and her response is in kind. "I'll wait for you," she says. 

Of course, she will. I'm like a security blanket for her.

"Well, don't just stand there gawking at me from the doorway," I say, bending over and grabbing yesterday's pants off the floor. I should have been up and around hours ago, but last night was horrible, and it took forever to fall asleep. 

"Fine," she says, stepping inside the room and pulling the door mostly shut behind her, keeping her eyes averted until I buckle my pants over my undershorts and put on a clean shirt. I raise my eyebrows in amusement. 

We're still dancing around each other. Not used to these close quarters. Sharing the same bedroom, sleeping in the same bed. Dressing in front of each other. Maybe I should make an effort to cover up more. I don't know. Being in my underclothes doesn't bother her when we go to bed. We curl around each other, seeking solace in each other's arms, keeping the darkness at bay. It's not the blackness of the night but rather those dark thoughts invading our minds like wind in the trees. Unpredictable, tangible.

"You don't have to look away. I don't mind if you see me," I remind her.

"Yeah, yeah. We've had this conversation before." 

That makes me smile.

"Are you going to yammer on or go into the bathroom and brush your teeth?"

Playfully, I cup my hands in front of my mouth and blow air into them. "Hmmm. Maybe I should leave them be. My morning breath might be enough to keep Rye from showing up here unannounced."

Katniss rolls her eyes. "I doubt that. Boys are gross."

She's not wrong. I've smelled much worse than Rye's bad breath living at home with my family. When we were still in wrestling, he'd pin me to the floor, squat over my head, and fart in my face. I shudder at the memory.

"What?" she asks.

I wave her question off. "Believe me. You don't want to know. You could go ahead and head downstairs—I'll only be a minute, I promise."

"Uh, no. I'll wait for you."

[rollinouttahere-writes]

So you did a short Drabble about Mihawk finding Lizard, but what if Mihawk found Doll? We know that he’s on amicable terms with Shanks, so Shanks has probably told him about his daughter, and Mihawk may have even met Doll before, so would he bring her back to him, or would he listen to her if she was begging him to not send her back to her dad?

And if he did listen to her and decided to not give her back to Shanks, would he bring her to the Straw Hats, or would he also be a platonic yandere and want to keep her at his home?

Honestly I guess I would really just like to know more about the relationship between Mihawk and Doll, if you’re willing.

This one? Technically Buggy found her, Mihawk was just stuck trying to do damage control lol

Under a cut because I had a lot to say about them

Mihawk is one of the very few people that Shanks was okay with allowing Doll around, even going so far as to tell her to call him uncle Mihawk. They met a handful of times, and thanks to how observant Mihawk is, he could tell that something was... off. Doll's behavior was strange. She appeared to be torn between being excited to see someone new, but also being terrified and having no idea how to approach said new person. It's a very concerning way for a toddler to act, which led to Mihawk questioning Shanks about her.

Who is she? Where did she come from? Why is does she appear to have never socialized a day in her life?

Shanks, seeing nothing wrong with what he's done, is completely honest. He tells Mihawk about Kailani and how he "just had to" whisk away Doll when she wouldn't cooperate. He kinda skims over the whole Uta situation, but Mihawk is able to piece together that Doll has never been exposed to anyone outside of the ship because Shanks is scared of having a repeat of what happened to his first child.

Mihawk is empathetic to an extent. He doesn't have children of his own, but it's easy enough to imagine that losing one is a painful thing to go through. He encourages Shanks to consider letting Doll off the ship once in a while, but leaves it at that. It's a fresh wound, he's optimistic that he'll move on and ease up as it heals.

But as the years go by and they occasionally cross paths here and there, he realizes how naive it was to assume that. Doll has never seen a face outside of the crew and himself. Not only that, but as she gets older it becomes more and more apparent how infantilized she is. Anyone else would be training her hard to protect herself, but Shanks refuses to. Outside of lockpicking, she doesn't have a single useful skill. She can't fight at all.

It starts to bother Mihawk.

The last time he sees Doll before her escape, it's impossible to ignore how miserable she looks. Her eyes are bloodshot from stress and she's gone from being kind of fidgety to looking like she's about to have a nervous breakdown any second. Even the other members of Shanks crew can hardly stand to look at her, but there's nothing they can do because at the end of the day Shanks is their captain and they won't go against him.

While Shanks is occupied with getting more booze, she approaches Mihawk and clings to him while begging for him to help her leave. She's crying but doing her best to keep it quiet so as to not draw attention. She explains how she "found something she wasn't supposed to" and how awful it's been since that happened. The kid is borderline hysteric and promises that she won't be any trouble. He doesn't have to keep her around, he can ditch her at the first island they come across and she'll figure it out from there.

For a moment, he's heavily considering it, but then Shanks comes back. Mihawk covers for Doll by saying that all the noise overwhelmed her and that's why she's crying and upset. Shanks buys it, but he also then takes Doll away so she can rest in their room and get away from the noise.

Mihawk left without her that day, but he did not feel good about it. When he finds out she went missing, it is honestly a weight off his shoulders. He'd been genuinely thinking about sneaking her off the ship, but now it seems he won't need to. He does find himself to be concerned about how she is fairing. He knows she can't fight, so he can only hope she's with people who can. Then he finds out she's with the Straw Hats, and that really takes the edge off. She ought to be safe with them.

If they encountered each other again, Doll would be fearful of him taking her back to Shanks. As far as she could tell, he was as complicit as everyone else on that ship had been. Mihawk is quick to assure her that he has no such plans, he won't even mention having seeing her again to Shanks.

During this, he can't help but ask if she's picked up any fighting skills since her escape. Upon hearing that he hasn't, he nonchalantly says that he wouldn't be opposed to showing her the basics of sword fighting, should she be interested. He tries to act impartial, but he very much wants her to say yes.

He isn't yandere for her, but he does feel the need to help her when he can. It helps assuage the guilt of doing nothing all those years she was trapped on the Red Force for. He'll mislead Shanks and would even be willing to fight him if it meant giving Doll a chance to get away.

For someone who once rolled his eyes at being called "uncle Mihawk", he sure does live up to the title.

[beachy--head]

Drabble time! A companion piece to this drabble where Harriet bargains with Jackson to get a pet and ends up with a kitten.

This is for @babyjapril and @himbo-jackson-avery, who always have the best tags and were wondering about Jackson as a cat dad. Ask, and you shall receive! (or something like that.) My brain wouldn't shut up until I wrote this, so here you go.

___

Jackson’s sigh cannot be louder even if he tried.

“Fine, we can adopt a kitten. But!” he adds before his wife and daughter can shriek with joy. “This cat will stay in the garden, he’s not going on any furniture ever, and Hattie, you have to help feed him and clean after him, okay?”

He’s not a cat person (not an animal person at all, actually), and he already envisions a future made of scratched furniture and cat hair on every piece of clothing Hattie owns, but the smiles on Harriet and April’s faces make up for it a little bit.

Still. That cat better not expect anything from him.

__

“Yeah, okay, he’s cute. And Hattie picked a good name with Oliver. But you’ve been cuddling him for the past hour, can you put him back on the ground now?”

“Jealous, Avery?”

“I’m not!”

__

“Why is he following me everywhere? I almost stepped on the damn thing ten times this afternoon.”

“Guess he’s just recognizing your natural leadership."

“Ha-ha-ha. Is this because I brought up the Gunther thing from way back this morning? You don’t have to be a sore– Oh come on, you almost made me fall, you stupid cat!! I swear, this thing has no survival instinct.”

“Leave him alone, will you?”

“Make him leave ME alone!”

__

“Have you noticed that he likes being scratched behind his ears? He makes such a goofy face every time.”

“Uh huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing. You just seem awfully cozy with him, now.”

“I’m just noticing things. You know, in a scientific approach of my surroundings. It’s no different from observing a patient, actually.”

“Uh-huh.”

__

“Daddy. You have to take good care of Oliver while mommy and me will be in Moline. I made drawings to show you how to do it, and mommy did the words.”

Jackson smiles when he sees the five sheets of instructions created by his daughter (this is 100% April’s DNA, no arguing), and holds his little finger for a pinky-swear. His daughter takes it, looks him in the eye.

“But you DON’T sleep with him in your bed. He’s only allowed to sleep on MY bed, and when I'm not there. Promise. And you have to send me pictures of him.”

“Am I allowed to live in the same house as him, or…?”

“Daaaaddy!”

__

“Yes, Jackson, I showed her the picture where Oliver is eating his food. Yes, I also showed her the picture where he's playing on our bed. Yes, the one with his new collar, too. And the one when he’s yawning. And the one – Did you go into the office at all today?

__

“I think we should go to the vet.”

“It’s a very small puncture wound, Jackson. I’ve disinfected it, and he cleaned it himself, too.”

“But it could lead to an infection.”

“Tomorrow it’ll be like it never happened. Trust me, there were so many cats on the farm who kept fighting with each other, having bites and marks way worse than this one, and we patched them up ourselves every single time.”

“But just in case…?”

“He’s going to be fine, Jackson.”

“I know, I know. Of course, we could ask,” he squints at his phone’s screen, “Dr. Davis for her input, it says here she’s specialized in felines and her clinic offers complementary training in–”

“Jackson, if you press dial on that button, I swear to God I’m telling Hattie the damn cat has been sleeping in our bed for the past week.”

[teawithmagician]

Hello! :D For the drabble ask I've had this little idea floating in my head for a while now. There's hardly, if any, content for Variel the Flayer! I want to do him a little fan service as a mini-comic, but I can't get the dialogue or the energy of the scene to come across just right. Maybe you can spark some inspiration and we can bounce off each other's ideas? :) I'm not a writer at all, but I can offer drawings! The "pairing" would be Variel the Flayer and a serf engineer, G/NC? for murderously bad flirting attempts, dark romantic comedy?. The idea I have is; A Night Lord's fleet just underwent a bad battle, there's damage all throughout the ship. The medbay specifically got hit bad, and Variel asks for this one specific serf engineer to come fix the power outage for him. This serf grates on Variel the least out of the other serfs, and the engineer uses this to his advantage to try and use his limited medical knowledge to flirt. Eventually it leads to the serf saying along the lines of, "I sure do hope it's a scalpel through my fourth and fifth ribs." (The fourth and fifth ribs being the easiest way to access a man's heart). How will Variel react? Will the engineer get flayed after fixing the power, or will the cold Variel find amusement in him and play along? Here are some of the unfinished sketches :)

Ok, so, it's gonna be a slowburn, because Variel would need a lot of his sweet time to realise that he a) is amused by the serf b) can tolerate him c) actually wants him there.

But here's for the starters:

Warhammer 40k

Variel the Flayer / unnamed male serf

R (for threats/descriptions of violence)

Slowburn, dark romance, dark speis yaoi (platonic for now)

The hull breach had torn through the chamber in a perfect diagonal. Apart from damage to the precious tools—scalpels, flensing hooks, and vivisection clamps—it left power conduits dangling from the ceiling like severed tendons. That was highly, highly unacceptable. With a hiss of static, he activated the vox in his helm, and requested: “Send the engineering serf. Now.”

The serf arrived shortly after, dragging a skein of salvaged cabling. He knelt briefly, a protocol gesture of submission, before rising to assess the damage. “Power’s out, my lord,” he muttered, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. “Conduits are fried, but I can patch it. Won’t be pretty, but it’ll hold.”

Variel said nothing, tracking the serf’s every move so the little rat-man wouldn’t break or stain anything with his filth. But the serf worked with surprising deftness: he stripped the wires and rerouted power through jury-rigged relays, which send a sheaf of spark into his face. Variel’s fingers twitched near the flensing knife, the urge to peel the serf’s skin off to teach him the fine art of electrics was strong. But then, Variel wouldn’t want to fix all cables by himself.

In the end, after all of the serf’s machinations, the medbay’s systems came back to life. Lumens steadied, casting light over the bloodied tables and the shining edges of Variel’s tools. The serf stepped back, wiping sweat from his face with a greasy sleeve. And then, he smiled a crooked, trembling, but outrageous grin.

“Fixed your lair, my lord. Runs smoother than a freshly stitched corpse, if I may. Almost makes me think I’d be handy with more than just wires—say, passing you a scalpel or two.”

Variel’s tilted his head. Now this was a misfortune-an acceptable engineer was poorly trained. Variel’s mind turned to the myriad ways he could teach him decency in talking to your masters—strip by strip, scream by scream.

The oblivious serf continued, looking almost maniacal. “I’ve seen your work, lord. Beautiful, in its own way. Me, I’m no artist, but I reckon I could learn a trick or two. Hand you the tools, maybe even take a blade myself—right here,” he tapped his chest, between the fourth and fifth ribs, “quickest way in, isn’t it? If you’re feeling generous.”

The silence that followed was a void where hope went to die. Variel’s stared into the serf, unblinking, waiting for him to break under the weight of it. Most who dared such familiarity were already flayed, their skins decorating Variel’s armour. Yet this one—this rodent-like speck of defiance—stood there, trembling, but refusing to fall apart.

Then, Variel did the unthinkable – he laughed. His laughter did it for the serf: he started coming undone in an uncontrollable shaking. Variel stepped forward, his shadow swallowing the serf whole, and raised a hand. The serf flinched, expecting the end, but Variel’s claw hovered, tracing the air above his chest.

“You speak of your heart,” Variel said softly, “as if it is yours to offer. It is mine, little rat-human—mine to take, mine to stop.” His claw lingered in a promise of agony. “Most grovel, all beg. But you beg not for life, but for my art.” He leaned closer, his breath chill against the serf’s sweating skin. “Break anything here, and I may grant your wish. And show you your beating heart before I smash it in my hand. But you amuse me, for now. So, you may live-and leave.”

The serf lingered, uncertain if he should flee or bow. Variel spared him one final look and uttered. “Go while I still feel benevolent. Next time you speak of ribs, I’ll show you their beauty—laid bare on my tables.”