X Reader - Blog Posts

Things Hawks Would Say While Fucking You

Warnings: regular smegular smut and pet names.

“You like it when I go rough right?”

“And when I touch you like this you can’t help but make those cute sounds.”

“Here suck my fingers yeah?”

“Hold onto me baby bird, hug me tight I don’t want you falling.”

“Fuck!- come on birdie I know you can take it”

“Oh fuck…baby bird that’s a good birdie that’s my good girl!”

“Your neck give me your neck.”

“Tighten up for me baby bird I want you to feel all my length and love”

“—yeah! Take that cock inside of you birdie.”

“Come on baby bird. Clamp down on my cock ungh show me how much you love me”

“I love you baby bird and you feel so fucking good.”

Hey guys, first of all thank you all so much for the reblogs and likes each one makes my day better. While I’m still new to writing I’m already super enjoying it, and even though I’m only doing head cannons or built point style fics please feel free to send in any requests or ideas. I’m primarily focusing on obey me at the moment so I’m sorry for right now that’s what my inbox is open to others will of course be put to the side for later but right now obey me is on the menu Much love 💕 and appreciation!

Hey guys! I'm brand new to tumblr, but I'm here to help!

I write fanfictions and working on my fanart too! I would like to take requests for oneshots of the fandoms that I am into that way I can have more of a personality to my profile!

Here are some of my fandoms (the main ones):

-Gotham

-Supernatural

-Doctor Who

-Good Omens

-Sherlock (Movies or show)

-The Umbrella Acadamy

-The MCU

-The DCU

-Teen Titans (normal and Go!)

Please tell me if I'm doing anything wrong and if you have any helpful hints I'd be happy to hear them!

hii. hope everything is well with you :)

if you’re not too busy can I request a shigaraki x online gamer friend reader. where he becomes friends with a random girl he met while playing league or something (modern au).

maybe even a meet up or something. tyyy!!

"Lagging Hearts"

Shigaraki Tomura wasn’t supposed to care about anyone online. He liked the distance. The screen, the anonymity, the safety of being just a name on a friend list. But then he queued up for a late-night ranked match in League of Legends, and everything started glitching—emotionally speaking.

He met you by chance. Your username—“Pix3lGrrl”—was the kind of cringe he'd usually block. But you locked in midlane fast, started typing callouts in team chat like a drill sergeant, and your sarcasm matched his beat for beat.

“Garen support? Wow. Peak performance,” you typed.

He smirked. Okay, maybe she’s not awful.

One game became three. Then ten. Then nightly Discord calls. You tilted like a pro, cursed like a sailor, and still somehow made him laugh when his fingers were twitching to decay the world.

“You ever stop touching your face when you’re mad?” you teased during a losing streak.

He choked on his soda. “How the hell do you know that?”

“You always stop talking right before you screw up a teamfight. It’s, like, your rage silence.”

He didn’t reply right away. He was too busy… smiling?

—

Weeks passed. He didn’t tell you who he was—what he was. You didn’t ask. It was kind of perfect. The late-night games, the trash talk, your sleepy voice when it got too late and the ranked queue became ARAMs “just for fun.” He found himself waiting for the little Discord chime that said you were online like it was a drug.

One night, after a particularly nasty loss streak, you groaned, “I need a break. Let’s just talk.”

And he did. For hours.

You made him laugh so hard his screen shook. You called him “crusty king” and he didn’t even hate it. You told him about your cat, your weird neighbor, the way your keyboard was missing the F key but you were too lazy to fix it.

He thought about telling you. About his hands. His past. His real name.

Instead, he just asked, “Wanna queue again tomorrow?”

You replied instantly. “Always.”

—

He didn't know what this was—just a gamer friend or something dangerously close to real—but for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like disconnecting.

---

It was your idea to meet.

“Well, technically,” you said, “I’m being bribed with bubble tea. But yeah. Let’s meet.”

Shigaraki stared at the message for a full minute. His thumb hovered over the reply button. He’d never seen your face, and you’d never seen his. It had been months now—countless games, DMs, weird late-night rants about anime betrayals and which champions needed nerfs.

He wasn’t ready.

But he said yes anyway.

—

You picked a little gaming café downtown. Neon lights. LED keyboards. The smell of instant noodles and too many Monster cans. You wore a hoodie, same as him, and your hair was a little messier than your Discord icon implied—but it was you. He knew it immediately.

You were sitting with a boba and a Switch, tapping your foot to some lo-fi remix. You looked up and smiled.

“Crusty King?” you teased.

He almost turned around and left.

Instead, he gave a dry little laugh and slid into the seat across from you. “Pix3lGrrl. Didn’t expect you to look so… normal.”

You arched a brow. “Thanks? Didn’t expect you to look like a villain from a dystopian anime.”

He froze.

Your smile faltered for half a second, and then you recovered. “Kidding. I mean—you’ve got the vibe. Grumpy, gray hair, twitchy fingers. Kind of hot, though.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Nothing.”

You both sipped your drinks. Played a couple rounds of Smash on the café’s Switch dock. Laughed a lot. It felt almost like home. Like a weird dream.

But then you leaned in, really looked at him, and asked, “Hey… what do you do, anyway? You’ve never said.”

His hand twitched—just once. He quickly put it in his hoodie pocket. His mouth went dry.

“I… break things.”

You laughed. “Okay, edgy. What does that mean?”

He paused. Then whispered, “My name’s not really Ten.”

“Wait.” Your smile dimmed. “What?”

“I’m Tomura. Shigaraki Tomura.”

You went still.

You knew the name. Everybody did. The guy who vanished after the League crumbled. The one with a death count and a face like a warning sign.

You looked at him, really looked, and then said quietly, “And you… you play Jhin in ranked.”

He blinked. “That’s what you’re focusing on?”

You smiled slowly, something tender and a little heartbroken. “You’ve got four kills, and I’m starting to think I’m one of them.”

He opened his mouth—but you held up a hand.

“I'm not running. Just… give me a sec to update my patch notes, alright?”

And then, in the same breath, you asked, “You still down to queue tonight?”

“Ashes and New Beginnings”

Pairing: Dabi x Fem!Reader

Genre: Action / Romance / Angst / Fluff

TW: Mild violence, pregnancy, labor scene, emotional vulnerability

---

The mission was never supposed to go this far south.

You were only a few weeks away from your due date—not ideal for fieldwork, but you were stubborn. You could still move, still fight, and no one dared to argue when you gave that look. Not even him.

“Stay behind me,” Dabi had warned with a voice like low fire, his back shielding yours as the Pro Heroes ambushed the warehouse. “You shouldn’t have come. You know that, right?”

You smirked, placing a hand on your swollen belly. “You think I’d let you run off without me? Nice try, hotshot.”

He didn’t smile—Dabi rarely did—but the way his eyes flickered toward you said everything. He hated this. Hated seeing you like this, vulnerable and too close to danger. Hated that he couldn’t stop you… because he knew if it were him in your shoes, he wouldn’t stay behind either.

The fight erupted fast. Flames, explosions, quirks flashing in the dark. You held your own as long as you could—until it hit.

Pain.

A sudden, sharp contraction that stole the breath from your lungs. You dropped to your knees behind the crates, gripping your abdomen with a shaky gasp.

No. Not now.

“Dabi!” your voice cracked, loud enough to pierce the chaos. He turned instantly, the moment burned into memory—his eyes wide, horror dawning.

You're in labor.

Everything else vanished for him. Enemies, plans, strategy—none of it mattered anymore. He bolted to your side, catching you as you doubled over, another wave of pain tearing through you.

“You weren’t supposed to—shit—okay, okay, breathe,” he muttered, voice unsteady for once, panic creeping into every word. “You’re early. Damn it.”

“I can’t—I can’t hold it—”

He lifted you easily, cradling you against his chest, heat rolling off his skin protectively. His own flames flared wildly around him, forming a vicious barrier between you and the heroes advancing.

“She’s out. She’s done. You come any closer, I burn you all to ash,” Dabi snarled.

One look in his eyes, and none of them dared take a step.

He carried you out through the smoke and ruin like a man possessed, whispering ragged reassurances as your contractions got closer, sharper, more intense. He’d never been so afraid in his life—and he’d never felt something burn hotter than the love he felt for you right then.

---

Awesome—let’s go with Parts 2 and 3: a mix of chaotic, emotional, and a bit romantic. Dabi ends up having to deliver the baby himself at a hideout. Here's the continuation:

---

The hideout was a dump—abandoned, half-burnt, and barely standing—but it was the only place close enough. Dabi kicked the door open, cursing under his breath as he laid you down on a grimy mattress. Your face was pale, sweat clinging to your forehead, eyes dazed from pain.

“This isn’t happening,” you gasped, gripping his coat with trembling fingers. “I can’t—I don’t know what to—”

“Hey. Look at me,” he said, voice sharp but trembling. “You’re doing this. You’re strong. You’ve always been. I’ve seen you tear through enemies like nothing. This? This is nothing compared to what you’ve survived.”

You nodded, tears sliding down your cheeks, your body wracked with another contraction.

Dabi ripped off his coat and laid it beneath you. He moved like someone on autopilot—heating up a towel with his flames to sterilize it, searching the place for clean-ish water and supplies.

He had no idea what he was doing. He was a villain, not a midwife. But watching you suffer? Listening to your cries of pain and fear? That broke something in him.

“I got you, baby. Just breathe for me. I’m right here.”

He knelt between your legs, your body shaking violently, and whispered every comforting word he could think of—even though his own hands trembled like hell.

And then he saw it.

“Oh, shit. I see the head.”

---

You screamed—raw, powerful, primal. And Dabi didn’t flinch. He caught your child in his scarred hands like something sacred, eyes wide with disbelief. His flames were nowhere to be seen now—just his soft breath, ragged and stunned as he wrapped the baby up in his shirt.

“It’s a girl,” he said hoarsely, his voice cracking in a way you’d never heard before.

You sobbed, partly from exhaustion, partly from overwhelming love—for the little life in his arms, and for the man kneeling beside you, the same man everyone called a monster.

Dabi leaned over and pressed his forehead to yours, his hand still shaking as he held the baby close.

“She’s got your nose,” he whispered. “Poor kid.”

You laughed weakly, grabbing his collar and pulling him into a kiss, your lips warm against his even in your drained state.

“Thanks for not setting the place on fire,” you murmured.

He chuckled. “I thought about it. But she’s kinda worth not burning the world down for.”

You looked up at him, your breath catching—not from pain this time, but from love.

“I want to name her Aiko,” you said softly.

Dabi blinked. “Love, huh?”

You nodded. He swallowed hard.

“Yeah… she’s got plenty of that now.”

---

Hours passed. You were asleep now—finally resting after everything your body had just been through. Your breath was even, your face peaceful in the dull light filtering through the cracked hideout window.

Dabi sat in the far corner, silent, still, cradling Aiko in his arms.

She was so small.

He held her like she was made of glass, terrified to even breathe too hard. His fingers—burnt, stitched, ruined—looked wrong against her smooth, perfect skin. But she didn’t seem to mind. She just blinked up at him, curious and calm.

“You’re not scared of me, huh?” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

She blinked again.

He gave a shaky laugh. “You will be. When you’re older. When they tell you stories about Dabi the killer. The villain. The monster.”

His smile faltered. His hands tightened around the blanket.

“But your mom… she’ll tell you the truth. She always sees the truth. Even when I couldn’t.”

Aiko squirmed and let out a tiny squeaky noise. Dabi instinctively rocked her—something he’d seen in movies, not something he’d ever practiced.

“Yeah, I know. Life’s gonna be rough. You’re a villain’s kid. Maybe a hero’s too, if she has anything to say about it.”

His voice dropped lower. “But I’m gonna protect you. You hear me?”

A single tear slid down his cheek—he hadn’t cried in years. Not for himself. Not even for his past.

But this was different.

“You’re the only thing I’ve ever done right.”

Aiko yawned, stretched her hand out, and wrapped her tiny fingers around one of his.

And in that moment, for the first time in forever… Dabi felt warm.

Not from his fire.

From her.

---

“Alright, what the actual hell is that?”

Twice was the first one through the door, tripping over his own feet as he pointed at the bundle in Dabi’s arms like it was a bomb. Toga peeked over his shoulder, wide-eyed and covered in someone else’s blood.

“Is that a baby? Did you kidnap a baby? Oh my god, Dabi, I love her already—wait, did you steal her?”

Dabi gave them both a withering look, eyes dark and tired, but there was no anger—just exhaustion.

“She’s mine,” he said simply.

Silence.

Shigaraki looked up from scratching his neck raw in the corner, narrowing his eyes. Spinner froze mid-sip of his canned drink. Compress blinked like someone in a stage play who forgot their line.

“…Yours?” Shigaraki repeated slowly, voice dry. “As in—you made that?”

“Yeah,” Dabi replied, glancing down at the little girl dozing in his arms. “With her.” He nodded toward the back room where you were still recovering.

Toga’s eyes widened like saucers. “You had a baby with the pretty girl with the knives?!”

“Yep.”

“I ship it.”

Twice clapped dramatically. “Dabi’s a dad! Oh god, we’re all going to die. In a cute way.”

Shigaraki stared at the baby like she was some kind of ticking time bomb. “Can it explode?”

“No,” Dabi growled.

“…yet,” Shigaraki muttered, turning away.

Toga was already at his side, peeking at Aiko with genuine awe. “She’s so tiny. You think she’ll have your quirk?”

“Hope not,” Dabi muttered. “Not mine.”

Spinner walked over, scratching his head. “So… does this mean you're, like, settling down? Changing diapers between missions?”

Dabi scoffed. “Hardly. I still burn people for a living. I just… go home after now.”

And weirdly, none of them argued. None of them mocked him. In fact, a strange sort of hush fell over the room—a rare peace.

Toga pulled out her knife and declared, “If anyone tries to hurt her, I’ll gut them.”

Dabi looked up, eyes soft. “Thanks.”

The League didn’t understand much about love or family. But they did understand loyalty. And chaos. And revenge. So protecting a tiny, flame-born baby girl?

That… they could get behind

---

It was 3:14 a.m.

Dabi sat cross-legged on the floor of the hideout, shirtless, hair sticking up in every direction, dark circles under his eyes even darker than usual. Aiko was screaming like the world was ending, her tiny face bright red, and her little fists flailing like she was throwing punches at fate itself.

He stared at her. Then at the diaper. Then back at her.

“…I’ve blown up buildings with less stress than this.”

You groaned from the cot behind him, too sore and sleep-deprived to move. “You said you had it,” you mumbled.

“I did have it. Then she peed in my eye.”

Another wail came from Aiko, and Dabi winced like someone had shoved a knife in his ribs.

“Alright, alright, damn, we’re doing this.”

He opened a fresh diaper like it was an enemy he was about to fight. He glanced at the old one, holding it between two fingers like it might explode. “You’re lucky I love you, you little gremlin.”

You snorted.

After a solid three minutes of muttering threats at the diaper, several almost burns, and at least one moment where he looked genuinely afraid of baby wipes, Dabi somehow managed to get the new one on—crooked, but on.

Aiko immediately stopped crying.

She looked up at him with big, innocent eyes, hiccupped… and smiled.

He froze.

And for the first time in a long, long time… he smiled back.

“Okay. That was almost worth the trauma.”

He picked her up carefully, resting her tiny head against his chest. She nuzzled into his warm skin, calm now, soothed by the steady beat of his heart and the low hum of his fire.

“You’re gonna wreck me, aren’t you?” he whispered.

She gave a sleepy sigh.

“…Good. I probably deserve it.”

---

Dabi was dozing on the couch, shirtless, as usual. Aiko was perched on his chest like a sleepy little loaf, fists curled, head tucked under his jaw.

It was peaceful. Soft crackling from the fireplace. Your gentle humming in the background as you cleaned up.

And then—CHOMP.

“OW—what the hell!?”

Dabi sat up with a startled yelp, eyes wide, clutching his neck. Aiko blinked at him, innocent as ever… mouth smeared with drool and the tiniest red mark forming on his collarbone.

You leaned over, squinting.

“Is that… a hickey?”

Dabi stared at the baby. Then at you. Then back at the baby.

“She just—bit me. And sucked on my skin like some tiny mosquito demon.”

You lost it, laughing so hard you nearly dropped the bottle in your hand. “You got your first dad hickey. Officially initiated.”

“I burn people for fun, and this is what takes me out?”

Just then, Toga popped her head into the room—saw the mark on his neck and immediately let out a wolf whistle.

“Well, well, Dabi! Didn’t know you were into neck stuff.”

“It’s from the baby,” he growled.

“Sure it is,” she sang, winking.

By the time the rest of the League caught wind, rumors had spread.

Twice: “Dabi’s into bite play confirmed.”

Shigaraki: “Ew. Stop breeding.”

Spinner: “Should we get her teething rings or garlic and holy water?”

Dabi groaned, covering the mark with his hand.

But later that night, when it was just the three of you again, he looked at it in the mirror. The little bruise, round and oddly perfect. It hurt like hell.

And somehow… he loved it.

“She’s already leaving scars,” he muttered, tracing the spot with a smile. “Just like her mom.”

---

It started small.

You were feeding Aiko one afternoon—just you, her, and the peaceful hum of the hideout. You offered her a spoonful of mashed carrots with the usual sweet smile.

“Here comes the airplane—”

She stared at you. Then slapped the spoon clean out of your hand.

“…Excuse me?”

From the other room, Dabi laughed. “That’s my girl.”

You glared. “Don’t encourage her.”

But it only got worse.

Later that day, you tried again—with applesauce this time.

“No, Aiko. We don’t throw food.”

Aiko looked you dead in the eye and mumbled something that sounded a lot like:

“Sh’t.”

You froze.

“…What did you just say?”

From the couch, Dabi shouted, “What did she say?!”

“She said your favorite word.”

Dabi came striding in, picking her up with this massive, proud smirk on his face. “No way. Say it again, squirt.”

Aiko grinned. “Sh’t.”

You palmed your face. “Dabi, stop smiling.”

“I’m not! I’m—okay yeah, I am. But c’mon, listen to the attitude on her. She's feral.”

“Oh my god.”

It didn’t stop there.

By the end of the week, she had a whole little sass vocabulary going:

Glares when someone touches her snacks.

Mimics Dabi’s sighs perfectly.

Says “bruh” when her bottle falls.

And, most dangerously of all—the eye roll.

Toga was obsessed.

“She’s a tiny Dabi! But cuter. And less murder-y.”

Twice tried teaching her to say “Boom, baby!” after every fart. It worked. Too well.

Shigaraki banned her from the meeting room after she threw a pacifier at him mid-rant.

Dabi? He was beaming the entire time.

“Kid’s got fire,” he said proudly, arms crossed, scarred lip curled in a grin. “Just like her old man.”

You gave him a side-eye. “If she starts setting stuff on fire next week, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal.”

(You both secretly loved it.)

---

It was raining.

Not the hard, violent kind that matched Dabi’s mood—just a steady drizzle outside the hideout, mist curling over cracked windows. You were curled up with a blanket, half-asleep, watching Aiko crawl around the dusty floor, babbling nonsense to herself.

Dabi leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, just watching her. He did that a lot these days—quiet, present in a way he never used to be.

Aiko picked up one of his gloves from the floor. Turned it over in her hands. Dropped it. Then looked up at him.

And said it.

“Dada.”

Silence.

The rain didn’t stop. The wind didn’t pause. But something in Dabi broke.

You sat up instantly. “Wait—did she just—?”

He didn’t move. His face had gone still, unreadable. Only his eyes gave it away—wide, full of something between shock and something too tender to name.

Aiko smiled at him like it was no big deal.

“Dada.”

Dabi walked over slowly. Dropped to his knees in front of her. She touched his cheek—right where the staples met burned skin—and giggled.

“Dada.”

He laughed. Just once. Rough, soft, stunned.

“Yeah, kid,” he whispered. His voice cracked. “That’s me.”

He pulled her close—not tight, just enough to tuck his chin over her tiny head.

You watched from the couch, a hand over your mouth, heart about to explode.

He’d been called a lot of things.

Villain. Monster. Traitor. Burner. Killer.

But Dada?

That one might’ve saved him.

---

The night was quieter than usual. The storm outside had finally slowed to a gentle patter, and the hideout was filled with nothing but the occasional crackling from the fireplace. The warmth of the flames danced across the walls, casting shadows as Dabi sat on the couch, Aiko nestled against him.

She was asleep now, her small chest rising and falling in that peaceful rhythm that made even the toughest villains pause. Dabi’s hand rested lightly on her back, the familiar weight of responsibility and love settling in his bones.

You were asleep in the other room, exhausted from the day’s chaos, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Dabi had nothing but time.

His eyes traced the small curve of Aiko’s face—so serene, so full of life. She was perfect. His daughter. His kid. The word felt foreign on his tongue, but so right.

He hadn't realized how much he needed this—this quiet, this peace, this tiny human who somehow softened everything he’d built himself into.

Carefully, Dabi let his fingers run through Aiko’s soft hair. He didn’t even think about it—he just did it. A tender motion, a simple gesture he could barely believe he was capable of.

Then, he started humming.

It was the song you always hummed to her when she was fussy, the tune that seemed to calm her every time. A melody so soft, so gentle, it made him forget the past for a moment and just exist in the now.

Aiko stirred slightly but didn’t wake, her little hand gripping the edge of his shirt as she snuggled closer. The soft sound of her breath filled the room, the night settling in deeper.

Dabi kept humming. His voice was low and unsteady, like a fire that only flickered, but in that moment, it was full of warmth—like he was finally allowing himself to feel everything he’d kept buried for so long.

He wasn’t a perfect father. Hell, he didn’t even know if he was a good one. But right now, as Aiko slept soundly in his arms, her tiny body rising and falling with each breath, he felt something he hadn’t in years—something like peace.

Aiko shifted again, this time her tiny mouth curling into a soft smile in her sleep, as if she felt the rhythm of his heart. He kissed the top of her head, his voice barely a whisper.

“I love you, kid.”

He said it so quietly, like it was something sacred, something only meant for her to hear.

And maybe she did. Maybe she always would.

hii, I have a request if it’s not too much work. denki x online gf reader. all of his friends think he’s lying about her but for their spring break the reader flies from America to Japan to visit denki for the first time (reader is in a hero course in America aswell) :p

Denki x Online GF!Reader - The Surprise Spring Break Visit

It was a sunny morning in Japan, and the UA campus was buzzing with excitement for the upcoming spring break. Denki Kaminari, the class clown and the most energetic member of Class 1-A, was practically vibrating with excitement. He couldn’t stop talking about his girlfriend — someone who everyone assumed was just an imaginary online relationship.

“You guys, seriously, she’s real! She’s flying in from America! You’ll meet her when she gets here!” Denki insisted for what felt like the hundredth time, his voice bright with enthusiasm as he bounced in his seat.

The others exchanged skeptical glances. They loved Denki, but this was a bit much. Everyone knew he was a bit of a flirt, so they assumed the ‘online girlfriend’ was just another one of his harmless jokes. But Denki had insisted so many times, they couldn’t help but doubt him.

“Yeah, sure, Denki. When we meet her, will she be just as ‘real’ as your other ‘girlfriends’?” Kirishima teased, nudging him with a grin.

“Dude, I’m telling you, this is the real deal!” Denki said, a determined look on his face. “She’s coming all the way from America to meet me! You’ll see.”

The week passed by quickly, and the day of the big arrival came. Denki had been bouncing around all morning, practically shaking with anticipation. He’d made all the arrangements — from the airport pick-up to the meeting spot — and couldn’t wait for his friends to finally believe him.

Finally, the moment came. Denki stood at the airport gate, nervously glancing at the clock, his phone clutched tightly in his hand. A few minutes later, a familiar face appeared, and Denki’s heart leapt in his chest.

There she was. Y/N. His online girlfriend, looking even more stunning in person. Her warm smile was brighter than any of his expectations, and Denki rushed over to meet her, completely ignoring the stunned looks from his classmates who had tagged along.

“Y/N!” Denki grinned, running up to her. Without thinking, he pulled her into a tight hug, lifting her off the ground in excitement. “I can’t believe you’re finally here!”

Y/N laughed, adjusting her bag before wrapping her arms around him. “I missed you too, Denki. It’s so crazy being here… but I’m happy to finally meet you in person.”

The others, standing a bit further away, were frozen in shock. They couldn’t believe it. Denki's online girlfriend was real. They had assumed it was some elaborate joke or a figment of his imagination, but here she was, standing right in front of them, looking exactly like the photos Denki had shown them. She was even more beautiful in person.

“Okay, okay, we need to admit it. He wasn’t lying.” Kirishima said, rubbing the back of his neck, still in disbelief.

Denki's grin widened. “Told you! See, I told you she was real!”

Y/N gave a shy smile and waved at the group, her cheeks turning a light pink. “Hi, I’m Y/N. I know this must be a surprise for everyone, but I’m really happy to be here.”

As everyone started to warm up to the idea of Denki’s ‘real’ relationship, they began to ask Y/N questions. “So, you’re in the hero course back in America?” Momo asked, genuinely curious.

“Yeah, just like Denki. We met through some shared interests, and we’ve been talking ever since. He’s kind of a big deal to me.” Y/N chuckled softly, glancing up at Denki with affection.

The group couldn’t help but smile, seeing how genuine their connection was. Even though they had doubted Denki’s relationship at first, seeing how happy he was now, they couldn’t help but be supportive.

“Alright, alright. We’ll admit it. You got us, man.” Bakugo grumbled, though there was a slight hint of a smile on his face. “Just don’t get too mushy in front of us, okay?”

Denki laughed and gave him a thumbs-up. “No promises! She’s my girlfriend, I’m gonna be all over her!”

Y/N playfully punched Denki’s shoulder. “Careful, or you’ll make me regret coming to Japan!”

The rest of the day was filled with laughter, exploring, and bonding. Even though Denki’s friends had been skeptical, they could see how much the two cared for each other. The chemistry between Denki and Y/N was undeniable.

And as the day went on, everyone started to think: maybe Denki wasn’t just the class clown after all. Maybe he was more serious about this relationship than they had given him credit for.

“A Pup Among Cats”

Wild Wild Pussycats x Baby!Reader

Reader has a dog-related quirk (enhanced smell/hearing, maybe tail/ears?)

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Found Family

---

The first time they saw you, you were curled up in a blanket way too big for your tiny body, floppy ears twitching at every sound, big watery eyes staring up at them like they were the biggest things in the world. Mandalay swore under her breath.

“A… dog?” Pixie-Bob blinked. “This baby has a dog quirk?”

“Yup.” The hero who dropped you off looked exhausted. “Enhanced senses. Sharp hearing, powerful nose, slight tail mutation. Probably some tracking potential when she’s older.”

Tiger folded his arms. “You do know we’re the Wild Wild Pussycats, right? We don’t really… deal with dogs.”

Mandalay sighed. “And yet you brought her to us.”

“She needs a home. And you’re registered as foster-capable for quirked kids. No one else has room for someone with her sensory needs. The shelters are full.” A pause. “She doesn’t have anyone else.”

You sneezed then. A tiny, pitiful thing. Your tail wagged once, unsure.

Ragdoll knelt down slowly. “Hi, sweet thing,” she whispered, reaching a hand out. You sniffed it with that super-powered nose of yours, ears perking. “You smell like… tuna,” you babbled.

Mandalay winced. “Okay, that’s kind of cute.”

Pixie-Bob huffed. “Just don’t expect me to like her.”

—

Three weeks later, Pixie-Bob was the one sleeping with you curled on her chest, brushing your little tail while muttering, “Dogs aren’t that bad.”

Tiger caught you trying to chase your own tail and had to step out because “something got in my eye.” Ragdoll taught you how to howl. Mandalay started keeping extra noise-canceling earmuffs in her bag for when your hearing got overwhelmed.

You weren’t a cat. You barked in your sleep and chewed on slippers.

But somehow, you fit. You were their little pup. The odd one out in a house full of felines.

And the Pussycats? They didn't just “deal” with dogs anymore.

They had a reason to love one.

---

Sorry if this was short!

“Diaper Duty and Daddy Feelings”

Setting: Rengoku Home – 3:12 AM

The house was quiet. Dark. Peaceful.

Until it wasn’t.

A sharp, angry wail split the silence, and Kyojuro shot upright like he’d been summoned to war.

“I’ve got her!” he declared in a whisper-yell, nearly tripping on his own haori as he dashed toward the nursery.

You groaned from bed, half-asleep. “Kyo… it’s okay, I can—”

“No, no, my love! You rest! I am on official flame father duty!”

Inside the nursery, Kyojuro approached the tiny crib with reverence and absolute panic.

“Hello, my little night torch,” he whispered, lifting her up gently. “What a powerful scream! So strong! So bold!”

She responded by immediately peeing on his hand.

“…A glorious gift,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

One chaotic diaper change later, he was staring at a pair of socks.

Tiny, pink, ruffled socks.

He held one up like it was made of ancient magic. “Look at this. Her entire foot fits in the palm of my hand,” he whispered, eyes wide.

Then, softly, like the weight of it had just landed on him: “She’s so small. How can someone this small take up so much of my heart?”

She sneezed.

He gasped. “Bless you, fiery bean!”

The sock dropped. He forgot it entirely.

Instead, he cradled her close, pacing the room with exaggerated care. “When you are older, I will teach you about the stars, and the way maple leaves change, and how to roast the perfect sweet potato.”

She blinked at him. Yawned. Then spit up on his shoulder.

He didn’t even flinch. Just sighed dreamily. “You are perfection.”

By the time you shuffled to the doorway in your robe, you found him sitting in the rocking chair, baby asleep on his chest, one sock still missing, his hair a disaster.

You smiled. “Flame father duty going well?”

He gave you a dazed, radiant smile. “I would die for her.”

“…You’re covered in pee.”

“And I would die again.”

"In His Arms"

The soft hum of the hospital room filled the silence between you and Izuku. You lay propped up on the pillows, tired but glowing, as you watched your husband sit frozen in the nearby chair, staring at the bundle in his arms like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever held.

“Are you okay?” you whispered with a tired smile.

He looked up at you, eyes wide, already glassy with emotion. “He’s… he’s so small. I’m afraid to move.”

You laughed softly, your hand brushing your own tired eyes. “You’ve held babies before.”

“Yeah, but not ours. Not my son.” Izuku looked back down, his hand cradling the baby's head like he was made of paper. “He’s got your nose… and I think my ears.”

The baby gave a tiny yawn and wriggled in his arms. Izuku froze.

“Did I do something wrong?!”

You shook your head gently. “No, love. He’s just dreaming. You’re doing everything right.”

Izuku sat completely still, not even daring to shift his weight. His hair was a mess, his hero uniform jacket thrown over the hospital chair behind him. He hadn’t left your side once.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted quietly, “but I know I want to do it perfectly.”

“You don’t have to be perfect,” you said, voice growing soft as sleep pulled at you. “Just love him. Like you already do.”

His eyes softened. “I love you both so much it hurts.”

As the baby settled in his arms, Izuku slowly stood up, walking carefully to your bedside. He sat beside you, cradling your son between the two of you.

“He’s going to be so brave,” he said in a hushed tone. “But I’ll be careful. I’ll be gentle. I’ll protect him with everything I have. Always.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, your fingers brushing over the baby's blanket. “He’s got you. He’s already safe.”

In the quiet of the hospital room, with the city far outside and the world on pause, Izuku Midoriya held his son like he was holding the whole future.

And to him, maybe he was.

---

Explosive Love: Final Chapter – The Fartening: UA Edition

Pairing: Kirishima x Fem!Reader

Featuring: Class 1-A Babysitting Chaos

Genre: Pure Crack, Full Ensemble, Epic Finale

Summary: In a desperate bid to prove they’re “hero-ready,” Class 1-A volunteers to babysit together. Team effort, they said. It’ll be fine, they said. But nothing—nothing—could prepare them for one baby and her Quirk: Mass Gas Destruction.

---

“You guys SURE about this?” Kirishima asked, holding your baby like she was the final boss.

The entire 1-A squad stood in formation—matching shirts, notebooks, snacks, and Mina with a whiteboard battle plan.

“This baby’s just a baby,” said Denki, already sweating but smiling. “We’ve survived finals!”

“She’s literally two feet tall,” Mineta scoffed. “What’s the worst she can—”

PFFFFFT.

The baby made direct eye contact with him as it echoed.

Everyone froze.

Bakugo walked by the door, still emotionally scarred. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he muttered. “Little demon’s got a Quirk worse than mine.”

---

Phase 1: Attempt Diplomacy

Iida read a book aloud. Momo sang softly. Tokoyami played ominous jazz on a toy piano.

The baby?

She waited.

Ochaco: “She’s so quiet…”

Tsuyu: “Too quiet.”

PHBRRRRRT.

Half the team hit the deck.

“WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!” Kaminari screamed.

---

Phase 2: Divide and Conquer

Jirou and Ojiro tried calming her with lullabies.

Kirishima and Mina tag-teamed diaper duty.

Sero built a fart-proof barrier with tape.

The baby? She broke through it.

“HOW DID SHE BREACH THE TAPE LINE?!” Sero yelled, diving for cover.

“THIS ISN’T TAPE-RESISTANT GAS!” yelled Yaoyorozu, sketching a hazmat blueprint midair.

---

Phase 3: Full Meltdown

A fart rolled across the room like thunder.

Ashido screamed, “EVACUATE THE FLOOR!”

Todoroki used ice walls. She melted them with a warm, low pbbbt.

Bakugo peeked in again. “Still think this was a good idea?”

“LEAVE,” screamed Denki, wrapped in a baby blanket and crying.

“I can’t feel my legs,” muttered Mineta from under the couch.

“I think she farted my Quirk offline,” Deku whispered, stunned.

---

Final Phase: Acceptance

Aizawa arrived to find the class scattered like a lost battle scene.

The baby sat in the center, giggling and reaching for her pacifier, a picture of peace after the storm.

“I see she won,” he said.

“She always wins,” Kirishima groaned, gently scooping her up.

“She’s gonna be a future Number One,” Todoroki murmured, still clutching a Febreze can like a sword.

The baby looked around.

Smiled.

And let out one final, echoing toot.

---

Epilogue:

She grew up to be a kind, strong, powerful young girl.

…Her Quirk? "Pressure Release" – a combustion-based gas emission with trajectory control.

Pro Hero Name: Windbreaker.

Bakugo never recovered.

Kirishima was proud.

You? You carried Febreze in your hero utility belt—forever.

The End.

---

"Hold On, I'm Here"

Genre: Angst / Comfort / Family

Pairing: Bakugo Katsuki x Fem!Reader

Summary: The happiest moment of your lives turns into a nightmare when unexpected complications arise during childbirth. Bakugo is forced to face the terrifying possibility of losing the woman he loves.

---

The sterile smell of the hospital was suffocating. Katsuki paced the hallway like a caged animal, fists clenched, the roar of his heart louder than any explosion he'd ever caused. His mind raced with worst-case scenarios.

You'd gone into labor earlier than expected. Everything had seemed fine—until it wasn’t.

“She’s not dilating properly. We may need to perform an emergency C-section,” the doctor had said, face tight with concern.

Bakugo had never felt this powerless. Not during the toughest missions, not even when he'd nearly died. Nothing compared to this: waiting, helpless, as the woman he loved fought for her life behind closed doors.

“Bakugo-san?”

His head snapped up. A nurse stood in front of him, eyes gentle but serious.

“She’s still in surgery. There were complications with the placenta… she's lost a lot of blood, but we’re doing everything we can.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just stared. Then, he nodded, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

"She’s strong," he muttered under his breath. "Damn strong."

Time lost meaning.

Finally, hours later, they let him in. You were pale, hooked up to machines, a faint beep echoing in the room. But your chest was rising. You were breathing. Alive.

And in a tiny bassinet nearby—a small, wriggling bundle with a shock of your hair and his eyes.

Katsuki stood frozen for a moment, looking at both of you.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he whispered as he sat beside your bed, gently taking your hand. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Your eyelids fluttered open, weak but there.

“Katsuki…”

“Yeah. I’m here. We’re okay. You're okay.”

He brought your hand to his lips, letting the tears fall freely now. You’d made it. Barely. But you’d made it.

And so had your family.

---

---

The hospital room was quieter now, filled with only soft beeping and the occasional squeak from the baby in the bassinet. You were still sleeping, recovering from the blood loss and surgery. Bakugo hadn’t moved from your side.

Except when the baby cried.

It startled him at first—the small, angry wail from something so tiny. Katsuki looked down at the bundle with wide eyes.

“Tch… what the hell do you want now?” he muttered, reaching into the bassinet with the same care he’d handle a bomb.

He picked the baby up, awkwardly at first, cradling her against his chest. She was so warm. So fragile. It made his heart squeeze in ways he didn’t expect.

“Yeah, yeah, I got you,” he grumbled, though his voice was much softer than usual. “You better not get used to cryin’ just to get picked up.”

She kept crying.

“…Okay, maybe you’re hungry or somethin’. I dunno. No one gave me a damn manual on how to be a dad.” He glanced toward the sleeping figure of you, lips pressed tightly. “You’d know what to do. You always know.”

Eventually, with the help of a nurse, he fed her. Clumsily. Stubbornly. But he did it. And when she stopped crying and fell asleep in his arms, something clicked.

He sat back down in the chair beside your bed, holding the baby on his chest now, wrapped in soft blankets. His eyes drifted to you—still pale, but breathing easier. More color in your cheeks.

"You almost left me, dumbass," he whispered. "Don’t ever scare me like that again."

The baby shifted in his arms, letting out a little sigh. Bakugo looked down at her.

“…She’s got your nose. And my shitty attitude, probably.”

He gently touched your hand again, threading his fingers through yours.

“I’m gonna take care of her. And you. Even if I screw it up sometimes. Just… don’t leave me to do it alone.”

As if you heard him, your fingers twitched. Your eyelids fluttered open again, hazy but awake.

“Katsuki…?”

He exhaled sharply. Relief, love, guilt, everything hit at once.

“Yeah. I got her. I got both of you.”

---

---

The apartment was warmer than you remembered. Maybe it was the spring sun filtering through the windows. Or maybe it was the tiny presence sleeping in the bassinet, just a few feet away.

You were finally home.

Moving hurt. Breathing still felt heavy sometimes. But Katsuki never left your side. Not once.

He held your hand as you walked slowly to the couch, gently helping you sit down, fluffing pillows behind your back like he’d done it a thousand times before—even if his ears turned red while doing it.

“You good?” he asked, kneeling in front of you. His eyes scanned your face like he was still checking for danger.

You nodded, smiling softly. “I’m okay.”

“You better be.” His voice was gruff, but his thumb brushed your knee gently. “Scared the hell outta me, y’know.”

“I know.”

He didn’t say it, but you could see it in his eyes—he had cried. Maybe more than once. You reached out and ran your fingers through his messy blond hair.

Then a little noise came from the bassinet. A squeak, then a full-blown wail.

“Shit,” he muttered, standing up fast. “I got her, I got her.”

You watched him scoop her up with more confidence than a few days ago. He didn’t look scared now. Just tired. But in love.

Katsuki rocked her gently, pacing around the living room with her tucked against his shoulder.

“I just changed you,” he muttered under his breath. “Can’t be that again. You hungry? You got my appetite, huh?”

You laughed softly. “She probably does.”

He glanced over, and something flickered in his expression—something raw, unspoken.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted. “With her. With you. But I’m trying. Every second.”

You blinked through sudden tears. “You’re doing amazing.”

Katsuki sat beside you with the baby, his arm sliding around your back so you could lean against him. She was quiet now, snuggled against his chest, tiny fingers curled into his shirt.

“She’s got your fire,” you whispered.

“Damn right she does,” he said. “You made her strong. Just like you.”

And in that moment, sitting on the couch in your little apartment, wrapped in each other’s warmth and the soft sounds of your new daughter breathing between you—everything felt right.

Not perfect. But real.

And real was enough.

---

What I’m (hopefully) gonna release today;

Mha headcannons (for quite a few characters, including Mina, Kaminari, Sero, Izu, Shota and Iida)

K. Bakugou x chubby!fem!reader

H. Sero x chubby!fem!reader.

If I don’t release all of those today, then I’ll release whatever I miss tmr, cause those are the fics I’m working on in order, then I’m knocking out all of my reqs bc they’re building up and I feel bad, dw, they’re coming.

Anyways, here’s some stuff to look forward to!

The next Valentine’s Day story will come out tmr, I’m tired as balls and have schoolwork to catch up on sisjsksj Sowwy :((

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚⋆˚☆˖°⋆

⋆.˚✮Lex's Master Lists.✮˚.⋆

⭑

ᯓ★My Hero Academia. (Mha) ⚝

ᯓ★Demon Slayer. (Kny) ⚝ coming soon...

ᯓ★Attack on Titan (Aot) ⚝ coming soon...

ᯓ★Jujutsu Kaisen. (JJK) ⚝

ᯓ★Undertale (UT) ⚝ coming soon...

Thinking about rich!reader (🌸)

Masterlist

Rich!reader who enjoys nothing more than spoiling Izuku rotten, finding literally every excuse to blow their money on their former classmate.

Rich!reader who spends hundreds on Izuku despite his protests, I.e.; “Y/n! This figure was $400! Are you crazy?” Or “you shouldn’t spend so much on me..I feel bad..” but of course, they never listen to him, insisting that he deserves it for being such an amazing friend.

Rich!reader who gets more pleasure out of spending outrageous amounts of money on the boy they’ve been pining over since their UA days, than anything else the world has to offer.

Rich!reader, who spent ¥140,000 ($908.29) on a formal kimono for Izuku’s 20th birthday. He cried

Rich!reader who is obviously pining, but doesn’t outright say it.

Rich!reader who gets Izuku flowers every Monday, having them delivered to his classroom if they’re not able to hand deliver them themselves.

Rich!reader who keeps their arm around Izuku’s waist any time they attend a fancy hero gathering, always paying for Izuku’s drinks and anything he gets to eat at these extravagant places.

Rich!reader who, when they were in high school with Izuku, took him to one of the biggest hero expos in all of Japan (I’m talking buying plane tickets, expo tickets, hotel rooms, food and merch costs.)

Rich!reader who has no impulse control when Izuku’s birthday rolls around, or any holiday, frankly

Rich!reader who has their personal chef teach them how to make all of Izuku’s favorite meals, then surprises him with the finest ingredients in his favorite foods.

Rich!reader who’s a total sucker for the tears Izuku sheds when he sees the sweet and thoughtful gifts they give him.

Rich!reader who wants nothing more than to see all of Izuku’s needs met, and seeing him happy means more than any currency they could earn.

Rich!reader who ignores the smirks they get when the old class 1A triage goes out for drinks, and they always argue with Izuku on who’s paying his tab, only for R!reader to beat him in the race to get their cards out.

Rich!reader who’s not very good with words, and has no idea how to express their feelings for Izuku than spoiling him rotten, just like he deserves

Rich!reader who finally (with the help of their old classmates) asks Izuku out, to which he is over the moon, throwing his arms around R!reader and clinging to them tightly, saying that he’s been waiting for this for so long.

Rich!reader who buys Inko Midoriya a cute house in the same neighborhood as the house that they share with Izuku, along with buying her a new car. Because if momma Inko isn’t taken care of, how can all of Izukus needs be met?

Thinking abt yandere!reader x Izuku Midoriya (🥀💋)

Masterlist

Yandere!reader who never considered themselves interested in romance, wanting to focus on their hero career.

Yandere!reader who enrolled into UA through recommendation, incredibly strong, a bit closed off with a front, but kind and polite ultimately.

Yandere!reader who always had a very strong stomach to blood and gore, not even batting an eye at limbs being horrifically ripped off in movies, or nails being plucked out.

Yandere!reader who fits in, but blends in also.

Yandere!reader who meets the sweet tortured soul of Izuku Midoriya and fell head over heels, instantly.

Yandere!reader who makes close friends with Izuku right off the bat, finding literally any excuse to talk to the boy.

Yandere!reader who makes it obvious who Izuku belongs to, being a bit extra touchy with the boy, a brush of the arm here, playing with his hair there. It was obvious.

Yandere!reader who listens to Izuku yap about anything he thinks of, gently playing with his hair while he muttered to them.

Yandere!reader who gets put on house arrest for a week because they beat the shit out of a third year for saying how Izuku looked too ‘skinny’ to be a hero, almost knocking out a tooth.

Yandere!reader who dismisses any comments about the fight, saying they- ‘asked for it.’

Yandere!reader who was a little pushy with their affection, but Izuku didn’t mind. After all, since when did anyone fight for his attention?

Yandere!reader who jumps at the opportunity to play seven minutes in heaven, rigging the game by specifically asking Mina to draw their and Izuku’s items from the hat

Yandere!reader who leaves a dark hickey in the middle of Izuku’s neck, making it obvious who staked their claim on the boy.

Yandere!reader who sneaks into Izuku’s dorm when he’s not around to steal his things, from littlw pencils to his boxers, if it’s in sight, it’s theirs.

Yandere!reader who begins to love bomb Izuku, giving him gifts and constant praise.

Yandere!reader who grins when Izuku pulls them away from the group while they’re out roller skating, the two of them alone on the side of the building.

Yandere!reader who grabs Izukus hips when he confesses, leaning down and whispering into his ear “I’ve been waiting so long to hear that from you, baby”

Yandere!reader who seems innocent and polite, with a greed for everything Izuku boiling under the surface.

Yandere!reader who promises to protect Izuku no matter the cost as they’re gently toying with his hair, the two of them cuddled on Yan!readers bed.

Yandere!reader who has Izuku right where they want him, he just doesn’t know it.

Not that they’d ever do anything to hurt him.

They’re his just as much as he’s their’s.

And he sure is theirs.

Can you outrun this?

Idea to @/coquettecomics on c.ai this is INSANELY ooc because it's my drself x Rex, I don't know how long i'll work on it but i'll keep updating... Probably. I also don't know how to tag a fanfic. or how to cut it.

Rex part posted soon.

|| M4F, Angst, regret, cosmic deity , switching POVS

⋆｡°✩˙✮⋆˙ °⋆｡𖦹°💥*ੈ🧨‧💣°𖦹｡⋆

I stood in an alleyway, it was dark and cold out- Rex Splode stood in front of me with a hurt look on his face, the rain pelting against the ground only setting the ambience even more. My eyes darted past him to the open road, where I so desperately wanted to go. Get out of this awkward situation. Get out of here.

“You really think I wouldn't have come after you?” Rex finally broke the silence, his hands balling into fists at his sides. Of course he was the first to notice, I didn’t know how to tell him I was leaving, I needed to leave. Everything was too much. Omni-Man, Cecil, all these villains, never having a moment of peace? I was happier alone floating through space while having a mental breakdown.

“You think running away from this will change anything? Change us? It won’t.” Rex started, biting his lip as he let out a sigh. “Viviane… I need you. The guardians need you-” Rex looked down and shook his head. “You can’t outrun this life, the people need you. The threats and villains are only getting more dangerous,” Rex looked back up, locking eyes with mine in one of the most awkward staring competitions I've ever had. “... Say you don’t love me, say you’re done with this life and I'll let you go, I won't even chase after you.”

“... I’m done with this life.” I managed to get the words out, my hands clenched so tight I felt my nails digging into my palms.  I couldn’t continue looking at him, and I couldn't say I didn't love him. I’d be lying to both of us.

Rex felt as if he’d been shot, an aching pain in his chest he hated so much. He felt as if all the wind had been punched out of his lungs, tears watering in his eyes as a small show of vulnerability, he looked away so I couldn't see the tears threatening to fall, but I still could. He took a step to the side, his expression hardening as his eyes searched my face for any hints of doubt, and when he saw none- “Then go.” Rex gestured towards the road. “Go.” his voice came out a ragged and pained whisper.

I felt myself float above the ground, my feet hovering just above it, a nervous habit. A habit I usually did when I was upset or angry, trying to detach myself from reality, from humanity. “... Rex-” I tried to speak, but he cut me off. “No.” He spoke firmly, his body tense and rigid. “You said you’re done, so go.”

He’s trying to be strong, but it was tearing through him. His eyes stinging as he held back the tears. I stared at him for a moment longer, my bottom lip trembling as I hung my head low once more. “... I’m sorry.” My voice broke, my hands trembling as I floated past him out towards the road. 

Rex watched me go, my sob ripping through his heart, making the ache more painful. He wanted to chase after me, but his feet stayed planted as he watched my figure slowly vanish from sight, the dam finally broke and his tears began falling, blending in with the rain as it streamed down his face.

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Viviane.

I soared through space for a little bit, the tears streaming down my face freezing and breaking off as I flew, the atmosphere didn’t affect me though. Perks of being a cosmic demigod I guess.

Finally I landed down on Thagrea, a planet like Earth- Just made specifically for demigods and their children. Two people lived on this planet I actually knew, the only two people on this planet I trust.

I’d knock on a door and wait for either Mason or Xander to answer, they were my cousins, on my divine side at least. Their father, Ither, god of dreams and nightmares, was the brother to my mother, Dancia. It’s all sort of complicated.

After a moment, the door swung open, a tall and dark skinned man held a sword out at me with a stern look, but it faltered when his eyes laid on me. “... Viviane? What- What are you doing here?” He slowly lowered his sword, his eyes scanning past me and around the neighborhood as if he was expecting someone else to be with me.

“Xander I… I-I messed up, really bad.” My voice trembled, as much as I wanted to suppress my tears and broken voice I couldn't. Xander’s features softened as he set his sword off to the side and ushered me in. “Come in, come in. It’s alright. Tell me what happened.”

I sat on the couch and covered my face with my hands, letting out a sob. “I can’t do it. I can’t help Earth anymore, the one thing my mother made me do, and I can't. I ruined- I ruined the o-one good human relationship too, i think. I… I love him… And I just… Ran away. But I can't go back, and he won’t give up. He never knows when to quit!” I cried. Xander sat beside me, rubbing my back gently just as his twin, Mason stepped inside.

“It’s okay…” Xander murmured, flashing a nervous glance to Mason. “This… Guy you ran away from, does he know you love him?” Xander asked hesitantly, I leaned into his hand and shrugged. “I-I don’t know…” 

“Does… Does he know what you are?” Mason finally spoke up, his arms crossing over his chest. “... No. I never told anyone, the only one who knows is my father, and Cecil to an extent.” I sighed and wiped away my tears.

“...Bitch what DOES he know?!”

“Mason!” Xander looked at Mason with a bewildered expression. “What!? This guy has a right to know he’s dating a demigod, okay!” Mason threw his hands up in the air, in dramatic fashion as usual. “I wouldn’t want to date one of us, not knowing what we are or what we’re capable of!” 

“Yeah well that’s not helping her current mood, asshole-” I cut Xander up, waving my hand in the air. “No… He’s right. I haven’t been truthful at all about what I am, about my origins… It’s too late now though, he probably doesn’t want to see me ever again.”

Forgotten But Not Forgiven

(Inspired by a fic I read, I can't remember the name but if anyone finds it lmk so I can tag/credit the author)

You had been around for a long time, longer than most of the surviving gods in this era of the world.

You were not, however, credited for your deed towards humanity and its successes.

You had risen to power around the same time as Morax. It would be safe to say he would not have risen so high without you.

While you had only been a minor god, your intelligence had proven to be quite useful in the era of strength you were born into. An era of buff toddlers, you used to say.

Using this intelligence, you had decided to aid the up and coming Morax in the Archon War, as well as before it. You gained many followers due to this, as well as territory.

You did your best to protect your people, but you could only do so much against the raw strength of the power hungry deities wanting not only your lands, but your intellect as well.

Morax and his precious Guizhong had pressured you into a contract. forcing you to abandon your people to give them the upper hand in the war. You had agreed on the terms that your people would remain unharmed and safe.

This was not the end result that occurred, much to your sadness. You had been tricked by the infamous duo of the earth.

Prior to this deception, you had been close to the two gods, to the point where you could have said they were your friends and confidants. You hadn't thought of the possibility that they were using you for your power. You had thought that they were truly as loyal to you as you were to them.

You wanted to kill them both right then and there, tear them to shreds where they sat, watch as their confident body posture wilted as they passed on to the next plane of existence. But, you were not only bound by contract to see them through to a throne of the Seven, you were craving a deeper revenge, one much crueler than a quick and merciful death.

Over time, your anger concentrated onto one of the two, Morax. You had found out that Guizhong had not known that your people would be sacrificed to win the war. Once she had found out, it was too late.

Some time before her death, she had tried to reconcile with you. However, you were not so keen as to forgive her so easily. So, you made a deal, a contract.

She had to help you retrieve your lands back, as well as any descendants of what were once your people. She had agreed, desperate to regain your friendship.

The hard part was sneaking around behind the now Rex Lapis' back, as he seemed to always want the dust goddesses presence. Lucky for the two of you, he had the pressing matter of sorting out his new found responsibilities. Not so lucky for the two of you, he wanted Guizhong's help to do so.

This sparked a fight between them, pushing their already strained relationship further and further. This would be one of the last times they would talk.

Guizhong seemed to drift farther away from Morax as she drew closer to you once more.

You had to admit, you had missed her during your time apart. Her quick wit could rival your own on some topics, and her compassion was refreshing in the world of war and violence.

After regaining your land, and setting up ways for your people to prosper, you had continued to draw closer to the lady of dust.

That's why, when she perished fighting for the lord of geo, you felt as if you had once again been stabbed in the back. Deep down, you knew she had not meant to leave you all alone again, but you could not process that in your grief.

But this time, you would not publicly display your anger. No, this time would be different.

This time, you would not be forgotten and thrown away like useless trash.

After all, He was the reason she was gone. He was the reason your people had been so brutally wiped out and your lands had been taken from you.

He would pay for what he had done.

(I might work on a part two or more, lmk if I should!)

⋆˚｡⋆✧˚ study breaks

Summary: the sweetest “study sesh”

Pairings: ethan landry x reader. established relationship. mid-plus size!reader. Au! where ethan isnt ghostface

warnings: fluff, so much fluff, reader worship bro, ethan being down bad thats it

word count: 575

notes: i'm actually in love with ethan landry and i feel like he'd be the most affectionate boyfriend (if he wasnt a psychopathic killer </3)

you had invited ethan over to your dorm room so you could study together for economics after you ended up missing a few of the lectures. 

ethan truly was the best boyfriend in the world to you, putting so much effort to re-teach you every single thing you had missed. he didn't want you failing your classes after all. 

however about 3 hours into the studying, its growing painfully clear that ethan was struggling to keep his hands to himself. there weren't even sexual intentions behind his actions, he just wanted to be touching you, holding you. 

its something you picked up during your relationship, he was clingy. and its not like you minded, you were flattered really. after years of considering no man would ever love you because you aren't those skinny models, a nerdy boy walks into your life and turns it all around for you.

to ethan you were the most beautiful human on earth, practically glowing anywhere you want. first lecture of the morning where you looked a mess? glowing. going to the market in your pjs? to die for. bed head? he could eat you alive.

which is why he ended up curling on your lap mid study session, his arms hugging your squishy waist protectively as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. he was surprisingly light, legs draped over across from yours. 

the ac hummed through the air, sending a wave of cool through the air that contrasted ethan’s warmth on you. it blended with the quiet song playing over the speakers on your night stand. my bed was messy with scattered books and papers, your laptop sitting untouched next to the highlighters. the warm light coming from the lamp on my night stand casted shadows upon us and highlighted ethan’s curly hair just perfectly. it really felt like your own little corner of the world in times like this. 

ethan’s hands caress up your sides, his palm feels warm against your skin. his weight on you felt like a blanket of comfort.

his hand sweeps across your tummy, making you freeze for a few seconds. ethan notices this, lifting his head from your neck to look you in the eyes. you don't say anything for a couple of seconds, only pressing your free hand against your stomach as if to flatten it unconsciously. 

this makes ethan’s heart ache, he takes your hand and lifts it to his lips; pressing a tender kiss on the skin on your knuckles. “don't do that, hon…” he whispers under his breath.

ethan is not the best at comfort, not knowing how to find the words to say what he wants to say to you. so instead he begins to trail playful kisses up your arm, not stopping on your shoulder and continuing up to your neck and your jaw; which earns giddy chuckles from you.

he swiftly lays you on the bed, his firm chest thats covered by the polo shirt he always wears hovering over you. one of his hands caress your sides, your thighs, your tummy, as if he wants to commit every single curve and edge to memory.

just pure, raw adoration in his eyes as if you were a goddess to be worshiped.

and worship you, he will. “...you're so beautiful…” he finally whispers

mᥲstᥱrᥣιst!

HI LURKERS

here is my entire masterlist and stuff ill be writing in the future.

Supernatural

sam winchester

romance on the side (oneshot)

space between (oneshot)

dean winchester

...

Scream

ethan landry

study breaks (drabble/oneshot? idk)

The 100

...

Marvel

this includes: Avengers, X-Men, Spider-Verse, Guardians of the Galaxy, Young Avengers (Kate Bishop, Wiccan, etc), Thunderbolts.

...

Gold vs. Rumple

(nsfw under cut, GN!reader)

Mr. Gold who likes chocolate, but Rumple hates it

Mr. Gold who is a morning person, but Rumple who is a night person

Mr. Gold who likes winter, Rumple who likes summer

Mr. Gold who has attachments, Rumple who doesn't

Mr. Gold who gives kisses, Rumple who gives bites

Mr. Gold who is a service/power bottom, Rumple who doesn't have sex

Mr. Gold who likes doing, Rumple who likes watching

Mr. Gold who is semi tame, Rumple who isn't tame at all (watching others)

Mr. Gold who is an aftercare god - fav tea, snack, a bath, pj's, blankets, whatever you want/need on stand by-, Rumple who never does aftercare - just kinda leaves after all i said or done.

Both who need/want clear consent, love making you beg of anything

Both who love hearing the noises you make

Both who like marking - receiving, seeing, making them

Thoughts about Price getting a crush on Laswell's work partner, feeling wrong about it because Laswell is one of his closest friends.

(Gn reader, no Y/N, SFW)

At first, Price seems like a nice guy - overworked military captain trying his best to keep his men and self in line and get their job done. You joined the taskforce with Laswell, her new work partner and friend. A couple times you would meet in the hall, talking a bit, and keep on your way. You were purely professional and it made him feel even worse about his growing crush on you.

He'd try his best to ignore it, tyr to keep himself professional when talking to you. One mission, you were overwatch because Laswell wasn't available in time. You were good at it, gave them the information and called out threats with ease. You had their backs.

That's when Price knew he was in too deep.

He would still try to deny it obviously - he would never betray his friend like that.

For months he harbored this secret, this crush.

One time, you went into the field, and it ended in a fire fight. No one was expecting it to go down, but you all made it out with limited damages.

You had a small wound, a graze from a bullet. Nothing serious.

But Price never left your side, made sure you were on light duty and kept a strict eye on you. He made sure to check the wound himself every day or so. You get to see another side of him, a soft caring side.

And one day, you were reading in his office, and look up at him.

Price was just sitting there, looking at you with this look in his eyes.

"I'm falling in love with you," he blurted, blinking at you.

You smile, soft and sweet. "I'm falling in love with you too."

He nods, goes back to his reports and you go back to you book.

Maybe later, he'll take you to dinner, and you'll talk it though and he'll kiss you goodnight like a proper gentleman.

But at work, you'd just be perfect professionals.

I ♡ Christmas

12 days of Christmas - Day Four

“Have a good evening, President Snow.”

You’re already nestled in the warm, dimly lit confines of the town car as the driver shuts the door behind Coriolanus, who slides across the sleek leather upholstery to put his arm around you and draw you close. You giggle as you lay your head against your husband’s chest. Breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne (which you picked out), you press your cheek against the crimson velvet of his lapel and smile up at him.

“You know,” you say, “this is the first time we’ve been alone together all day.”

Coryo’s eyebrows twitch together. “Is it? That can’t be true.”

“It is,” you confirm. “You were at work all day before the party, and so we came in separate cars. And the party itself was so crowded that I only had to turn my head for a moment to lose track of you.”

Gently cupping your chin, Coryo comments, “I think you’re pouting, my love.”

“Well—” You try to let your mouth soften, but now that you’ve gotten started, it’s rather difficult to stop. “It’s just that — I know the holidays are busy, but we’ve hardly spent any time together lately. It feels like we only just had the wedding, and then all of these galas and soirees started.”

To be fair to you, it likely feels as though you only just had the wedding because you did just have the wedding. You were married on November 17th, less than a month ago. Between the engagement party, the wedding and reception, and various fetes to congratulate you on the nuptials, you’ve spent most of the autumn in a panoply of gowns. 

Pausing to take a breath, you peek up at him from under your eyelashes, but he doesn’t seem put off by your outburst, so you keep going. “And I know you’re an important man, and everyone wants you at their party — and once you’re there, they just want to talk to you and show off that you’ve come…”

And frankly, you can’t deny that a part of you loves that, seeing every head in the room swivel toward your husband — with you on his arm — as the two of you enter a room. Tonight, for instance, there was even a grand staircase to sweep down, and Coryo made sure to pause so that you were both framed at the top. He, in a red velvet suit jacket and blank pants, a crisp white shirt standing out like freshly fallen snow against the rich fabrics; you, in a silver and white gown with a pattern of crystals that swirled over the material like a flurry of flakes. 

But— 

“But then they monopolize your time, and it’s been like this all week,” you finish, an undeniably wheedling tone in your voice that you aren’t all that proud of. “And I know it’s just going to get worse all the way through Christmas.” 

Coryo looks at you with a little wince pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t forget about New Year’s,” he says, and your pout only deepens. He smooths his fingertips through your hair, trying to comfort you. “I know, darling. We have our obligations. I understand they can be tedious, but they are helpful. You know how important public image is for me.”

You sigh softly, rubbing your cheek against the soft material of his suit jacket. “I know,” you murmur.

He presses his lips to the crown of your head. “Although the papers just keep talking about how beautiful you look,” he teases lightly, making you giggle. “Hardly a mention of their poor president. Not that I blame them. I don’t notice anyone else when you’re in the room.”

You bury your face against his chest, in an attempt to hide your blush. It’s too dark for the ruby stain on your cheeks to show up, but if anyone would be able to discern it, it’s Coryo. Sometimes you think that your husband has the ability to read minds, at least yours.

Coryo takes the opportunity to cradle your head against his chest, fingers working into the chignon you have pinned at the nape of your neck, freeing the pins so your hair tumbles around your shoulders. You sigh softly in relief at the sensation.

“I hope you know,” he murmurs, “that if I could be spending all my time with you, I would. I’d let this country go to hell in a hand basket.”

You smile softly, even though you know that’s not quite true. Your husband has plans for Panem, and as much as he loves you, you know there’s no one in the world he would allow to get in the way of those plan s — not even his wife. 

“How many more engagements do we have this week?” you ask, peeking up at him again.

The way Coryo nibbles on his plush lower lip makes it clear that there are going to be plenty. You purse your lips and let your head drop back onto his chest again.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs his apology into your hair. “You’ve been holding up so well, darling. I know you must be tired.”

You look up at him and shake your head. “It’s worth it, to be with you,” you tell him. “If this is the only time I can see you,  I wouldn’t want to be doing anything else.”

Coryo cups your cheek in his palm, smiling gently. “My sweet girl,” he says. 

The car pulls up in front of the presidential mansion, and the driver comes around to your side of the car to open your door for you. You take his hand, gathering your skirt up so you can step out without tripping over the hem. Coryo follows after you, putting his hand on the small of your back as the two of you mount the steps to the front door.

“At least we have this time to ourselves,” he murmurs in your ear, as the two of you step into the front hall. “These few hours before we go to bed are often the best part of my day.”

“They are?” you say. 

“Mhm,” he says. “As beautiful as you look in all your finery, there’s something so delicious about seeing you in a natural state. It’s so…”

He pauses, searching for the right world. “Clean,” he murmurs. “Pure.”

Despite the words he’s chosen, you find fresh color burning in your cheeks. Maybe it’s because you love that he thinks of you that way — pure. As if you’re something delicate and lovely, someone to be cherished and taken care of. His treasure. His beloved. 

He slips his arm around your waist snugly, drawing you against his side. You kick off your shoes, and before you can bend to pick them up, Coryo says, “Leave them.”

A moment later, he has you in his arms, carrying you bridal-style down the long hallway to the master suite. You squeal with surprise — and more than a little bit of pleasure — and wrap your arms around his shoulders, giggling helplessly. 

 He nudges one of the double doors open with his shoulder, and deposits you on the bed, swinging his arms so that you fly through the air and land safely on the middle of the vast, soft mattress with a little fwump. You’re still giggling when your maid comes in to help you undress. The maid smiles furtively as she helps you to your feet. She’s an older woman, with soft gray curls framing her face like a cloud, and she reminds you of your nana. Especially when she shoots you a little smile like this, an expression that tells you she thinks you and Coryo are just adorable.

In your bathroom, the maid combs out your hair, applies skin cream to your neck and face, and brings you nightgowns to choose from. As you slip into one, the soft cotton wrapping around your body, your eyes widen as an idea comes to you. 

“Magda,” you say to your maid. “Would you do me a favor?”

After you explain what you need, Madga giggles like a woman thirty years younger. “I would be happy to arrange that for you, madam.”

The two of you grin at each other like a pair of little girls conspiring to steal cookies from the kitchen. You haven’t quite wiped the mischievous gleam from your eye when you crawl into bed with Coryo, who looks at you with a grin, arching an eyebrow.

“And what is it that has you looking so impish?” he teases.

Your smile widens and you shrug your shoulders. “You’ll see.”

Unsurprisingly, when you awake that morning, your husband has already gone to work. But you don’t mind this time, because you have a project to work on — and you’re glad, too, that his social engagement tonight is taking place at a cigar club. Normally you would turn up your nose at a place that excludes women, but you’re glad to have tonight free.

Or mostly free, at any rate.

Magda brings you several catalogues, and you pore over them intensely, trying to find something that will both suit you and catch Coryo’s eye. At last, near the last page of the fourth catalogue, your eye lands on the perfect thing. “Magda!” you gasp, snatching up the catalogue and waving it around in your excitement. “Come here! I found it!”

You write down the name of the item as it’s printed in the catalogue, and the size and color that you want. Magda grins at you and you grin back. 

“I’ll go get it right now,” she says.

After spending a few moments studying the picture in the catalogue, pleased with your find, you decide to spend the day primping. You soak in a long, hot bath mixed with lavender oil, you wash and air dry your hair before wrapping the gleaming, soft locks in around curlers. While they set, you exfoliate away any remotely rough patches of skin, adding lotion to make sure your skin is sweetly scented and smooth. 

When Magda gets home, you squeal and run toward her, nearly upsetting the curlers still sitting in your hair. “Did they have it?”

She beams at you. “They did!” she says, pulling it out of the bag with a flourish. “Here it is. I think it looks even better in person than it does in the picture, don’t you?”

“I do,” you say, beaming yourself, holding it by the hanger and studying the way the material catches the light. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

You don’t have to specify who.

“Oh, madam, I think he will love it.”

Waiting for your husband to come home seems to take an age, but you finally hear the front door open and the sound of servants rushing to greet him, to take his coat and offer him a drink. You took the curlers out of your hair hours ago, and combed out your hair until it falls around your face in soft, gentle waves. You kneel in the middle of the bed, wearing the item Magda rushed out to buy for you.

When the doors to the master suite open, you see Coryo framed between them, and your breath catches in your throat. Goodness, he really is so handsome. He’s clearly still lost in whatever thoughts accompanied home from the cigar club, but then he focuses on you. Coryo’s eyes widen, and then — your breath comes out in a rush of relief — he smiles at you.

“Oh, my,” he says softly. “Did Christmas come early?”

You smile back at him. “For you,” you say. “Just one little gift.”

Coryo steps into the room, shutting the doors firmly behind him. You hear the lock click, which makes your heart give a pleasant little jump in your chest. He steps toward you, reaching out to caress one of the ribbons on your shoulder.

“My love,” he says softly, “there is nothing about you that can be diminished by a little word like just. Especially not tonight.”

Tonight, red silk clings to your skin, highlighting your curves in a warm shade of scarlet. A trim of mulberry lace rests against your thighs and follows the lines of your collarbones, standing stark against your fair skin. Ruby ribbons are tied at each shoulder. If the delicate knots are undone, the silk nightie would just slip down your body to puddle in your lap.

Coryo reaches out and unties one knot.

“You said this was your favorite time of day,” you murmur, looking up at him. “So I thought I would make it particularly special.” 

He brushes his fingertips over your cheek, down the curve of your neck to your other shoulder, brushing against the ribbon without untying it.

“There is no man in Panem luckier than I am,” he says. “I was thinking about you all day. Longing for you. And now I come home to find you wrapped up in bows and silk like the most precious gift I could ever hope to receive.”

You bit your lip, looking up at him. “I’m already yours,” you say. “I have been from the moment I met you.”

He takes your hand and draws you off the bed so that you stand in front of him, his fingers finding the other knot. Coryo gives one ribbon a slow, careful pull, his eyes on yours.

“I can only hope to deserve your devotion,” he says. “And to prove to you every day, every moment, that it is entirely reciprocated. I belong to you.”

Without breaking his gaze, he gives the ribbon another tug, the knot falling apart completely. The delicate material slips over your upper body, catching on your hips for only a moment before your husband reaches down and gives a little tug, so that it slides down your legs and puddles at your feet.

“You belong to me?” you repeat.

Coryo nods. His eyes never waver.

“Yes,” he says.

Your fingers brush against the buttons of his shirt. “Then let me unwrap you, too.”

He smiles, and you think you detect a hint of pink in his cheeks. “Please do.”

Hours later, as you drift to sleep with your head pillowed on Coryo’s bare chest, you think — as much as you are looking forward to Christmas morning — no other gift is going to compare to this. 

𝜗𝜚 random bf! Katsuki Bakugou texts!!

— Katsuki Bakugou x gender neutral reader

© haeunoo 2024 please do not steal, copy, or repost my work onto other platforms.

YOU GIVE ME THE FEELS

—

your fav x gn! reader (ゝ。∂)

cw: valentines 😒, kisses ^3^, ANNIVERSARYS !!, marriage, lovey dovey yucky stuff..

—

YOUR FAV who asks you out on valentines! To make sure your anniversary is on valentines! (´,,>ω<,,`)♡

YOUR FAV who makes your first kiss on valentine’s day (a year into the relationship) so you can celebrate your 1 one year anniversary and your first kiss anniversary on the day of love.

YOUR FAV who proposes to you ON VALENTINES (you get the point atp) and they know that you can start seeing the pattern now, but they find it so cute.

YOUR FAV who NEEDS to have your wedding planned on valentines, and forces everyone to come no matter what their plans were

BONUS: they never get you on gift on valentines, buys you gifts for each anniversary !

I have smth i wanna write for valentines but like idk who to write for..

IT WAS GONNA BE FOR SOMEONE IN TR BUT IDKK

Lazy Morning~

A/N: I wrote this half asleep listening to Nonsense by Sabrina Carpenter so this is definitely not proof read and may not make sense, but I'ma still post it cause who's gonna stop me ಠಿ⁠_⁠ಠ. Also, I had no one in mind for writing this so you can imagine whoever you want. Anyways, enjoy and I hope you have a good day or night.

You slowly blink away tears as you yawn, your nose cold and your fingers wrapped around something soft. You lift your head up and find your lover sound asleep still with your hands buried in his hair. With zero restraint and being far too tired to care, you grip his head a little and hide your cold nose in his neck. You feel him stirr underneath you as warm arms snake around your waist and a gentle squeeze to your sides.

“What're you doing?” you feel him murmur into your ear with his morning voice adding a rumble to his words. While normally you'd be a menace and tease him about his voice, your brain felt too fuzzy to even form a proper sentence as you press your face further into his neck.

“Nose cold…” you slur out while you snuggle into him like a chick nuzzling into its mother's feathers. You hear him chuckle deeply and feel the warm blankets on your back get pulled up more.

“Can't have that now can we,” he chuckles out as he lets you do as you please. Content to be your heated teddy bear for the moment as he threads his fingers through your messy hair. Sighing, you kiss the nape of his name with a small “thanks” before you doze off back to sleep. Fully embraced and safe in your lover's arms as he rubs circles on your back to keep you asleep. He places a kiss on your forehead as he accepts his fate and feels contentment to have a lazy morning with you. He'd keep your nose warm always, even when you could barely form a sentence.

A Little Holiday Peace ~

Please don't mind the grammer or misspellings, this is my first writing thing ಥ⁠‿⁠ಥ

Btw I recommend listing to "Christmas Time is Here" from Charlie Brown to get the mood right

You sigh in contentment as you blow on the steam coming from your drink, sitting in front of a fire in your little getaway cottage. You take a sip of your hot chocolate, feeling the warm sweet liquid coat your throat, just as you feel a familiar pair of arms wrap around you.

It felt like decades since you were able to get this kind of alone time together, being busy with work and family during the upcoming holidays was already getting rough, but just feeling the warmth of his chest and the hot chocolate currently warming your stomach was enough to make you melt like snow. You watch as he puts on some random Christmas movie from Hallmark and you let out a huff of air at the cheesiness that was about to ensue in the movie.

But then again, maybe a little cheesiness and corny holiday humor is just what you two needed to enjoy this brief vacation. You snuggle deeper into his chest as he plucks your mug from your hands to sit on the coffee table in order to get more comfortable with you, his breath smelling of peppermint and warm cider.

You sigh happily as his chest vibrates with a chuckle leaving his lips, planting a tender kiss to the top of your head before pulling you into his lap to lay upon his chest. You glance at the falling snow one last time before lifting your gaze to your amazing lover, wondering what you did to get someone like him to fall for you.

I might try to attempt at writing x reader stuff

MIND YOU

I HAVE NEVER WRITTEN A STORY IN MY LIFE

But I will try my best

translation

Aventurine doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you. (Or: You are the only person in the universe who understands Aventurine in his mother tongue. He often regrets teaching it to you.)

5k words. gender neutral reader, established relationship, angst, non-graphic sex (reader bottoms, anatomy neutral), themes of cultural loss, references to slavery, aventurine’s canonically implied desire to die. MDNI.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.

Deception does not come easily to him in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak—and too kind. The universe was a different place in the days when his life was coloured by the warble of Avgin dialect. It felt simpler, partly because he was a child and partly because Sigonia was yet untouched by outsiders. There were no corporations, no casinos, no commodity codes. His entire world was sand, desert, mother, sister, father (or more often—ghost), goddess, tent, wagon, luck, sin, rain, blessing, Avgin.

Katican.

Aventurine is sure that he knew more than just those words. He was fluent as a child. He had conversations with his sister that were complex enough to make his heart hurt, though perhaps his heart was just constantly aching anyway. But the rest of his early words escapes him. He could maybe dredge them up if he thinks long enough, but he also isn't sure if his tongue and lips could form the shape of them anymore. Sometimes he still counts in Avgin, memorises phone numbers in it, but he doesn’t remember the last time he actually strung together a full sentence in the language.

When Aventurine was first stolen into slavery (a word that he had not known as a child, and still doesn't know in Avgin), he wasn’t given a Synesthesia Beacon. He had to rely on his ears and his wits, deciphering the harsh edges of the Katican dialect and then the strange garble of Interastral Standard Language. By the time he had a Beacon installed, it was already translating all speech into Standard—his dominant language.

Sometimes he feels a little aggrieved by it, but at least it wasn't Katican. He'd have blown out his brains if it were.

But it is easy to console himself: Avgin is not a useful language anyway. Dead languages have no value, and the Avgin dialect was killed along with its people. You can’t perform commerce in a dead language, can't negotiate contracts, can't enter a gambling den and use your silver tongue to rob people blind. You can't use a dead language to fell governments and extract resources; you can't use a dead language to bring an entire planet to its knees. You can’t use a dead language to gamble your life; you can't use it to save yourself from the gallows.

You cannot deceive people in a language that is defined by sand, sister, goddess, ghost.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin. His command of it is too weak, and there is no one left to which he can lie, anyway.

When you ask Aventurine to teach you his first language, he gives you an amused look.

“Why Avgin?” he asks. “No one speaks it anymore. I can teach you Common Sigonian if you’d like. Or we could learn Xianzhounese together. Maybe Intellitron code? I know a little.”

“You speak Avgin,” you argue.

“Not often,” he says. “And badly when I do.”

“But it's still your language. And I want to understand you.”

Aventurine has to stop himself from laughing. Understand him? He hates being understood. When people understand him, it makes him predictable. And unlikeable. Hardly a position from which he can manipulate people in.

You understand him well enough to know that.

“You'll have to give me a better reason than that,” he says neatly. “Make it worth my while. Reward me.”

You look at him as you ponder, your eyes lingering on his. Perhaps trying to read him, though he prefers to think you're just enjoying the sight of them.

“I’ll teach you my language as well?”

“You mean—you'll reward my hard labour with more work?” he says, lighthearted.

You frown at him despite the joke. “You don't want to understand me better than what a Synesthesia Beacon would allow?” He blinks, pausing. “It’ll be convenient too. We can talk shit about other people in public and no one will understand us.”

Aventurine considers you. He doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you.

He also likes the idea of talking shit in public.

“I'm listening,” he says, voice lilting. You lean in, smiling. Sweet. It makes his heart feel something he isn't used to. Something addictive. Something disgusting. He scrambles to cover it with one of the usual tools: humour or distraction or maybe just plain old lying—his most reliable weapon.

“I'll throw in a kiss?” you try.

He hums. “Just one?”

“One per day.”

“Three.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“Well, I am a businessman.”

You snort, but he knows you're endeared. You have very noticeable tells when you’re flustered.

“Okay,” you say. “Three kisses on days you teach me.”

“Deal.”

Aventurine remembers more Avgin than he thought he would.

It comes to him slowly, painstakingly. You aren't interested in structured lessons, and he wouldn't be able to provide them anyway. He has a nonexistent grasp of grammar aside from this sounds right and that sounds strange, and Avgin dialect is both so niche and so dead that no textbooks are available. The scholars have abandoned the language as much as the politicians abandoned its people. Aventurine only has you, his fragmented memory, and whatever questions come to mind as you live out your days with him.

Mostly, you ask him about basic vocabulary. Sometimes you ask him to repeat sentences from your conversations in Avgin, like he’s some kind of multilingual parrot. Each prompt forces him to wade through the fog in his mind, the one that’s been shrouding his childhood memories until now. He's startled at how naturally the old words roll off his tongue: One, two, three, four. Good morning. Good evening. Good night. Sweet dreams. Five, six, seven, eight. You're lying to me. Why do you always lie to me? I don't know what you're talking about. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Welcome home. Have you eaten? Have some bread. I made you stew. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty. That was dangerous. I thought you wouldn't make it back to me. Sometimes I think you want to die. One hundred, one thousand, one million, one billion. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

When you say, How do I ask you to let me hold you, he answers easily. He'd heard the words so often as a child: Let me hold you, Kakavasha. Let Mama hold you. His mouth forms the sounds without conscious thought.

He regrets it almost immediately.

When Aventurine hears it from you—stilted, halting, but no less gentle—he stops breathing. Let me hold you. You say it all the time in Standard, but it feels different in Avgin. More painful. A strange sense of panic closes in on him when he's wrapped up in you, thinking in Avgin, thinking sand, sister, goddess, ghost. He holds you tightly, like the rags cut from his father’s shirt, or his mother’s locket won back from the shell-slashers, or a bag of poker chips beneath a card table, clutched within his trembling grip.

“Aventurine, is something wrong?” you ask in Avgin, and he replies in Standard with his usual smile.

“Hm? No. What could be wrong if I have you here?”

Lying is one of his greatest tools. Sex is another one. So he says, “I think I'd like my reward now,” and he runs his lips along your jaw, your pulse, the spot over your heart (there's a word for that in Avgin but not Standard, he tells you), until you're laughing. I thought you wanted three kisses, you tease, and he replies, Who said I wanted to kiss you on the mouth?

But he coaxes open your thighs, and once he's inside you, he collects his payment properly. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and you swallow his lies whole.

There are some things that Aventurine doesn't teach you. Mostly, they’re things that he can’t teach you.

There are countless gaps in his Avgin. His speech is painfully childish—probably more childish than it was when he actually stopped speaking it. He doesn't know how to swear (something that disappoints you) and he doesn't know how to flirt (something that devastates you). He doesn’t know any words that would be useful for work either: commercialization, governance, stakes, winnings, profit. When you ask him what his job title is in Avgin (“Was senior management even a thing in Avgin society?”), he laughs and gives you the word for gambler.

Then there are the words that he remembers—has remembered his whole life—but never says. Not to you, and not to himself. He doesn't teach you any prayers. He doesn't teach you any blessings. He doesn't teach you about Mama Fenge, or the Kakava Festival, or how the rain fell when he was born. When you ask him, What holidays did you celebrate when you were little? he shrugs and says, We didn't have any. Sigonia’s too bleak to do any partying.

Then you ask him one day, while your bodies are spent in the afterglow of sex, sticky with sweat and sweetness, how to say I love you. And he goes quiet.

Love is a cheap word in Interastral Standard. In the language of globalisation and trade, love has been commercialised, commodified, capitalised for power. You say it to him in many contexts: I love this, I love that, I love you. He hardly ever reacts, and he's never said it back. It would feel unnecessary and also cruel if he did: Aventurine has only ever said the words himself as either a joke or a manipulation.

But love feels different in Avgin than in Interastral Standard, doesn't sound like a thing that can be traded or bought. Kakavasha only ever said the word love to his mother, to his sister, to his father's grave. Love in his mother tongue feels priceless.

When Aventurine thinks about you saying it—I love you, Kakavasha, in clumsy, earnest Avgin—something so painful swells in his throat that he can hardly breathe.

“There is no word for love in my language,” he tells you.

You blink. “Okay, then what's an idiom for it?”

“There is none. There’s no word or phrase expressing love.”

You raise a brow. “That’s hard to believe.”

“Is it?” He smiles. “There’s no Avgin in the known universe who cares about love. Only scheming, thieving, and treachery—and you can't do those things when love is involved.”

You look at him in alarm. “Why are you saying that?” You're practically squirming in your discomfort. “I don't know why you think I'd believe such a racist stereotype.”

“It’s not a stereotype,” he says. “I'm not talking about the Avgin culture. I'm talking about myself.”

After all, he is the only Avgin left.

It is an unfair thing to say. A cruel thing to say. After all the laughing and kissing and crying and fucking, after all the tender eyes and gentle words from you—it is probably the worst pain imaginable: I don't give a shit about you. He waits for you to cry.

But you only stare at him calmly, studying him. You brush the hair out of his eyes, seeing them clearly.

“If you lie to me all the time,” you say in Avgin, “eventually I'll stop believing anything you say.”

Aventurine is speechless. His heart does that addictive, disgusting thing again. He thinks about leaving, but then you say, Let me hold you, and he can't do anything other than obey.

Avgin dialect was once included in the Synesthesia Beacon list of functions. The Intelligentsia Guild added it before the Second Katica-Avgin Extinction Event, when the IPC was trying to get a political foothold on Sigonia via the Avgin people. The language was alive then, with enough value to be included into the Synesthesia LLM by the linguists.

But since the Extinction Event—since Kakavasha ran away from home—the Synesthesia data on Avgin has been stagnant, a fossil. Aventurine knows because he's subscribed to software updates for certain languages (Avgin Sigonian, Common Sigonian, Interastral Standard, and now your mother tongue). He gets pinged every time there's a new addition for slang, for neologisms—but there hasn't been a ping for the Avgin dialect since he had the Beacon installed. The live translation function hasn't even been available since the previous Amber Era. When he checks its page on his Synesthesia app, it's very clear why—

SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT SPEAKERS: 0 STATUS: Extinct END OF SERVICE: 2156 AE

The complete death of the language has led to an irritating dilemma for you and Aventurine. You keep running into words that he doesn't know—this time not because of his childlike speech, but because they never existed in his language to begin with. Ocean, tropical, rainforest. Starskiff, accelerator, space fleet. Stock market, shortselling, mutual funds. Black hole, event horizon, spaghettification. All things that never came up for Kakavasha, but now come up for Aventurine, and the language has not evolved to include it.

He always wants to switch to Standard to discuss these things, but you're insistent on speaking in Avgin as much as possible. He doesn't know why, but he doesn't mind humouring you—partly because he likes to indulge you, and partly because he’s grown used to hearing the honeyed timbre of Avgin dialect in your household. The place would feel strange without it.

So you start filling the gaps with other languages, filtering them through the lyricism of Avgin. Loanwords, he thinks they’re called. You take ocean, tropical, rainforest from Amazian; starskiff, accelerator, space fleet from Xianzhounese; stock market, shortselling, mutual funds from Interastral Standard. For the astrophysics terms, you try directly translating them—with limited success.

“Can't I literally just say ‘black hole’?” you ask in Avgin, and he nearly spits out his coffee.

“Please don't. That's a dirty word.” He can't bring himself to say what it means, but from the way you’re laughing, you can clearly guess.

“I thought you said you didn't know how to swear.”

“You've just reminded me how.”

“You're welcome.” You look on the verge of cackling. Aventurine finishes his coffee and wonders when you're going to surprise him with your newfound vulgarity.

“Let's just do the space terms based on Standard,” he says. Begs.

“No, that's so boring.”

“Then let's do your language.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Give him a blank look.

“You don't know how to say those words in your mother tongue either, do you,” he intuits.

“Well, ‘spaghettification’ doesn't really come up in everyday conversation, does it?”

“Then maybe we don't need it.” He smiles, senses an opportunity. Smells blood. “How about ‘love’? I'd much rather know how you say that. I bet it sounds beautiful.”

You give him a long look. Your eyes are vulnerable when you share it: Love. I love you. He’s fascinated by the sound of it. Your voice is never that fragile when you say it in Standard. It's never so earnest. He repeats it, staring at you, and your gaze falls to the ground. His mouth curls.

“I like it,” he says. “Let's use that. It'll sound nice in Avgin.”

You try to recover. “Sure. That works. But back to ‘black hole’—”

And the two of you continue like that for days, weeks, months. It feels like a complete bastardization of his mother tongue on some days, in some conversations. Almost unrecognisable. But it doesn't feel bad. It’s all he has, it's all you have, and when he walks into your home, he starts speaking it without thinking: your bastard, patchwork language. The Avgin dialect that exists only in your house. A tongue that can only be understood by a liar.

And then, one lazy Sunday morning, he gets a familiar ping. He expects it to be Interastral Standard, as usual. The language balloons with each planet that the IPC colonises.

But instead, he opens his screen and freezes.

SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT SPEAKERS: 2 STATUS: Endangered. SERVICE RESUMED: 2157 AE NEW UPDATES: 103 loanwords and 5 neologisms added.

He can't stop looking at the status. Endangered. Endangered, which means dying, but alive. The Avgin dialect is alive again. The Intelligentsia Guild determined it, so it must be true. But Aventurine can't agree: there are no Avgin speakers in the known universe other than the two of you, and what you speak isn't real Avgin. The Avgin spoken by his mother and father and sister is dead; the Avgin spoken by Kakavasha is dead. The festivals are gone; the deserts have been terraformed. There are no wagons; there are no dances; there are no prayers. There are no blessings, and he has no home—

As long as you are alive, the blood of the Avgin will never run dry.

His throat locks up.

“Aventurine?” you ask. Your voice is drowsy, but concerned. “Is something wrong?”

He looks at you from his phone, a polished smile on his face.

“No.” His syllables are plain and efficient in the noise of Interastral Standard: “Just looking at details for a new assignment. It’ll be a long one.”

“Oh.” You frown. “Will you be away from home for a long time, then?”

He stops himself from swallowing. “Yes, I'll be away from the house. For several months, probably.”

“Okay.” Your voice is small. “Take care of yourself, okay? I'll miss you.”

Each word you speak resonates with heartbreak. It always does in these conversations, even in Standard—but the sorrow is amplified in Avgin. His mother tongue has an inherently sad quality to it, he's noticed. His people have lost so much over their history—their language is one of loss. It's his language of loss. Kakavasha did all his grieving in Avgin; Aventurine has never felt sorrow in Standard. When the language died, so did Kakavasha—and all his regrets with it.

“You'll come home to me, right?” you ask. It's a beautiful sentence in Avgin. A heartrending one. He feels something that he hasn't known since he was a child.

It's a feeling he has to kill.

“Yes,” he says in Standard. “Of course I'll come back.”

This is not the first time that Aventurine has been mistaken for dead, but this is the longest time.

The latest world to join the IPC network was a tough acquisition. It had been ruled by a despot who wreaked havoc on both the people and the planet, and who was too stupid and reckless to resolve conflicts with his trade partners. He probably would have blown up the whole star system had he been left to his own devices. Aventurine had no qualms about bringing him to ruin, nor did he have qualms about nearly dying in the process.

If things had gone his way, he'd either be dead or missing. This would have been the perfect opportunity to do the latter, actually—to be freed from the IPC. Free to drift alone, speaking with strangers in strange, unfamiliar tongues. No connection to his past, to the cruel history of his luck, to his commodity code. No tether to his inherently unjust destiny. But instead he's back in your house, pockets heavy with his borrowed wealth, speaking to you in his bastardised, childish Avgin. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

Your Avgin is—shockingly fluent. He doesn't know how. He can't think about it right now. All he can process is the wounded animal noise of your speech as you yell at him, as you cry. Like an injured songbird, or a weeping child. Why did you leave, why did you lie, why do you always lie to me, why don't you give a shit about me, you spit. Why do you want to die, why do you want to die, why do you want to die, you keep saying. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost, he keeps hearing. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost. Don't leave me, big sister. People will die. Why do you have to go?

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, this time in your language. “I'm so sorry. Come here. Let me hold you.”

You collapse into your mother tongue. Aventurine is both relieved and horrified. Relieved that he doesn't need to hear the language of his grief—horrified that he needs to hear yours. He's never heard you cry like this. He's never heard you break like this. These must have been the words you used when the soldiers found you hiding in your closet, when they dragged you out of your home. You were just a child.

Aventurine doesn't know the words you are using—you've never taught them—but he still understands them.

You're very malleable when you’re sad; even more so when you're hysterical. Aventurine understands this about you, and he understands how to calm you—this time in your native tongue—and he understands how to kiss you. He understands that you need to feel close to him. He understands that there are ways to accomplish this other than sex. A normal person would talk it out, have an honest conversation, come to a mutual understanding, and maybe even stop trying to kill himself. They wouldn't fuck you into the mattress while your face is still wet with tears.

But Aventurine is not a normal person. He doesn't know how to have an honest conversation, and he doesn't want to be understood. Lying is his greatest weapon, and sex is a close second. So he kisses you until you’re too breathless to cry, fucks you until you can't think, and makes you come so hard that you’re in too much bliss to grieve. And maybe it's horrible of him, but he enjoys it. He enjoys the way your body takes him in so easily, the way your nails dig into his back, the way you tighten around him when you climax, so wet and needy for him. The way you beg for him in your language for liars as he spends himself inside you: I love you, Aventurine, I love you, I love you, I love you—

Only because it feels good. This is all only because he enjoys fucking you. This is all only because you enjoy fucking him. This is all it'll ever be, and it'll be this way until he gets to meet his end.

(Some months ago, Aventurine started dreaming in Avgin.

It surprised him when he first noticed it. The last time he remembers having a dream in his native tongue, he was twelve years old and still in chains. And even then, it had become a sporadic, strange thing. Awful to wake up from. One minute he was with his mother and sister on a cool, rainy day, speaking fluently in Avgin as he laughed and played—and the next minute, he was being shaken awake in his cage, hearing the cruel lash of Katican.

But ever since he's started speaking Avgin with you, he's been dreaming in it. Vividly. Sometimes he's a child in these dreams, and sometimes he's grown. He's always back in the Sigonian desert, among the tents and the campfires and his family wagons. His mother and sister are alive. Sometimes his father is too. The skies roar with thunder and the stellar winds are always harsh, but they always keep him cocooned up in their arms. He's always warm.

Sometimes Aventurine dreams of nicer days. Clear skies, warm sun, cool breeze—all blessings from the Mother Goddess. On these days, he tends to be an adult, and you tend to be there with him. Your Avgin is fluent but strange, filled with funny loanwords and peculiar slang. His father likes the neologisms and starts using them—but only in wrong ways. His sister finds it embarrassing and keeps apologising to you.

His mother loves you. She loves you so much it hurts. This is how I know you're blessed, Kakavasha, she says, glowing. You’re so lucky to have found such a kind person.

Kakavasha knows this. He knows he's lucky, and in his dreams, that isn't a bad thing. In his dreams, his luck means that his home is not violently excised from his heart: his father never dies; his mother never dies; his sister never dies. The tents are not burned; the wagons are not destroyed. He is never forced to forget his people's dishes, their songs, their language, their joy. And in his dreams, his luck means that he meets you anyway, without all the loss and the chains and the lying.

In his dreams, he is able to bring you to the desert. He is able to teach you the Avgin he spoke as a child, to cook all the meals his mother used to make, to share with you their coffee and their tea. He teaches you prayers. He teaches you blessings. He tells you about Mama Fenge, about how the rain fell when he was born. He takes you to the Kakava Festival, shows you how to dance, sings to you all the Avgin songs until you're singing back. He presses his palm to yours in prayer; he kisses you in devotion, not avoidance.

Sometimes the two of you still fight, the same fights that you have in real life, but he handles them with honesty. He listens to you. He apologises to you. He tells you that he’ll change, and he means it—because this world is a kind one, and he has no need to be so cruel to you.

In this kind world, when you lay in bed with his arms tight around you, you smile at him and say, I love you, Kakavasha. You say it in Avgin—real Avgin, not the dialect born from genocide and deceit—and when he responds, there's not even a little bit of insincerity in his voice. Because Kakavasha never became Aventurine in these dreams, so he has no Interastral Standard in which he can lie to you, no silver tongue with which he can manipulate you, no commodity code that inspires his fear of being controlled by you. Kakavasha only knows Avgin, and he only has his sand, his family, his goddess, his home.

And he has you. Finally, he has you.

He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and then he tells you the truth.)

.

.

.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.

You noticed this very early on: whenever he lies to you, he always switches to Interastral Standard. Probably he wouldn't be able to do it in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak, and the words he knows are all too kind. He speaks with the innocence of a child, and children cannot deceive people in the way that adults can. Children cannot perform commerce or negotiate contracts. They cannot use a silver tongue to rob people blind. They cannot save themselves from the gallows.

So Aventurine’s Avgin is defenceless. Vulnerable. So vulnerable it hurts. You are not so vulnerable in your first language because your captors spoke it on occasion, and you learned to lie in it to gain their pity. You told Aventurine that knowing it would help him understand you, but this was a deception. Aventurine’s mother tongue was a language of trust, but yours is a dialect of abuse.

The Avgin language died before Aventurine could be gutted by it; this is why it disarms him so completely. This is why he’s so indulgent and so warm when you use it with him, why he yields to all your requests. Not requests for money or gifts—you’re certain those are meaningless to him—but for affection. Let me hold you. Let me touch you. Let me kiss you. He can never say no.

This is also why he loves hearing you speak his mother tongue, you think—it makes him feel at home, it makes him feel safe. Maybe it even makes him feel loved. He never seems so at peace speaking any other language, so you try to use Avgin as much as possible. You like seeing him happy. You like it even if it means you need to teach him your own native language in exchange, even when it means you need to hear him say all the things your captors used to say. You don't mind it if it's him. You never mind the harm he inflicts on you, especially not when it brings you closer to him.

It is convenient that he cannot lie in Avgin. You only wanted to learn it in the first place because he talks in his sleep—mostly in Standard, but sometimes in his native tongue. And now that you know he cannot lie in Avgin, you also know he's always being honest in his dreams. Honest when he throws his arms around you in his sleep. Honest when he grabs you so tightly that you bruise. Honest when he buries his face into your neck and whispers prayers into your skin.

Most of the words he says are common ones, the earliest vocabulary that he taught you. But there are some things he's withheld from you—and to learn those things, you had to track down linguists from the Intelligentsia Guild, bribe them with your dirty money, have them give you all their deprecated, extinct data. It felt two-faced, and it was violating, but it was the only way. You already know that Aventurine would rather die than translate his feelings for you, would never want this part of himself understood.

I'm sorry for always leaving you.

I'm sorry for making you cry.

I can't bear the thought of losing you.

Freedom would be too lonely without you.

I don't want to hurt you anymore.

I don't want to lie to you anymore.

I missed you.

I want you.

I need you.

I love you.

end

afterword