#what kind of super replicator-
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I was raised by scientifically conscientious parents, real big on logic and empiricism and all that jazz, and I really took it to heart. So when I first heard about the birthday candle wishes thing, I did what came naturally. I tried to test it empirically. I invited this kid in my first grade class who was kind of a dick, called me names, tripped me when the teachers weren’t looking, penny-ante schoolyard bully shit. And when they brought the cake out, they told me to close my eyes and make a wish, and I did, and when I opened my eyes the kid hadn’t exploded. Not even a little. At this point I was kind of tempted to write it off, but even then I had an eye towards the replicability crisis, and I knew one failure wasn’t publishable. So next year I invited the same kid, wished again, he didn’t explode that year, either. Or the year after that. Or the year after that. I mean I really sacrificed for this project. My parents had a hard capacity of five guests per party, and every year he took a slot that could have gone to a person who wouldn’t declare open season on the other three guests. And even though I don’t even like pottery, I kept asking to have the parties at the DIY pottery place because that was the only non-suspicious way to have get everyone in smocks and googles when they brought out the cake. But one of the really insidious things I had to deal with was the sense of, I dunno, moral corrosion. Because, you invite a guy you don’t even like to a birthday party six years running with ulterior motives, humoring him, making him think you consistently want him around... you’re leading the guy on! And moreover I know what it’s like to be on the other side of that, I used to get invited to birthday parties because people wanted to copy my notes. And it’s shitty to wake up one morning and realize you’ve become a bad guy in the same creeping way, and that just must be how that happens. I mean right up until the guy spontaneously combusted at the cake-cutting at my cousin’s birthday party in 2013, I genuinely think he thought we were friends. All to say that this is why research ethics courses are, like, super foundational. Can’t cut corners on that!
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pretty privilege
jjk boys when they get pretty privilege right in front of you.
includes: yuji, megumi, yuta, toge and ino
yuji: yuji is super kind and humble, also a bit oblivious when it comes to people treating him extra well or flirting with him. someone could ask him for his number and he'd probably assume this was a normal occurence because how else will you make friends without having their number at the very least right? however he isn't slow to realise that he alone was the one being approached, warmed up to and even being offered discounts for simple things and not you. he'd notice the way you'd look away and try distracting yourself while he was busy with yet another girl coming up to him. next time he promises himself not to entertain other people and politely decline them, focusing on telling you how much you mean to him instead.
megumi: megumi isn't stupid, he notices the little frown that would find itself on your pretty lips (you say otherwise but megumi thinks you're the prettiest person he has ever seen) whenever someone, yet again, comes up to him with a slightly bigger smile asking him for directions and some as far as asking him to walk them to their destination. he'd decline everytime though, of course he would. why would he entertain other people when you're right there? don't get me wrong he isn't rude, he'd show them the directions but not without pulling you closer or holding your hand a little tighter.
yuta: he'd stutter and badly too. sometimes even wanting to hide behind you when he's completely at a loss for words as the waitress offers him an extra plate of food on the house, strangely only for him. on days when he's a little bolder though, he'd accept the free gifts with a thanks and hand them to you. he'd be confused why he's being offered goodies and never you and upon explaining to him, he'd sheepishly try replicating the treatment he got saying something like “if they treat the people they find pretty like that then it's only right for me to treat you like that too, because i think you're very pretty.”
toge: we all know toge doesn't speak because of his cursed speech but his eyes do all the talking. his gaze becomes a little softer on seeing you looking down at your feet waiting for whoever approached him to go away. he isn't really registering what the other person says, his focus being all on you when suddenly he finds a phone being handed to him, the number tab open for him to put in his. he'd hold out his hand, shaking his head and point to you, pulling you closer and zipping down his jacket revealing his pretty marked mouth to place a kiss on your lips. on seeing your surprised expression his eyes turn into pretty cresents as he mutters “salmon roe” and somehow you understand everything he wants to convey to you.
ino: ino would nudge you in triumph with a smirk as the barista offers him his coffee on the house but he doesn't fail to notice the way your smile faltered a little upon hearing the offer. he'd then decline politely but when the barista insists, he pulls you closer and tells them that he comes in a pair so it's either they give you free coffee too or he pays for the both of you. and pay, he does. with your order in hand, the both of you walk out of the cafe as he brags about how pretty he is but also about how lucky he is to have someone prettier, that someone being you of course.
included ino this time bc he's growing on me !!
#jjk x reader#jjk fanfic#jjk fic#jjk headcanons#yuji x reader#yuji fluff#yuuji x reader#megumi x reader#megumi fluff#yuta x reader#yuta fluff#yuuta x reader#yuuta fluff#toge x reader#toge fluff#inumaki x reader#ino x reader#ino takuma#takuma ino x reader#jjk fluff#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen fluff#jjk boys#yuji x you#megumi x you#yuta x you#toge x you#ino x you#jjk imagines#jujutsu kaisen headcanons
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Keep your eyes on the road (aka an unexpected sex pollen adventure)
Summary: Honestly, this is what Bucky gets for not listening to you.
Characters: Bucky x Reader
Words: 2.8k
Warnings: SMUT 18+ only. Oral sex while driving, sex pollen, sex in a car, bad language, Bucky desperately needing to bang. Also please do not try to replicate this unless you are in fact with a super soldier who has super reflexes, as blow jobs while driving should probably be attempted by super people.
A/N: Is this really my first time writing sex pollen? Yes it is. Is Bucky being needy and desperate kinda fun? Yes it is. Did I enjoy writing this? Yes I most certainly did. I hope you enjoy it too. ;)
*****
The thing is, you told him you didn’t feel like coming on this mission.
And you told him not to open that container with the giant blood red skull on it.
And you told him to to wear a mask.
And you told him to let you drive, but he shouted something about you being a passenger princess before unceremoniously shoving you in the getaway car.
So yeah. You told him all these things.
The thing is, Bucky fumes, glaring at the swerve of headlights advancing in his rearview mirror - he really needs to learn how to fucking listen.
“Shit, shit, shit!” He slams the accelerator to the floor and the car gives a sickening lurch. Beside him, you crack your head on the window, trying to buckle your seatbelt and swearing at the top of your lungs.
“Bucky what the hell’s the matter with you? Just drive.”
“I’m trying,” he snaps. He can feel the flushing prickle of sweat beading down his neck. Rubbing a shaking hand down his face, he blows out a harsh breath. “Why in god’s name is the heater on? Turn that shit off, I’m burning up over here.”
Craning your neck, you watch the headlights gaining. Fumbling for the Glock taped under the seat, you shoot him a confused look.
“The heater isn’t on, it’s freezing in here. I told Steve to fix it and he ignored me because he's a giant asshole.”
Eyes locked on the road, Bucky reaches blindly for the window handle, hurriedly rolling it down. A blast of cold air rushes through the car and he gulps in relief.
“Better, much better,” he mutters. He squints into the rearview mirror again, mentally calculating the time between headlights and taillights, when he feels a twisting wrench in his chest. It sends bursts of heat skimming under his skin, snagging every nerve along the way. A panicked whine slips through clenched teeth. Alarmed, you turn back and meet his wild eyes, sweat now pouring down his face.
“What the - what’s wrong? Bucky? Talk to me!”
When you grab his arm, he visibly recoils.
“No no no, don’t touch me, don’t - ah holy fuck, don’t touch me. If you do, I can’t - I’m gonna put the car in the ditch.”
“You’re scaring me Bucky, what is this?”
He says nothing, deep in thought as his brain runs through the mission on warp speed, trying to identify something, anything, that could possibly -
Wait.
Oh.
Crap.
It's like a sucker punch when he realizes.
“The gold dust that flew out of that container, did any of it touch you?”
“You mean the one I told you not to open but you did it anyway because you can’t follow directions? Bucky what is wrong, you need-“
“Answer me,” he snarls. In the dashboard glow, you see his face pale. He blinks rapidly, trying to focus. “Sorry, sorry, just - please answer. Did any of it get on your skin?”
Baffled, you shake your head.
“No. None of it touched me, it just hit you.”
Bucky nods, relieved.
“Good, okay. Okay. Think I know what this is,” he grits out. Another shudder wracks his body and he grips the steering wheel so hard it squeals in protest. “HRNE-75.”
Your response is a blank stare.
“Am I supposed to know what random letters and numbers mean?”
“It’s a stimulant.”
“Like caffeine?”
“No, like a drug.” You can hear him breathing faster. “Like a - like an aphrodisiac.”
Still a blank stare.
“What kind of aphrodisiac?”
“People call it sex pollen,” he says flatly. “It makes you horny. Like - really fucking horny. And it hurts like hell unless you do something about it.”
“Well, okay. We’ll figure that out when we get home, but for now - “
“I can’t - I don’t think I can wait until we get home,” he interrupts. Sweat soaks the collar of his shirt and he shifts uncomfortably, glancing down. Following his gaze, you can see his cock straining against his jeans.
“Jesus Christ. Bucky if you’re in pain, just pull over and let me drive, you can jerk off in the backseat.”
“We don’t have time to pull over, that fucker’s right behind us and if we don’t get us past Steve’s stupid check point, we’re gonna lose him and then the whole mission is wasted and I got sprayed by some bullshit horny dust for no reason and I’m sweating so much right now and I think I’m going to throw up, my dick hurts so fucking bad!”
His voice reaches an hysterical pitch and you press your lips together, choking down the laughter.
“Okay okay, I got it. So if you come, does that stop the pain?”
“Yeah, but doesn’t matter,” his shoulders slump miserably. “We can’t stop yet and I can’t jerk off and drive at the same time. Maybe under normal circumstances I could do it, I mean sure I have done that before because sometimes I get bored driving, but I just don’t have that kind of focus right now baby, I don’t.”
Tremors are rattling through his entire body now, as he fights for control. As he shifts his hips, unconsciously searching for some kind of friction to offer relief, an idea pops into your brain.
“Hey. Let me give you road head.”
His hands slip on the wheel and he double-takes.
“Wha - road head? Like - what does that mean? Like you’d give me a blow job? While I’m driving?”
If this were any other situation, you would tease him mercilessly for the way his voice squeaks, but you smother the urge. Plenty of time for that later.
“Of course. If it helps.”
“But you mean, you’re going to suck my dick? While I’m driving?”
“Love the emphasis on the important words. Yes, I’m going to suck your dick, while you’re driving.”
Bucky bats the idea around, debating whether you’re actually serious and whether he is probably definitely going to drive down a highway at - he checks the speedometer - 145 miles per hour, while you suck his dick. Another wave of heat roils through him and he stifles a groan. Glancing at your expectant face, he gives a shaky nod.
“You’re sure?”
Rolling your eyes, you unbuckle your seatbelt and scoot closer to him.
“It’s not a hardship Buck. You know I’m your dick’s number one fan.” Carefully popping the button on his jeans, you tug down his zipper and he pushes up his hips, struggling to help. The slight pressure on his aching cock already has him whimpering. “Just drive careful, alright? If I die because you wreck Steve’s car while I’m sucking your dick, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Bucky breathes. “Careful. Sure. Whatever you say.”
Grasping him firmly, you lower your head and take his dick all the way down in one smooth move.
“Oh my fucking god,” he shouts, eyes fluttering. “Sweet shit that’s good!”
He keeps one hand in a death grip on the wheel, while he places the other against the back of your neck, keeping you firmly in place. Bobbing up and down, your tongue strokes along the ridges of his cock and you feel him swelling impossibly thicker. Tightening your lips, you suck hard, dragging slowly up and he croaks out a garbled plea.
“Keep going, keep going, please keep going.” Beneath your practiced mouth, his entire body begins to vibrate and he grips the back of your neck tight, chanting desperately. “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come, holy fuck, I’m gonna come.”
He thrusts up, holding your head tight as he comes down your throat. When your fingers scratch along his thigh, his foot inadvertently pushes the accelerator harder. The car climbs to 155 miles per hour and above you, the sound of ragged panting fills the car.
Releasing his dick with a soft lick, you look up and Bucky chokes at the sight of your spit slick, swollen lips curving into a smile.
“That was fast. Feel better?”
He breathes a whispered yes, but you can still see the red flush still spreading down his neck. He swallows hard and grimaces.
“Helped. Definitely helped. Still hurts, but better,” he says faintly and you see his cock is still rock hard. “It’s okay, it’s enough for now, I appreciate the - “
Rolling your eyes, you lean down and take him back in your mouth. Slipping a hand between his legs, your fingers carefully cup the heavy weight of his balls, squeezing gently. The rest of his sentence fades, melting into a rush of fervent praise.
A luscious ache settles in your belly, feeding off the hot desire you feel sparking through him, at the filthy words you hear him whispering above you. If you weren’t driving down a pitch black highway at a completely inappropriate speed, you’d consider reaching down to take care of yourself, but since you’re already flouting the most basic rules of automotive safety, you figure you should keep your hands on Bucky’s balls instead.
Of course, that doesn’t stop you from rubbing your thighs together to try and relieve some of the pressure.
Bucky glances over at your movement, a deep growl rumbling in his chest at the sight. He didn’t think anything could make him harder at this point, but the image of you so turned on by giving him a blow job, does the trick. He grinds his teeth, dangerously close to just pulling over and saying fuck this ridiculous mission. Rubbing his hand between your flexing shoulder blades and slowly bobbing head, his rasping voice carves into you.
“Does this make you feel good? Doin’ this for me? Fuck me, wish I could help you out right now. You’re so damn good to me baby. Moment we stop this car, I’m gonna fuck you so good.”
With his dick buried deep in your throat, your enthusiastic hum of agreement vibrates deliciously and he struggles to keep his eyes on the road. Everything feels incredible. Your tongue curling around the head of his cock, sucking gently on the tip, before sliding back down. The way you swallow around him, the squeeze of your throat, so hot and slick and tight. It feels so god damn good and he’s close again, one more second -
The transmitter sitting in the console squawks to life, an ear piercing siren shocking you both from the lust fueled haze. You jerk off Bucky’s dick in a panic and he nearly screeches at the loss. Scrabbling with the device, he smashes the green TALK button.
“What?! What the fuck do you need, I’m busy.”
“Calm down there, speed racer,” comes Steve’s breezy voice. “Just letting you know we pulled the guy over. Turn around and come back so we can - “
Steve’s voice is abruptly silenced when Bucky crushes the transmitter with an easy squeeze of vibranium fingers. He flings the shattered splinters of plastic into the back seat and slams both feet on the brakes. The car fishtailes across the road, before skidding to a stop in a spray of gravel. Throwing it into park, he flips the lever under his seat and slides back with a mechanical thunk. Scrambling to pull his pants down all the way, he spreads his legs wide and takes his dick in hand. His eyes are dark, blown black when he turns to you.
“We’re safe. Get your pants off and get over here. Now.” he barks.
Grinning at him, you tug on your tac pants, shimmying easily from the stretchy black fabric and clambering into his lap. There is no pretense. Bucky lines himself up and yanks you down, filling your cunt in one rough thrust. You’re so wet, he slides in easy.
“God, Bucky,” you hiss. “That feels so good.”
He tugs on your shirt, pulling everything off until your breasts are bared. His mouth finds a nipple, teeth gently scrapping and tugging, greedily sucking the sensitive peak between his lips. He moves your hips faster, lifting and dragging you down on his cock over and over, until he jerks you down one final time, slams his head against the seat and comes with a long, guttural moan. Deep inside, you feel him pulsing over and over, until you can feel it dripping down your thighs, hot and sticky.
Head tipped back, he struggles to catch his breath and you can see his heartbeat jumping wildly at his throat. When he finally opens his eyes to meet your questioning stare, you can see.
His eyes are still dark.
“Need more?” You smile gently, smoothing sweaty hair from his forehead.
He swallows hard and then nods slowly.
Rocking your hips, you grind down on him and lean in for a deep kiss, sliding your tongue against his. Bucky gives a shuddering sigh, sinking back into the feel of your body rolling against his. Warm hands stroke lightly down your spine and you can feel the thick, heavy weight of him growing hard again between your legs. But waring with the pleasure, a nervous tension seems to grip him.
“Bucky. I’m not made of glass,” you admonish. Licking delicately along his earlobe, he mumbles a string of apologies and your lips trail down his neck, pressing a kiss against that fluttering heartbeat. “You won’t hurt me, I promise. Use me however you need. Make yourself feel good. Just make me come before you’re done. Deal?”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” he says, shivering uncontrollably at the heady combination of your cool breath and fiery words. “I can do that. ‘Course I’ll do that.”
His hands slide up your back and hook over your shoulders, his fingers splayed over your collarbone. He holds your body firmly in place, thrusting up into you and simultaneously rocking your hips forward. The angle is perfect and you moan at the feel, dizzy with desire as his cock rubs that spot inside just right.
The sounds filling the car are purely pornographic. Wet skin slapping, Bucky grunting with every hard snap of his hips. The feel of his calloused fingertips stroking up your belly, between your breasts, pressing divots into your skin. He stares up at you, his eyes heavy and hooded and utterly adoring, relishing the sight of you grinding your pussy against him. His hand slips between your legs, stroking over your clit, rubbing fast tight circles. He smugly drinks down the breathless gasps he coaxes from you.
“Bucky, I think - I think I’m - ”
The words falter when your hand slams into the car roof and your head falls back, eyes drifting closed. Lust slaps him hard as he watches you come, writhing above him, your voice cracking when you moan out his name again and again.
“That's it, there you go baby,” he whispers roughly. The vision is breathtaking. Stunning. He figures maybe he could get used to sex pollen and a perpetually aching dick if it means he gets to see you like this.
He was already close (again), but the pure pleasure in your face is enough to knock him over the edge. He buries his face between your breasts, pinching your nipple and licking over your skin and your fingers tangle in his damp hair. You hold him tight as he gasps out your name, emptying himself inside you one more time.
And this time, finally, you can feel some of the spring tight tension disappear. His skin is still hot, but the shivers begin to diminish. Rough hands still grip your hips, but it feels controlled. The manic lust begins to fade, leaving a smoldering fire in his chest.
Bucky tips a weary head back and meets your amused expression. A smile tugs the corner of his lips and he shakes his head.
“God damn,” he sighs.
Scratching your nails lazily along his scalp, he leans into your touch, humming like a contented, if slightly feral, kitten.
“Feel better?”
“So much better,” he murmurs. “Sorry that went completely sideways. Wasn’t really expecting that. Obviously enjoyed it, but still. Unexpected adventure.”
Pressing a kiss to his forehead you laugh.
“Next time, maybe don’t open the can with the giant red skull on it. Deal?”
“Deal.”
A comfortable silence settles. Bucky trails his fingers down your arms and you eye him thoughtfully.
“So, do you think they’ll come looking for us?”
“Maybe. Eventually. What should we do while we wait?”
There is a moments pause. And then you begin to roll your hips against him again and Bucky feels the electricity flare to life once more.
“We keep going.”
*****
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Eisteddfod Chairs: Pick Your Winner!
It's almost June! Nearly time to reveal the 2023 Chair! So come, gather round Tumblrs, let me tell you of the furniture-based customs of my people
So Wales has been celebrating Eisteddfodau (festivals of poetry, music, and disco dancing), in some form or another, since at least the 1100s, when Lord Rhys of Dinefwr had one all formal-like and made it into a big fun party and that. The word basically means 'sitting place', and probably refers to the way people in summer would gather round the twmpath in the village to listen to bards that passed through and drink mead and shout 'hurrah!' a lot. Amazingly, this is not where the Chair Thing comes from.
Part of Welsh history is the Bardic Age, and it was custom for bards to travel the country and visit the courts of assorted gentry types (also normal people's houses and taverns and twmpaths but let's stay on topic) and play for them. If the lord paid well, great; if not, the bard would write a Super Mean Song about them and sing it everywhere, so they were pretty well treated.
But if they were particularly good, rather than making them play for the WHOLE meal, the lord would offer them a chair at the table to join in the feast as a guest, rather than a worker, and THAT is where the Chair Thing comes from.
Anyway that's preamble to say that every year in the biggest Eisteddfod of all - the Eisteddfod Genedlaethol - the highest honour awarded goes to the Prifardd - the bard who writes the winning cywydd (super complex Welsh poetry WE DON'T HAVE TIME TO EXPLAIN ALL OF THIS). And the prize for writing the winning cywydd is that you are awarded, you guessed it, the Chair.
Now these Chairs (capital C, please, we like a bit of Fantasy Novel Capitalisation and for this cultural reason I will never understand people who complain about it) are unique. They are thrones. They are carved each year by one chosen carpenter, who crafts a one-of-a-kind Chair with symbolism and that, never to be replicated. They usually have the year carved on, but otherwise, they vary wildly in aesthetic and symbolism. In a No Award year (because Eisteddfod judges don't subscribe to the Western idea that there HAS to be a first, second and third place; if no one is good enough there is no award, and I have seen choir competitions for seven year olds where there was no first or third place but there were two choirs in joint second), the Chair is sent back to the carpenter who carved it, and they get to keep it. In a year where the bard died before the ceremony, it is draped in black, and given to next of kin.
(That has only happened once. RIP Hedd Wyn, 1887-1917. Also the only reproduced Chair; the original, known as the Gadair Ddu (the Black Chair) is on display in his family home, but a 3D printed replica has been made for display by Amgueddfa Cymru)
BUT THEREFORE a big part of Eisteddfod fun is seeing what the Chair will look like this year. Traditional ones, see, we tend to think look like variants of this:
(Apologies for the substandard attempts at alt-text; I have no clue how to describe these properly)
This one is from 1896. The phrase "Y gwir yn erbyn y byd" means "The truth against the world", and was included in a lot of old ones. Modern ones tend to incorporate the druidic symbol for awen ("poetic inspriation") instead. Some of these incidentally turn up in lil' chapels and that about the country.
But actually even the old ones were mad different, look; clockwise from top left, these are y Gadair Ddu (1917), 1876, 1926 (when the carpenter was Chinese and enjoyed the cultural fusion), and 1908.
Still the same theme, though, but in the modern day the carpenters are all off the shits! They're all over the place! Fuck the rules! And I have Opinions.
Category: I See What You Did There
SYMBOLISM!!! 2011 is a pit wheel from Wrexham's mining past! 2013 is the head of a harp, from Denbighshire's cultural harp-making past! 2017 is fish, from Anglesey's maritime present! Fantastic. Love it.
Best in category: 2017. Why does Anglesey's have so many eyes on the fish? We don't know. Wylfa B protestors reportedly furious.
Category: The Modern Throne
TALL!!! That silhouette! That height!! They have the range, darling! Christ knows 2016 doesn't have anything else going for it! Shout out to the Conwy river on 2019, the different woods from the forests of Maldwyn for 2015, and the red kite symbolism for Ceredigion in 2022 (the spiritual home of the bird, where the species was first saved).
Best in category: 2019, Conwy. I like the bridge and the river lines and the water effect on the front of the seat it's just so pretty.
Category: That's Just A Chair
(I am actually friends with the Prifardd who won 2018 at the bottom there :D )
WHAT ARE RULES WE JUST WANT FUNCTIONAL CHAIRS. Man even so 2014 was fucking ugly. You could have 2018 in your house. Around your table, like. Even 2012 has a sort of IKEA vibe that's boring but palatable. 2014 is only coming in the house under sufferance.
Best in Category: 2018, easy, and not just because it's the one I'm most likely to get to sit in one day. It's pretty.
Category: NO GODS NO CHAIRS NO MASTERS
WHAT
WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED IN 2010
BRO I DO NOT THINK YOU TRIED
Best in Category: OBVIOUSLY 2021 I COULD PHYSICALLY MAKE 2010 MYSELF
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safety net [p2] (pornstar!mike schmidt x reader)
part one: 💸 | part three: 📹
are we excited???? prepare your hearts cause the feels kinda took over
tags: fluff, lots of internal pining, porn mentions but nothing graphic. mike and reader are both genuine people and that draws them to each other. should be error free bc i actually proofread this one but if there are any, my sincerest apologies
“you have to be, like, evading taxes or something.”
mike chuckles behind you as he closes the door to his apartment--sorry, penthouse.
you're stood with your jaw unhinged, eyes scanning over the wide, sweeping space of his open concept living room and all of the furniture that decorates it, expensive-looking but cozy in a way that you wish you could replicate in your own place. you stalk over to tall windows that line the farthest wall, creating a corner that allows for you to see the bustling city below; all of the flashing lights, people drunkenly stumbling around street signs, and cars zipping and weaving through traffic.
you'd never seen anything like this, just a girl used to the urban suburbs on the south side of town, and your cheeks flush with embarrassment when you feel mike's presence behind you. you don't turn to him, dropping your shoes and purse to the ground and keeping your eyes trained on a street corner below.
"the view's what sold me on the place. i'm able to watch the sunrise on that side," he points to the windows on the other side of the kitchen, offering a view of the green space nestled in between skyscrapers. "and the sunset on this one."
"must be nice," you reply, backing away from the glass and observing the rest of the space. it was the size of, like, three of your apartments combined, organized and free of mess. "i only have a view of a corner store, and a really really busy bus stop. it's super annoying."
"where do you live?"
you give him the name of the neighborhood you'd known your whole life. you didn't recognize any of the area's flaws when you were a child. it was never a red flag to you that the street off of the one you grew up on had two storefronts of the same fast food chain on either end, or that the closest supermarket was twenty minutes away. you hadn't even batted an eye when some of your school “friends” would tell you about visiting gourmet cupcake restaurants and vintage consignments stores. you just went along with it, saying, "that's so cool. the fanciest place by my house is the $7.99 buffet." they all laughed at you.
it wasn't until you were older, freshly graduated from high school and looking to be on your own that you realized the disparity across the region. only people with certain attributes got the nice things, and you'd been conditioned to be grateful to have a daycare in a plaza with a smoke shop and tax preparation office.
"it's just too expensive for me to move anywhere else. i can barely make rent now, with the way they keep raising it every year. kept the tag on this dress just so i could take it back." you look down at yourself and mike can see the longing in your eye, the twinkle in them that wishes you could hang it up in your closet tomorrow.
after tonight, you kind of wish you hadn't bought it at all. you thought that simon would’ve found it insatiable, wining and dining you before taking you back to his place for a night cap, but all you think about now is the embarrassment of walking back into the luxury department store, handing them your receipt for the item you wore once and couldn’t keep.
it fills you with distaste and you find yourself desperate to peel the item off your skin. “is it okay if i shower?”
mike nods furiously, apologizing for not offering. he’d just been staring at you while you talked, admiring you. he was used to people with perfect appearances around him, done up by professionals that costed $200 an hour, but you were different, uncaring about your unruly curls and smeared eyeliner. you were unbothered and carefree, and that fascinated him.
he leads you down a long hall, coming to a stop once it forks into three different directions: left, right, and slightly diagonal right. the walls are lined with paintings and photos of mike and people that share his features, and at the end of the diagonal path is a giant trophy case, filled to the brim with plaques and trophies of various sizes, shapes, and finishes.
“jesus,” you murmur, abandoning your escort. mike’s walked ahead of you, but he makes his way back when he notices you’re not behind him.
“everything okay?”
you point to his trophy case, letting out an incredulous laugh. “are all of those for you?”
mike nods, and you laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief. “okay, so you’re obviously some sports star because no way someone living like this wouldn’t be.”
mike goes rigid next to you. he never knew how to bring up his career to new people he met, sometimes ping-ponging between “i work for a world-renown production company” and “i’m an entrepreneur”. he had no problem lying to other people, his guard all the way up from years of rejection and disgust at the mention of “sex worker” and “pornstar”, but something felt wrong about lying to you. he swallows hard, racking his mind for a semi truth.
“not sports, but definitely still physical.” you scrunch your nose at this, blinking at him in confusion, but you stop when he grabs your hand and nudges his head in the direction of the bathroom. “didn’t you want to shower?”
you nod, allowing him to pull you down the hall but not without a second glance at the case. what other physical career presented you with that many awards?
the bathroom is a star in it's own right, modern in a way that you fawn over when you're watching hgtv. the gigantic, complicated looking shower invites you from the corner, nestled in between the gadget-rigged toilet and garden bathtub.
all of the decor in here was clean, pale blue, a nice offset to all of the white tile and gold-accented appliances.
you're half-listening, your conscience replaced with static as mike explains where everything is. "so...towels are over here..."
his shower had a rainforest head and a small, handheld one clipped into a holder, with a screen embedded into the wall. there was a bench and railing to hold onto, a speaker on the back tile....your eyes cut to the toilet, and the smaller one next to it. a bidet??????
"...and, the bidet remote's right next to the soap. i'll lay some clothes out for you on the hall table, but let me know if you need anything, okay?" you react a little too late, raising your hand and squeaking, "wait" right as mike's backed out of the room.
"fuck."
you try to look around for things, eventually finding the towels in a closet concealed as a part of the wall and, as a bonus, a knob to turn on the heated floor?????
you strip down, completely bare under the dress, and fold it up, retail employee coded, delicately placing it by the sink with the tag on top. it was exactly how you'd return it, with a shitty excuse and plastic smile. you do the same with mike's jacket.
you throw your hair up before wrapping yourself in the towel, delicately cloaked in what had to be egyptian cotton, and pace on over to the shower. you tap the daunting screen, and it lights up with a flourish, displaying the date, time, weather, and a host of different icons.
you don't know why it's so hard for you to turn the shower on, scrolling and bumbling through a collection of options that weren't simply turn on. why did you need to use a screen anyway? why reinvent the simple wheel that was a faucet lever?
you decide you need mike's help after a bit, though self-conscious about having to ask after he probably told you earlier. you splash cool water on your face before leaving the room, attempting to wring the anxiety out of your body.
you're at the fork in the hallway again, the view of you obscured from the living room by a wall, and you turn your attention to mike's trophy case again. you're too far to see any of the engravings on anything and you're so curious to find out what they say.
you feel your muscles attempt to pull you down the lonely hall, but you halt, reminding yourself that mike was a kind person who'd invited you into his home, and you were supposed to be showering, not snooping. still, even with the moment of morality, untrustworthy interest prodded at your brain.
mike's exiting his room with a handful of clothes for you when he catches you, arms wound around yourself to keep your towel up. you haven't seen him yet, your gaze fixed on something down the hall. he gulps softly, unaware that he would see you like this so early in your connection. your long neck cranes forward to see better, and he prematurely wonders if you're sensitive there, mind swirling with musings of bites and marks.
"something wrong?" you jolt, blinking and stammering and damn near jestering as you attempt to defend yourself. mike doesn't look at you with malice or cynicism, simply stepping closer as your eyes flitter around. "i, uh...i need help with the shower. i don't know how to turn it on."
mike huffs, squinting his eyes at you jovially. "that the only thing?" fuck.
you drop your shoulders with a deep sigh, throwing a pointed finger down the hall. "i also wanna know why you have all those awards." there's a small, almost undetectable change in mike's face, his eye twitching. you watch him shrug it off, placing a hand on your shoulder to lead you back to the bathroom. "i'll explain after you shower."
you're puzzled as to why he's so cagey about it, but you don't question it, accepting his statement and finally listening to him as he explains what to do
you're alone again after he sets the clothes down and leaves. he took your dress, easing you with "just going to hang it up. no worries" and a sheepish smile, and you're eager, ready to hear about what he does and how he's able to afford all this, including this shower that provides you with the best shower you think you've ever taken.
you're able to get the water to the perfect temp, scalding, with the perfect amount of pressure to sting your skin and make you feel clean. you wash away all of your worries; thoughts of keeping a roof over your head, being okay, and finding a genuine connection extinguished with the hum of soft jazz and lather of ylang ylang scented soap.
you lotion yourself with one of the various creams on mike's counter, soothed by the powder smell, and slip into the clothes you're provided--a pair of soft, heart-covered boxers and a university t-shirt, faded into burgundy from countless washes.
mike's sitting on the couch, scrolling aimlessly on his phone when the the demure pitter patter of your feet sounds against the floors, and he swears he almost dies when he sees you.
maybe it hadn't been totally random when he chose the clothes for you, deciding to give you two of his favorite items so he could see how they looked on you. the shirt, very lived in and from his alma mater, skirted your thighs and covered up his boxers, draping over your lithe body in a way that made his mouth go dry.
"okay," you call, dropping beside him on the couch. the wispy hairs around your hairline frame your clean face, guiding his attention to the smattering of dark moles around your eyes and temples. "tell me. what are all of those awards for?"
"do you want some water or something?" he interrupts, and while you accept, you furrow your eyebrows at him. he gets up with the swiftness of a nascar pit crew, and you hold your gaze on him, pivoting your body as he moves.
"mike, c'mon, what gives? you can trust me."
his back is towards you, filling a glass with water from the filtered water faucet. he hunches at your baffled tone, your voice all soft and downcast.
he wants to scream because it's so easy to just come out and tell you what he does. you didn't say anything at the restaurant, but maybe you'd put two and two together when he finally told you truth, remembering a thumbnail from the porn site of your choosing. he wasn't ashamed---nowhere near that. he'd been in the industry almost a decade, moving past the internalized and societally-imposed scrutiny he felt for his career. it was other people that were ashamed, other people that turned their nose up at him because of what they assumed he was; sleazy, devious, a player. he'd had so many connections blow over because of it, and he wasn't sure he'd be able to handle that happening with you.
you just stare at his back, watching it rise and fall with every laboured breath he takes. what was so bad about what he did that he couldn’t just tell you? he was obviously good at whatever it was, and you wondered if it was a front for something. maybe he disarmed you with his nice guy act, and he lured you here to kill you an—-
the clink of glass on glass brings you back to reality. mike is beside you again, staring blankly ahead while he wrings his hands.
“i’m a pornstar,” he utters plainly. he squeezes his eyes shut, expecting you to make a noise of disgust or get up and leave, but you don’t.
he opens one eye, and then both. you’re staring at him with no concrete expression, lips pursed. he closes his eyes again, counting in his head before opening them once more.
you’re still there, and it almost makes him cry.
“that checks out,” you muse. you’re fairly non reactive, but not because his admission freaks you out. you’re thinking back to the awards, the sheer amount of them in that case, and how good he really must be at what he does. “why didn’t you want to tell me?”
he runs a hand through his hair, melting into his couch with boyish reserve. his eyes are a mixed bag, bouncing between relief and despair. “people run every time i tell them. lots of them act like i just told them i killed their childhood pet and it's just so...disheartening, y'know?
"i just don't get it because it's just like any other job. you work, fucking hard, because you want to perform at your best, just like anyone else. the stigma around it never goes away, no matter how hard you try to convince people. they think you get around outside of it, having sex every second of every day, or that you're gonna mess around with your coworkers and give them something. it's like the trust level is in hell before you're even able to prove yourself." you scoot closer to mike without a word and place your hands over his. his rings are cold against your palm.
it's a gentle gesture. the airy smile you give pacifies him and he swears he's never felt anything like what he feels now.
"i'm not here to judge you, mike. i never will. sex work is a completely valid career, just like anything else. i'm sorry about all those shitty people who made assumptions about you."
"no need to apologize," he whispers, adjusting his hands so that they cradle yours now. you tilt your head down bashfully, lashes fluttering. "all those times led me here."
you two chat for a long while. mike tells you all about the production company he works for, how he got into the business, what his work schedule's like, the community of other stars that he works with, his stage name. you can tell he's passionate about it, lost in his rambles and talking with his hands. certain words segue your convo into other topics, like books and food and pop culture. you two have a lot more than coffee in common.
"i was surprised you didn't recognize me, honestly. not in a douchey way, but just because everyone does. it's usually the first thing they come up to me with." you could only imagine, being approached with "i've come to all of your work" in the condiment aisle at the grocery store.
"i don't watch professional porn really. too staged for me."
"i get that. i think you'd like our content. we really found a good balance between professional quality and ethical, genuine, safe fun."
you try to stay nonchalant, not wanting to betray the fact that you're itching to watch something of his work. "that's really nice. i bet you have quite the catalog."
"almost ten years worth so, yeah, i'd say," he chuckles, bringing his bottom lip between his teeth. "enough about me though. what do you do for work?"
"nothing as exciting and well-paying as porn. i type letters and numbers into a computer in a cubicle. it barely pays the bills, but i've worked in too many customer service jobs to ever go back." mike agrees. you're about to say something else when you're interrupted by a yawn, unhinging your jaw like an animal. you quickly cover your mouth, muttering, "jeez. sorry." you didn't realize it, but you were tired, exhausted from the night you had.
"it's okay, it is pretty late." he checks the time on his phone and turns it to you. 2:23 am. had you two really been talking on this couch for 3 hours? "i can show you to the guest room if you're tired. i have a shoot tomorrow anyway so i should get to bed too."
"sure," you whisper, grabbing his hand when he extends it to you. he pulls you to your feet like you weigh nothing at all, and you tail behind him like a lovesick puppy.
you're feeling that tingly ball of warmth in your stomach, the one you've felt with every person you thought you'd marry. you usually indulge in it, but with mike, it scares you. why do you feel like this after one night with a man you barely even know?
it's rash and inappropriate, you decide, and you're still convincing yourself as you slide under the black satin sheets and duvet on mike's king sized guest bed. you recline on the satin-covered pillows, sinking into the memory foam. it's a nice departure from your noisy childhood mattress back at home.
"do you have work tomorrow?" you shake your head, and mike claps his hands together with a cheer.
"yay. i'll be leaving around 8 or so, but feel free to sleep in and hang around as long as you want. the remote for the blinds is right there, i'll put a toothbrush out for you, and there's all kinds of food in the kitchen. help yourself. just let me know when you're leaving so i can lock the door."
your eyes squint. "you're gonna lock the door after i leave?"
mike nods, smiling excitedly and geekily diving into his rationale. "mhm, i have a smart lock. i can do it from my phone."
you're so tired that the words just foolishly tumble out of your mouth. "you must have great dick."
mike lets out a laugh that's a blend of flattered, nervous, and amused and you're both red-cheeked and flustered. "i am so fucking sorry, i, uh..y--" you stammer over all of your words, finally able to wrench out, "a smart lock just sounds expensive."
mike stares you down with fascination, backing towards the door. "watch the videos and find out for yourself, yeah?" he winks at you, and you gulp so loudly you're sure he hears. "goodnight, y/n. sleep well.”
"you too,” you croak.
you're out like a light once he leaves, but not before telling yourself to put up a new sticky note at home: “watch mike's porn."
you awake what feels like days later, refreshed and made anew. you click on the remote for the curtains, and they rise slowly, flooding the room with rich early afternoon sun. the clock on the nightstand reads 12:38 pm.
you hop to your feet and make your way to the bathroom to brush your teeth and wash your face before stalking to the living room. it's filled with light, and you think about how you'd probably never be depressed living in a place like this.
a box, red and moderately sized, sits upon the kitchen counter. you think you should ignore it, but as you get closer, you see a paper with your name scrawled across it. you like your name in mike's voice and handwriting.
you pull up the lid and inside is your dress from last night with the tag missing, two fat wads of hundred dollar bills, and another note that reads, “you deserve to feel beautiful and pay your rent <3 call this number when you're ready to go home. -m”.
in this moment, you're 100% positive that you're falling in love.
wow wow wow wow. they are so fucking CUTE! i love themmmmmmm <3 hopefully this tides y'all over for a bit because i need to outline the rest of their story, and i wanna work on some other stories for a little bit 💜 more parts are definitely coming, have no fear!
i'd also like to say that while i use y/n in my stories, reader is typically a character that i'm inventing. using your own name and likeness while you read is totally fine, of course! i just use y/n as a placeholder name for my reader character bc i don't feel like coming up with character names all the time <3 sorry if that doesn't make sense 💔
i hope you all enjoyed! happy reading my seedlings 🌱💜
faire's seedlings ✿
@leahdhopkins4321-@pyr0-kai-@angstywhore-@sunazroo-@nyxthoughtsss-@mirophobic-@fayethor-@marixsimps-@regretfulme-@ithinkitszeph-@707xn-@cattt777-@violetta-ximena-@amnesia33-@topnerd03-@fastnights-@laprvphette-@savage-aespa-@mfdxz
#mike schmidt x reader#mike schmidt#mike schmidt fluff#fnaf#fnaf movie#fnaf fic#faire is writing stuff#faire's (pornstar) mike schmidt <3#they are so fucking cute#like omg#i get the feels from them and they're my characters#rooting for them fr#josh hutcherson
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☆ My Next-Door Neighbor is an Annoying Older Woman Who Constantly Bothers Me
☆ between: college au!scaramouche x milf!reader
☆ synopsis: scaramouche insists he doesn’t want to fuck the milf living next door, but all his friends think he doth protest too much.
☆ word count: 10.5K words
☆ a/n: like with my venti x milf!reader fic over on ao3, this is supposed to give a sort of doujinshi vibe, hence the embarrassing title and the lunacy of some ideas like milf!reader going outside in a super sheer shirt. hopefully you feel the doujinshi vibe i was going for as i have a lot of fun trying to replicate the style, themes, and flow of doujinshis using only text!
☆ contents: fem + plus-sized reader (reader is explicitly described as chubby, busty, and taller than scaramouche), age gap obviously; scaramouche is a senior in college and reader is in her early 40s, degradation, a couple insults (such as scaramouche calling you a hag/loose/etc.), degradation, exhibitionism (scaramouche fucks you in front of a glass sliding door), sexual frustration, and unprotected sex + scaramouche pulls out
also posted to ao3 with the same title and under the same username!
Scaramouche has a problem.
Well, a problem slightly more irritating than the approximately nine hundred other problems he deals with on a daily basis. These issues include, but are not limited to, the consistent problems he has with the hot water heater in his apartment, his obnoxious group project teammate Ajax who insisted upon being the group’s leader despite his complete and utter lack of intellect, his annoying circle of friends that always seem to find ways to poke their noses into Scaramouche’s business, his frustratingly-dull history professor that always goes off on tangents completely unrelated to the class’ subject matter… and so on and so forth. It’s one issue after another; there’s always something when it comes to Scaramouche.
A matter more pressing than all of those other nine hundred issues put together, however, comes in the form of his next-door neighbor— you.
You’re a divorced woman in your early forties who lives by herself, works during the daytime while Scaramouche is on campus, and always seems to leave and return home at the same times he does. He moved in next door to you a few months ago at the start of his junior year, but you’ve never really gotten the chance to get to know him beyond the curt responses he gives you when you ask how he’s doing or what he did over the weekend. His coldness towards you doesn’t make too much sense— have you somehow offended him without knowing? You like to consider yourself a good neighbor: you don’t party (like a woman your age would ever do such a thing), you don’t blast loud music long into the night (or at all), you take good care of your things and avoid causing trouble for Scaramouche or your other neighbors, and you’re very, very tidy. When you’re in the mood to brag a little, you’ll say that you have the nicest balcony in the entire apartment complex.
…Avoid causing trouble for Scaramouche, huh? He’d beg to differ.
If Scaramouche has nine hundred problems in his life, then maybe it’d be more accurate to claim that you’re the cause of at least seven hundred of those problems rather than claiming that you’re one single, self-contained issue separate from all of those other problems. Maybe it’s the way you insist upon butting your way into his life and, in what must be your way of expressing it, “taking care” of him that irritates him more than anything else. Really, if he had to sum up your advances in one word, he’d have to go with aggravating.
At first, he bitterly wondered if you’re just some senile old hag using him as a replacement for your son, who’s surely moved out by now given your age. All you are is a woman looking to cure her empty nest syndrome by doting on someone her son’s age according to Scaramouche— he viewed your kindness as underhanded and delusional because he can take care of himself, you know. He’s an adult man living on his own; he knows how to navigate the trials and tribulations of young adulthood without some old lady insisting upon knocking on his door and gifting him home-cooked meals, bringing up his mail from the first-floor mailroom, or helping him with chores where you can. It’s not like Scaramouche would ever let you into his apartment, but that hasn’t stopped you from finding ways to help outside by sweeping outside his front door or washing the outside of his front window while he’s not home.
Okay, maybe it’s a little creepy to wash your neighbor’s windows without him asking you to help out, but it’s not like he’s going to do it. You would know— you had once waited a week to see if he’d clean up a spilled drink stain on the walkway in front of his door. As you expected, he never got around to it, so you happily cleaned it up on his behalf. Cleaning up for him doesn’t really put you out of your way either— whenever you sweep his doorway, it’s because you were already outside tidying up in front of your place; why not help out your neighbor in the process?
When you bring him meals you prepared yourself, it’s out of the goodness of your heart and because you can’t help but worry about a college boy’s diet— fast food, pizza, frozen microwave meals, and instant ramen don’t have all the nutrients a hardworking man needs. When you bring him his mail, it’s because he has a tendency to forget about it until his mailbox is, quite literally, overflowing. Whereas you check your mailbox every single day, Scaramouche seems to forget about his until the end of the week, which is certainly no way to live— what if he misses an important bill or notice? As a result, you took it upon yourself to check his mailbox for him whenever you go to retrieve your own mail.
Again, maybe it’s a little creepy to gather your neighbor’s mail, but it’s not like you’re hurting anyone, right? You certainly don’t root through his mail or open any of it. Even though Scaramouche rolls his eyes and mumbles a halfhearted little “thanks” every time you hand him his mail, he doesn’t really seem to mind. Despite his initial reluctance to accept any of it, he still eats the food you prepare for him if the empty containers he returns to you a few days later are any indication of that fact. You figure maybe he’s just a little shy or tired from his long day on campus— it does your heart well to know that he’s working so very hard.
On the flip side of things, Scaramouche considers your… activities a total inconvenience. He’ll admit that your meals taste very good— though he’d never say it to your face— but he doesn’t like feeling indebted to you or thinking that he owes you something even though you’ve told him multiple times that your favors don’t need any payback. You’re just happy to cook for someone other than yourself, you had told him once, confirming Scaramouche’s suspicion that you live alone. It’s not his fault you’re bored enough to make food for someone you barely know, so do you have to rope him into your wiles? He already has groceries and though he doesn’t really know how to cook, what’s wrong with having a bowl of cereal for dinner? It’s none of your business, is it?
Between your constant insistence on involving yourself in his life and the fact that he’s never seen anyone else leaving or entering your apartment, Scaramouche was able to correctly guess that you live alone… a realization that can’t help but annoy him. He figures that if you had someone, anyone else in your life like a spouse or another child living with you, you’d stop pestering him and stick to involving yourself in the lives of your family instead of your neighbor.
Would a pet do? Should he find some stray kitten and leave it on your doorstep? Is that what it’d take to make you mind your own business?
“Hey, Kuni, tell me about your little neighbor lady again,” Venti coos, accidentally knocking over his—thankfully— empty beer bottle when he leans forward to grab his phone. He’s drunk, but that barely makes a difference; he’d still make this request sober.
Glowering around the mouth of his own bottle, Scaramouche rolls his eyes in Venti’s general direction. “Why? If you want to know that hag so badly, go talk to her yourself.”
Venti busts out laughing, an action that his drunken body clearly can’t handle seeing as he falls sideways into Aether’s shoulder, making the latter grimace in response. Venti’s already a handful sober, but when he drinks… it takes the entire friend group to get him home and/or in bed safely. “Don’t threaten me with that, ‘cuz I really will do it— I’ll go steal your hot older girlfriend.”
Glaring up at him from his spot on the rug, Scaramouche has half a mind to shove that empty beer bottle into Venti’s eye for suggesting such a thing. Hey, wait a minute— why is Scaramouche the one sitting on the floor when this is his damn apartment?
“She’s not my fucking girlfriend,” he barks, turning to direct his glare at Kazuha too when he hears him chuckle.
“The more you deny it, the less convincing you are— you talk about her all the time, so I’m inclined to believe you really are dating,” Venti chirps, reaching for a bottle of beer that is most certainly not his.
“That’s mine,” Aether protests, watching as Venti takes a sip from his bottle anyways.
“Oops, my bad.” He doesn’t sound sincere.
“Well… get me another whenever you stand up.”
Venti waves his hand dismissively before redirecting his attention back to the more important matter at hand— Scaramouche’s complete and utter inability to just admit that he has the hots for his hot MILF of a neighbor and that any protest otherwise is a feeble attempt at hiding the truth.
“They say you’re attracted to things that make you mad,” Venti says. “…Cuteness aggression. Yeah. I saw a video about it once.”
“That’s not what cuteness aggression is, and ‘they’ say that you attract the things you fear,” Kazuha corrects him from his spot in the nearby armchair— again, why is Scaramouche the one sitting on the floor?— before he goes to take another hit off his blunt.
Venti repeats what Kazuha said in a nasally voice in an attempt to mock him, but the gesture only makes Kazuha chuckle again. It’ll be hard to draw any response more eloquent than a single laugh or a sigh out of him for the rest of the night— it’s a very, very stark difference from how he usually is.
“Why the fuck do I ever invite any of you over here?” Scaramouche sighs, taking a long swig from his own bottle. He doesn’t even really like the taste; it’s something Venti found on sale and decided to bring over, but Scaramouche has decided it’s better than spending his Friday night sober. Besides, it’ll take at least four more of these to deal with the impending conversation that he’s been trying so hard to pivot away from since Venti first brought it up.
“Because we’re best friends forever, next question. Why do you deny how much you wanna fuck your sexy neighbor, Kuni?” Venti asks again, pouting when Aether snatches the bottle Venti stole from him. “It’s super obvious. Xiao and Heizou agree with me, and I’m not just saying that because they’re not here tonight and can’t contest me on it. It’s true.”
Kazuha nods, and Aether simply shrugs. Christ alive, do they all think the same thing?
“And why on Earth do I— in theory— want to fuck her? She’s probably loose or something,” Scaramouche argues.
Venti busts out laughing again.
“It’s the opposite, really,” he starts, glancing between Aether and Kazuha when neither of them laugh along with him. “What, have you guys seriously never been with an older lady? They’re the best; the reason I know Kuni wants to get with that lady next door is because I got with the lady next door to me a couple months ago. It takes one to know one, or something. Trust me, Kuni, I know what you’re going through and we are seriously gonna get through this together.” Why is he making it sound like a relative died or something?
“They’re experienced,” Venti sighs longingly, blindly reaching out again for the bottle Aether’s holding, who moves it further away and out of Venti’s reach. “They feel really, really good. They actually know what they’re doing… sometimes the girls—and guys, mind you, I’ve gotten with plenty of both— our age clearly don’t know they’re supposed to be doing, but getting with somebody’s mom…”
“You’re gross!” Aether gasps, though his pink cheeks tell a different story.
“Not as gross as the guy who’s told us the same story about seeing his neighbor lady braless like four times now,” Venti replies, glancing over at Scaramouche with a grin. “Really left an impression on you, huh, Kuni?”
Just like that, Scaramouche finds himself instantly reminded of, well, the time he saw you braless first thing in the morning. A few months ago on some random Saturday morning, Scaramouche was out smoking a cigarette on his porch when you stepped outside to water the plants you keep on your balcony. There were so many of them: a small tomato plant, a pot overflowing with basil that you took to trimming after you finished watering everything, a couple of hanging baskets field with flowers, and a few other vegetable plants and potted succulents. More glaringly obvious than the abundance of plants occupying your balcony was your complete and utter shamelessness— even a quick glance in your direction was enough to draw Scaramouche’s attention to the distractingly sheer fabric of your white camisole.
It’s not like Scaramouche was actively staring at your tits— really, he wasn’t, he swears— because anyone would notice something that egregious. The low, low sweep of your camisole around your ample bust, your nipples beading up against the thin fabric, the constant fucking movement of the top as you shifted and bent over to water the plants sitting on the ground, moved, and walked, all of it. He complained to his friends about your complete and utter shamelessness— What kind of woman steps outside practically naked? he spat, much to the amusement of Venti, who had said that wearing a thin shirt does not, in fact, make one naked.
Worst of all, you had actually fucking caught Scaramouche staring, an action that made you grin wickedly and run your hands down the sides of your soft, plump body as if to try and draw his eyes down along with your hands. Instead, Scaramouche had only whipped his head to the other side, busying himself with tapping the ash off his cigarette as if it were the most important task he’d ever complete in his life. Jesus Christ, he was only staring because he couldn’t believe you’d be so shameless as to wear something like that outside, not because he was genuinely aroused by how low your camisole sat on your chest, how big your tits are, how soft they look…
He thinks he shuddered then, and he insisted to his friends that it was because of a sudden chilly breeze and absolutely nothing more. It was either that or because he was just so shocked by your display that a shiver went down his spine— he can’t even remember the exact reason he gave anymore.
Either way, none of them really believed him.
“Ah, he seems distracted,” Kazuha notes simply, raising a hand to point at Scaramouche before grinning. His words pull Scaramouche from his little daydream, and he groans at the realization that, yes, he spaced out remembering yet another instance of your abhorrent shamelessness and perversion.
“Spaced out thinking about cute MILF boobs, I get it,” Venti affirms, nodding. “Nobody gets that more than me. Not only that, but you’ve also, uh, ‘complained’ to us about seeing her in her swimsuit. Really, Kuni, it’s like you’re biding your time and waiting for her to take her clothes off so you can tell us about it.”
…That’s a story for another time. Scaramouche has had enough of thinking about you for one day; it’s bad enough that you brought him his mail today just mere moments before Venti, Kazuha, and Aether arrived to hang out— what if they saw you?— but to be reminded of the image of your tits underneath that pathetic excuse for a top…
He shakes his head and takes a long, long sip from his bottle.
“And they’re so soft, Kuni,” Venti says, slumping over further into Aether for support. “They feel like absolutely nothing else. I feel like firmness or perkiness or whatever is really, really overrated— the softness of a cute MILF’s boobs is unrivaled!”
“Can you not say things like that right into my ear?” Aether mumbles bashfully, making Venti laugh.
“Why? Am I gonna put the mental image of MILF boobs in your brain, too? Are we gonna become an entire friend group full of MILF chasers? That’d be hilarous. I already know about Xiao’s little crush on his English professor.”
Jesus, Scaramouche has got to steer this conversation somewhere else or he’ll go mad. “Anyways,” he beings, “Where is that pizza you ordered ages ago?”
“I thought Kazuha was taking care of it,” Aether remarks, glancing over at him. Kazuha goes to reply, but nothing comes out— yep, he’s gone for the night. He won’t be able to get out any more than four words max until morning.
As if the universe heard their request, the doorbell rings to signify the arrival of dinner. Before Scaramouche can go to pull himself up off the floor—he really should make Venti move; it’s his couch in his apartment— Venti’s already in the process of skipping towards the door. Aether takes the opportunity to kick his feet up over the other couch cushion, making Scaramouche wonder if the three of them formed some secret pact to ensure that he stays on the floor the entire evening.
However, what stands on the other side of the door is not, in fact, the pizza delivery boy. It’s you, aluminum foil-covered glass casserole dish in hand, leading Scaramouche to believe that while the universe did hear their request for food, the devil answered by sending you to his doorstep while he has three of his friends over.
“Oh! You’re not the pizza guy,” Venti beams, putting on his best ‘polite’ voice possible. Scaramouche groans and looks over towards his other two friends just so he doesn’t accidentally make eye contact with you, but neither Aether nor Kazuha look back at him. They’re looking at you.
Christ, he’ll never live this down. Not only do they know who you are, they now know what you look like.
“I’m not,” you giggle. “I live next door; I bring food to Scaramouche sometimes whenever I get a little too excited in the kitchen and make too much. I can’t eat the leftovers fast enough before they go bad, and I would hate to waste food, you know?”
“You can call him Kuni,” Venti offers. “We all do. It’s less of a mouthful, don’t you think?”
Scaramouche decides that Venti will be leaving his apartment in a body bag tonight.
His cheeks burn with equal parts humiliation and anger, and the realization that his friends’ teasing is only about to get worse now that they know who you are and what you look like more than motivates Scaramouche to devise a plot to kill the three of them.
After introducing yourself to Venti, he smiles and replies that “the pleasure is all his” when you tell him it’s nice to meet some of Scaramouche’s friends. Venti has half a mind to invite you inside for a moment, but he decides that’d be unnecessary— he figures he’s already done more than enough to inspire Scaramouche into action. If Scaramouche won’t act on his feelings himself, then maybe a little shove from his friends will help him along.
“That’s sweet of you!” Venti praises, taking the dish from your hands. “I’m glad Kuni’s eating properly these days. One time, he told us that the only thing he survived off of during finals week was a sleeve of Saltines and some peanut butter. You’re so kind, miss.”
You giggle sheepishly, a sound that Scaramouche would like to claim grates his ears. Miss? Can’t Venti see that you’re, well, old? “Well, I’m glad that he has such kind friends to support him. You all take care, okay? You too, Scara— Kuni!” You call out past Venti’s shoulder, making both Aether and Kazuha chuckle.
After bidding farewell to the four in what has to be the most mortifying moment of Scaramouche’s entire life, you leave, allowing Venti to close the door behind you and make his way back to the others. “Those boobs are huge,” he sighs dreamily, looking up at the ceiling. “If I got suffocated between those, I would die a fully satisfied man.”
“Then go die,” Scaramouche mutters in agreement, cheeks still burning with humiliation. Why does the universe insist upon tormenting him so?
Eyeing the dish in Venti’s hands, Aether pipes up too “She cooks for you? Kuni, you have it so good.”
Scaramouche is amazed that, after all this time, his friends still find it in them to be jealous of him despite all of his attempts at framing you as annoying, invasive, and overbearing. Can’t they see that you’re doing this on purpose?! Scaramouche has half a mind to wonder if you’re psychic— what other explanation is there for your obnoxiously perfect timing? He asks about food and suddenly you appear on his doorstep, dish in hand as if you had heard him through the walls. There’s no way they’re that thin, are they?
Venti moves to set the dish down on the kitchen countertop before turning around to look Scaramouche square in the eye. “Kuni, I’m saying this because I respect you as my longtime friend,” he asserts, tone and gaze both deathly serious in a way that’s genuinely almost out of character for someone as flippant and carefree as Venti. “But you better fuck that lady the first chance you get because, if you don’t, I’m taking her for myself.” That should do it.
Scowling in response, Scaramouche crosses his arms over his chest and sighs bitterly. “Why would I stop you? I don’t care what you do with her. For the last fucking time, I’m not into her.” Despite his words, Scaramouche can’t deny that there’s something… unsettling about the idea of Venti getting with you. Does he really want to watch his friend take four A.M. booty calls in order to fuck the woman living right next door to him? Can Scaramouche truly stomach the idea of his friend fucking the brains out of someone just a few walls away from where he lives? It’s hard to put his finger on why, but something about Venti getting with Scaramouche’s neighbor, despite his insistence that there truly is nothing between the two of them, really, really irks him.
Well, it’s probably just because a lot of Venti’s behavior tends to irritate Scaramouche in the first place, right? Yeah, it’s probably just that. He doesn’t need to hear every last gritty detail of his friend’s sexual trysts.
That characteristically smug grin of his finds its way back to Venti’s face as he reaches over Aether’s shoulder and snatches his beer bottle again. “Fine, I guess I’ll have to take your word for it. How about we forget the pizza and eat what she brought over?”
“Oh, I see now,” Kazuha interjects after having been silent for the past twenty minutes. He turns his phone around to show Scaramouche, Venti, and Aether the check-out screen on the pizza chain’s website. “It seems I failed actually submit the order; it was still waiting for me to pay.”
Scaramouche doesn’t have a hangover the next morning, a blessing he owes to the fact that he only ended up drinking two beers last night. He probably would’ve consumed more if he had the chance to, but Venti blew through the rest of the box quicker than the other three could try to stop him. It took both Kazuha and Aether supporting Venti’s hardly-conscious body to get him down the stairs to the parking lot so they can drive him home— there’s no way Venti would be able to safely get himself home amidst such an awful hangover.
As he pokes through his apartment scooping up empty beer bottles and stained paper plates to toss into a trash bag, the glass casserole dish sitting out on the kitchen counter catches Scaramouche’s eye. Save for a few scraps shoved into the rounded corners of the pan, it’s practically been picked clean— the four boys tore through it easily with Venti, Kazuha, and Aether all fawning over just how good a home-cooked meal tastes after months of campus cafeteria food, fast food, and instant ramen. Venti mentioned that there’s just something about a MILF’s cooking that makes it so much better, leading to a conversation about how, in Venti’s educated opinion, older women just do everything better: sex, cooking, cleaning, caretaking, all of it.
Scaramouche scoffs at the memory. “She’s nothing special,” he mutters to himself, still failing to understand Venti’s obsession with somebody he’s never even met until last night. Scaramouche is the one who’s actually been living next door to her for months now— as his friends know by now, he has plenty more to say about her than Venti does.
Shouldn’t he be the one to comment on things like the size of your bust, the softness of your legs, the plumpness of your ass and belly, and the flavor of your cooking? He’s the one who’s actually seen you lounging in tiny string bikinis by the apartment complex’s pool, watering the plants out on your balcony in a pair of shorts that certainly break publicly decency laws, and retrieving your mail in a shirt so thin he can make out the little bumps of your nipples up against the fabric.
“Christ, what am I thinking?” Scaramouche stops himself and second-guesses whether or not he’s actually hungover. There’s no way his sober mind would drift to thoughts of you, right? Clearly something must be wrong with him— he blames Venti for putting all these thoughts in his head with his never-ending discussion of what makes older women so utterly sexy.
He’s then reminded of what Venti told him right before they all sat down to eat your cooking: that if Scaramouche won’t hurry up and fuck his neighbor, Venti will do it for him. Even now, the idea still bothers him for reasons he just can’t quite put his finger on— Venti’s been with tons and tons of people; why does he want Scaramouche’s neighbor too? Can’t Venti see how awkward that would be?
Setting the trash bag down on the floor, Scaramouche takes to the sink to wash out the casserole dish you brought over for them last night. His mind concocts disgustingly vivid images of you as he scrubs at a particularly stubborn piece of dried cheese, and maybe he’d be shocked by how little effort he’s putting into warding those thoughts away if he weren’t so utterly immersed in them. His mind conjures up the image of you in that tiny black bikini he saw you wearing by the pool while he was out smoking on his balcony— he remembers the little number being so small that you had to readjust it every single time you simply sat up or lied down because every last motion was enough to threaten a nipslip. It makes him wonder if you dress like that on purpose or because you’ve deluded yourself into thinking that clothes and swimsuits you used to wear still fit you despite clear evidence otherwise— are you actively vying for the attention of any man who’ll give it to you, or are you brainless enough to throw something on without caring about how poorly or not it fits?
It’s probably a mix of both; you’re just that shameless.
Scaramouche grits his teeth at the mental image of you straddling him while adorned in that tiny little bikini that seems to only get tinier and tinier the longer he allows his imagination to run wild. Of all the fucking things to imagine you doing…
He pictures what you’d look like with your thick, plump thighs enveloping either side of his hips as you run your hands up and down your ample chest and soft stomach. God, he can see it all now: the little bumps of your nipples beading up against the thin fabric of your swimsuit, the soft hang of your tummy spilling over the tiny, flimsy string keeping your bottoms secured around your wide hips, the way your tits would bounce as you ride him…
“Something’s wrong with me,” he grumbles, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. The clump of cheese he’d been scraping at finally separates from the pan, and he realizes that if he wants to rid you from his mind for good, he should take matters into his own hands before Venti does.
No, wait, this has nothing to do with Venti— this isn’t about staking claim over you before any of his friends can, this is solely about him finding ways to release the grip you have on him as if you’re some kind of wicked succubus. Scaramouche glances downwards after setting the dish aside to dry and, much to his chagrin, finds that the mere thought of you was enough to fucking get him hard. The eager press of his cock against the confines of his briefs moritifies him solely because of the very reason why he’s like this in the first place; how the fuck did the thought of you in a bikini so tiny your areolas peek around the sides reduce him to such a state? He’d like to believe that he’s only this hard because it’s been a while since he’s jerked off, but that would be an excuse less believable than any of the ones he’s ever given his friends.
He knows that he’s too dignified to jerk off to the thought of you— if he’s feeling horny, then surely he can find things more deserving of his attention than some hag next door. He refuses to give you that kind of satisfaction (despite the fact that you’d never even know unless he told you, so how could you be smug about it?), so he decides that an ice-cold shower is in order before venturing out to settle things with you.
After a shower so cold Scaramouche swears he saw his fingers begin to turn purple, he dries off, gets dressed in something other than the clothes he fell asleep in last night, grabs your clean casserole dish, and leaves to go to the one place he wouldn’t have ever imagined himself stepping foot in— your apartment. If this is what it takes to sever the connection between you and his mind…
God, this is going to be annoying, Scaramouche thinks as he knocks on your door using his foot, casserole dish supported safely by both of his hands. He feels the need to steel himself because he just knows you’ll answer the door in something sheer, skimpy, or some combination of the two and he needs to be ready for that.
Why? Are you hoping for that to happen, Kuni? Venti’s voice whispers from the back of Scaramouche’s mind.
He really is losing it.
“Good morning— oh, Kuni! This is a surprise,” you greet him upon opening the door, flashing him a smile so bright it nearly makes him cringe. Can you spare him the pleasantries so he can just get to the point?
Fucking Venti— why teach her that nickname? Turning his head to look at a faraway bird instead of you, Scaramouche scoffs. “I need to talk to you.” Straight to the point, emotionless, and rude, it’s all so in-character for your neighbor that you can’t help but giggle.
You grin wider. “Of course. Come in; I’ll put a pot of coffee on.”
Scaramouche waits until you’re a good few steps ahead of him before following you inside, glancing around the living room of your apartment as he makes his way to the kitchen table. Your apartment’s clean, impeccably so at that— every book on your bookshelf faces the same direction, the blanket draped over the back of your couch doesn’t have a single crease, and he can’t see even an ounce of dust on any inch of your tables and countertops.
He snorts a little. Rather than viewing the cleanliness as impressive or inspiring, he bitterly interprets it as a testament to your overabundance of free time and lack of other hobbies or pastimes.
“I’m not sure how strong you like your coffee, so I’ll just make it how I normally do,” you pipe up from the kitchen, pulling Scaramouche away from scrutinizing the titles of the books on your shelf. Restless Summer Nights? The Devil’s Mistress? They all sound like bargain bin erotica novels.
It was a mistake to direct his attention away from your novels and to you instead, he figures, because only now does he get a look at what you’re wearing— if one could even call that clothing. You’re dressed in something he wants to call a workout outfit, but anyone leaving the house in an outfit like that surely has goals other than simply exercising— they want to attract attention. A sports bra that sits so low on your chest that a single bounce on an exercise ball would expose you combines with a pair of spandex leggings so tight they reveal the lines of your panties to comprise your “workout outfit,” and to say that Scaramouche is mortified would be an understatement. He can’t help but find the combination of your manner of dress and your collection of novels completely pathetic.
And despite his apparent disgust… he’s been staring at you long enough to pick up the most minute details about your outfit. The indifferent passerby likely wouldn’t notice your pantylines— a certain amount of staring is required to actually notice them; they’re really not obvious from a quick glance. Actually, why can’t he stop looking at you? He writes it off as a simple morbid curiosity at how someone can be so completely and utterly shameless— one could almost liken his sick, cynical fascination with your ample curves and soft body to rubbernecking.
Scaramouche instead stares down into the cup of coffee you’ve set in front of him like it’s the most fascinating object in the entire world. He’s half-inclined to just close his eyes entirely, seeing as the slightest glimpse of your bust still occupies the uppermost part of his peripheral eyesight when you sit down in the chair opposite of him.
“So,” you start, sliding a porcelain dish with a small bowl of sugar cubes and a saucer of creamer his way. “What can I help you with? It’s rare for you to talk to me first, Kuni.”
He adds “drop that nickname” to his mental list of topics to bring up with you. Scaramouche plucks a few sugar cubes from the bowl before him and drops them into his coffee before absentmindedly stirring the liquid with a serving spoon.
“Last night,” He clears his throat. “Why did you come over to talk to V— to my friends?” Why are you always in my business? he really wants to ask, but he feels like you’ll start crying if he presses you too firmly.
And that’d just be obnoxious.
You giggle. “That makes it sound like I came over on purpose because I knew you had people over, and that’s not true. Haven’t we been in the habit of food delivery and acceptance for months now?” Scaramouche’s eyes follow yours to the squeaky-clean casserole dish he placed on your counter.
“I’m glad your friends seemed to enjoy the food just as much as you do,” you add sweetly, pursing your lips and blowing on your coffee to help it cool down.
“It was humiliating,” Scaramouche counters, a statement that prompts you to look up from your coffee and make eye contact with him. “They wouldn’t— they wouldn’t stop fucking talking about you after you left.”
Wait, that’s not the point here, is it? Surely Scaramouche’s main complaint isn’t that Venti practically sweet-talked you right into his bed, it’s that Scaramouche is tired of you invading his business and his space, right? He doesn’t care about Venti’s comments about your soft tits or your wide hips, he doesn’t care about Aether’s bashful confession that he exclusively jerks off to older women, he doesn’t care that he has competition because there’s nothing to compete over and he’s really, actually, truly angry that you always find a way to worm your way into his days and his mind and his free time and his wet dreams and his—
“Oh, I’m flattered,” you reply simply, sipping your coffee and smiling around the rim of the cup. “They’re such nice boys. I’m glad you have such sweet friends, dear.”
What’s warmer: the tips of Scaramouche’s ears or his untouched cup of coffee?
“That’s not— what? That’s not the point I’m making and you know that,” he grimaces, clearing his throat again. “My friends shouldn’t have to put up with a shameless old hag the way I have to.”
You set your cup down. “That’s not very nice. I look good for my age— that charming boy down at the corner mart always asks for my ID whenever I pick up some wine!”
Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “That’s his job. Anyways, I’m telling you to mind your own business.”
“Oh, is that all? Of course I can do that for you.” Your reply comes without a single skipped beat.
“I mean it, that means don’t touch my mail and— what?” Wait, there’s no way you’re making this this easy. A shameless, conniving, lustful, lewd seductress of a woman like you agreeing to just… fuck off at the first request? Scaramouche doesn’t buy it— this is just another phase of your plan to throw him off guard and pull the rug out from under him so you can sink your claws deeper and deeper into him.
“I like cooking for you and cleaning for you, and I was very happy to meet your friends yesterday, but if you want me to stop, of course I will,” you explain. “I wonder who’ll help me eat my leftovers now… your friend from last night gave me his phone number; does he like potato soup? I’m making that tonight.”
Scaramouche almost, almost feels a shiver tear down his spine. He’s starting to believe that Venti’s just as much an antagonist in this situation as you are.
“Why the fuck did you accept his number? Delete it,” he grumbles, crossing his arms and glaring over at you. His coffee’s surely gone cold by now, but that’s alright— he was never much of a coffee drinker anyways.
You shrug, a sly smile forming on your lips. “Oh, I don’t know. He was so sweet I didn’t want to say no… it’d give me someone new to talk to, if nothing else.” Why do you need to talk to Venti when he barely knows you and I’m right fucking here?
“It’s not like you talk to me much despite all my best efforts, Kuni,” you offer him the subtlest of pouts, an action that would look out of place on the face of a woman your age if you weren’t so… if you weren’t so…
Forget it, he’s not saying anything about you that could be interpreted as a compliment. “…Especially now that you and I have agreed to leave each other alone.”
Oh, Scaramouche doesn’t like this feeling. He hates feeling like a situation has spun out of his control, and that’s, unfortunately, exactly what he feels is happening here. You’ve agreed to his terms and you’ve promised to stay out of his way, so why does he feel so… angry?
Yeah, you must have some underhanded motive here. Why else would you be making this so… easy? That’s not like you at all— he was expecting you to fan your eyelashes, pout your lips, push your tits forward, and whimper that you’re sorry and that you’d love to keep talking to him, so will he please give you a second chance?
I’ll do anything, he was sure you’d say.
You clear your throat. “Well, is there anything else you’d like to discuss now? If not, I’ll get back to my yoga. It’s good to be active, right?”
What the hell? You’re ending the conversation? No way, no how— this ends on Scaramouche’s terms, not yours. Who do you think you are?
“No, that’s not it, actually,” he blurts, crossing his arms over his chest. “Staying out of my business means staying away from Venti— from any of my friends. Don’t talk to them, don’t text them, don’t— I don’t know. Don’t be around them.”
You smile a little wider. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sound jealous, Kuni.”
He scoffs, staring you directly in the eye as if to challenge you. “Seriously? Shit joke.”
Of all the adjectives you could have picked to describe him… “It’s just that the thought of you getting with Venti is nauseating, alright?”
You hum. “And why him specifically, hm? You had other friends over last night— are they single?” Jesus Christ, what is this, an interrogation? And where the hell are these sorts of questions coming from— did you already send Venti an invitation to hook up?
Sneering so hard his nose scrunches up, Scaramouche can’t help but feel appalled. “Did you decide I’m not good enough or something? Who do you think you are?”
You go silent.
Scaramouche, somehow, goes even quieter than silent when the weight of his words finally sets in. There it is— the culmination of your grand plan to humiliate, embarrass, and utterly demean him in your own home. You had this outcome planned from the start, didn’t you?
“I didn’t say that,” you stammer, attempting to correct yourself. “Why do you think I’ve been vying for your attention all this time? Of course I like you, Kuni.”
God, how you piss him off. Who do you think you are— some bashful schoolgirl confessing to her first crush?
“I know that I’m just an old woman and that you could certainly find a cute, young, perky college girl whenever you’d like to, but if you’d ever like me…”
Of course Scaramouche could get someone his age from one of his classes— he doesn’t need to settle for some loose old hag— and yet… the thought of you getting with anyone else, Venti or not, pisses him off in a way he can’t quite describe. Maybe he views himself as some kind of hero protecting everyone else from your shamelessness, maybe he views himself as the only one worthy of your attention as the one who has to put up with you the most, maybe he views you as someone actually, genuinely worth being with…
He sits up a little straighter. “You have no idea how obnoxious you are,” he mutters. “Taking up my time and attention even when you’re not around.”
“What a forked tongue,” you reply, leaning forward and, much to Scaramouche’s chagrin, pushing your breasts together with your hands. “You know that’s why I like you, right? Mean boys have always been my favorite— ever since high school.”
“You’re not worth the time,” he spits. So fucking annoying. So fucking shameless. What kind of woman your age behaves this way, anyway? So obnoxious, so pathetic, so intoxicating, so impossible-to-keep-out-of-his-mind—
“Venti sure seems to think I am,” you offer with a smug, self-satisfied smile as you rise from your seat. Hooking your thumbs up under the straps of your sports bra, you quickly snap the elastic fabric back against your shoulders to give your tits a little bounce, an action that, of course, does not go unnoticed. Slapping his hands down flat against the perfectly-ironed lacy tablecloth covering your dining room table and standing up so quickly he nearly knocks his knees against the table’s hardwood underside, Scaramouche laughs.
What a time to finally, finally accept that he has the hots for his neighbor— the same neighbor who’s supposedly the cause of so many of his bad days and sour moods. You’ve prompted many a disdainful mutter from Scaramouche after catching a glimpse of you through your drawn curtains, you’ve been the subject of many a snide comment made in the presence of his friends, and, most frustratingly of all, you’ve inspired countless, countless inappropriate thoughts that he cannot believe you’ve been the subject of.
And all it took was one of his friends hitting on you for him to realize that.
“Constantly flaunting a body like this,” he chides in a way that he wants to come off as insulting and condescending rather than sadistically flattering, but the little grin you offer in response gives him reason to believe you interpreted it as the latter. Seriously?
“Other boys your age seem to enjoy the flaunting,” you counter, slipping your thumbs into the waistband of your spandex leggings. As if to tease the act of pulling them all the way down your legs, you flip the fabric of your waistband over its seam to expose the majority of your soft lower belly.
Anger burns hot behind his pale cheeks. “Is this some kind of pathetic hobby of yours? Fucking guys half your age?”
“I like to consider it a lifestyle,” you reply, shimmying your leggings further and further down your thick thighs until your thong’s completely exposed. A black lace thong— how becoming of a nymphomanic like yourself. “I’m fine with trading experience for virility and stamina; do you know how many men my age finish in thirty seconds and call it there because they’re ‘just so tired’? College boys either go until they can’t hold themselves upright or until they have nothing left to pump into me.”
There’s that vulgar nature that’s both irritated and (subconciously) aroused him for months. He wants to believe that your disgusting nature doesn’t make his cock twitch, but the time for pretending has clearly passed. You don’t believe he finds you ugly or unappealing and neither does he anymore.
“And do you find this… lifestyle fulfilling?” Scaramouche challenges, grimacing at the pressure building in the frontside of his tight jeans.
You laugh. “Is that your way of saying you don’t? Are you a virgin, sweetheart?”
“Of course not. Just because some of us don’t fuck everything with two legs and a pulse doesn’t mean we’re virgins.” His clumsy escapades are none of your business— his high school girlfriend and that guy from the concert Venti dragged him to over the summer don’t concern you.
Bending forward to push your leggings down to your knees, you gaze up at Scaramouche through your eyelashes and giggle. “Don’t make it sound like I don’t savor every last cock or strap I ride. You could put every last one of them in front of me and I’d be able to tell you who they belong to with my eyes shut.”
Venti mentioned something about experience, didn’t he? What a sanitized way of calling older women complete and total whores.
The inferiority complex in Scaramouche wants to prove that he’s the best thing a whore like you will ever experience, that he can make you feel better than any of the other bumbling college morons he probably knows can, and that you’ll give up your ways of fucking everyone that looks at you in order to devote yourself to him and him alone. That’d be some nice payback for all the pain and humiliation you’ve subjected him to these past couple of months, right?
No, he has a better idea.
“If you want to show yourself off that badly,” Scaramouche huffs, doing his damndest to ignore the nearly-painful throbbing in his jeans. “Then I’m sure you’d be fine with doing it in front of that glass door, right?”
With your hands still bunched in the fabric of your leggings, you look back at the glass sliding door that leads to your balcony and bite your lip. It’s not likely anyone would actually see you— you and Scaramouche live on the third floor— but it’s still a possibility and an exciting thought nonetheless. Maybe you could give that nice redheaded quarterback boy you fucked a few months ago a nice show; he lives just across the parking lot in the building parallel to yours.
“Now who’s the deviant one? I’ve never fucked anywhere more public than a nightclub’s bathroom stall,” you tease, finally pushing your leggings all the way down and off your legs. He doesn’t believe you, but Christ, those thighs of yours look soft…
You accept his offer nonetheless and make your way over to the balcony door, your thong riding high on your wide hips and your hardened nipples pressing into the flimsy fabric of your pathetic excuse of a sports bra. “You’re helping me wipe off all the fingerprints afterwards,” you scold, inviting him over with a wiggle of your hips and a glance back over your shoulder.
Now, rationally, Scaramouche would never propose the idea of fucking in a place as public as right in front of an apartment complex parking lot. He’s never considered himself an exhbitionist and he’s always been somewhat obsessed with his image, and people who care about their image generally don’t have sex in the potential presence of others. Additionally, there’s probably something to be said about him potentially getting caught fucking the same woman he’s spent the better half of this past year complaining about, but the current irrational, horny, angry Scaramouche wouldn’t listen to better judgement or rationality anyways.
The relief that comes with unbuttoning his jeans and giving his almost painfully-hard cock room to breathe is so euphoric he can’t help but sigh, the throbbing in his crotch more aggravating than any pounding headache he’s ever experienced after an evening drinking with his friends.
“I can’t fucking believe it,” he laughs, incredulous. “To think the hag living next door to me is the reason I’m like this.” Jamming the weight of his bulge into the plumpness of your soft ass, Scaramouche seizes hold of your hips in both of his hands and gives the fat of your love handles a painful squeeze just to hear you suck the air in through your teeth.
“I thought you’d never come around, you know,” you breathe, beyond eager at the prospect of finally, finally getting to fuck the neighbor boy you’ve been actively working at breaking for months upon months now. A guy this mean, this arrogant, and this demeaning doesn’t come around that often, especially when so many of the guys you get with take the polite route by calling you “ma’am” and complimenting you over and over again— which certainly isn’t a bad thing, but cruel has always satisfied you in ways that kind cannot.
The height difference between the two of you means that Scaramouche has to stand up a little straighter than he normally does in order to press his hips against yours, a realization that’s only slightly humiliating. Granted, it could never compare to how humiliating it was for you to show up at his apartment in front of all his friends.
God, does it feel good to put you in your place.
“Spread,” Scaramouche mutters, knocking one of his feet against both of your ankles. He doesn’t tell you that he needs you to spread your legs so your hips will lower a bit, allowing him to reach them a little more easily since you’re a bit taller than he is.
You would tease him for skipping the foreplay and just jamming himself right into you, but you know that you’ve been plenty wet enough ever since your discussion with him first wandered to sex and masturbation. Well, that, and if you had to wait another minute to get the cock you’ve been so desperate for for so long now, you very well may go crazy. It’s taken months, but you can already tell that it was all so, so worth it.
Running his knuckles down the center of your thong, Scaramouche relishes in the smug satisfaction that comes with realizing that you’re wet. It’s equal parts arousing and equal parts pathetic— just how desperate are you for any cock you can get your hands on?
“You’ve already kept me waiting for months,” you say with a pout cast back at him from over your shoulder. “Why make me wait even longer when I’m right here?”
“Shameless and impatient,” he remarks with a frustrated huff. “Can’t you do something good with your life or yourself for once and just be quiet?”
As tempting as it is to make a teasing quip in return to only further rile up your angsty neighbor boy, a frenzied giggle is the only sound you can muster up when you feel the firm press of a cock against your clothed pussy. Even through your flimsy thong, you can tell that he’s hard, which is a reward in its own right. It’s what you’ve wanted to achieve since the very first time he caught you half-naked watering plants on your balcony— is it so wrong for you to want to rile up the cutie next door?
Scaramouche roughly yanks your thong down to hang around your lower thighs, leaving you entirely on display for him when you follow suit by tugging your sports bra up to your collarbone. The cool, smooth glass against your bare tits is an unfamiliar sensation, but it’s certainly not an unwelcome one— especially when you remember that anyone could look up from across the parking lot and get an eyeful of your bare tits squished up against the glass door.
“I wish I could watch you sink it in for the first time,” you hum, reaching down between your legs to part the outer lips of your cunt for him a little wider. “In front of a mirror or something maybe. Wouldn’t that be romantic?”
Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because you’re the spitting image of the romantic type.” There’s no way you consider him the romantic type, is there? He’s not going to hold your hands and whisper in your ear about how cute you are, you know.
Damn it, you’ve got him actually wanting you more than he’s ever wanted you before— this makes all his filthy fantasies about taking you bent over your kitchen counter or being underneath you while you ride him into oblivion look like a cheap, budget porno from a video rental store. His desire has always been real—albeit subconscious, sure—but it feels so much more genuine now that it’s been realized.
“Don’t say a word about this to anyone,” he mumbles in a brief moment of humiliation, biting into his bottom lip as he finally, finally sinks the full length of his cock into you.
Jesus Christ, if there’s anything Venti’s ever been right about, it’s how good a mature pussy feels. You’re soaked all the way down to your inner thighs, you’re so warm Scaramouche nearly feels his knees give out from underneath him, and you squeeze him so well he can feel your pussy gripping the sensitive underside of his tip.
“Why not? I can invite your friend next time,” you propose, squealing with delight when Scaramouche slaps a hand down against the side of your ass. “Venti, right? It’d feel so good to have my ass used while you—“
“Just shut up,” he hisses bitterly, glaring at you hard enough to give himself a stress headache. “Don’t talk about other guys right now. Especially not ones I know.”
“You’re right, it’s rude to talk about other men when I have such a good one right here with me already,” you feign sympathy, pushing your hips back flat against the front of his thighs. “Oh, Kuni.”
There’s that damn nickname again. As much as he hates the idea of you using it to tease him or fluster him, he can’t deny the way his dick twitches whenever you coo it in that soft, sultry tone of yours. It’s like you were custom-made to gobble men up or something— just how many of his classmates have you fucked?
Oh, it doesn’t matter. Not when he knows he can establish himself as the best of the whole damn lot of them. Not when he knows that he gets the privilege of seeing you every single day and nobody, nobody else does. Not when he’s seen your cute nipples peeking at him through that tiny, flimsy pajama top he caught you in all those months ago. Not when he gets to peruse on over to your apartment whenever he wants because you’re right fucking there and nobody, nobody is physically closer to you than he is.
Jesus, this is all starting to sound like some kind of crush.
“How’s that?” Scaramouche taunts, slapping his hips against you so wildly the sound of skin smacking on skin almost drowns out his voice. He’d like to claim that this sort of pace is supposed to be punishing, and he’d be right if he were to say that, but he wants it hard and rough just as much as you surely do. He couldn’t stop his hips even if he wanted to because he knows there’s nothing he’s wanted to do more than fuck your brains out for months upon months now.
You don’t answer him, too preoccupied with relishing in the feeling of his cock pounding into you with everything he’s got. How befitting of Scaramouche to fuck you like he’s angry at you— if he could even claim to be mad anymore. The combined sensations of his hips hammering against yours, his fingernails digging into your soft, plump love handles, and his balls slapping against your ass on each thrust are all far too overwhelming to even attempt a reply.
“Seriously? You run your mouth for ages and now you shut up when I ask you a question?” You’re doing this on purpose— Jesus, you’re insatiable.
Your back arches when Scaramouche digs the tip of his cock into a particularly sensitive spot inside of you, a broken whine leaving your lips instead when you attempt to reply with a dirty quip. He laughs when he realizes what’s just happened— that’s certainly one way to get you to shut that filthy mouth of yours.
“I hope somebody’s watching you, actually,” he admits despite all the jealousy even a single mention of his friend stirred up in him. “That way they can see you’re not worth their time because you don’t value yourself whatsoever. Why would anyone want someone who’s happy to just give themselves away like this and get fucked in a place so public?”
Maybe that’s just a weird, roundabout way of saying I want someone to watch me fuck you so they know a whore like you has been whipped into shape and that you only want me now. Who’s to say?
“You don’t care about getting caught yourself?” You finally pipe up with a grin.
Scaramouche snorts. “Getting caught with the likes of you? I’d transfer universities.”
You pout. “Would I still get to see you?”
For whatever reason, the question catches him off guard. How many times does he need to remind you that you’re not his girlfriend, that you’re not some sweetheart with an innocent crush, that you’re just his fucking neighbor who just so happens to have a hot body and just so happens to feel so, so good around him like this and just so happens to be the subject of his wet dreams and fantasies and—
He’s only able to spit out one word. “Obnoxious.”
His hands reclaim a firm grasp on your ample hips before he takes to fucking into you at a whole new angle— one that’ll surely hit that spot that got you to shut the fuck up moments ago. Your hands clamor for anything you could possibly grab onto to steel yourself, but there’s nothing except for the cool, flat glass beneath your palms.
“Kuni,” you rasp in a broken voice, beyond impressed with his ability to have found your most sensitive spot and target it specially. Call it sheer dumb luck or a testament to how perfectly compatible your bodies are, it doesn’t matter. He won’t let up on it until you’ve collapsed— maybe it’ll be a nice change of pace from your partners being the ones to collapse after an evening with you.
With the task of finding something to hold onto having proven fruitless, you instead slip a hand back between your legs to rub at your clit. Scaramouche snickers at your apparent desperation to orgasm, but he’s not letting you off that easily.
“What a pathetic display,” he remarks, pounding into you so quickly you can barely register the full length of his cock before he’s pulling it all the way out of you again. With your legs trembling and your knees buckling, the possibility of actually collapsing underneath him is becoming increasingly likely— these wild, frenzied thrusts of his prove exactly why you’re so into college guys.
Looking down from the fuzzy reflection of your face in the glass, Scaramouche watches each sink of his cock into your tight, dripping cunt with all the intensity and attention of a virgin. It may as well be his first time— you feel so fucking good he’s starting to lose his train of thought. You take him all the way to the hilt on each thrust so easily that he’d absolutely call you a common whore if he were able to form even a single word.
Despite his inability to form a coherent sentence, Scaramouche finds that he has just enough rationality left to pull out mere seconds before coming all over the swell of your ass, his cock twitching in his hand as he bites back moans. Here he is, coming all over the soft ass of his obnoxious older neighbor lady after spending so many months convincing his friends that he does not, in fact, want to fuck her.
You laugh breathlessly, the hand between your legs still rubbing frantic circles over your clit as you attempt to reach your own orgasm as well. “What’s wrong with coming inside? I’m hurt.”
Scaramouche rolls his eyes. That’d be irresponsible.
“Well, that’s alright,” you chirp, standing upright and turning around to face him. “I can always wring it out of you myself, right?”
“You’re insatiable,” he replies, inching backwards towards the couch as you step forward in time with his footsteps.
“Pot, kettle. You’re still hard, Kuni.”
With the realization that he’ll need some kind of excuse to offer his friends when he inevitably returns to a slew of unread messages a few hours from now, he falls backwards onto the couch just before you make yourself comfortable in his lap.
Well, not that any of them have ever believed any vague, half-baked excuse Scaramouche gives.
#hiiiii#juju bakery#scaramouche smut#scaramouche x reader#genshin smut#genshin impact smut#genshin x reader#genshin impact x reader#kunikuzushi x reader#scaramouche x y/n#kunikuzushi smut#fem reader
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What superpowers do the members of the Morozov family have? Perhaps I didn't read carefully and missed this information (if that's the case, I'm sorry🙏) . Grandma, Victor, Luca, etc.
No worries! Some of them are more of touched on only in the story, so it’s understandable if you miss them 😄
Viktor: Power Replication. Copying the power of the person he last touched (and actually intended to copy the power of).
Luka: Teleportation, both long distance and short distance (blinking).
I explain both of their powers in far more detail in the Character Guide section of the Stat Screen 😁 So, if you’re interested in a bit more explanation on how they work and stuff, you can find them there.
Grandpa: Compulsion. Compelling/forcing people to do what he commands and bids them to. I made the sentence or words bold to kinda help make it clear when he’s using his power or when he’s just speaking normally.
Grandma: Cryokinesis (Ice Manipulation). I think the only subtle reference to this in the story so far is in the Christmas dinner flashback in Chapter 2 where little MC met their grandparents for the first time, and when she touched MC’s cheeks, MC recalled her hands being very cold.
Also as extras, I don’t think I’ve brought up Takashi’s and his wife, Azami’s powers here before. Or maybe I have but I just forgot. Nevertheless, I’m just gonna add them too in this post since we actually haven’t seen any of their powers in action in the story so far 😉
Takashi: Super Strength. Included in it are also superior resilience and stamina compared to normal people. So, yeah, even though Takashi looks like the more friendly and open-to-talk kind of guy, he’s also capable of physical violence if needed 😆
Azami: Music Hypnosis. It’s basically like Yvette’s Empathy power but only applicable when she’s playing musical instruments. So, affecting people’s emotions when listening to her playing musical instruments.
She always tried to suppress it when she’s actually performing in a concert because she kind of sees it like “cheating”. Although, over the years as she has successfully cemented herself as a pretty renowned classical musician, she has learned to embrace her power and used it a bit to add more impact to the viewers when watching the performance.
#asks#anon ask#char: info#power/abilities#char: viktor#char: luka#char: grandpa#char: grandma#char: takashi#char: azami#if: vendetta#if vendetta#vendetta if#if game#if wip#dashingdon#choicescript#hosted games
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I request…diavolo courting headcanons with an exasperated barbatos sprinkled in
Super late, but I hope you enjoy it. I love when Diavolo causes trouble for Barbatos but Barbs just kind of manages because affection duty. I could probably have done a few more, but I think I got a good chunk of stuff. I put a few MC courting Diavolo at the end since I realized the request wasn't specific that only Diavolo did the courting and because Diavolo is babygirl/babyboy and deserves courting too.
Diavolo courting headcanons
(Diavolo x gn!MC) (SFW)
Diavolo has no idea how he’s supposed to court a human. He’s never courted anyone (except for Lucifer, in his own, naïve, convoluted and lovestruck way – and even then, he didn’t acknowledge it as courting). He’s been courted by a few brave witches and demons, but it didn’t go anywhere, so he doesn’t care to replicate someone else’s failed attempt at courting. Other than that, he’s only read whatever made it into his family’s history. His father didn’t speak about Diavolo’s mother – let alone their courtship. In short, this poor man is lost and scrambling the entire time.
He turns to Barbatos, Lucifer, and Solomon for advice. None of them are keen to help him seduce MC if they already like MC, but Solomon is the only one to actively sabotage Diavolo’s plans on occasion. Solomon has suggested that Diavolo pick one day a week to actively avoid you so you’ll want him more or that he fill your entire room up with balloons in your least favorite color so you can enjoy destroying them or that humans enjoy being watched while they sleep and doing so shows that you will protect them when they’re most vulnerable. Barbatos catches on to his weird plots and attempts to stop him if he’s at risk of troubling you. Barbatos just counts this as another reason to be a bitch to Solomon the next time he sees him.
Eventually, Diavolo decides that the best course of action is to do whatever he can to see that precious smile on your face and just be around you. He may not know what he’s doing, but he knows that nothing in any realm could feel better than when he catches your gaze in his and you smile at him affectionately.
As such, he asks you to accompany him in his study while he does paperwork late into the night. No one else has the privilege of bothering him while he works. Literally. Barbatos doesn’t allow anyone to interrupt Diavolo when he has important work to do. Diavolo sneaks you in when he asks you to keep him company. It’s actually a great environment for reading and studying. He feels more productive having you around (most of the time). Sometimes he’s distracted by his desire for you, and he takes a short break “to refocus.” If his paperwork isn’t confidential and you’re lonely, he’ll let you sit in his lap.
Some nights, Diavolo has so much work that you fall asleep to quiet music, scribbling, and pages turning. When Barbatos comes to deliver tea, only to find you asleep on the couch, he sighs and escorts or just straight up carries you to a spare room to rest. He’ll scold Diavolo in the morning, but he doesn’t put any extra effort to prevent Diavolo from sneaking you in – not after he saw how affectionately and longingly Diavolo stared at you when Barbatos sent you off to bed. Barbatos hates that he has such a soft spot for you both sometimes.
Diavolo doesn’t tell anyone, but once he establishes peace between all three realms, he wants to build an entire city in your honor. It’s one of the dreams that sustains him when he feels like a failure. He has to do this for you.
He wants his love for you written in history books. This man is down so bad, that he needs you to be remembered in the history of the Devildom. If your name died with you, he would tear the Devildom to pieces until every denizen memorized your name. You’re such a comfort in his daunting, stressful life, he needs your beauty to stain the world. This is the only way he can cope with the thought of you dying one day.
Diavolo will open entire public parks and gardens dedicated to you. If you’re shy or don’t want recognition, he does it secretly and only tells you that he opened it in your honor. Unfortunately, he always invites you to the opening ceremony, and anyone who sees the way he looks at you will know that this is all for you. He plants your favorite devildom plants or flowers that blossom in your favorite color. Usually, he includes some kind of water feature (pond, lake, elaborate fountains) or interesting sculpture. Sometimes they’re so romantic that he gets a bit jealous that other couples get to spend more time there with each other than he can with you.
With Solomon’s help, Diavolo imports your favorite human world flower and plants it somewhere hidden in the garden at the Demon Lord’s castle. He will not allow Barbatos to tend to the flowers and takes pride in the fact that he’s the only one keeping that gift to you alive. One time, he suddenly got too sick to leave his bed and couldn’t water the flowers, so he allowed Barbatos to water them. However, he sulked for a week afterwards, and Barbatos couldn’t raise his spirits no matter what he did. It was so troublesome that Barbatos decided the next time Diavolo was too sick to tend to the flowers, he would rather carry Diavolo there or transport him in a wheelchair and help Diavolo water the plants than do it himself.
The prince offers MC a lot of gifts – an excessive amount of gifts. He gives you clothes he thinks would look good on you, cute things (like charms, plushies, cups, etc.), delicious and often expensive food and drinks, and anything you seem to take interest in. This man would give you an entire armory if you wanted it. It gets to the point that it’s overwhelming (and would be uncomfortable for most humans. If you love gifts, you start running out of space to put things). Barbatos has to point out that he makes you uncomfortable if you won’t. (Or if you don’t get uncomfortable, Barbatos notes how cramped/cluttered your room is after delivering one of many gifts and informs Diavolo that he must cut back.) “My Lord, you ought to show some restraint. Certainly, MC will still adore you with a few less presents.”
Diavolo offers you his arm whenever you are walking in the same direction as him at RAD. He loves being your escort. Who else gets to say that the future king walked them to class? You have to understand that you’re special, right? He’ll offer to escort you if he has the time when he sees you around town, too. Diavolo will only stop offering if you ask him to. However, if you ask him to stop because others are being cruel to you due to his special attention, he will give you an option: he can be more secretive about his affection or he can deal with anyone who is cruel to you “in an appropriate manner.” Do not ask him to elaborate.
Speaking of being your escort. Diavolo loves to invite you to fancy parties. It’s a good way to make his intentions clear to you and any of your potential suitors (Suck it, Lucifer). Incidentally, it also sends a message to his own potential suitors (Suck it again, Lucifer). Besides, he wishes to keep you by his side in the future, so he’d like you to get more accustomed to royal affairs. But, mostly, he just likes showing off his beloved.
Diavolo is always the first person to ask for your hand at a dance – even if he didn’t invite you to the party. He’s very formal about it - he even bows to you and kisses your hand. Mephistopheles gives you shit about making Diavolo, of all demons, bow to a human. He’s a bit jealous, and he can’t stand the idea of Diavolo lowering himself or potentially harming his reputation by looking like such a lovestruck fool. (One time, Diavolo overheard this and informed Mephisto, “Ah, but I am a lovestruck fool for MC. Why should I not appear exactly as I am? Is there something unbecoming about me, Mephistopheles?” Mephisto let that shit go real quick.)
If Diavolo sees that you are stressed, upset, having a panic attack, etc, he’ll transform into his demon form and wrap his large wings around you as he holds you until you feel better. He knows he can’t protect you from everything all the time, but in that moment, he wants you to know that he will shield you from the entire world until you feel safe. If you get claustrophobic or this makes you more uncomfortable, it will break his heart a little bit, but he’ll work with you to figure out a better solution. He’ll do anything to make you feel safe and comfortable.
Diavolo spends time planning vacations with you instead of doing work around the holidays – which results in a rather annoyed Barbatos. Consequently, Barbatos forbids you from visiting the castle until Diavolo finishes his work. Diavolo ends up exhausted all week between catching up on his work and trying to plan the perfect vacation, which only frustrates Barbatos further. Eventually, he gets his work done. Barbs can’t even get mad at you because he knows you didn’t ask Diavolo to be so reckless with his time, but if you could find a way to get Diavolo to manage his time better or delegate vacation plans, Barbatos would be grateful beyond words.
MC does not need to do anything official to “court” Diavolo on their end, but any time you get him a gift, it means more than he can express – so long as you actually give it some thought. If it’s a couple’s/matching item, he will be over the moon – gushing over it around anyone who will listen. Every once in a while, Barbatos will consider asking you to avoid giving Diavolo matching presents because if he has to hear about a little acrylic charm for two weeks again, he’s going to use a glamour to make little D. no. 2 look like him and stand in his place.
You can melt Diavolo into a blushing mess if you offer him your hand or arm and escort him anywhere – but especially if you do it when getting out of a car or on the way to a party. If you ask him to dance, even if it’s somewhere secluded, he will feel adored. Whether it’s in front of the entire student body at a RAD party or a random balcony in the Demon Lord’s castle under the moonlight or in his study because a particular song started to play while he was working, he’ll be delighted and take your hand with a chuckle.
The best thing you could do to court Diavolo would be to take his hand and ask to visit either the mausoleum or wherever his father is being kept so that you can declare your affection for Diavolo in front of his ancestors/family. If you compliment him and bring an offering of flowers for his family, he might actually cry. He will never feel more desired than at that moment. If you ask for permission to be with him (although he would be equally happy if you just inform his family that you love him and plan to stay by his side), even if his father rose from his rest or his ancestors rose from the dead to deny you, he would go against them.
#anon#ask#requests#diavolo#gn!mc#obey me headcanons#obey me#obey me diavolo#diavolo x mc#diavolo x reader
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D.D. | Shane's Girl
Part Three | Masterlist | Buy me a coffee | Check out the playlist
Summary: Daryl Dixon knows he shouldn’t be thinking about you when he’s alone at night in his tent. Hell, he shouldn’t even be looking at you throughout the day. You’re not his. You’re Shane’s girl. But Daryl doesn’t like the way Shane treats you. And he certainly doesn’t like how you’re forced to play ‘loving girlfriend’ to a man with eyes for another woman at the camp.
Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader
Warnings: Shane Walsh sucks
Word Count: 1.5K
Author’s Note: It has once again been a hot second. I love this idea so much and want to continue it. I'm really glad that all of you seem to enjoy this little fic as well. Did anyone else watch the new Daryl Dixon show? I liked it a lot more than Dead City; however, the final episode felt super lackluster, especially with all of the build-up. Maybe that's just me. Anyway, let me know what you guys think of this one, if you want to be added to the taglist, or just want to ask me a question.
Extras: Playlist
“Like this?”
Your voice pulls Daryl out of his quiet concentration. He’d been so busy at work, sharpening the tip of the crossbow bolt in his hands, that he’d almost forgotten that you were sitting with him. Daryl’s gotten used to being alone. Hell, most of the time, being alone is better than the alternative -- being in the company of Merle Dixon. However, you are certainly nothing like Merle Dixon.
Daryl coughs awkwardly -- trying to ground himself back in reality. It was early evening when you wandered into the Dixons’ makeshift camp. You’d finished all of your chores relatively early for the day and desperately wanted to do something instead of sitting down by the lake and gossiping with Andrea and Amy. You had attempted to find Shane, in the hope that maybe the two of you could take watch together. Since the world fell apart, you haven’t really had any time to actually talk with Shane. You can’t blame him though, his concern for Carl and Lori is admirable. And you know that if the situation were reversed, Rick would do the same and would make it his life’s mission to look out for you. You just wish your boyfriend could extend some of that comfort to you.
That’s how you find yourself across the fire from Daryl, sharpening the crossbow bolt you made together. Daryl’s eyes shift from your face to your hands, to assess your progress. His eyes widen slightly once he notices how you’re holding the knife in your hands. You stop moving once notice the change in Daryl’s features.
“Did I do something wrong?”
Daryl watches as you physically shut down-- as if you’re preparing for him to be angry over a simple crossbow bolt. His jaw clenches at your reaction. He is angry, but not at you. No, he’s angry because he understands. He resists the urge to ask you who it was that has managed to make you feel so small and, instead, moves to the other side of the fire so that he can sit beside you.
“Nah, you didn’t do anything wrong. Just hold the knife like this, ‘lright?”
Daryl physically shows you how to hold the knife away from your body while you’re sharpening the bolt. Your eyes follow his movements for several moments before replicating them. Daryl watches you intently, nodding whenever you look over for his approval.
“Yeah, jus’ like that.”
A small smile plays at the corners of your lips at the sudden softness in Daryl’s voice. You distract yourself by watching Daryl’s careful work with the crossbow bolt in front of him. It’s obvious how much the craft means to him -- it’s quite mesmerizing to watch.
“You’re really good at this. Did your dad teach you?”
Daryl stops for just a split second and draws in a breath. He rolls his shoulders back, trying to rid himself of the thoughts that come to mind at the mention of his father. His first instinct is to lash out and shut down -- and he probably would if it were anyone else; however, you have been nothing but kind to Daryl since he and Merle arrived at the makeshift camp. The idea of chastising you for your harmless curiosity makes his stomach turn.
Daryl clears his throat and finally releases the breath he was holding. He resumes carefully sharpening the bolt in his hands.
“I taught myself.”
You nod at his explanation, trying to ignore his change in demeanor. Just as sudden as the softness in Daryl’s features came, it is replaced by his usual indifference. It’s as if for just a split second you were able to see through the brick wall that Daryl has erected around himself. He lets his defenses down just long enough for you to see that there is warmth behind the cold front.
“Well, it’s really impressive. I don’t know anyone else who can use a crossbow or make their own arrows.”
Daryl nods and attempts to keep a straight face, fighting off a small smile.
“It’s really not that hard. My daddy had a load of hunting gear in our garage and with Merle always getting locked up, I had a lot of time to practice.”
You resist the urge to ask him more about his past. Based on his previous reaction, you can tell that it’s not a topic he’s comfortable with. Before you can change the subject, a rustling in the surrounding woods grabs both of your attention. You freeze in place, expecting the worst; however, Daryl springs into action. He grabs his crossbow and places his body in front of yours -- in this position, he’s managed to shield you from the source of the noise.
Daryl readies his aim and you brace yourself for a potential fight; however, before he can release the trigger, you grab his arm, stopping him in his tracks. Instead of a walker, Shane and Lori emerge from the woods. The smile on Shane’s face fades into a deep scowl as he takes in the scene before him.
“What the hell is going on here?”
His words are laced with venom as his eyes narrow at Daryl, who still hasn’t lowered the crossbow. You give Daryl’s arm a gentle squeeze, silently pleading with him to not escalate the situation. He shakes off your touch but lowers the crossbow. You move in front of Daryl, hoping to diffuse the situation.
“Relax Shane, Daryl was just showing me how to make some arrows.”
Shane ignores you completely. His eyes don’t even leave Daryl as you speak.
“I told you to stay the fuck away from her.”
His voice raises and Daryl notices how you shrink away from Shane as he takes an aggressive step forward. His eyes narrow at Shane, who continues to dismiss you. Now he knows who made you feel so small. A surge of anger rises within Daryl, along with the need to protect you -- which is quickly becoming a common feeling for him nowadays. Daryl mimics Shane’s actions, taking a step forward and sizing up the man in front of him.
You watch the scene play out before you and before either of them can throw the first blow, you place yourself in between the two seething men.
“I approached him. I couldn’t find you so I asked him for help, okay? Where did you go?”
Shane finally turns his attention away from Daryl and focuses on you. He places his hands on his hips as he looks down at you. Daryl’s brow furrows at the sight -- this isn’t the posture of a loving boyfriend. No, right now Shane looks like a parent scolding a child. He lets you take control of the situation; however, he anxiously observes your interaction with Shane, ready to jump in if Shane’s anger gets the better of him.
“I was helping Lori look for Carl.”
Anger is still evident in his voice, but he seems to have settled down to a simmering rage. Daryl raises a brow at his explanation. He doesn’t say anything, but he finds it very unlikely that there would be anything less than a full search party if any of the children in camp actually went missing. Daryl shifts his gaze to Lori who is still standing on the edge of the woods. Her face is flushed, her hair is disheveled, and her clothing seems to be thrown on haphazardly. It seemed like she and Shane had gotten into some trouble out there, but neither of them have any blood on them. They both, however, are covered in dirt -- hell, Shane looks like he just rolled around the forest floor.
Oh. Oh.
Daryl looks at you, hoping you just came to the same conclusion. You know Shane is lying. In your search to find him earlier today, you noticed that Carol was watching Carl and Sophia play down by the lake. And as much as you want to call out his deception, you also don’t want to start yet another fight.
You let out a sigh and give Shane a solemn nod. Lori uses this moment to excuse herself from the conversation -- muttering something about finishing the laundry. Shane shoots Daryl a final glare before grabbing your shoulder and pulling you away from the archer. Daryl watches you both walk away. Eventually, Shane releases his hold, leans his head down, and whispers something in your ear. You nod at whatever he says before casting your eyes toward the ground. Shane, on the other hand, stands up a bit taller at your reaction and walks off confidently.
Daryl clenches his fists as you look in his direction. Embarrassment washes over your features once you notice that he is still watching you. Daryl frowns as you drop your head and walk off in the direction of your tent. You shouldn’t be embarrassed -- Shane should. He may have promised Shane that he’d stay away from you, but Daryl decides, at this moment, that he doesn’t give a damn. Nobody gets to treat you like that.
Taglist: @darylsl0ver@minervadashwood@hotgirlsshareaccounts@taterbbbug@dreamtofus@youcantstandit @ajlovesdilfs @prettywhenibleed @luvsvnlqt-things @evie-beanie @strnqer@marina-isabella@lissanovak@elissanatok@1tsk1tty@moejoeflow@ceoofdisappointment@jewellthebooknerd @callsignwidow @genderless-ghosty-boi
#twd#The Walking Dead#walking dead#daryl dixon#twd daryl#daryl dixon imagine#daryl dixon x reader#daryl x reader#Rick Grimes#shane walsh#merle dixon#glenn rhee#lori grimes#the walking dead imagine#walking dead imagine#Norman Reedus#norman reedus imagine#norman reedus x reader
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So, I'm curious: What's your take on Aylin's experience after/if she kills Lorroakan?
Allegedly, there's some information floating around somewhere that said Aylin was angry with Selune after she killed Lorroakan, but I can't find where this info is.
If you saw posts about that here on tumblr it was probably posted by @justanotherignot! I've actually been meaning to gather up all the devnote tidbits about Selûne from Aylin and Isobel for a while now, so thank you for the excuse to do so and ramble a bit.
Player: I was just wondering what it was like in that cage of Balthazar's.
Aylin: Let us not dwell on those dark days. Their memory is a vortex within my heart that leads directly to the Hells.
What is happening is, well, it's the century of unthinkable horror catching up to her. It's the Trauma(TM) - in one of the conversation options she's literally triggered by the mention of someone being run through repeatedly! It's the growing awareness that although she's been freed (and possibly reunited with her love), the secret is out and there are always going to be assholes gunning for her, aiming to use her as an "artefact" and power source to fuel their ambitions, without any regard for her, you know... basic personhood and well-being. Also, Lorroakan was blatantly lying. He didn't find any super special way to siphon her immortality with "no harm, no pain of any kind", he was just replicating Balthazar's soul cage (you can even find a letter from Ketheric to him, showing Lorroakan was pestering them).
On to the stuff from the game files! First, the conversation with Aylin directly after the Lorroakan fight in the tower. I'm going to be putting the context notes in square brackets next to the lines they apply to. I also plucked some audio out from the files for some of these because I love the delivery.
Aylin: The fire-haired fool is dead. Yet as I stare upon his corpse, I feel… sadness. Why? [Slow and curious, angry and confused by all that has happened.]
Player: What kind of sadness is it? / I know something of sadness - or at least the ballads do. What does it feel like?
Aylin: A gripping in the chest. As though I'd lost someone, something. [Lost in thought for a moment; confused.]
Aylin: A paladin's fatigue, no doubt. You were excellent in battle, as is your way. And I am proud to fight at your side. [Remembering herself. She is Dame Aylin.]
Aylin: I will catch my breath, then to camp I will bring my bones. Moonmaiden be with you.
Player: Smiting is a weighty duty - sometimes it can be tiring. / Perhaps smiting has lost its pleasures.
Aylin: Say it can't be so. For I am Selûne's sword. And ever must be. [She means it, but on the periphery of her consciousness is a tiny crack. Wondering about her fate.]
The above never fails to get me - she is Dame Aylin! Sword of the Moonmaiden! Glorious immortal paladin, champion of a righteous cause! She smites evil-doers for breakfast, that's, like, her whole thing! What do you mean she can't just pick up where she left off and go about her merry smitey way? What do you mean the thing that is supposed to be the literal core of her entire being (forever) doesn't feel good and glorious anymore, but just makes her feel sad and empty? No, no, no, we can't have that.
Player: One of the greatest tragedies of revenge is that it can only be taken once. / Because you won't get to kill him again?
Aylin: Perhaps. Yet if I could run him through a thousand times, I wonder-- [Lost in thought, she's been triggered to remember her own fate being run through over and over.]
Aylin: Battle has tired my mind, made me susceptible to flights of fancy. You were excellent in battle, as is your way. And I am proud to fight at your side.
Aylin: I will return to camp shortly. I just need a moment to… to… [Lost in thought.]
She so very desperately needs some rest and a chance to come to terms with everything that happened and that was done to her. And it's clear it's going to be hard because she is defaulting to trying to deny anything is wrong, is clearly trying (and failing) to just be her old self immediately, has blatantly internalised a lot of that classic I Am A Sword stuff on top of everything (even though her mother is huge on free will and choice!), and is just really not well-equipped to handle any of this at all.
Next, this is the post-Lorroakan convo you get if you have both Aylin and Isobel in camp.
Aylin: Ah. Ally mine. We are reunited once more. [Warm, but drained. She's not feeling like herself.]
Aylin: I was just regaling sweet Isobel with tales of our prowess.
Isobel: Very impressive. Thank you for helping Aylin - that wizard sounded absolutely dastardly. [Good humored. Soft in tone. A little uncertain - she's not sure why Aylin isn't herself.]
Player: My pleasure. He had it coming.
Aylin: He did, and it came. Now, my friend: bask in your victory. I will do the same.
Aylin: But fear not: when the time comes for you to face the foe of foes, Isobel and I will stand by your side. [Rallying her soldierly spirit, but still a little drained.]
Isobel: We wouldn't miss it. Not for anything.
Aylin: Go well, friend. We will see you soon. And with our great powers combined, this city will be saved.
Player: Hopefully he'll be the last.
Aylin: There are always more bastards behind bastards. But we will run through them all, each by each.
Player: I hope you can rest easy now, Dame Aylin.
Aylin: I always do, with darling Isobel by my side.
Aylin: Enjoy the spoils of your victory. Spin memories of Lorroakan's death in your mind like silkfloss.
If Isobel isn't there (meaning she died in Act 2), you get this version:
Aylin: Ah. Ally mine. We are reunited once more. [Warm, but drained. She's not feeling like herself.]
Aylin: I was just reviewing our fight against foul Lorroakan; your moves and mine. The victory was soundly won.
Aylin: Don't you think? [Uncharacteristically, Aylin is seeking input. She's usually so confident about everything, but killing Lorroakan has not had the intended effect on her.]
Player: Indeed I do. Let his demise serve as a warning to anyone else who'd seek you out.
Aylin: Let him be the last. If my dear mother has any mercy, she will ensure it. [Trying to stay her usual self, but her mask is cracking a tiny bit here. Privately, Aylin is dealing with a great deal of anger toward her mother, the goddess Selûne, But she's not yet willing to face it. How could her powerful mother let all this happen to her?]
Player: We fought well - though I was a little worried about you afterward, in truth.
Aylin: Set your mind at ease, my friend. Dame Aylin is more well now than she has been this past century. [Good humored. Soft in tone. A little uncertain - it's true she's better now than she has been, but why does she feel so shitty, then? (She's in the beginning of reckoning with the trauma of what happened to her).]
Player: I hope you can rest easy now, Dame Aylin.
Aylin: Yes. I wish for the very same.
Aylin: Enjoy the spoils of your victory. Spin memories of our prowess in your mind like silkfloss.
So, a few things pop out for me here. First, you get the more explicit anger at Selûne if Isobel isn't there, as opposed to the "hahah, I will smite all the bastards who dare come after me, no matter how many there are" line. "How could her powerful mother let all this happen to her?" just... damn, hits hard, even if you subscribe to the theory that Selûne simply could not intervene in the Shadowfell imprisonment beyond sending those poor people whose graves you find in front of the mausoleum.
And here Aylin really lays it on thick with the denial that there's anything wrong at all. Combined with the letter you get from her in the epilogue if Isobel is dead, it just paints such a bleak, sad picture. I can just see her going all out on the Sword of Selûne duty-bound paladin side of things, no rest, no healing, no stopping even for a moment, no dealing with anything at all, from the trauma to the bitterness towards mum. Until whatever horrible breaking point comes, a year or a century from now. The need for Isobel's humanising influence is so clear. I've touched on Isobel's side of things here.
Speaking of having a bone to pick with Selûne, if you're playing as a cleric/paladin of Selûne, you can get some extra very honest dialogue with Isobel in Last Light:
Player: Why has the Moonmaiden waited until now to take an interest in this curse?
Isobel: Maybe she was waiting for one of us to find this place ourselves. Free will, and all that.
Isobel: Though if it were my place to ask why she let Ketheric turn; why she allowed this village to rot at his hands - believe me, I would. [A cold edge in her voice]
Player: Are you faring all right? It can't be easy holding a lone candle in such darkness.
Isobel: All things with her strength. You know the litany. [A little sarcastically. She's got a bone to pick with Selûne but isn't being too overt.]
Side note: the amount of devnotes for Isobel's lines that say she's delivering them "with swagger" and being "cheeky" makes me smile every time. Love her. Love her snark.
Also, to get it out of the way: no, I'm fairly sure Aylin did not break her oath. I see this brought up a ton and I just see no way for it to be the case. There is nothing to suggest this outside of a wording similarity and it just makes no sense. Girl is clearly some flavour of Oath of Vengeance (she uses Abjure Enemy, so this is the case even mechanically, even though she's obviously an NPC and not a standard player-build paladin) and she killed a very shitty guy who was also explicitly after her in godawful ways. You can do far worse things in the game than her dramatic speech and backbreaker and not break your OoV.
#sorry this took so long!#baldur's gate 3#bg3#dame aylin#isobel thorm#lorroakan#datamine#voice lines#audio#i'm stopping myself here but i could go on about this FOREVER#time for the comfort part of the hurt/comfort let's goooooooooo#oathkeeper replies to things
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A drabble of Tfp Prime switching place with his Tfa counterpart over a bridge mishap?
Optimus had experienced his fair share of odd situations throughout his life. That was only natural when you were the leader of the autobots and had lived as long as he had. He had battled space monsters, shapeshifters, old gods, undead.
But he had to admit that interdimensional travel was a first for him.
At least he could feel at ease knowing that he had landed among friends, even if they were a tad different from the versions he knew.
"You're so tall!" the human girl, Sari, exclaimed with awe, eyes shining as she craned her neck to look at him. With her pigtails and excited personality she reminded Optimus a lot of Miko.
The Bumblebee of this dimension did not appear as impressed. He crossed his arms with a humpf and glared at Optimus with critical optics. "Well, he's probably super slow, slower than a snail!"
"I bet he's super strong too..." Other Bulkhead murmured, decidedly more impressed. He stared at Optimus' arms dreamily.
"He's got a strong spiritual presence, that's for sure," the two-wheeler designated Prowl commented. His optics focused on Optimus chestplates, leaning in closer. "And there's something else. It almost feels like-"
"Would people get out of my medbay!?" Ratchet, who appeared to be just as high strung as the one in his own dimension, interrupted. He waved around a datapad like Wheeljack with one of his swords. "We don't know what kind of viruses his world have and if we're susceptible to them! We could have a potential pandemic on our servos!"
"Viruses!?" Bumblebee stomped his pede and pointed an accusing digit at Optimus. "You guys see? This bot is nothing but trouble! I say we send him back to wherever he came from as soon as possible and get our own Optimus back!"
Bulkhead piped up. "That might be more difficult than you think, Bumblebee. You see, he portal that brought him here was due to a space bridge malfunction that quite frankly had a one in 3 billion chance of happening and even if we were to find a way to replicate this we'd also have to find a way to get his dimension do the same thing on their end."
Optimus cocked his head, intrigued. "Do you know a lot about space bridge technology, Bulkhead?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess I know some things," he responded, meekly. He fidgeted with his servos, not quite daring to look Optimus in the optics.
Ratchet interjected. "Don't sell yourself short now," he chided, giving Bulkhead a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Bulkhead here is the foremost expert of space bridge technology. Ain't no bot that knows more about the stuff than he does."
Hearing this, Optimus smiled. "That's incredible! While the Bulkhead I know is a brilliant mech in his own right he does not possess such expertise in space bridges. How brilliant!"
At this, Bulkhead finally managed to meet Optimus' optics. There was a faint blush on his faceplates. "Really? I'm not really all that- Uh, I mean, what's your Bulkhead like?"
Optimus' smile grew fonder. "He's one of the bravest mechs I've ever had the honor of knowing. The only thing that can compare to his immense strength is his kindness." Gazing down at the young bot in front of him, he placed his servo on the his shoulder. "The two of you are appear very much alike, in that regard."
Bulkhead's blush grew in intensity, his optics becoming round like saucers, flickering from Optimus' face to where his servo was on his shoulder back to his face. "Oh geez, I don't know what to, oh stars-"
"What about Bumblebee?" Sari suddenly asked, clambering on top of some barrels to be seen. "When you first appeared you said you had a Bumblebee in your universe as well, right?"
Bumblebee, this universe's version, crossed his arms again. "Whatever kind of person he is, he can't be faster, or more handsome, than me!" He paused. "But yeah, what about him?"
Optimus laughed. "There's no way I can praise him enough. Bumblebee is a true hero, through and through, and he's saved my life more times than I can count."
At this, Bumblebee visibly preened. "Oh yeah? Sounds kinda like me then. You know, I've also saved our Optimus' life a couple of times already." He jabbed a thumb at his chest. "Some call me a hero too."
"I don't doubt it," Optimus replied and somehow Bumblebee managed to puff out his chest even more.
"Yeah, well, why don't you tell me some more about my other dimensional counterpart and my- I mean his, heroic deeds? Just so we can compare notes."
Ratched sighed loudly and dragged a palm down his face. "Great, just what we need, Bumblebee getting yet another ego boost."
Prowl leaned in closer to the medic. "At least he's not openly hostile towards our visitor anymore." The corner of his mouth twitched. "He got so mad when this Optimus asked him if he wasn't too young to be an autobot when they first met."
Ratchet couldn't help but snort. "That alone made all of this worth it. Sigh, I just hope our Optimus is alright."
---------In another dimension---------
"What do you mean I'm the leader of the autobots? Ultra Magnus is right there! What even is a Matrix? WHAT DO YOU MEAN I'M THE CHOSEN OF GOD?????"
#transformers imagine#transformers prime#transformers animated#optimus prime#sari sumdac#bumblebee#bulkhead#prowl#ratchet#crossover#AU
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I hope you’re having a good day and that your mojo runs strong ✨
Do you suppose we could have some mild angst comfort where the reader is a witch and (gently but firmly) confronts Donnie about his indifference towards magic? Like, they understand that mystics just aren’t his thing, but the way he kind of treats it like a joke or tries to explain it with science bothers them, because magic isn’t just something they dabble in, it’s their lifeblood.
Please, and thank you 🔮
Magical Intervention
Donnie + gn!reader
Warning: witch!reader, slight angst, Donnie apologizes, swearing, super short ngl
A/N: December is here... Feels weird...
Donnie had always kind of made fun of your magic. He always tried to explain away your spells with science. You hated it. You didn't even know why he was like this, his brothers couldn't tell you either. So you eventually got sick of it and decided to ask him about it.
You grabbed a spare chair and roll up to him. "Can I help you?" He asks, turning to look at you for moment before turning back to whatever he was working on.
"I actually wanted to talk to you about something." You answer, fidgeting a little. He looks intimidating, resting bitch face, goggles down, covered in oil and soot. Can anyone really blame you?
Donnie frown a little, lifting his goggles to look at you. "Okay?"
"Why do you hate magic?" You question simply.
Donnie raises an eyebrow, his eyes narrowing with a mix of annoyance and disbelief. He tilts his head to the side, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, please do enlighten me. Why would I, the great Donatello Hamato, have any disdain for the mystical and whimsical world of magic?" He scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. "Simple, my dear. Science is the epitome of reason, logic, and understanding. It follows a set of rules, laws, and principles that can be tested, observed, and replicated. Magic, on the other hand, is nothing by smoke and mirrors, a mere illusion designed to deceive the feeble-minded. Why would I waste my time on something so... Unpredictable and unreliable when I have the wonders of science at my fingertips?"
"But it's who I am. It's in my blood." You reply, sitting up and frowning at him. "Science to me is like magic to you. My family is full of magical people, including me."
Donnie's eyes widen slightly, surprised by your words. He takes a moment to process what you've said, and a hint of curiosity flickers in his expression. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, his voice a mix of intrigue and skepticism. "Well, if it's in your blood, then it's part of who you are. I suppose I can understand that. But you must understand that my faith lies in the tangible, it what can be measured and understood. Magic, to me, is enigma, and unexplained phenomenon that defies the laws of science. It challenges everything that I believe in." He pauses, his gaze meeting yours. "But I won't deny that there might be more to it than what I can comprehend. After all, the world is a vast and mysterious place, is it not?"
"Of course it is. And I know I'll never be as good with science as you are. But... I wish you'd stop treating magic as a joke and explain away my abilities with science." Your gaze stays locked with his, explaining gently. "It makes me feel like you think of me as a joke."
Donnie's expression softens, his eyes showing a hint of remorse. He uncrosses his arms and leans forward, resting his elbows on the table in front of him. "Look, I never meant to make you feel like a joke. I may have a tendency to dismiss magic, but that doesn't mean I dismiss you. Your abilities, your uniqueness, they are what makes you who you are. And I respect that." He pauses, searching for the right words. "I may not understand or appreciate magic, but I can recognize its significance in your life. And I... I apologize if I ever made you feel otherwise."
"I know you didn't mean to hurt me. I just... I've been wanting to explain it and let you know how I've felt." You sigh, feeling a weight listed off your shoulders.
"Well, I appreciate your honesty. It takes courage to express your feelings and I'm glad you did. Communication is key after all." Donnie nods, a faint smile playing on his lips. He stands, walking over to you, wrapping into his arms. "Thank you for giving me the opportunity to understand you better."
#{fish answers•°}#rise of the tmnt#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles#rise donnie#rottmnt#rottmnt x reader#rottmnt donatello#rottmnt donnie x reader#rottmnt donnie#rise donatello#rise x reader#rise of the turtles#teenage mutant ninja turtles donnie#donnie hamato#donnie x reader#donnie tmnt#donatello x reader#donatello hamato#tmnt donatello#donnie x you#donnie x y/n#future donatello x reader#donatello x y/n#donatello x you#save rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles#save rise of the tmnt#save rottmnt#unpause rise of the tmnt#unpause rottmnt#unpause rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles
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Imagine Leona after his overblot, never taking off his gloves even when he plays magift/spell-drive life he used to, yet still seeing everyone flinch from his hands. Imagine him being thrust back to when he was young, where the whispers of the staff curled around him like he wishes his mother’s arms would have, feeling like a monster for something he doesn’t understand, didn’t ask for, didn’t want to have. Imagine him, who already saw his hands as a symbol of destruction and evil and cruelty, being shown yet again that people will only ever fear his touch.
Except, imagine that the Prefect is there. Imagine the prefect is hearing these whispers, sees the flinches, and is angry. The Prefect was there- magicless and terrified- in the middle of a sandstorm, fighting to survive and fighting to make sure her friends survive, who felt what King’s Roar does when it touches your skin, who has a matching scar with Ruggie from the battle against Leona’s blot. How can these nobodies, who have never known the sting of sand down to the molecular level act like this? How dare they, who had only seen Leona’s grumpy tsundere type of care and not the scars from the fight, now act like they understand the dangers of King’s Roar?
Imagine the Prefect, caught in this righteous anger, storming up to Leona.
Imagine Leona bracing himself for another emotional wound, knowing that from anyone- he deserves the scorn and hatred and fear that you may spew at him. He knows it will crush him in a way that no others could replicate, save maybe for the tiny cub that he pretends to not love.
Imagine the prefect stopping in front of him and grabbing his hand, taking off the gloves and placing the bare hand on their throat.
Imagine the whole school stopping.
Imagine Leona’s heart stopping.
Imagine the shaking in his hands, the weakness in his knees, the tear welling up in his inner child’s eyes when you say, for all the world to hear, “these hands aren’t evil. Leona isn’t evil. King’s Roar isn’t evil. I was there when these hands were used, when they were turned against me as weapons, but I trust them, I trust Leona.”
Imagine Leona, for the first time since his unique magic showed up, feeling someone trust him and his hands completely, without any covering or barrier or safety net. For the first time since King’s Roar ruined his life, he felt the warmth of another person on his bare hand.
Imagine Leona being able to tell his younger self that someday, he will find the most stubborn, annoying, foolhearty, beautiful, selfless, kind, amazing herbivore who will give him their lives to hold in his bare hands without flinching.
Imagine Leona being able to tell his younger self that someday, someone will love all of him, including his hands.
(My first time writing something, usually I just gush and reblog to @/scared-reader-electric-boogaloo, so let me know if this sucks or oversteps a line!)
AAAAAAAHHHHHH
ASDFGHJKLYTRTTREARSAW
THIS IS SO FREAKIN GOOD HOLY GUACAMOLE IF YOU HAVE A BLOG PLEASE SEND THE @ TO ME BECAUSE EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS IS SO *CHEF'S KISS*
I've seen the trope of character A puts the hand of character B around their throat as a show of trust in a fanfic in two other fandoms I've been in and that is literally my kryptonite because it literally put's the whole "I trust you with my life" thing in a whole new context
(I've also had this WIP/blurb of Fem!Yuu/Reader doing something similar with Rook by having him shoot an arrow at an apple on her head from a distance (probably whilst blindfolded as well) and when he releases the super sharp, pointed metal arrow, she just stares right in front of her, completely straight-faced and unblinking, without even a hint of fear - kind of like this scene from The Addams Family Musical mixed with that scene in Divergent where Four throws knives at Tris)
But you know what's great about this trope being pulled of with Leona? Since he's a lion beastman - an apex predator built for hunting prey - he has enhanced hearing which means that he can hear Yuu's heartbeat and can literally have solid proof that Yuu isn't scared since their heartrate hasn't increased a bit.
And also, he loves his herbivore so much. Who needs a kingdom or a throne when he has the world?
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"Do It For Us." Pt.4
AN: I LIED SHE IS IN UA CUZ SHIKETSU IS TOO STRICT AND SHE NEEDS CREATIVE FREEDOM.
Summery: quirkless and weak, two words treat have defined this girl for too long. She can be useful to her friends, she can finally carve out a way into the hero life. From the sidelines. But…Izuku has a quirk? When? How? He’s a liar….
M. Izuku x AFAB! Reader x B. Katsuki
Pt.1 | Pt.2 | Pt.3
Being an inventor had opened your eyes, so many possibilities with creating things you realize heros will need. Some quirks can’t be regulated without support items which means you would be a vital part of history!
And some quirks weren’t hard to replicate. In a way you could research quirks and make your own. You had so many plans and ideas to share, especially after taking your first step in your classroom.
You felt your heart racing, transferring a month into school was stressful, everyone already knew each other and probably had clicks.
The support course, you were able to branch off after your main classes into the little indoor laboratories or whatever they’re called to create. Of course of of them were taken, two people in one garage.
Of course you were lucky enough to have one more spot so you didn’t have to walk across the entire school to get to an empty one. The teacher had told you that your partner will be a girl since of your record.
You nervously approach the lab, a box of blueprints and tools in your hands and you push the door open to see a girl with a big smile on her face laughing maniacally while creating her creations.
“My babies will be perfect! After I showcase these babies they’ll have to recruit me and buy my precious babies!” The pink haired girl cheered holding one of her ‘babies’ in the air.
You simply sneak into the room, making your way to the long desk across the room. Surprisingly it was empty, you thought since she was alone she’d take up the whole space.
“Hiya!” You felt a hand suddenly on your shoulder making you scream. “Oh my god!” You drop your box on the desk turning around to see the pink haired girl who had grime all over her face smiling at you.
“I was told a female transfer student will need space! So I kicked the guy who was in here outta here!! Of course I wanna work with a girl! We can create precious babies together! By the way the names Mei Hatsume! Wanna see some of my babies!? Oo what’s in here!” The girl was spouting so much you couldn’t even comprehend anything she was saying, everything was happening so fast.
It kind of reminded you of Izuku.
“Oh! That’s just my blueprints…I wanna see if I can replicate complicated quirks maybe even see if you can like I dunno…change some? An example would be if Mount lady could control her size! It would be super useful especially when navigating a large city with cramped roads. Mount lady would-“ you cut yourself off as you saw the girl listening intently, you face flushing realizing you were rambling like Izuku normally would.
“That’s a brilliant idea! Me and you are gonna get along just fine! You’re also just in time for the sports festival! It’s literally in 2 days!” She cheered helping you set up your side of the room.
Mei was a doll, you loved her bright energy and her ability to create was grand! You two spent the day going over blue prints and possible tools you could bring to the sports festival.
This is where you heard that class 1-A was the most popular class right now, the hero course. That’s where you could assume where Bakugou and Izuku was, well either 1-A or 1-B.
“Yeah that Bakugou guy is a real snob!” You flinch at the name, currently you were fetching some history books with a fellow classmate to stock up in your home room class.
“Yeah should’ve known class 1-A would be to egotistical. Only a select few get into the hero course.”
Class 1-A huh? You thought, spacing out at the thought of visiting Bakugou. He’s only a few halls away, you could totally just pop in. But we’re you ready?
“Ah!” You didn’t know what was happening, one minute you were walking with a stacks of books the next you were falling. Turns out a whole group of students starting bombarding the halls.
“What the hell!?” You look around, picking yourself up noticing the group of students making their way down the halls. “They late for class or?”
“Nah, they’re checkin out class 1-A, not only did they survive a real villian attack but in the sports festival they can switch you into the hero class if they see you fit for it. Meaning some kids, gonna get moved out.” Your class mate stated, helping you pick up your books that you had dropped.
“It’s not like I wanna get in so…-“ your class mate continued talking while you stared down the hall. Thoughts racing through your mind. You hadn’t seen Bakugou in months.
I wonder how he’s doing…
I’m just not ready.
The days before the sports festival past quickly, you told mei that you didn’t think you could participate in the sports festival due to your anxiety. She understood right away and told you she will represent your babies at the festival in your steed.
Mei was such a sweet girl, she always knew exactly what to say to you and how to make you feel better. You felt so lucky.
You watched from the area your class was assigned, you were basically the only one there as all the classes walked into the large stadium. You heart raced, you immediately could see the two you longed to see the most.
They haven’t changed. You smile watching as the classes line up to listen to the hero Midnight announce the rules and who’s going to sing the pledge.
“Bakugou Katsuki!” The skimpy suited hero yelled, unexpected. You thought that Katsuki would be the last person to represent a class, due to his very aggressive behavior. You simply watched as he walked up into the podium, hands stuck in his pockets.
“I just wanted to say. That I’m gonna win.”
Oh my god…
Your jaw drops and you cover your mouth, trying to hold your laughter in. God damn it Katsu! Honestly you should’ve known he’d do something like this, his bold confidence was something I’m you used to admire. Come to think of it you were doing fine seeing him.
MaybeI am ready…
But you just didn’t want to risk it, ruining your own life after another episode, you don’t think you would ever recover from another episode. Especially after finding your calling.
As the games went on, you watched the first event intently, seeing Bakugou fighting for first place gave you a rush of your own. You couldn’t help but be internally rooting for him.
Until you saw Izuku flying past the the two boys fighting for first place. Your eyes widen, like in slow motion you saw the boy you admired all your life. Izu..
You stood up in your chair, now you had no clue who to root for! Woah! Izu is so smart…he used the bombs to propel himself in front of the rest of them. He always was the smart one, you know instead of a hero he couldn’t taken the support course. With that brain he could make fine equipment for hero’s.
Your smile fades, how did he get into the hero course..? Only the best of the best, with quirks can get in…
Before your mind begins to race, you quickly calm yourself down, settling back in your seat to continue watching the race play out.
As the games went on, the Calvary battle gave you a good laugh watching Bakugou fly around and angrily yell at his teammates.
You smile as both your childhood friends made it to the finals, Bakugou was fighting a cute girl! And Izuku was fighting a todoroki. Well the only fights you were interested in paying any attention to, you kind of spaced out for the rest of the fights until theirs came.
Well of course you had a very good laugh when Mei toyed with that glasses guy!
Finally it was Bakugou’s fight, of course you were voting for him. Watching as he basically bullied the girl, her quirk…they said it was gravity right. Yknow if I had it I would. Then you realized what she was doing, looking up to see the broken pieces of the stage floating above the stadium.
I fucking love her. You thought excitedly, you kind of hoped this would work, the girl was tirelessly charging herself at your blonde haired friend. Hearing the crowd booing Bakugou broke your heart, not only for Bakugou but the fact that they’re totally underestimating this girl!
One of the announcers lectured the heros booing him, as the rocks came falling down, it was an amazing sight. Woah! The hero course is so…amazing. But with one blast Bakugou countered her attack basically ending the fight there after the girl collapsed due to exhaustion.
You felt a hand land on your shoulder startling you as you realize it was just Mei. “Did you see our babies Y/n! They did so good! Don’t worry if any agencies ask about them I’ll let them know you helped me too! And of course some of them are your design.” She cheered giving you the biggest hug as you watch Izuku step out onto the stage.
You tuned out the world during this fight, there was no way he was going to win. Especially without a quirk. Your memory remembered the time where he told you that he had a chance to get in. Does that mean…? No…so was he not quirkless? Did he find out he had one?
So he wasn’t like you?
As the fight when on, he managed to counter every attack which made your heart sink. Confirming your thoughts as you watch his bones break with each powerful use of his quirk.
He had a quirk? When? Since when did he get a quirk?
You didn’t know how or when. All you knew is that he wasn’t like you anymore, he wasn’t quirkless. A weakling it be pushed around all your life, a defenseless bug to be squashed underneath everyone’s feet.
Or was he just lying…did he lie about not having a quirk? Laughing behind your back all these years as he pretended to be your friend? Your alley? Your only hope? Your mind raced with thoughts you didn’t even know you had streams of tears rushing from your eyes down your face, Mei calling out your name.
Since you weren’t budging, staring at the fight as she Mei quickly rushed you out into a waiting room. “Is everything okay Y/n!?? What happened?” You snap back to reality, just breaking down in tears.
You felt like a fool. You felt so betrayed, your heart felt so broken in that very moment. You couldn’t be here anymore, you couldn’t.
“Did you hear?”
“Yeah some girl from the support course was in tears over this fight.”
“Heard it was a quirkless transfer.”
“I wonder what that was about.”
Katsuki rolled his eyes at the bumbling rumors going around the students, watching as Izuku and todoroki fought.
“Her name I think was.. Y/n L/n?” He immediately perked up, turning to the class that was sitting above them to try to listen closer. She must’ve saw Deku usin that stupid quirk. What a fuckin idiot. Katsuki clenched his fist, getting out of his seat to fines you.
He needed to see you.
At least one more time.
AN: maybe this will be a long term series I keep cutting off the romance 😭 IM SO SORRY I LOVE YOU GUYS Xoxo Stinmybubs
#mha x reader#bakugou x reader#mha bakugou#mha fanfiction#mha writing#bakugo katsuki#katsuki bakugo x reader#mha angst#bakugou headcanons#izuku midoryia x you#izuku angst#izuku midoria x reader#izuku x reader#mha izuku#deku angst#deku x reader
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I don't know if this is a dumb question or not, but I always wanted to study my favorite artists and their art. However, I don't really know how to do it or where to start? Can you give any tips for that?
Thanks for responding heh!
not a dumb question at all!! all artists do studies - it's one of the fundamentals you're taught in school! [most of the time, anyway]
a couple things i want to preface this with: we live in an era where art theft is a super-rampant problem. some artists are gonna be flattered you want to study them, and others are gonna have a kneejerk reaction that someone might be trying to plagiarize their work. it's an unfortunate reality, but it is what it is. if you're doing 1:1 art studies based on an online artist's work, unless you ask permission from that artist, or make it super aggressively painfully clear that it is indeed an art study, keep those studies private.
if an artist is prominent enough online and their fans recognize the work that you're studying, those fans may also accuse you of art theft on the artist's behalf; even if the artist doesn't mind / even if theft is not your intention. again - unfortunate reality, but this is the world we live in.
i don't want to scare you off from doing art studies! i think it's fair to say a large number artists don't mind if people want to do art studies based on their work - it's just a lot of artists are so conditioned from having to deal with people stealing their work and claiming it as their own that they may bite your head off out of habit.
BUT THAT ASIDE, there are a variety of ways to do art studies, such as:
1:1 reference, looking at the Thing and drawing it
Interpretation and application, applying the technique as you draw
Tracing [yeah i SAID IT. we'll talk about this below]
1:1 reference is straightforward. You look at the piece that you want to study, and you eyeball it as you try to replicate it on your own canvas.
this was drawn SUPER fast for this example image so greymon's gonna look wonky as i'm only half paying attention, but you get it.
next up, interpretation / application. if you've got a grasp on the technique, or are following a tutorial, here is where you apply it! depending on What you're trying to emulate, it can take dozens or hundreds of test runs to get the application down. try, try again. keep looking at your reference or following the tutorial. you'll get there!
again hurried sketches for this post, but here is Luger as a style study - specifically taking notes on how the character is Drawn [ie; the nose shape, the way the cheek fluff swoops up to the ear, etc] and applying that to the drawing.
Finally, Tracing. The age-old Forbidden Technique. Now, tracing comes with specific guidelines, and they include but are not limited to the following:
Tracing is a form of practice, but it is for the benefit of your muscle memory learning and should be treated as such.
Pretty obvious, but you should not claim traced work as your own original creation. Don't post traced work anywhere, offline or online, not even if it's labelled as an art study. Once you're done with it, throw it out. Delete it. Do not keep traced work. Deleting traces should be a mental checkpoint of: "okay, you've absorbed that information. now go grab a blank canvas and apply what you've learned".
If practising by tracing, it should be done sparingly. If you rely on tracing for every art study you're not gonna learn to draw it yourself; kind of like using training wheels for a bike. You may gain the muscle memory for how to peddle, but you're not going to learn how to balance unless you try it on your own.
an important note about studying an artist's style:
If you like an artist's work, it can be be beneficial to pinpoint the specific elements you like instead of the whole style. I say this largely because many growing artists try to emulate just one artist's work at a time. There's not really anything wrong with this, we all gotta learn somehow, but it CAN be the difference between developing your own style quicker, or unintentionally looking like you're ripping off your favourite artist. I'm not gonna get into "Style Theft", i really don't care to get into it, but if you're studying just one artist's style it can potentially be a detriment to your identity as an artist online.
While you're studying, pick out what you like about the artist's work. Do you like the way their lineart looks? How they shade? Is it a particular feature or way they draw something? Focus on those key elements if that's what's got you latched onto their work. It also helps if you can find tutorials or brushes that the artist may have used or that look similar to what you're aiming for in your own work.
All artists styles are an amalgamation of what's inspired them over the years; little bits and pieces of what they've learned from watching / studying others. at some point their style may flourish into something completely unrecognizable from their roots, but over the years you can see how they arrived there. Your style should be a celebration of your path of an artist! even if you aren't happy with your art now, it can only grow from here.
btw here are a handful of my study inspos - some of which I'm still studying even today! i take most of my inspo from animation.
i wish you much success in your art studies!!! ;w;
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" "con, don't you ever fuckin' relax?"
"lieutenant, i'm a machine. i don't need to 'relax'."
"oh fuck you, come on, we're on break. loosen up a little or something. you can chill out from your fuckin' mission for the three minutes it'll take me to smoke this cigarette. and shut your mouth before you go telling me it isn't actually exactly three minutes on average to smoke a cigarette or whatever."
connie closes her mouth. a small addition to her list of missions to accomplish is made: try to appear "relaxed" to appease lieutenant anderson. a raise in friendship means an easier partner to work with, so connie carefully inspects the lieutenant's posture and does her best to replicate it. being a machine of plastic and metal certainly doesn't make it easy. "
hankcon, but gorls. did i base hank off of my butch lesbian manager at my old job at a sex toy store who was covered in spongebob tattoos? absolutely yes i did
mostly i just wanted to portray fem!hank as a Large Woman because i think there is a severe lack of that. broad with muscle hidden under fat, like the kind of woman who does shot put. so uh,,, ms trunchbull basically LMAO. deep voice, raspy from smoking and drinking, all that good stuff 😩👌 also peep the button on her jacket hehe
got some headcanons and stories for them under the cut!
-hank wears cargo shorts 100% of the time. no matter the weather or temperature. like, 'bill and ted at prom in shorts, but it's her at a dpd ceremony in cargo shorts' level. but not actually because i'm totally gonna draw her in a pantsuit later, totally not with connie on her hip in a slinky dress 👀
-also yes hank's shirt is a spongebob reference
-when people ask hank why she goes by hank and not her "real name," (which i like to headcanon is "henrietta") she always says, "oh it's actually a really funny story, i'll tell you later," and the later never comes lmao. or, if she does tell you, it's some made up wacky story that actually has nothing to do with giving herself the name hank. the real reason? she just likes it
-speaking of "henrietta," this story, 'if you know where to look' by ghost_teeth, works so fucking well with a lot of my headcanons about how their characters would be like genderbent! highly recommend it, and all their dbh stories honestly!
-connie has a compact gun (i asked my brother for examples and he said sig p365 or springfield hellcat, which i think work perfectly for this) holstered inside her jacket on the left side. also, i'm stealing this idea from this post (which basically almost has the same design for fem!connor (altho like, most designs for her are basically the same lmao)) but she also has a knife strapped to her thigh
-her skirt is actually made of some super high tech flexible and durable material, and she's got specific programming to make her balance crazy good, since she'll be running in heels. she's made to hunt and pursue deviants so obviously she needs to be able to run and jump. the outfit is only made to appear like a standard "business woman" to blend in with the humans she would be required to work with, but otherwise gives her everything/doesn't hold her back from doing what she needs to complete her mission. here's a bonus conversation i had with @extraordinaryandroid about it lmaoo:
-hank met connor-51 first for the ortiz case, but connie-52 (with 51's memories of course) came in the next day when it was announced they were to be officially paired to investigate deviants. cyberlife has their grubby lil hands in everything so of course they knew their RK800 unit would be paired with this lieutenant anderson before basically anyone else, and deemed that she'd get along better with a "female model" that she would find attractive. which of course has hank like WOW that's super weird and gross of y'all! and i fucking hate that it's working you pieces of shit at cyberlife !!!! but ofc connie's like "im a machine i dont even have a gender" all the while hank's sweatin major thirsty bullets
-at the cyberlife tower, connor-51 is the one to hold hank at gunpoint. how did he get hank to trust him? idk i haven't figured that out yet lmao, but the angst of connor-51 essentially taking the place of -60 from the game in the sense that he's clearly deviant in some capacity, in this context being that he feels connie stole the life he deserved (which he'd never admit) and now wants to suck up to cyberlife and be their best boi to feel important and special again and not knowing they'd just throw him away for the RK900 model, is very good imo. that was a very long sentence so i hope it made sense lmaoo. have i worked out all the details of how all that shit would work in a story? absolutely not, im too busy thinking about butch fem!hank making her robo girlfriend bluescreen in the bedroom 🤪
also if ur wondering wtf the background is, idk. my usual plain color gradient was too simple, but i did NOT want to put in the effort to do a whole ass real background, so i settled on something in between. meh, it's just them hagin' out behind the station on a smoke break ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
consider supporting me on ☕! ko -fi. com / maddsmallow (without spaces)
#detroit become human#dbh#hankcon#detroit: become human#d:bh#fem!connor#fem!hank#connor rk800#hank anderson#fem!hank anderson#dbh genderbend#conhank#hannor#dbh fanart#dbh connor#dbh hank#idk what else to tag this as#my art#the blogger says words
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