#I could literally go on and on for hours

[kingkatsuki]

i’m feeling horrendously soft for our man tonight. like boyfriend bakugo specifically. what are some of your fave hc’s of him as your boyfriend?

is he different from the beginning vs a little ways into the relationship?

I feel like it’s always the little things with him.

Like he knows you always forget your water bottle in the morning, so he makes sure he fills it and puts it in your handbag before you leave.

Puts the heating on when he knows you’re due home so the house is warm and ready for you, also puts a hot water bottle in your bed before he leaves for his night patrol because he knows you get cold without him.

I want to commission someone to write something like this for me because it’s one of my absolute fave Bakugou headcanons but I think he leaves you the cutest little post-it notes around the house, especially if he’s going to be at work all day. From reminders to drink more water, dumbass— to telling you how pretty you are or how much he loves you.

Notices when your shampoo/conditioner/lotion etc is running low in the bathroom and makes sure he puts a new one out so you’re not naked in the shower when you realise there’s none left (he’s definitely guilty of stealing it so he smells like you anyway—)

Always brings you home your favourite treats when he’s working late and knows he’s coming home to you. He’s the worst for seeing things in shop windows when he’s out on patrol that he thinks you’d like or that remind him of you and buying them for you. He spoils you so so much.

Bakugou gets so adorable whenever he’s asked about you in interviews or in public, you can quite literally see his face change as he answers the questions without hesitation— even if he was on the verge of exploding.

His favourite position in the evenings when you’re relaxing together is laying between your thighs with his head on your chest while you play with his hair. And he’ll definitely grumble and grab your wrist if you even attempt to stop.

Sometimes when he’s had a rough day he likes to come home and bend you over whatever the closest surface is just to take it out on your cunt. Either burying his face between your thighs or sliding his thick cock inside your warmth, either way it instantly heals any bad moods he’s in. Especially if he’s had an afternoon of non-stop meetings.

He has an engagement ring for you picked out during your first month of dating. Because he’s so certain that you’re the one, he doesn’t hesitate when he finds one that’s perfect for you. The only reason he doesn’t ask you straight away is because that fear of rejection is still so prevalent in him he doesn’t want to jepordise what you have already.

Bakugou always knows when new concert ticket/video game/book/toy/plushie releases are and he’s ensuring he’s logged in and prepared with his credit card the second the sale opens to get you whatever it is you want.

He’s SUCH a dry texter, but he’s always sending you texts that are just an ‘x’ which he uses as a kiss or to say he loves you. It’s something so quick and simple that shows he cares, and you usually get them more often when he’s about to go out on a mission, he’s out with the guys for the evening or into a long meeting.

He’s honestly so cute, quiet and shy when you first start dating, you actually worry that he doesn’t actually like you. And when you tell him that a little further down the line he’s blown away, because he’s never liked anyone this much in his whole entire life.

Another one of my fave headcanons is when you’re about to have sex he’s turning around all his All Might figures in his room so they don’t “watch” you having sex. So much so that you end up convincing him to have them displayed in a different room😭

You ask him to do a silly roleplay scenario early on in the relationship, and you suggest doing a hero/civilian scene but he gets way too into it because he wants to impress you and ends up doing the worst impression of All Might ever.

He learns your Starbucks order by your second date. He’s just perfect like that.

100% airport dad. Makes you get to the airport six hours early, even if it’s a domestic flight because he thinks somethings going to go wrong. Speed walks through, gets huffy when you try to stop for coffee and insists on holding all the documents in his little black folder.

Gets the worst sweaty palms when you first start dating because he’s so nervous, so he always gets worried about holding your hand. Pulls away from you to wipe his palms on his jeans first whenever you try to hold his hand, even if you convince him it’s okay.

Finds it hard to even look at you sometimes, because you’re just so pretty and he can’t comprehend how someone like you exists, nevermind is also interested in him.

I think Bakugou gets extremely overwhelmed by your love sometimes, and he finds it hard to articulate so he can seem like he’s shut down. But stick by him because all those feelings are bubbling up inside him and he doesn’t know how to deal with them properly yet🥺

[syoddeye]

knight!ghost x reader. hand-waving details. all vibes, as usual. cw: noncon touching, manipulation

After years beneath your mother’s watchful eye—less a daughter than a jewel kept safe under lock and key—you are at last released.

Invited to accompany your elder sister to court following her marriage to the esteemed Lord Garrick. Your first steps beyond the confines of home toward something far grander. The world opens before you like a storybook.

It’s a rare opportunity for a young lady of gentle birth. The kind of chance your mother spent years safeguarding you against, fearing the pitfalls of courtly life. An opportunity your sister now extends like a gift.

You intend to follow in her footsteps. To make the most of it.

As his carriage ferries you across the countryside, Lord Garrick indulges in his role as guide and guardian. He names estates and their residents you pass, calling out their banners and bloodlines, reciting them from memory like a living codex, its margins filled with his own notations and stories from years of soldiering in the King’s service and court.

Most names you know from lessons or gossip: daughters and sons married off, the odd spoiled reputation and scandal, matriarchs and patriarchs pulling strings. But being the sheltered girl that you are, one name catches your thoughts like a burr. 

Lord Garrick slips a miniature into your hand. It is no larger than your palm, with rich watercolors painted on smoothed ivory: a large man, almost comically set in the tiny frame.

His skin is pale, his eyes a warm, untroubled brown. He wears a slight smile, and his armor gleams with the seal of the King.

“An old comrade—Sir Simon Riley.”

You run a thumb over the edge. “Is he as handsome as his portrait?” you ask, shy as a girl should be when entertaining fancies.

Lord Garrick only grins. “He is, dear one.”

“And noble? Chivalrous?”

“The very image,” he assures. His wry expression is lost on you.

You are too steeped in fantasy to notice. Already imagining the weight of his hand around yours, already composing the vows he might whisper when he asks you to dance. Him, tall and solemn. You, breathless and giggling. 

You do not yet understand how generous portrait artists can be, the choices they make to soften a mouth or warm a gaze.

When you arrive, you trail in your sister’s shadow, a daisy behind a rose, trying not to stare too openly at every knight that turns his helm. Try not to appear too eager.

You curtsy. You dine. You take your place among the constellation of other young and unmarried ladies, each one a little star burning with her own hopes.

Time passes. You thrive. You charm. You are granted permission and invitation to winter beside your sister, a small victory. Come spring, you’ll be presented formally.

On the morning of the first frost, Lord Garrick finds you in the solar, where you sit with your companions and needlework, your thoughts pleasantly idle.

“There’s someone I’m due to introduce you to,” he says. “Sir Riley.”

He offers you his arm, and you take it. He guides you through the winding halls, past tapestries older than your bloodline. The keep quiets as you tread through an unfamiliar wing. The room he stops at is narrow and dark, the hearth cold, the shutters drawn.

It rouses an unsettling feeling in your stomach. A wrong note, a song sung off-key. Doubt prickles, fine as thorns. The chamber is too plain, too tucked-away for an introduction. 

But the man you’ve come to love as a brother—steady, kind Lord Garrick—pats your hand, and the doubt recedes, momentarily quieted.

He bids you wait. He’ll fetch Sir Riley himself.

You let him go with a wobbling smile.

When the door creaks open again, it is not Lord Garrick who enters.

It is Sir Riley. You know him at once, though the helm conceals his face. Your heart skips.

“‘eard you been wantin’ to meet me, girl,” his low voice rolls thick like smoke. Heavy, like the blade at his hip.

You do not move. The knight fills the doorway as he did his portrait frame. Your hands knit loosely before you, trembling.

“It’s…an honor, sir,” you manage. Your eyes dart toward the door, hoping Garrick will follow, show his face. “I wasn’t expecting…That is, I thought Lord Garrick would–”

“Thought he’d stay? Look after you?” Sir Riley asks, stepping inside. “Nah. Garrick’s a busy man. ‘Sides, if it’s lookin’ after y’need, no one’ll do better.”

The door shuts with a click, and the bolt sliding shut might as well stick between your ribs.

You offer a smile, trying to summon the composure that’s served you well in the halls. Yet even your propriety has teeth, and it gnaws at the edges of your nerves. This isn’t how introductions are made. You know that. A lady does not meet a man alone, knight or not, not without a chaperone.

And yet here you are. 

He moves further in, slow and certain, untroubled by the circumstances and its consequences. He unfastens one gauntlet, then the other, metal clinking as he sets each piece aside.

You step back, heart kicking against your ribs.

“I only meant…we’ve only just met, and I’m sure your time is better spent elsewhere—”

He says nothing. His fingers move next to the clasps at his shoulders. One pauldron. Then the other. Each piece comes away with unhurried care, as though he has all the time in the world.

The bulk sloughs off like a shell, revealing more and more of his frame until only the breastplate and helmet remain. You realize then that you’ve backed into the wall.

“I should go,” you eke out. “I’ve no doubt you’re very tired from your duties, and this isn’t right—”

Sir Riley laughs, rough like the scrape of flint.

“You’re a nervous one.”

He reaches up and unhooks his helmet, slow as sunrise. When it lifts off, you are not prepared.

He is not unhandsome, no, but he is not the man in the portrait, either.

His nose has clearly been broken more than once and healed crooked. A jagged scar bisects an eyebrow with a fleshy knot on the end, mirrored by another that pulls taut across his lips. His skin is a map of violence—keloids, silvered cuts, and pitted lines all speaking to a life earned inch by brutal inch.

He tilts his head, eyes catching yours. Rich brown, as the painting promised—but the warmth there is tempered with something else. Hunger. The kind you’ve spied in the King’s hunting hounds. Not the gentle yearning or tender longing you had quietly imagined for yourself.

“What’s wrong? Kyle said you found me pretty, pet.”

The word—pet—snaps like a ribbon.

In its reverberation, you feel the whole truth of it: you are very much alone, and Sir Riley is very much not what you were told.

You open your mouth, but no sound comes. You are caught between alarm and something stranger. It burns low in your belly, confusing and unwelcome.

You look at him again, truly look this time.

And realize: perhaps the artist hadn’t lied or embellished. Not entirely. Perhaps the man in the portrait once matched reality, before war carved itself into his skin. Before duty hardened whatever youth he’d once had.

You try not to flinch when he steps closer, but your body betrays you—a stiffening of the spine, a renewed tremor in your limbs.

Sir Riley notices.

He watches you the way a wolf watches a fox kit or rabbit. Clearly delighted by the prey he’s cornered. He lets the silence sit, lets your discomfort curdle before breaking it.

“You’re more beautiful than your picture,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Your mouth dries. There aren’t many portraits of you beyond your family’s walls. Yet months ago, Garrick had insisted on one—a secret commission, a memento for your sister, a gift. All before your invitation to court.

You never questioned what became of it.

“I—I should go.”

You move to slip past him, but he doesn’t allow it. One step, and he cuts off your path with his bulk, the door now out of reach. Trapped between the edge of the room and him, the air tastes different—ash and smoke, hay and wet dog. It wrinkles your nose.

You try again. “Lord Garrick—he didn’t say—he never said you—”

“Yeah?” 

He smiles. Not kindly.

“That I-I,” you whisper, heart beating hard enough that you’re sure he must hear it. “That I’d be alone. This isn’t right—”

“Not alone, pet,” he shakes his head. “I’m here, aren't I? I’ll see you well looked after.”

Without pause or permission, he takes your hand.

You could faint.

Your bare hand disappears, swallowed by his callused palm. His thick knuckles are as battered as his face, broken and reset countless times. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist and applies a brief and slight pressure, just enough to remind you of his strength.

You jerk instinctively, a soft tug.

He doesn’t let go. Instead, he brings your hand to his mouth.

“No need to shy from me,” he rasps.

Your breath catches. 

(You really could faint, but a deep, sharp fear urges you to stay upright. Awake. That to fall now—the alternative—)

He kisses each of your fingers, one by one, unhurried. His lips are cracked. Chapped. Your skin burns under each press. You can’t move. You should, but your feet fail.

He smiles into your knuckles. Almost fond. “You’re shaking.”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

“You don’t know what to do with yourself now, do you?” he drawls. “Bet you had a whole story in that pretty little head. Knight in shining armor, riding in to sweep you off your feet.”

His grip tightens, and he leans in, breath fanning over your cheek.

“Want me to do that, pet? Sweep you off your feet and take you away?”

Your heart screams no.

But nothing comes.

He watches you in that awful silence—measured and methodical. Like he’s trying to decide what to do with you first. His hand, still curled around yours, begins to move again, with new purpose.

He lifts your fingers and guides them toward his face.

You resist, weak and instinctive, and he overcomes it with barely a flick of his wrist.

“Go on. You’ve been staring.”

Your fingertips brush the ridge of the scar across his lip. It’s rough, raised, healed poorly. You flinch, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he shifts your hand higher, until your touch ghosts over the thick welt at his eyebrow.

“Ugly, isn’t it?” he asks, almost amused.

Your throat tightens. “No—no, I—”

He clicks his tongue. “Don’t lie. Don’t like liars. You scared?”

You are. You’re mortified, shaking with it now—caught between a girlhood fantasy and the brutal reality of the man standing before you. There’s something violent in your own confusion. In the heat crawling down your neck and into your chest, in the tears prickling hot behind your eyes.

He sees it. Of course he does.

And he pounces.

One blink, and then his mouth is on yours without ceremony. It’s a brutal kiss, a claiming thing, harsh and sudden and full of heat. Devoid of the romance you once imagined.

You gasp, startled, but his free hand comes to the back of your head, fingers spanning your skull to hold you in place. He doesn’t let you pull away. He licks into your mouth and steals the air.

It’s too much. He is too much.

When he finally pulls back, your breath is ragged and your tears have finally broken free, hot trails slipping down your cheeks. The horror of what’s just happened crashes over you all at once, like a bucket of cold water sloshed down your spine. Your legs nearly buckle.

He stares, thumb wiping spit from your chin.

“There she is,” he says quietly, near reverent.

You stand there, unmoving. Caught. The pounding of your heart drowns out every thought, each beat frantic, panicked. A bird slamming itself against a windowpane in desperation. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what you’re allowed to say. The room grows smaller by the second, the walls pressing in.

He studies you, a delicate thing worth examining up close.

“Didn’t think you’d be this sweet,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Garrick said he had a girl for me. Said you were pretty. Polite. Court-bred. Figured I’d ‘ave to steal into your rooms, take some insurance to make you mine, you know. But Garrick said there’d be no need. That you’d behave. A proper good girl. That what you are?”

His eyes flick over your features—warm cheeks, wet-eyed, lips parted in confusion and fright. His thumb grazes beneath your chin.

“Look at you. Shakin’. Precious thing. ‘Course you are.”

He kisses you again. Harder.

No longer exploratory, no longer testing the waters. His moves as if owed. He takes and takes, lips dragging against yours, breath hot and heavy through his nose. Teeth sink into your lips, imprinting themselves on the pith of your mouth, sucking your tongue. You whimper, but his hand is already sliding down the line of your throat, splaying wide to feel your pulse.

Another panicked noise makes him smile.

He sighs. “Didn’t guess you’d be this soft. Bet you’re soft everywhere.”

Then—

The door bursts open.

A gasp of startled voices—servants. They freeze in the doorway, wide-eyed at the sight of the two of you locked together.

Panic explodes inside you. You jerk back from him, gasping, desperate to speak, to explain—this isn’t what it looks like—but you never get the chance.

Sir Riley doesn’t release you. His arm tightens, his grip anchoring you in place. He turns toward the intruders, unbothered and unashamed. Cold.

In a few short, lethal words, he promises consequences. He names each one of them—their roles, their kin. Swears they’ll feel his hand and blade personally should they utter a word of what they’ve seen.

They flee. Mute. Terrified.

When the door shuts again, it’s like the last breath is sucked from the room.

You’re a mess. Shaking, weeping, mouth swollen and burning. You are ruined. You know it. They will talk. People always do.

With the cuff of his sleeve, Sir Riley dabs your cheek, and then your chin. A mocking taste of the tenderness you’d dreamt of. He hums, too soft for the wicked glint in his eye, and tips your face back up with two fingers beneath your jaw.

“What a predicament we find ourselves in, hm?” he murmurs against your damp skin. “How fortunate that Garrick and I already ‘ave an audience with the King.”

He plants a chaste peck on your cheek.

“Dry your tears, pet.”

He smiles. A pleased shape that rekindles the hunger in his eyes.

“By spring, you’ll be Lady Riley. That’s a promise.”

[heart-0f-a-rebel16]

there is much darkness and hate in my heart and tbh it’s really cramping my whimsical nature and love for humanity

[egophiliac]

I DID IT I GOT MY PINK HAYATE now I am never doing that again!

(at least until they give me, like, a frilly unicorn Kamui or something)

[quaranmine]

collapses on the floor and Dies

[sonicaspeed123]

You don't get to misgender people yes even if you think they're cringe (get over it), yes even if you don't understand it (get Over It), yes even if you think they're a terrible person (irrelevent), yes even if they have done objectively horrible harmful things (still irrelevent,) and yes, even if you think they "can't really know for sure" because of their disability (that's fucking ableist, shut your goddamn mouth.)

[hiding-under-the-willow]

anyways. What

[seafoamdew]

just a passing au. Dragon Eye is also a time-travelling magical item or something.

[olibheare]

some really old Golden Hour fanart I did during lunches in College

[fckbatmanhiskidsareminenow]

don’t think about damien thinking about how he is the only bat kid that bruce didn’t choose to keep.

don’t think about damien thinking he needs to prove himself worthy of staying

don’t think about damien worrying about punishment for the little of mistakes

don’t think about damien acting what others would see as irrationally because he is a CHILD who was raised in terrible fucking conditions

[wildstar25]

There's nothing G'raha loves more than reading a book in the fresh air... except maybe getting to run his hands through Arsay's hair.

[crabussy]

never have a dissociative identity disorder. do not recommend 0/10

[boxeom]

(18+ cw. yandere, cw. sort of dubcon (reader acts like they aren't into it, they are), cw. light pain play, cw. brat taming if you squint, soft dom, spanking, punishment, rough fingering, implied overstimulation, mentally ill Colonel Caleb, the gloves stay on, based on a miserably horny dream I just woke up from, not proofread- I need this gone)

Colonel Caleb who's bending you over his lap after your last little stunt... he doesn't get why you can't just listen to him. As much as he wants to keep you inside and never let the world see you again, you're free to roam Skyhaven all you'd like. He doesn't want to clip your wings. He just wants to make sure you know there's still a leash. All you had to do was keep your location on.

Luckily, Caleb had the forethought to install a modification on your phone that tracked you through your proximity to the many solar towers throughout Skyhaven- even if you turned your phone off. He'd even gone out of his way to make sure you didn't find out. Now, though? Caleb realizes he's loosened your leash too far for comfort. You are straying too far from him. And you know it.

All you had to do is listen. Is that really so much to ask?

He doesn't like having to punish you, but he can only give so many passes until his patience starts to wear thin (and even then he still tries to handle you with care). His grip around your wrists tightens whenever you try to squirm or pull out of his hold. A stern gloved hand strikes sharply against your bare ass each time you don't give him the answer he's looking for.

"Why did you go there?"

"What were you doing?"

"Who were you seeing?"

In truth, Caleb already knows everything. You've gotten better at hiding things over the years, but you're not nearly as silver tongued as you think you are. He just wants to hear it from you. He wants to know that you know what you did was wrong.

For every lie, a spank. For every attempt to play dumb, a spank. For every teary eyed plea to let you go, a spank (though it takes all his willpower not to give into you when you're looking up at him like that). He's not that sadistic, he doesn't particularly enjoy seeing you miserable. So- as always- he gives you concessions and rewards. He massages the welts that are swelling on your skin, cooing and murmuring to you about how you just need to answer his questions and he'll make you feel so good. He kisses you as much as you want because he needs to remind you that he's not the bad guy here. He gives you breaks, gives you time to catch your breath and think about your decisions and how you want to navigate yourself from here on out.

When you've finally realized that he's not letting this go (which takes some time- you're far too stubborn), you're spilling everything. And, of course, he's proud. You apologize and swear you'll never do it again through sniffles and hiccups (though there really was no reason to say sorry, there's nothing you could ever do that would make him keep his forgiveness from you). It's like a switch gets flipped the second you're being your sweet self again. Caleb thanks you sincerely for your honesty as he presses soft kisses to the crown of your head, soothing you and talking you down. He praises you for taking your punishment so well and promises to make it up to you.

And he does.

You've completely soaked his pant leg throughout the entire ordeal. It seems some of that distress you'd been playing up was just an act. You certainly fooled him.

Three leather covered fingers slide easily inside you (despite the whines of "it's too much" you insist upon). You're tight and drooling down his wrist. He goes slow at first, works you up and up and up until you're complaining that you want it faster and harder. He's fucking you on his fingers mercilessly- pressing against that spot that has your legs twitching and kicking uselessly behind you without sign of letting up anytime soon.

By the third orgasm he's wrung out of you, you're begging him for a moment of pause. Which he, (un)fortunately, doesn't give you. As much as this is a reward, it's a lesson. You need to know what happens the next time you do this, after all.

[blueskittlesart]

is detcon actually good

no <3 hope this helps

[icewindandboringhorror]

Little bright colored outfit with a fun vest ~

(shoes from ebay like 10 years ago. everything else is thrifted)

[kingprinceleo]

just kinda a thing i wanted to say since ik i have younger artists following me (its applicable to everyone really, but very important to form care habits as early as possible) i read about others artists experiencing pain from overworking and i always thought to myself, i wouldnt let that happen to me, im real young, i still have time before i have to worry about really damaging my body

but your body really doesnt care, if you push yourself, if you ignore the pain, its going to fuck you up. maybe for the rest of your life please god take care of yourself when you draw, write, game, literally anything. stretch your wrists, fingers, dont keep your elbow in a locked a position for too long, especially dont lean on your elbows. get up around every 45 minutes, drink water, eat food, use the bathroom, stretch your whole body and your hands again. walk outside and let your eyes readjust your body is trying to communicate with you for a reason when you start hurting, please listen to it, be kind to yourself, you deserve it