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if anyone understands having a tricky relationship with their father, it’s nate archibald. ౨ৎ

somethin small i wrote abt nate bc a few people asked. cw: daddy kink, daddy issues, smut

that distant stare of yours, that pout as you stare out over the city from his apartment window. he knows it all too well. approaches you softly with a slight sympathetic pout of his own, running a hand over your head and bringing your cheek to his chest so he can kiss the top of your head. he couldn’t give you a better father, but he could give you that guidance and love you crave so much. he could do better.

so he gives you everything — you want that dress costing an arm and a leg? it’s already hanging in your side of the closet at his apartment. you too sleepy as you sit at the kitchen table in the morning after a long night with him? he’s forking up a perfect biteful of pancake and bringing it to your lips with a grin, happy to do so. he never gets mad when you snap at him, something deeper clearly triggering such a sudden reaction— only frowning and shaking his head, closing in on you to thumb at your cheek. “whats with the attitude? somethings on your mind. talk to me.” he coo’s empathetically.

it’s not just you that noticed— blair’s smug but somewhat gleeful smile as she totters alongside nate on the street, nudging him with a sharp elbow through her maison margiela coat. “well, you know how thrilled i am for you to finally be tugging along a girl of taste. even if i have to watch you treat her like you snatched her from the cradle yourself.”

he huffs out a laugh, shooting her a confused glance, walking alongside her with his hands in his pockets. “what are you talking about? she’s like one year younger than me. nearly two.”

“age isn’t nothing but a number, nate— i’m talking about the coddling, tell me — does she call you daddy in just the bedroom or do you extend that to all hours of the day?”

“jesus— need i remind you of boundaries blair, what i do with my girlfriend is none of your business… but— no, she doesn’t call me that.”

but it stayed bouncing around his brain like a ping pong ball. started noticing all the little things, how much more you’d cling to him after an argument with your father. selfishly, he almost started wishing you’d fight more— just so he could dote on you like that. the whole ‘daddy’ thing wouldn’t be so weird right? the thought of it had him reaching down to readjust in his tight suit pants, clearing his throat. uncomfortable? yes. but sexy, crazily so.

maybe he could milk it out of you. enforce a little more guidance until you’re putty in his hand. it wouldn’t be hard, he saw the way you’d blink at him all doe eyed when he’d tell you not to stay up too late, both thumbs stroking your cheeks. he’d speak slower, calmer, stand closer, make him the only thing you can see, think about even. he was gentle, loving, held eye contact super well — too well, made your face get hot and wanna look away. made you wanna shrink, go all mushy in your brain. “hey, look at me when i talk to you sweetheart. i don’t bite, you know.” he smiles, and there’s no threat present but god you’d never disobey him. never your nate.

it finally slips out when he’s got your thighs pinned open, strong arms wrapped around them whilst he sucks on your clit. he was always good at that, making you cum. nate knew just how to destress you after a long stressful day, far too stressful for his sweet girl. he laps you up, pressing thick fingers deep inside gummy walls, dribbling over your slit.

“nnnnnn—” you can’t even get his name out, clutching a pink throw pillow.

“i know, baby.” he hums.

“daddy!” you cry, and he doesn’t even bat an eyelid as if he was expecting it. if you’d been more with it, you would have seen him bite back a proud chuckle, shoulders relaxing just a little. he keeps at it, stroking the inside of your sensitive thighs.

“thats right. tell daddy how it feels.”

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jason todd is a yearner

he acts all tough, but when he's alone, he's rereading old texts, staring at pictures, or absentmindedly tracing over something you left behind—like your handwriting on a sticky note or a hoodie you forgot at his place (everything reminds him of you)

he has the worst habit of staying up at night (insomnia lol), thinking about you. maybe he should call? maybe he should just show up? would that be too much? (he does it anyway)

jason plays it cool, but the moment his you initiate any sort of physical contact—holding his hand, running fingers through his hair—he practically melts (not that he’d ever admit it)

when he's away from you for too long, he catches himself glaring at couples holding hands on the street, muttering about how "some people just love to rub it in, huh?" (he just misses you)

when he’s out on patrol, beating up criminals, the second he hears a notification going off on his phone, he's checking to see if it's you (if it’s not, he sighs and aggressively shoves his phone back into his pocket)

he alway finds excuses just to see you- "oh, i was just in the neighborhood.” (he wasn't) “you left something at my place.” (you didn’t) “i thought you called me" (lies.)

sometimes he just stares off dramatically, thinking about you. roy has caught him sighing at the moon once (it was humiliating)

if you fall asleep around him, that’s when he lets his guard down. ge’ll brush ypur hair out of your face, press the lightest kiss to your forehead, and whisper things he’d never say when you're awake (cause how can he when everytime he looks at you, you take his words away?)

jason todd is a yearner.

enjoy this while i work on the others hngh <3 trying a new style this time

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Jason Todd loves you.

You make him feel alive.

You who lets him curl up into you, you who cleans his wounds and tries to stay up and wait for him after patrol.

He is your loyal dog that sits at your feet and awaits for you to drop scraps on the floor that he'll greatfully eat.

He'll let you smooth your fingers over his scars, wait for you to give him an order. Anything for you.

He'll bite when you tell him, he'll lunge and tear at peoples throat if you asked.

He looks at you with reverence, so eternally grateful that an angel like you letting him exist near you. Letting him not only touch you but love you.

He doesn't see your faults, doesn't believe you have any. You invade his every thought and he can hardly focus on anything when he has you.

.˳⁺⁎˚ ꒰ఎ ★ ໒꒱ ˚⁎⁺˳ .

A/N: thank you for reading i hope you liked it!!!

© acinnamongirlsdiary do not copy, repost, plagiarize, or feed any of my work into ai.

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“forget it! i’m not going anywhere today.” you huff while slamming your brush down on your white vanity causing your boyfriend, clark to look up from his spot in your bed. you’d been getting ready for god knows how long for a friends party. and unbeknownst to clark it wasn’t going well. you could leave home in sweats, a raggedy tank top and your bonnet and he wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off you.

“oh it’s not that bad. i think you look good.” clark says nonchalantly as he walks up behind you. he watches as you try to fix your curls into the desired style and it’s not hard to see you were having a hard time. as you mumble under your breath he takes it upon himself to try and help the problem. “ok watch me work my magic” clark goofily says and begins messing with your hair. his “magic” consisted of him putting all your curls into one big ponytail. you attempt to keep your pout on your face fails when you lock eyes with clark who has his signature wide smile on his face behind you.

“clarkkkk nooo it’s just ugh i can’t do this.” you say walking over to your bed that’s covered in potential outfits. clark hates to say it but he’s hoping you just decide to not go leaving you both to just lay around not having to deal with your snobby friends and cheermates pretending to like them. he normally just sucks it up for you but tonight he’s really not in the mood. “awww baby come here.” clark sits down and pats his lap. you plop down looking sad as ever and to clark it was the cutest thing ever.

“well maybe we could stay here y’know. who wants to see those losers anyway.” clark mumbles before peppering light kisses on your neck. all the thoughts in your head that were ready to insist on going have simply faded away and income the need to be up under your boyfriend all night. clark watched as you considered it only imagining what could be happening in that head of yours. only a few seconds pass by when he hears the response he was waiting for. you sighed and said , “okay we’ll skip this one. but only this once.” clark squeezed you tightly and rolled you both over in the bed holding you against his chest.

“now i got you to myself alllllll night baby.” clark laughs softly into your ear. this was better than any party you could ever imagine.

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────── shauna shipman 𝔁 cheerleader!oc / reader 𝔁 bestfriend!lottie matthews. layla miran / yellowjackets oc. i've never seen brown eyes look so blue. m.list. ao3.

"25 years I've grieved you. suffered you. and i'll make it my lifes' mission you feel the same way for next decade." she spat out. her eyes were dull, blood soaking beneath the tips of her fingers as her sight grazed her lips. once. twice. and each glance had reminded her of everything she fought to forget.

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Not now honey. I’m to busy thinking about this Jackles interview.

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Each Yellowjackets character’s role in the wilderness and how these roles overlap into the adult timeline

Natalie - The Hunter

Nat’s role as The Hunter aligns with her independent spirit and her familiarity with hardship, stemming from her difficult childhood. Natalie’s hunting skills give her a sense of purpose and power that she never experienced before. Living under her father’s thumb for most of her childhood, she was repeatedly told she was useless and was forced to comply with her father’s abusive control and humiliation of her. At school, she was frequently slut-shamed and referred to as a “burnout,” reinforcing her sense of worthlessness and lack of direction. Wielding the gun gives her power, protection, motivation, and appreciation from others that she never received before. Nat’s ability to provide for the group and keep them alive proves her father’s words about her wrong, and you can see her relishing in that.

Nat’s role as The Hunter also reflects her propensity for isolation. Nat has always been a bit of an outsider, trusting very few people and outcasting herself intentionally through the abrasive front she puts on. Nat’s hunting mirrors this as it isolates her from the rest of the group. She spends most of each day trekking through the wilderness looking for game while the rest of the group stays back at the cabin. This isolation creates an even stronger codependency with Travis, as he is the only person she interacts with and relies on for most of the day.

As an adult, Natalie still embodies The Hunter role, though her objectives have transformed from hunting for food to hunting for answers, truth, and meaning in her life. She relentlessly pursues elusive leads on the postcards, the blackmailers, and the circumstances of Travis’ death (all with a gun in her hand). Her role as a hunter ties into her need for control in the midst of chaos. In the wilderness, her hunting skills provided a measure of stability; as an adult, this manifests in her obsessive pursuit of answers and in her determination to confront the past head-on

Natalie also maintains the isolation and outsider status she had in the wilderness. Just as she was apart from the other girls in the wilderness, hunting alone, her adulthood is marked by pushing people away before they can get close to her and living a transient lifestyle similar to her treks through the woods on hunting trips.

Shauna - The Butcher

Shauna’s willingness to step into arguably the most emotionally taxing and gruesome role in the wilderness speaks to both her toughness and her aggressive, adrenaline-seeking tendencies. Shauna’s role as The Butcher gives her a sense of importance, contrasting how invisible she felt before the crash living in Jackie’s shadow. It also evokes a sense of intensity, thrill, and heightened emotions; something very absent from the mundanity of her life before and after the wilderness.

Shauna’s capacity to take on such a role reveals her ability to detach and perform the task with a cool-headedness that hints at a unique adaptability. However, it also hints at something deeper, a capability for darkness and violence that she suppresses. She doesn't panic under pressure but rather appears oddly at home in these extreme moments.

Like the others, this role follows Shauna into the adult timeline. In a more obvious sense, she kills rabbits in her backyard and butchers them to feed to her family, and she cuts up Adam’s body after she murders him. But in a more subtle sense, Shauna is clearly still seeking the adrenaline that butchering in the wilderness provided her. She enters a risky affair with Adam, jumps off of bridges, sleeps with Adam in her home when Jeff could come in at any moment, tracks down the people who stole her minivan and clearly has to hold herself back from killing them, and she stabs Adam. Her (terrifying) monologue to the minivan thief about peeling human skin shows the rush that Shauna gets from these moments that remind her of the raw survival instincts she experienced in the wilderness.

Just as she was sick of being invisible behind Jackie as a teen, she is sick of the normalcy of being a suburban mom as an adult and craves what she had in the wilderness. In many ways, Shauna’s life is shaped by a tension between her past and present, where The Butcher’s ferocity lurks beneath her gentle, unassuming exterior. Her role in the wilderness forever alters her ability to experience life without craving intensity; it’s almost as if the ordinary doesn’t fulfill her, leaving her compelled to seek out higher stakes and indulge in morally dubious behavior.

Misty - The Caretaker

Misty’s role as a medic in the wilderness is an obvious sign of her need for validation and worship from others. Misty needs to be needed, and she manifests this by making people rely on her to survive in the wilderness. Her medical knowledge grants her the role of The Caretaker, a role that is especially important in the aftermath of an injurious plane crash and during Shauna’s pregnancy. Before the plane crash, Misty was ridiculed and ignored. But after the crash, she realizes she’s in a situation where the unique skills she was previously mocked and outcasted for are suddenly indispensable and praised. Misty delights in the fact that the group relies on her, and she ensures they will continue to value her by breaking the flight recorder, tripping and poisoning Coach Ben, and emphasizing her ability to deliver Shauna’s baby when the time comes. Her desire for power over others stems from a deep insecurity, and she will do anything to maintain this power.

As an adult, Misty still holds her role as The Caretaker. She works as a nurse for the elderly, a position that allows her to remain needed and in control over vulnerable people. We see Misty looking far too satisfied when she withholds pain medications from one of her patients after she disrespects Misty. We also see Misty relishing in her control over Jessica Roberts after she kidnaps her. She makes Jessica need by literally keeping her captive and at her mercy, chaining her to a bed and caring for her. In these scenes, she thrives on her (forced) emotional connection to Jessica.

Her obsessive need to be valued is also seen in her relationship with Nat. She desperately wants Nat to admit she needs her help and support. She goes to great lengths to make Nat rely on her (tampering with Nat’s car so she has to hitch a ride with Misty, spying on her so that she can leap into action and rescue her when needed, snorting Nat’s coke before she can, investigating Nat’s disappearance and infiltrating Lottie’s compound to “save” her).

Similar to Nat and Shauna, Misty is attempting to recreate the feelings of importance and purpose she had in the wilderness, and she does so by obsessively providing care to those around her, even if they don’t want it and even if it eventually ends up harming the very people she’s attempting to help.

Lottie - The Prophet

Lottie's role as The Prophet reveals her complex and often contradictory psyche. She’s modest but confident, empathetic but manipulative, gentle but dangerous, afraid of her power but also inclined to wield it. Lottie is trapped in her own mental health struggles and the pressure of others’ expectations. She is highly intuitive, both emotionally and psychologically, and her visions and interpretations suggest she has an acute awareness of others’ fears and needs, even if filtered through her delusions. This makes her a natural figure for people to gravitate toward in times of uncertainty. Her peers’ reliance on her prophecies builds her confidence and identity as a leader, though it also places her in a role where she becomes responsible for the group’s downward spiral. Her authority in the wilderness often vacillates between comforting her teammates and manipulating them, blurring her true intentions and leaving room for her power to turn darker.

Lottie’s role as The Prophet remains with her long after the rescue. We see her spiritually guiding other patients during her time in the psychiatric ward. And after she gets out of the hospital, we know that she eventually starts a full-on cult (wellness community). The wellness center is a modern extension of the community she led in the woods, blending healing practices with a lingering undercurrent of fear and control as she continues to influence others while grappling with the guilt of the disastrous consequences her influence has caused in the past. When the rest of the survivors arrive at the compound, Lottie slips right back into that familiar Prophet role. Within the span of a few hours, Lottie has the group engaging in her spiritual treatments and making a ritualistic sacrifice to the Wilderness. It remains unclear whether Lottie's prophetic abilities are rooted in genuine intuition, trauma-induced delusions, or supernatural forces, but her impact on those around her is still as powerful and dangerous as it was in the wilderness.

Travis - The Gatherer/Follower

Travis’s role is often more supportive, as he frequently follows Natalie’s lead in hunting and survival tasks and Lottie’s lead regarding spiritual beliefs and the welfare of the group. He’s not the one holding the gun on most hunting trips, but he’ll be the one behind Nat coaching her through it and reminding her to breathe. He’s devoted to Lottie’s leadership and contributes to her prayer circles in his own small ways. This role reflects his position in the group as someone searching for acceptance and stability, still grappling with the trauma of his father’s death. His willingness to contribute in more secondary ways showcases his loyalty and his struggle to find his own identity amidst the group’s chaos.

We don’t get to see a lot of adult Travis, but echoes of his role in the wilderness are still evident. He desperately seeks out Lottie’s guidance and direction, even though it leads to his death. He also continues to fall into his old patterns with Nat, following her around and supporting her through her addiction, making her promise not to commit suicide, and saving her life when she overdoses.

Van - The Storyteller

Even before the crash, Van is a cinephile and pop culture obsessive. Her proclivity towards fiction and narratives translates to the wilderness as she becomes the group’s storyteller. During Tai’s expedition, she lightens the group’s mood with her iconic “our girl Sandy” retelling. She recaps Wiskayok High's gossip during the attic seance. In a darker moment, she begins to tell the story of the cabin and the Wilderness after the group eats Javi. Van's storytelling is her way of coping with the dark reality she has been presented with, as well as making sense of her trauma through the narrative format she is comfortable with. She begins by retelling the fictional stories she loved before the crash, and then shifts to fictionalizing the world she is actually living in. Van's stories and her happy-go-lucky, humorous demeanor serve as a distraction from the traumas of the wilderness for both the group and herself.

Van’s storytelling role continues after she is rescued from the wilderness as she opens her own video store, collecting stories and sharing them with her customers. She becomes a curator of nostalgia. Van is obsessed with the pop culture of the past, which shows her strong connection to stories and narratives, albeit in a way that allows her to maintain distance from her own. As an adult, Van appears to cope by living in the past, immersing herself in a realm of curated stories that are not her own, which speaks to her avoidance of the unresolved trauma of the wilderness. Her humor, a key part of her storytelling as a teenager, becomes a defense mechanism, masking her pain and reluctance to fully engage with what she did in the wilderness.

Taissa - The Protector/Warrior

Taissa's strength and endurance cast her in the role of The Warrior and Protector. She is ambitious, decisive, and often takes charge when the group needs direction. She leads the charge on leaving the crash site and hiking to the lake, a decision which likely ended up saving many of their lives. Tai is also the first to decide to seek out civilization, forming an expedition to find help for the rest of the group. When Van is gravely injured, Tai risks her own life to stay behind and care for her, refusing to leave her side. Similarly, when Shauna goes into labor during a blizzard, Tai supports her, physically and emotionally, leading them back to safety. Beneath her tough exterior lies a deep well of care and selflessness; Tai will go to great lengths to protect the people she loves.

However, her role also highlights her internal conflict and her propensity for self-destruction as she wrestles with a dual nature that makes her both a protector and a potential threat to the group. The dark side of Tai goes against everything she stands for; it puts Van and other members of the group in danger, and it presents a complete lack of control that she is unaccustomed to. The wilderness brings out her survival instincts but also forces her to confront her more dangerous side.

As an adult, Taissa is still a fierce, protective force for her family and the remaining survivors. She pays for Nat’s multiple stints in rehab, chases down and fully tackles the blackmailer, helps Shauna cover up Adam's murder to save her from incarceration, and runs a cutthroat political campaign hoping to create change. Her pursuit of becoming a state senator symbolizes her fight to protect and improve her community. This can be seen as an extension of her drive to ensure survival in the wilderness—fighting for stability, control, and order in a chaotic world. Her willingness to do whatever it takes to succeed, even resorting to morally gray actions (e.g., sabotaging her own family to protect her political image), reflects her wilderness-era ruthlessness. When the “Other Tai” emerges again, Taissa is determined to protect her family by distancing herself from them. The Other Tai’s actions can be seen as an extreme form of her protectiveness, as well, as she kills Biscuit as a sacrifice to the Wilderness to ensure her and her family's safety and power.

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Do you have any Chrollo crumbs for those of us who are down bad for this loser of a man? Truly a curse to be attracted to him 😔

"Would you kill someone for me, if I asked?"

You're sitting cross-legged atop freshly washed linens, which smell faintly of laundry detergent and dryer sheets. Before you unceremoniously flung yourself onto the bed, with all the grace of a newborn fawn, it appeared picturesque, like the cleaning staff had ironed out every wrinkle.

In Chrollo's brief absence, you've made the king-sized bed your own. The pillows have been adjusted to your liking. You used the extras to build your ill-fated bulwark down the bed's center, in what would separate you from the enemy for an estimated two or three minutes.

"Where's this coming from?"

While asking this, he gets to work dismantling your barricade, not even dignifying the architectural wonder with a comment.

"A place of curiosity."

"Hm," he hums. "It'd depend on the target."

You scuttle toward the furthest reaches of the bed as he makes himself comfortable, mourning your barricade's demise.

"... Does that mean there are people stronger than you out there?" You ask. He regards you with a blank expression. "I'm trying to gauge my options."

Chrollo closes his eyes and smiles softly. "How morbid."

"Yeah, it's almost like I'm stuck with a person who is a terrible influence," you eye the hand that creeps your way like it's a viper. It lunges out at you, finding your wrist and gently tugging you closer to the serpent. Freeing yourself from the maws of a starving beast would be easier.

"Would that make you feel better?" Hearing his voice so close to your ear makes your skin crawl. You can feel his warm breath, smell the remnants of the cologne he applied in the morning and the complimentary mint left on the suite's countertop. "You're not worried some other scoundrel, far worse than I, might snatch you up?"

You swallow thickly. "I think someone's projecting their own fears."

"Maybe."

He rubs his thumb along your inner wrist's pulse.

"Even your contempt is alluring," he murmurs. There's a breathiness to his voice that makes you shiver. "It's like you were made to punish me."

You scoff at the proposition. "Please. What would that make you, then?"

Chrollo laces his fingers with yours and gives your hand a playful squeeze.

"A budding masochist."

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some Chrollo things i found/realized on my rewatch + reread of hxh

- he has REALLY bad posture. in the PT base during yorknew, when Chrollo is reading a book, he is literally hunched over and his back is at like a 45 degree angle🥺

- he’s very smug and cocky. after his fight against Zeno and Silva, he asks with a smirk to Zeno “if we were in a fight, who would win, you or me?” and chuckles knowingly when Zeno replies. during Chrollo vs Hisoka, Chrollo says that he is “100% sure that i am going to win”

- his personality switches depending on who he’s with. with the troupe, he’s logical and stoic—never losing his temper. when he’s with Hisoka, he’s much more relaxed and friendly + smiles much more often. when he’s with someone older, he’s respectful.

- he doesn’t seem to mind celebrations/parties. he’s seen drinking with the troupe in a manga panel after the auction.

- he seems very self aware of his handsome appearance, as he lured Neon in + most of the abilities in his book are from women.

- in terms of physical strength, Chrollo is 7th in the Troupe —above Bonolenov, Nobunaga, Shalnark, Pakunoda, Shizuku, and Kortopi, making him MUCH MUCH MUCH stronger than even superhumans such as Gon and Killua. (I love this fact for some reason)

- he had many similarities to Gon and Kurapika as a kid. (read Ch. 395-397, which is the Troupe backstory. it has a lot of cute baby Troupe member scenes🥺)

- he has a habit of covering his mouth with his hand whenever he is thinking deeply about something or connecting the lines.

- he knows a shocking amount about the Kakin Empire (in the manga), even more so than some of the Princes of the Kakin Empire.

- he seems to have a habit of smirking whenever something is going according to plan or when something went according to plan. he also just seems to enjoy smirking in general.

- his favorite color seems to be purple due to much of his outfits being some sort of variation of purple.

- in official arts + mobage cards, he seems to have dark circles under his eyes. in the yorknew city arc, he is also the only troupe member who didn’t sleep during the entire arc, meaning that he seems to have some sort of insomnia.

- in mobage cards, Chrollo seems to have a habit of fidgeting with his clothes. (pulling off his tie during the Christmas mobage card, playing with his hat, etc,.)

- he is very athletic, considering how at the end of yorknew city when he was left nen-less on those plateaus, he managed to climb down and find shelter all by himself.

- he is also very rich, since on average, every Zoldyck assassination costs around 1 billion—Chrollo managed to afford to assassinate the 10 Dons, meaning 10 billion Jenny.

- Chrollo doesn’t seem to care whenever someone is being disrespectful towards him or the troupe.

- Chrollo seems to have a particular fondness for suits, as he is often seen wearing a suit in official arts

- Chrollo often wears clothing that covers much of his body

- Chrollo seems to have the traditional values of a chivalrous man, meaning that he respects women quite a lot and makes sures to keep them safe. Chrollo made sure to catch Neon in the most respectful way when she “fell” (he literally could have just grabbed her by the arm and it would have been fine), he made sure to keep Pakunoda + Machi + Shizuku in the same team during yorknew (there were no men in their team), and during the Chrollo vs Hisoka battle, none of the female spectators (or even the commentator) were harmed.

———

AUGHHHHHH CHROLLO ILYSM PLEASE LIVE UNTIL THE END OF THE SERIES😭🥺😫❤️CHROLLOOOO UR MY BBY AND ILYSMMMMM😭😭😭🥺🥺🥺🥹🥹🥹❤️❤️❤️😫😫😫💕💕💕

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↳ ❝ [PLAYING WITH THEIR HAIR] ¡! ❞

WARNING: I love Hanzo, but i had to-, Ging cause he's a crime, Hisoka, its more hair related situations than actually playing with it, but the vibe is comfy and chill, some are on crack but enjoy :)

SUMMARY: You play with their hair (if they have any lol)

CHARACTERS: HxH guys × F!Reader

WORD COUNT: 7.191

AN: it was super fun, for some reason my inner gremlin shows up if i write hxh

Chrollo

Chrollo lets out a soft huff of air as you start playing with his hair. He's sitting up, leaning against the headboard of the bed, focused on the book in his lap. A smile appears on his face, but he doesn't look up from the page he is reading.

"You're playing with my hair," he answers with a hint of playfulness in his words. "No.", you try to suppress a smile, but it's giving you away as you play coy. Chrollo glances up from the book, giving you a curious look.

"Are you trying to annoy me?" He quirks an eyebrow, his smile widening. "Sometimes." you smile.  He shuts the book in his lap with a quiet thump, setting it to the side before turning to face you, his body moving closer to you with a fluid grace. "You're terrible at teasing me," he hums, wrapping an arm around you. "It's almost adorable," he murmurs. Chrollo pulls until you are sitting in his lap, your back against his chest. His arms wrap fully around you, his chin resting on your shoulder. "Can't even own up to it," he says, pressing a kiss against your shoulder. He takes a deep breath, the rise and fall of his chest against your back steady and even.

"What will I ever do with you?" "Can I keep playing with your hair?" "You'll do it regardless of what I say," he murmurs, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

His breath is warm against your skin as he speaks, his words brushing against your ear like a whisper. "Yes, you can," he relents after a moment. Chrollo hums in contentment as you start to run your fingers through his hair, his eyes closing at the feeling. He nuzzles his face against the side of your neck, his lips pressing soft kisses against your skin. "You know, you're very distracting," he mutters against your neck, his voice muffled by your skin.

He pauses, burying his face further into the crook of your neck, his breaths warm and fast. "Very distracting," he murmurs again.

Bonolenov

His whole body stiffens when you touch his head; soft flick or no, he flinches, as though it's the first time someone has ever laid their hand on him. His breath shakes, and an inhale comes sharp, almost painful. Yet, he doesn't move away from you at all. Bonolenov stares at you.

"Don't…" He whispers. At your laugh, Bonolenovs glare transforms into something more hesitant— as if unsure of what to do with his face in response to your laughter. "Don't tease me," He mumbles, eyes flickering from your face to the floor. "No teasing." "Sorry, sorry." You keep softly laughing as you rub his bald head again. (Wtf am I writing) Bonolenov shudders again at the feeling of your hand on his head. He leans into it, slowly, a flower seeking the sunlight.

"You do this on purpose," he mutters. Despite his protest, Bonolenov can't seem to look away from you, or stop you from touching him.  He shivers ever so slightly every time your hand moves over his head, and he still hasn't moved away. In fact, he's almost… pressing his head against your hand.

"Or is this a ritual from your tribe?"

Dalzollene

Dalzollene stirs slightly from the gentle motions of your touch, tilting his head up, almost as if seeking to lean against your hand. Dalzollene blinks slowly, eyes half-lidded. He makes a soft, sleepy sound, a low hum that is more of a content hum than anything. He's half-asleep, completely at ease and utterly lost in this moment. "You're overworking yourself." You whisper as you carefully take a seat on the desk he's resting on. Dalzollene's eyes flutter as he tries to focus in on you more clearly.

"I am simply doing as I should," he says, his words slightly slurred from sleep. He lifts a hand to rub his eyes, before he blinks up at you again. "I have to—" his words interrupt themselves with a yawn, "—work." "Neon is draining you." Dalzollene frowns at the mention of her name, but he can't find it in him to speak against you. He knows it's true, even if his job means he has to spend most of it within a few feet of her.

"It is… tiring," he admits, trying to be subtle about his slight disdain for the woman. Dalzollene's eyes shut again as you run your fingers through his hair, his body relaxing further. "This is… nice," he murmurs, the last word coming out more as a hum than a spoken word. "Your hands…" His head tilts into your touch.

Feitan

Your hands are in his hair and he would love nothing more than to melt into you. But his temper is getting the better of him, and he’s trying all he can not to show you just how good it feels.

“Stop that,” he mumbles, a bit testily. “Stop what?” You ask, as if you don’t know perfectly well what Feitan was referring to.

Your hands remain in his black locks, running your fingers through the smooth strands. He huffs and turns his head away, trying his best to ignore the way gooseflesh rises on his arms every time your fingers comb through his hair. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” He snaps back, but his voice lacks most of its usual sharpness. “You mean… playing with your hair?” You ask, feigning innocence.

Even now, as Feitan is glaring up at you like a petulant child, you continue to brush your hands through his hair. Feitans eyes flash, temper flaring like a candle in the wind. He glares up at you, teeth snapping in irritation.

"I told you to stop," he says, a hint of a warning in his voice. "Or are you really that intent on annoying me?"

Franklin

"I'm sorry for your loss..." you whisper as you run your hands through his short hair, trying to comfort him. Franklin can feel your fingers combing through his hair, gentle enough to leave an imprint on his soul. "Uvo-" He blinks, his brow furrowing as he remembers who you are mentioning. "You don’t need to apologize."

He lifts his head to look up at you, and his gaze softens. "You have nothing to apologize for." He leans his head back, moving closer to your hand like a cat craving attention.

"If I’m being completely honest," he admits, his voice almost as soft as a whisper, "I think Uvo deserved it." He grins, and his eyes crinkle in the corners. "Don't say that," you say softly, "he was your friend, you loved him." "He *was*." Franklin closes his eyes for a moment, then sighs as you continue to play with his hair. "He was a friend, and a partner." The words are almost a hiss, a whisper of a curse on his breath.

"And he lost that when he laid hands on you." Franklins eyes are open again, staring up at you. "I didn’t like him as much as you think I did." He says, his tone blunt.

"He was a good fighter, and a decent person, but…" He’s quiet for a moment, and his eyes lower as he looks at the floor. "He tried to touch you. How could I forgive something like that?"

Ging

For a moment, he is still like a statue, then his lips curled into an agitated snarl and he starts to pull away. “Enough!” He snaps, swatting your hand away. "Dammit old man lemme brush your hair-!" You snap back. “No! No, that’s—“

Gings words stop the moment he sees the expression on your face. He gulps the lump lodged in his throat down and his shoulders slump. “Fine,” he says, looking away from you. “You can brush it. Just— just make it quick…” While you work to untangle the mess that is Gings hair, the man grumbles and mutters to himself.

“I could’ve untangled it myself, you know,” he murmurs, his words a complaint more than a statement. “You didn’t need to do it for me.” "Stop pouting." "I am not pouting," Ging huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. He glances sidelong at you, his expression a blend of annoyance and something else he doesn't want to admit.

"And for the record, I was perfectly capable of untangling it myself." "Uh-huh." With another grumble, Ging lets his head droop forward in defeat. He tries to steal a glance backwards at you through the tangled mess of dark hair before remembering that he's not supposed to look.

"How much longer is this going to take?... my neck is starting to ache..." "Till you fucking die." "That doesn't tell me anything," Ging mutters, his words clipped and quiet. The pain in his neck is starting to mount, but he's not quite sure how to ask you to be gentler. "Could you… try and be a bit… more… careful?" He winces, his shoulders involuntarily twitching as needles of pain shoot down his spine. "It… hurts…" "Manchild." "Women these day's, i tell ya."

Hanzo (you could totally play with his eyebrows tho, they look like lashes, what a queen honestly)

"Are you just bald or cant you grow hair at all?" You blurt out while you both cuddle. "Bald?" Hanzo flinches as you touch his head. There aren't words to describe the touch of your hand against his scalp. A shiver runs through his shoulders; he seems to be holding back, somehow. "Um, I…" He pauses, clearing his throat.

"I can grow it… if you wish." His voice is soft, like a child speaking up to their mother. "No." you laugh by the thought of him with hair. The look of relief that washes over Hanzo, you've never seen on anyone else. He sighs, shoulders relaxing into your touch.

"Good, I—" his voice cracks, almost as though he's holding back. "I'm not sure I want to grow it to be honest." "And I'm not sure you'd look good with it either." A surprised sound leaves him, almost like a breathless laugh. He shakes his head a little.

"I didn't think so either," he murmurs. "Not to mention! A good ninja never leaves behind traces!" he adds. He lets his eyes flutter shut for a moment, as if in thought. When he speaks again, his voice is low, a murmured admission. "I like it when you touch me." "Hmm?" You hum, "You do?" Hanzos breathing hitches, his chest rising quickly with each breath. “I…” his voice is breathless, a strangled whisper. “I do.”

He shivers again, and this time he doesn’t try to hold it back. He just closes his eyes and leans into your touch.

Hisoka

His head is tilted back slightly, leaning into your hand as you play with his hair. Like some touch-starved little dog, he can't help the low sound that slips out of his mouth.

"Ah," he gasps quietly as he looks up at you. And yet, the smirk at the corner of his lips betrays him. "OH-! You didn’t...." "... I didn't just what?" He asks, eyes full of mischief. "Moan like that you slut-!" That makes him laugh. A soft, sultry little chuckle that sends a shiver through his frame as he grins up at you. He's utterly shameless, and he knows it.  "And what if I did?" He coos, raising one eyebrow up at you. "Will you punish me, baby?" "Whore." A huff of air leaves his mouth, almost a sigh, but not quite.

"Maybe I am." He grins, not denying it. "And maybe I want you to do something about it." Hisokas breath is knocked out of his lungs as you pull his hair, and another soft, desperate sound slips out of his mouth. He can feel his body heating up, blood flushing under his skin as he lets out a little moan.

"Ahnn...!" He shivers, eyes squeezing shut as your hand is tangled in his locks. "That's it I'm done." You say with a straight face and leave. "Leaving me all hot and bothered?" He pouts. "How cruel."

It's a joke, of course— but he really is rather bothered.

Illumi

The gesture catches Illumi off guard, and he blinks in surprise. The feeling of your fingers in his hair is unlike anything he has known before. For a second, it's like the whole world has stopped in order for him to experience the sensation.

He has to resist the urge to lean into the touch. "Why are you touching my hair?" he asks. "Am I not allowed to?" Your hand stops in his hair, waiting for his answer. You never know what happens when you overstep the assassin's boundaries. Illumi almost stutters, but manages to respond in his usual even tone.

"You are allowed to do whatever you please," he murmurs. "It's just… I am unaccustomed to the sensation." "Did your mother never do your hair?"

"No." He doesn't look up as he says it, his eyes focused on the floor. "She didn't. I used to do my own hair from a very young age." "Not even maids?" “No.” The answer is short, sharp. Illumi takes a deep breath, forcing himself to stay still as you continue to play with his hair.

“Mother said that my last priority should be my hair, my first is to make the family proud and train. Maids weren't allowed to either talk to me or touch me.”

"So that's why it's so long." You laugh, trying to make a joke to lighten the mood. "What does that have to do with the length of my hair?" "....Nevermind"

Kite

"You…" Kites voice has a tinge of awe in it that only comes out when you are together. It is late. The sky is a canvas of stars. He sits next to you, so close that he can feel your warmth. His eyes are closed. Your hands glide through his hair, untangling some of its knots with a gentle, soothing touch.

"You would…" A brief pause, as if he cannot bring himself to ask. "...stay here with me?"

"Looking at bugs for a whole month or longer? Yep, with you always." You smile, leaning your head on his shoulder. A huff of laughter escapes him. As always, he is powerless against the light you bring to his mind, the warmth you give him when you are near. "A month…" he murmurs, repeating your words. The corner of his mouth quirks up in the smallest smile.

"You'd spend a month in a forest watching bugs with me?" "Romantic." His smile widens into an actual smirk. As he glances at you, Kite cannot help but think that you look the most beautiful when you are like this— lighthearted, carefree, at peace. He is entranced by the way you look in the moonlight. "Romantic, hm?" He shifts a little closer, until his knee is grazing yours. "...you’d think watching bugs with me is romantic."

"I can imagine better things, but I won't complain." Kite's smirk only grows. He is close enough now that his body is almost flush with yours. He reaches a hand up, resting it against your waist, tugging you just a little closer. His voice is low, deep, but there is an element of playfulness to his expression as he looks at you.

“You won’t complain?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow at you in a challenge, "That's a new one." "EY-!"

Knov

Knov doesn’t react when you reach for his hair, though his body jolts ever so faintly as you touch him, his eyes staring up at you the entire time. "Ew-!" you withdraw your hand.

His voice is very different when he replies to your exclamation, though, his voice taking on a hint of annoyance. “What?” He asks, brows furrowing. "The gel, it's ew." You scrunch up your nose. Knov's expression is a mixture of surprise and slight embarrassment. He looks like a puppy being told off for eating its owner’s shoes. “The gel isn’t supposed to be touched. It— it’s supposed to help control it.”

He reaches up and tries to pat his hair back down, which is only slightly successful, with a few black wisps falling back down to cover his forehead once again. “It isn’t supposed to… feel like that,” he says, still mumbling to himself, trying to fix his hair back into the pristine fashion it had been a moment previous. Then he looks up at you, eyes searching for approval.

“Better?” "When you wash it later, I wanna play with it." Knov's face turns a slight red color at your request. He’s still fiddling with his hair, trying to get it to behave. “You… want to play with it?” He repeats, like he can’t believe his ears. "Mhm!" His face heats up once more, the red flush spreading to his ears. “Ah…” His fingers stop trying to fix his hair, leaving it messy and unkempt. He looks a little disheveled, especially when compared to the perfect image he always has in public. “…sure.” He says, as if he can’t refuse anything you say.

Knuckle

"It's surprising how it stays up..." you mumble in slight amazement. His hair is surprisingly soft under your touch. He lets out a gasp at the motion, almost like a puppy who wasn’t expecting to be pet. "It.. it does that," he stutters out, face going pink. Knuckle is utterly flustered, but far from annoyed at the touch. "I… I don't know how it stays up."

"...you style it every morning tho." "Ah… I…" he falters, realizing that he's been found out.

"I use a little bit of hair gel," he admits, like he'd just confessed a terrible sin. Knuckle looks up at you through his eyelashes, face still flushed. "More like a whole container." Knuckle flushes a deeper shade of red. His mouth opens for a moment, wordless with protest, then he sighs and looks down at the floor.

"Fine," he mutters, his hands clenching into fists. "I may use a bit more than just "a little bit" of hair gel…but only because my hair keeps falling back down otherwise!" He adds, a slight defensive edge to his voice. "And if I'm not always perfectly presentable.. I-"  he falters, biting his tongue before he says, "I just…" He looks down, refusing to meet your eyes.

Finally, he looks back up at you and admits, "I can't look anything but perfect when I'm next to you. Not even a single hair can be out of place." "Awww baby." Knuckle blushes at the pet name, but doesn’t protest when you begin playing with his hair. He even leans into your touch, craving your closeness as if it was the only thing that would make him whole.

Kortopi

"It's so tangled..." you mumble as you brush his hair, the small male sitting between your legs. Kortopis eyes flutter shut, breath hitching as you brush through his long hair. He tries his best to keep still, a slight shiver rolling through his body. He's never been a fan of people touching him so intimately. With you it's a different story tho.

He'll hold still as long as you like. “Please be gentle. I don’t… I’m not used to this.” He whispers the words, eyes still closed.

The feeling of your fingers stroking through his hair and across his scalp is almost dizzying. Each brush of your touch sends a shiver down his spine, his breaths leaving his parted lips in soft gasps. "Am I too rough? I'm sorry." You quickly apologize. “No, no.” Kortopi is quick to shake his head at that, a hand lifting to reach hesitantly for your leg.

“It’s just… it’s a lot.” He mumbles, eyes fluttering open. He looks up at you, cheeks reddening a bit. “It feels nice. Keep going.” He can’t explain the feeling he gets from you just playing with his hair— the way that the slightest brush of your fingers makes his stomach clench and his heart flutter.

No one has been this gentle with him before. No one ever bothered to look at him with any form of compassion in their gaze.

He leans into your touch, his grip on your leg tightening when you scratch ever so slightly across his scalp. "I don't wanna overwhelm you." “It’s okay,” he says quietly, almost breathless. The feeling of your fingers against his hair, your touch against his skin, it almost makes him dizzy. He reaches his hand up, wrapping his fingers around your wrist as he guides your hand back down, silently asking you to keep going. He closes his eyes again, leaning against your leg.

Kurapika

A shiver passes over Kurapika, but he does not look up from the pages of his book. "You're playing with my hair," he notes, a simple observation. "I am," you say as your fingers slide through the strands. You twist a few around your fingers and pull slightly. He tries to keep his focus on his book, but the feeling of your fingers intertwined with his hair is quite distracting. You feel more than see the effort Kurapika makes to keep his attention on the words in his book, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks.

"You're making it difficult to read," He says, but he makes no move to pull away from you. "That's the point," you reply, a light chuckle in your voice. Kurapika grumbles and makes an attempt at turning the page, only for one of your hands to tug on his hair again.

This time, he makes a soft noise and sets his book down, closing his eyes and sighing. "Why do you do this to me?" His voice sounds almost mournful, but there is a sense of joy in his words. It is almost as if he were grateful for the situation he has found himself in.

His hair is tousled from your ministrations, messy and disheveled. It is a sight that is both attractive and adorable. "Because I like to see you this way," you reply, still lightly pulling on his hair. The action makes Kurapika shiver. He turns to look up at you, a mixture of defeat and happiness in his eyes at the same time.

"This way?" He repeats, voice wavering faintly, "Disheveled? Frantic? Utterly distracted?" You nod. "It reminds me how cute you are." Kurapika lets out a huff, his cheeks growing a little warmer.  He tries to school his features into a frown, but he can't help the corners of his lips from twitching upwards.

Leorio

The touch of your fingers through his unruly black locks soothes Leorios mind. He leans into your touch, the tension seeping from his muscles, and his eyes flutter shut. He lets out a low, almost inaudible sigh, a mixture of exhaustion and relief. He's silent for a long moment, simply enjoying the gentle ministrations your fingers give to the hair around his face.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low and quiet, as if not to disrupt the peace that's settled over the two of you. "You are too good to me," he whispers, his eyes still closed. He slowly reaches up to take your hand. He pulls it from his head and instead places a firm, lingering kiss upon your knuckles.

His thumb caresses your skin, the pad of it tracing little patterns against the back of your hand.  "You've been so stressed lately so i-" "You are much too generous to me," Leorio mutters into your skin. His grip on your hand is tight, as if he's worried you'll pull away.

His eyes flick open, and he looks up to meet your gaze. "You do not have to be this kind to me. Yet you are. You are too kind, my God," he repeats, the words quiet and reverent. He lifts himself up, resting on his elbow as he looks down at you. He brings your hand to his chest, holding it just over his heart. His free hand reaches to cup your face, his touch gentle yet firm.

He brings his face down to your ear, and the sound of his next words are as soft as a whisper. "Why do you have to do this to me? Why do you have to be so damn good?"

Menthuthuyoupi

You stare up at the big guy, "can I try something?" Menthuthuyoupi blinks, then gives a firm nod.

No matter what you say or ask for, he will do it without question or complaint. He has been yours since the first moment he laid eyes on you. "Can i play with your hair?" "My hair?"

Menthuthuyoupis voice is quiet, bewildered. Never in his long weeks of life has anyone asked to touch his hair before. "You… you can." He tries to keep himself still, but his body is tensed up. It takes all of his willpower to keep from leaning into your touch.

"Does it… is it good?" He can't help but ask. "Does it feel strange?" Yes. Yes, it is. "Yes," he says bluntly. "Didn't even know i had hair." "What?!" A small huff of irritation. Menthuthuyoupi shakes his head. "Now I know have hair." His hand reaches up to touch at one of the red locks, wrapping it around his finger and giving it a small, harsh little tug.

"I've just never…" he continues, pausing as if he isn't sure how to say what he means. "I've never been taking care of it." "Figured, it's greasey as hell."

Meruem

His eyes snap up to your face as you drum your fingers against his skull. He frowns for a moment— the barest twitch of his lips down.

He doesn't quite register what you are doing, just that your fingers are against his skin. Meruem is silent for a single heartbeat, and then he tilts his head into you, leaning into the touch. That touch makes Meruem pause, tilting his head back to give you a look, one corner of his lip lifting in an almost smirk.

"And what makes you think you can do such a thing to me?" Meruem asks. His voice has a hint of challenge to it, like he's testing you. "I just can." You smirk, knocking on his head. Meruem's smirk grows, and he lets out a soft laugh. There's no sarcasm in his voice, just a hint of amused disbelief.

"And that makes you think you're above me?" He asks, the challenge growing with his smile.

"Above the great king? Everything of course." Another laugh. Meruem shakes his head, letting out a breath as though he can't believe what he's hearing. He's not bothered or annoyed— far from it. Amusement is written all over his face as he looks up at you with a wide, wolfish grin. "You think you're that powerful, do you?" He muses, still with that hint of challenge in his voice. "My love for you is." That makes Meruem pause, looking up at you for a moment. That hint of challenge turns to surprise, and then that surprise fades into a soft, warm look. His smirk is gone as quickly as it came, replaced with a small smile.

"Is what?" He asks, voice much softer. "Love? The strange pulling in ones heart? What we talked about?" "What we talked about, yes." "I doubt your pulling compares to mine."

Morel

"Ey old man! Come here!" "Eh? Old man?" He sputters as if the very notion offends him."I am not that old," Morel protests. "How old do you believe I am?"

"100?" "One hundred?" Morel stares at you incredulously. His eyes narrow. His shoulders tense up. For a short moment, it looks as if he’s holding back a snort.

"You think I am a hundred years old?" "You have white hair." You run your fingers through his hair as he sits down. "That does not mean I am old," Morel saya. "It just... means my hair is white. It always was." He falls silent, crossing his arms over his chest in a huff. "You wouldn’t ask others with white hair their age, would you?" "I was just joking." The admission seems to soothe his wounded ego a little bit. "You could have used a more believable number,” he mutters, but there’s hardly any heat in the words.

"For your information, I’m not a hundred. I’m not even close to that old." He huffs, rising to his feet and dusting off the dirt from his clothes. "Not that it matters either way,” he adds, giving you a sidelong glance out of the corner of his eye. "I don’t suppose my age matters to you, my love," Morel says, the reverent title slipping easily from his tongue.

“I could be a hundred or thousand, immortal or not, and still,” he stops suddenly, eyes fixed on your face as the words die on his tongue. For a moment, he swallows, as if suddenly unable to find the words. “I would still be yours...and i know you like em older anyways.” "Ey-!"

Neferpitou

"No one? Ever?" You asked in disbelief. Neferpitou leans ever so slightly into your touch, enjoying the soft feeling of your fingers against their hair. No one else has ever done this.

"No," they murmur, "never like this. No one ever touched me like this." "What a shame...it's pretty." The corners of Neferpitous mouth twitch, something like pride swelling in their chest at your compliment. Your simple words mean everything to them. Praise from you is more valuable than all the riches in the whole universe.

"You flatter me," they say quietly, although there's no attempt to deny it. Not only is their hair pretty, but so are they, and they know it— but they also know only you can tell them that. "Hmm, maybe." your lips crack a smile. Neferpitou stares up at you, eyes burning like fireworks. They're not blind— they know you're teasing them. Your smugness is something they adore. All of your expressions are so unique, from the look on your face when you're fighting a battle, to the curve of your lips when you smile, all the way to how your eyes crinkle at the corners when you laugh. Humans are interesting. You especially.

They know exactly what you mean, even if they're not willing to admit it. Neferpitous expression is mischievous, their tone bordering on dangerous. They won't admit it out loud, but they do love playing with fire. Especially when it comes to you. You're a feisty little inferior species.

"Don't smirk, my human," they murmur, leaning closer until they're a mere breath away from you. "We both know I'm more than just pretty."

Netero (me and my eyebrow or bald jokes in this post are wild)

You can't help but feel slightly upset, "Damn...why'd you cut it?" A soft sigh escapes him as you ask why he cut his hair.

“It would've gotten in the way, and it became difficult to manage,” he murmurs in response, his eyes still closed as he drinks in the feeling of you touching him. “Plus… it will grow back,” he says. For a few moments, Netero remains still, enjoying the feeling of your fingers in his hair, until he opens his eyes and looks upward at you.

“Are you really that fond of it long?” He asks,  in his voice, as if he’s worried he disappointed you by cutting his hair in the first place. "You could've at least cut your eyebrows." You add with a smirk. Netero rolls his eyes dramatically, but even the small action isn’t enough to disguise the soft, flustered look on his face. “You know I can’t do that,” he says, but there’s mirth behind his words. “Unless you want me to run around with no eyebrows at all.”

"That would be a sight." You imagine. “I’d look absolutely ridiculous,” he says, but the way he’s grinning gives him away. "And you think you looked better before, old man?" Netero shoots an unimpressed look at you, his eyes narrowing slightly, but he knows you’re only teasing him. “You’d rather I looked like a caveman?” He asks, raising an eyebrow in a silent challenge. "You already d-" Netero cuts you with an indignant scoff at your comment and, for a moment, looks as if he’s about to protest, but then he stops, a small smile twisting his lips.

“Oh, quiet,” he says, his tone holding no bite. “I may be older than rocks, but I’m allowed to care about how I look.”

Nobunaga

"Washing is an option, yk?" "I know that," he mumbles, his eyes fluttering shut at your touch. He shivers slightly under your palm, his body as sensitive to your touch as a rose to sunlight. "I've been busy," he clarifies as you play with his hair, trying to come up with a good reason to escape your chiding. "I don't have time to bathe, is all."  He lets out a sigh, leaning into your touch like a kitten against a hand.

"And it's not that bad," he says, though his voice falters slightly— he knows he's lying. "Yeah sure." You smirk. "I've been sweating!" Nobunaga protests, as if that will solve everything.

"That's not my fault." He mutters, but when you tug lightly on his hair, he shivers again. "Relax." You calm him down. "I can't relax," he hisses, his eyes snapping open to glare up at you. "Not when you're—" He cuts himself off, his gaze suddenly shifting away as his cheeks flush. "I'll wash it for you later, okay?" taking care of a mess like this men is actually fun activities in your book. Especially when you can see him flustered. It takes a moment for his brain to process your words.

Nobunaga blinks, lifting his head from your hand to stare up at you, his mouth falling open.

"You—" a beat, "—you'll wash my hair?" You can practically see the smoke coming from his head. Nobunaga blinks, once, his mouth slowly falling open again as he processes what you'd said. His throat works silently as he grapples with the situation.

"You…" the word comes out faint, almost a whisper, as he tries to grasp what you're offering. "You'd… wash my hair?" he finally manages to get out, his face already starting to tint pink. "Yes?" "I—" he starts, hesitating as he tries to form a sentence, his thoughts flying to every possible meaning and implication of your words. Finally, after a moment of silence, his face completely flushed red, he manages to utter a response.

"I'd like that," he whispers, voice barely more than a sigh, though his words speak volumes as to how badly he wants you to do this.

Pariston

"It's so smooth?" It sounded more like a question than a statement. With all the products he uses you were almost sure his hair was like hay. He leans into your fingers, closing his eyes, a satisfied hum escaping his lips.

"Of course it is," he mumbles back, pride and arrogance dripping from every word. "After all," he continues. "I keep it that way for you. Gotta look good for my girl." His head tilts into your hand, seeking more of your touch. You can't help but roll your eyes at him. "What?" Pariston asks, his eyes opening. He lifts his head just to look at you, a single eyebrow raised.

"Don't roll your eyes at me, I'm being sincere," he says, tone a mix of amusement and mock-offence. "Since when." "Oh, always." He says, sitting up a little straighter. He leans back on one of his hands and grins. "You just don't notice because you never pay attention to me," he retorts. "I think..." He speaks slowly, fingers dancing over the top your other hand. "I think you're just cruel to me. That's what it is," he says decisively.

"You have no idea," he continues, his tone going from teasing to serious for a moment, "how much I adore you, and yet you treat me so callously." He fake pouts, a frown on his face, but you can see his eyes are dancing with mischief. "It's very insensitive of you." He admonishes you, his fingers moving over your skin.

"You should feel very guilty for treating the person who loves you more than anything like this," he admonishes, though there is a hint of a smile on his lips.

"And the person that finances your very being."

Phinks

"No," Phinks insists, pulling a little away from you. He scowls, crossing his arms at his chest. "Just… No." He won't let you ruffle his golden locks. "Why?" You whine slightly. "I don't want you to ruin it," he protests, running his fingers over his hair. He glares at you as his perfectly styled locks get mussed. "It takes hours to make it look good." Phinks frowns, his hair tousled from your touch. He combs his fingers through the messy blonde strands, trying in vain to return them to some semblance of order.

"I don't understand why you always have to touch my hair," he complains. "You're just like a child, always grasping at what the world has to offer without regard to the consequences," he says, still combing through his hair and trying to keep it away from you. "You have the impulse control of a three-year-old."

"But you love me." You smile innocently. Phinks can't help but soften a little at your words. He lets out a huff, his shoulders slumping as he gives up on his hair. He can never resist you.

"Yes, I love you," he admits, running a hand through his hair one last time. "Now, don't ruin my hair or I'll punish you." He doesn't sound all that threatening. In fact, you can imagine a hint of a smile flickering at his lips as he glares at you.

"If you make me look awful, there will be consequences," he says, though you suspect he's more likely to give you a kiss than actually punish you. He lets out a quiet sigh, running his hand through his tousled hair one final time before admitting defeat. He's fighting a losing battle— his hair is messy and sticking up at all sorts of ungraceful angles, and he's only going to undo any progress he makes by touching it. With a huff, he gives up, looking back at you.

"You're going to be the death of me one of these days, you know that?"

Pokkle

Every time you even think of coming near his hair, he looks up at you like a frightened doe. "I'll bite your hand, you know," he adds, though it is a very empty threat. "Why not? Shy?" You tease. "I–It's a mess." Pokkle protests, lifting a hand up and attempting to tame some of the messy locks of messy hair. He quickly gets frustrated however, huffing as it just flies right back in his face. "Besides… You'll mess it up…" "Can I at least brush it? Make it better?" Pokkle bites the inside of his cheek, looking down as if contemplating.

He remains like that for a few moments, thinking it over. He can't deny he wants you to touch his hair. That much is obvious. He's simply very stubborn, and won't say it.

He mumbles something under his breath that sounds vaguely like a reluctant yes. He turns around, presenting his back to you. His hair hangs messily over his shoulders.

His spine is ramrod straight, almost painfully so, and he’s clearly trying not to look over his shoulder at you. He's expecting his hair to be pulled, not brushed. He stays completely silent once you begin to brush his hair. He is still as stone, like a statue, but you can almost hear the sound of his mind racing even when you touch the brush to his hair.

He doesn’t look at you the entire time. In fact, he appears to be trying so desperately not to look at you that it’s like he’s fighting a losing battle with himself.

"Good?" Pokkle is quiet for a few seconds. He seems to have to collect himself, closing his eyes in an attempt to process what's just happened.

Finally, he nods, answering your question in a single word. "Good."

Razor

Razor doesn't question your request for a moment. If you want to, he will allow it. His head dips down, allowing you better access.

"You may. It's yours." "...its so short." you mumble. "I never let it grow." Razor responds, then lets out a quiet little hum as you play with the strands of his hair. It is indeed short, just barely long enough to play with. His neck twists a little, tilting to the side as you ruffle his hair. Razor is surprisingly pliant at your ministrations.

"You like to play with it, I take it?" He asks, a touch of amusement in his tone. "Meh, it's alright." Razor lets out a quiet scoff, the corner of his lips twitching.

"Only 'alright'," he mutters, but there's a hint of a smile in his words. "Just say you like it." He leans closer to you, head tilting down to look at you. "I know you like it," he teases, the corners of his mouth twitching. "You love to play with this short hair. Admit it."

"Hmm,...no." Razor snorts. "Why not?" He murmurs, leaning in a little more, so his head is resting against your leg. "It's short and soft. I can tell you like it, don't lie." Razor lets out another quiet scoff, though it is not meant as rude. He is too comfortable to care how he sounds. "Your hand is still in my hair," he whispers, tilting his head a little more to give you better access.

"Admit it, you like it." He smirks.

Shaiapouf

Shaiapoufs head is leaned against you, his eyes closed as your fingers run through his golden locks. He shudders at your touch, a low hum of satisfaction rumbling in his chest like a distant storm. After a few moments of comfortable silence, he finally opens his eyes and speaks.

"What are you doing?" He asks, voice heavy with exhaustion and contentment. "Hmm, nothing." Shaiapouf raises an eyebrow, glancing up at you from his place beside you. He smiles a little mischievously as he leans into your touch. "Just playing with my hair for no reason, then?" He teases. Even through the weariness in his voice, there's a hint of mirth there, like he wants to see how you'll respond. "Yeah." "Liar,"

He laughs, reaching up and grabbing your wrist, moving you hand back to his hair. He gently guides your fingers through his locks once again, his eyes closing, a soft sigh falling from his lips. "You just want an excuse to touch me, don't you?" Shaiapouf rolls over, laying himself against your side, head resting on your shoulder, his body pressed against you like a shadow.

He slings an arm around your middle, pulling himself close. "Gods, you're warm." He mumbles, burying his face in the crook of your neck. Shaiapouf hums contentedly as he cuddles against you, feeling the heat of your body seeping into his skin. He pulls you closer, his grip on your waist tightening ever so slightly.

"You're soft," he murmurs, his breath warm and ticklish against your cheek. "So soft..."

Shalnark

The feeling of you sitting in his lap makes Shalnark hyper aware of you. He tries to stay focused on the computer screen, he really does, but it’s hard to when you’re playing with his hair.  “What are you doing…?” He asks, swallowing thickly as his eyes dart from the computer to your hand in his hair. "Playing, like you." You mumble, keep playing. He lets out a slight huff, but there’s no annoyance in it.

“Are you trying to make it difficult for me to concentrate?” He asks, giving you a light smirk. “Not that I would want you to stop,” he adds as an afterthought, his voice growing softer.

Despite his words, Shalnark still continues to try and focus on the computer screen rather than on how it feels when your fingers glide through his hair. After a few moments, it becomes too distracting. Shalnark lets out a small huff, his fingers resting on the keyboard, unmoving. He turns his head a bit to look at you. A light flush has dusted his cheeks; his gaze almost seems a bit petulant, but there’s no real annoyance in it.

“You are doing this on purpose.” "Noooo." Shalnark gives you an unconvinced look.

“Liar.” He mumbles, tilting his head back a bit. The bare expanse of his neck shines in the cold light of the computer screen. His eyes flutter closed, and he lets out a soft sigh as he feels your fingers running through his hair again.

“I know you’re too smart to do this unintentionally.”  Despite his words, he can’t hide the way he relaxes with your hand on him.

Shoot

Shoots eyes slip shut as you touch his hair. It's been a long time since he's felt the gentle caress of your fingers against his scalp. You would think this would be enough to soothe him, but his chest still rises and falls quickly, his breaths uneven and choppy in his chest.

"Thank you," he stutters, trying to control his breathing. "Your touch feels like paradise," he whispers, almost so quiet you can't hear it.

"Missed it?" You laugh as you keep braiding his hair. He nods, feeling the gentle tug of your fingers on his hair. Shoot opens his eyes and looks up at you, his gaze unfocused. His head is foggy and hazy, his mind slipping away as you continue to braid his hair. "Yes," he admits, voice quiet.

"Yes, I missed it." "So...the mission?" Shoots expression darkens a little when you mention the mission. The mere mention of those words turns his mind to memories he would rather forget. "It was complicated," he confesses, watching your fingers move through his hair. "The mission…"

He pauses, his eyes growing a little distant. "...It did not go as well as planned." "...oh." "It was…" He falters. Something in Shoot shifts, a change in the air; as if the very atmosphere around him has grown darker. His mind drifts back to the mission, replaying the events of the past few days.

"There were... issues," he states, trying to keep his voice steady. "Obstacles. Setbacks. It was not the success we were hoping for."

Uvogin

Uvogin ducks his head to avoid the brush once again, a quiet scoff leaving him.

"I can brush it myself," he mutters, and reaches up. His hair is tangled and messy after spending most of the day without his hair being brushed — but he doesn't like having others run their hands through his hair for him. He can do it himself.  "Do you even know what a brush is?" you ask as a joke. Uvogin narrows his eyes at the words, a quiet huff leaving him.

"Of course I know what a brush is," he says, and snatches the hairbrush from you, holding it with an almost possessive grip. "I'm not an animal." Uvogin mutters something to himself— probably something about you being annoying— but he sits down and starts to run the brush through his long locks.

He looks like he is struggling. A lot. But he won't ask for your help. His pride won't allow it. "I can he-" "No."It's a short, quick answer. Uvogin immediately shuts down any offer you may have had before you can even finish speaking. He's stubborn, and he doesn't want to ask for your help— even though he very clearly needs it.

It's a sight to behold, the brush sticking in his hair and him struggling to brush it through. You walk up and hug his back. Uvogin stiffens at your sudden embrace, but he doesn't try to push you away. He continues to struggle with the brush, until he finally— begrudgingly— lowers his hands.

"Fine," he says, and it's clear it pains him to admit defeat. "You can do it."

Wing

Wing practically melts under your touch. His head rests against you like a pillow, and he hums in contentment as you play with his hair. He is warm, his chest rising and falling in a deep, even rhythm. "Tough day?" A heavy sigh escapes Wing. He nods, just a fraction, his face pressed into your chest.

"Yes." His voice is quiet, almost as if he doesn’t want to speak too loudly, in case it breaks this perfect moment. He pauses, hesitating, his eyes closing as he listens to your heartbeat.

"You make it better," he confesses, the words whispered into your skin like a secret. His breath is gentle, a soft sigh falling from his lips as he relishes being this close to you. After a few moments, he shifts, wrapping his arms around your waist in a hug, and burying his face into the crook of your neck.

"Being with you is my favorite part of the day," he admits quietly, breathing deeply of your scent. "Then I'm glad..." Wing nods his head, nuzzling into your chest a little more. “I love you,” he whispers, his voice barely loud enough for even you to hear. His body is flush with yours, his chest pressed against you. Every breath he takes, every rise and fall of his rib cage, you can feel against your own skin. Wings arms gently tighten around you, his grip almost desperate, like he’d die if he was torn away from you. "Love you too..." Wings hold on you tightens when you return the sentiment. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck and lets out a shaky breath.

“Say it again,” he whispers, a hint of pleading in his tone. The words are uttered as a near demand.

Forgot to answer it like an idiot omfg

[paypay0315]

I think I’ve officially outgrown tumblr fanfics, it’s hard to find decent new stuff that isn’t just another smau full of poorly written characters that are nothing like their original personalities. For fandoms like Jujutsu Kaisen all the men are written like Toji=mean+horny, Sukuna=mean+less horny, Gojo=teasing+horny with little to any more depth. Or like Tokyo Revengers where most of the guys are given the same personality depending on if they’re categorized as confident or quiet. Then they make all dom-leaning characters talk with a forced accent that they definitely do not have, sometimes it’s a blaccent other times it’s a lot of “gi’me” instead of give me or “ya” instead of you. Its gotten to a point where they straight up just won’t say full words and I cannot describe the visceral ick it gives me lol. Don’t get me wrong I’ve been able to find good stuff on here before and I don’t doubt that there are good writers in these fandoms, it’s just getting harder to come by. I stopped using Wattpad for similar poor writing and it’s sad to see it happening here now.

Edit: I don’t plan on replying to the ppl reblogging this bc most of them are not approaching the conversation with the same level of maturity as I have.

If you think that having a blank blog means that you’re not able to give criticism as a reader then you’re just wrong idk what to tell you. That’s the reality that comes with writing and posting your work, that by no means justifies stuff like harassment or bullying, but that’s clearly not what I’ve done. Sorry if you took my opinions personally bc you have a 👀certain👀 taste in fanfic and smut tho lol

[paypay0315]

it’s stupid late. like 2:43am late. the kitchen’s dark except for the fridge light and the glow from your situationship phone screen, playing a random song that you had suggested him to listen to. you’re perched on the counter, legs swinging, wearing his hoodie and nothing else, and he’s standing between your knees with a slice of leftover birthday cake balanced on a plate in one hand and a fork in the other.

"open up, baby," gojo says, waving the fork near your face as if he was the one feeding a toddler. "here comes the airplane—"

you swat at him half heartedly but open your mouth anyway, letting him feed you. "you’re so dramatic," you mumble through the cake.

"i’m romantic," he corrects, licking the frosting off his thumb. "there’s a difference."

gojo's hair’s a mess, white strands fluffed up and sticking everywhere from sleep, but he still looks ridiculously sweet. like pretty boy sweet. like maybe i’d let you ruin my life sweet. and he’s shirtless, just soft skin, warm from sleep, and low sweatpants that are hanging on for dear life.

he’s all sleepy grins and sleepy eyes and god, he’s not even trying :(

"you’re staring," he teases.

"i’m thinking," you say, deadpan.

"that's scary," he hums. "wanna kiss to stop it?"

you don’t answer. just tilt your chin up, expectant, and he leans in slowly, until he’s kissing you with cake sweet lips and smiling into it.

he pulls back just a little, presses his forehead to yours, and breathes you in. "you," he says softly, "are the best thing that’s ever happened to my insomnia."

you roll your eyes, smiling softly. "you’re so corny."

"and yet," he steals another kiss, pecking quickly, "you still wanna make out with me on a counter at 2am."

[paypay0315]

this number of fics is homophobic, work faster pls this is not enough to fill the like 4 yr drought I will have to wait for their season

[paypay0315]

Finding black sturniolo creators is like finding little crystals in the sea! Sooooo...

here are some of my favs ive found so far

@leoslaboratory

@muwapstraws

@raestromboli

@sosasturns

@phone4pills

@whore4mattsturniolo

@chrisgetsmewetter

@pr3ttylittleslutt

@vvinirl

@muwapsturniolo

@mattslolita

I decided to make this list and shot out these certain creators because ive been reading fan fic FOREVER and could never find anything that was ya know...for me! I just wanted to show appreciation to these certain writers so that other POC readers can find them themselves.

Sorry if i missed anyone (please let me know about anyone else so i can add them to the list)

[paypay0315]

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ 🪖 attack on titan masterlist

main masterlist

everyone

how you met · hanging out · their thoughts/feelings · confessing to you · first kiss · random things · training · when they get jealous · getting caught by a titan · when you get hurt · getting drunk · saying i love you · fantasy stereotype · you like their best friend · making you cry · arguments · christmas special · arguments (pt2)

eren jaeger

attack on titan men & jealously

mikasa ackerman

nighttime routine

armin arlert

attack on titan men & jealously

sasha braus

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connie springer

attack on titan men & jealously

jean kirstein

attack on titan men & jealously · bad idea!

reiner braun

attack on titan men & jealously

annie leonhart

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bertolt hoover

attack on titan men & jealously

erwin smith

attack on titan men & jealously

levi ackerman

attack on titan men & jealousy

hange zoë

˚✧₊⁎

© hanjisungslag, 2022

[paypay0315]

The real barbie is Y/n.

Y/n’s a doctor, a cop, a scientist, an agent, vet, hero, villain, astronaut, lawyer, spy, criminal, artist, chef, engineer, psychologist, architect, journalist, firefighter, event planner, mechanic, photographer, musician, actor, interior designer, bartender, fashion designer, barista, florist, forensic scientist, flight attendant, profiler, tour guide, translator, etc.

[paypay0315]

𝑩𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒚 𝑩𝒐𝒚

synopsis: Matt has an attitude.

warnings: SMUT , sub Matt, sex toys, crying, overstimulation, and more.

ʚ with love and big tits, Rose ɞ

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“—m sorry, please,”

He was still crying even though you weren’t in the room. The cuffs scratch against his wrists with each tug from his arms, clanking the headboard with every uncontrollable movement.

“…won’t do it again, I—mmmmpf,”

There’s nothing he can do. Vibrations of the toy strapped onto his hard cock leave his stomach tensing as a near dry spurt of cum falls from his tip and down to his pelvis, collecting and sliding down the previous orgasms coating his lower half.

His eyes light up hopefully as you walk into the room. Squinting through tears, he feels your hand gasp onto his length, cooing sympathetically.

“Aw, baby. Did you learn your lesson yet, hm?” you ask. He’s desperately muttering a string of different affirmations, crying out loudly as he tips over the edge again. “Bratty boy, Matt. You were so rude today.” you remind.

Matt shakes his head aggressively, forcing the tears to stream down his face faster.

“I know—I…mmmm fuck--I know, -‘m sorry, please, so so so sorry, shit,” he hisses. You smile sickly as he ruts his hips up to chase his high in your hand. Swiping your thumb over his tip, he nearly screams as your hand gets painted with his cum.

“Won’t do it again. I—I—promise, please!”

But, he will. He’s gonna catch an attitude again and you’re gonna put him right back in his place. And you look forward to making him crumble even more the next time. After all, he is your bratty boy.