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[florvaine]

— tied him down to my queen bed !

Shoto’s always open to help you - even if it’s torture having to sit through it.

sub!shoto todoroki x fem!reader

warnings: bondage/shibari, 🚨‼️ PATHETIC ‼️🚨 shoto, how whiney can i make this grown man?, no actual smut this guys just needy thats it hit post

a/n: this is self indulgent ngl 😋

wc: 1.3k

One thing about Shoto is that he is willing. If you called him at two in the morning before the sun even thought of rising, if he was halfway across the globe, he'd find a way to get to you as soon as he could. It's one of the many reasons why you love him.

There was one time that you had a wardrobe malfunction at an important event, so you called him. In a matter of minutes he made his way into the women's bathroom with a whole new outfit for you. He stayed by your side for the rest of the night. What you found out later was that he cut an important interview short to get you that change of clothes.

It took a while to figure it out, but through many slow conversations, he revealed that he likes being useful. He enjoys being the first person you call for and finds pride in your trust of him. The undying loyalty of him being more than just a husband but a partner to be with forever, come ripped seams or life-threatening situations. Shoto thrives in chivalry, especially for you.

There's an underlying emotion of being the opposite of his father, a man who Shoto can't forgive to this day even if the rest of his family does.

In shorter terms, if there's some way that Shoto can serve his beautiful, strong, lovely wife, he will.

But it's moments like these that he hates it.

The second you came up to him just before he was about to leave for the gym, Shoto knew by the glint in your eyes that he wasn't anymore.

You pressed up against his back, wrapping your arms under his and to his tapered waist. Over the black compression shirt he wore, you (not very subtly) dragged your manicured nails along the muscles on his abdomen.

"Where are you going, dressed like that?" You hummed, a hand sliding down to thumb at the waistband of his grey joggers, hanging low on his hips.

Shoto knew that you had a certain affinity for this specific outfit and was hoping he could escape before you saw. As soon as he felt your hands glide across the material of the shirt, he sank back into you slightly. A heat crosses wherever you leave your touch, causing the two-toned man to let out a breath.

Shoto turned his head over his shoulder to look at you, almost immediately noticing the way you look back at him. Eyes half-lidded, lips pulled into a glossy, unsuspecting smile. Your whole expression showed expectation.

"Nowhere," he muttered.

Like that, his fate was sealed. More precisely, his fate was sealed by soft crimson rope wrapping around his limbs. Shoto let you pose and prod and pull at him onto the bed with forceful love. His head bowed like a knight to a queen until you gently grasped his jaw to look him over.

With every length you tie, every splitting junction from a knot you tied, you create an intricate design over top of his mundane clothing that he just wishes would disappear.

Laying thick twine steadily against his broad shoulders, past his flexing arms, across his sturdy chest and down his sternum, you make careful bonds at his joints and set him up like a model for an artist.

Eventually you finished the final knot. You had got Shoto pent up, his arms and hands tied behind his back, and forced his rideable thighs to bend underneath the strips of scarlet. Diamonds sat along his arms, and a heart – which you had been reading on how to do recently – sat in the middle of his chest. The string wasn't pulled tight enough to hurt but enough to slightly hinder his movements and keep him where he was.

By the time you've finished and stepped back to admire your work, Shoto's huffing and puffing with need. He can't hide it; the tips of his ears flushed along with his neck, and pressing a hand to either side of his face showed how he was reacting.

It feels as if you're holding him down, the thread replaced with your hands cupping, holding, gliding along his body as he just wants to rid himself of his shirt and trousers to get as close to the feel as he can. But he can't, the binding reminding him of his dilemma.

You avoided placing pressure where he needed it. A familiar print pressed against the clothing of his trousers, both from his want and the ropes that led from his hips to the back of his legs.

It's not very often that Shoto gets like this, all desperate and pliant, but when he does, you take your time.

He holds back whines from the back of his throat as you graze lightly over his torso. You watch fascinated at the way your hands send ripples along his skin underneath his clothing. One of your hands lingers around his thin waistline, feeling his reactions underneath slivers of rope. The other moves smoothly up to his face, and with a tender grasp, you direct his bowed head upwards. And oh, what a sight it was.

A crystalline layer covers azure and gunmetal irises, lashes pronounced with low eyelids. The scar around his eye was slightly more prominent from his dishevelled hair, wine and chalk fusing together to form a slight pink if you focused. His thin eyebrows pulled together and up with a look of utter hopelessness. There were small breaths exiting his parted lips, and a pink overlaid his cheeks and the tip of his nose.

"Look at you," you mumble with a loving smile on your face.

With the hand from his torso, you lift it and card through his hair softly, settling on his lap. Shoto inhales sharply, reacting with a slight movement of his hips underneath you. He's been craving any sort of contact from you that wasn't fleeting and replaced with thread, and now it's overwhelming.

You're so close to where he needs you, and you know it. It's difficult not to ignore the hardness that rested beneath you, but you settle light kisses across the warm and cold expanse of his face.

"Please," he whimpers out as you sneak your fingertips underneath the collar of his t-shirt.

The needy man gulps for air that doesn't seem to exist, Adam's apple bobbing and drawing your attention. In seconds you draw your lips down from his jaw and settle around his neck, light loving pecks transforming into wanton and messy. Taking your time to pick and choose where to mark him, leaving light cerise plumes of skin in your wake and smoothing over sensations with your tongue like a cat.

Shoto can't handle it. Whines release from his mouth, vocal cords pulled in a way to allow for the high-pitched sound to echo around your shared bedroom. The warmth of you sat on him, but not where he needed you; the feeling of love transferred to his skin through your lingering pecks to his face and the stinging and smothering reoccurring touch of teeth and tongue.

You pull away, lips just hovering over his as he breathes heavily. "So pretty, so beautiful."

The praise pulls a sound from him before you push your lips against his fully. With that you slip a hand underneath the material of his joggers, and Shoto knows exactly why he waits to serve, existing in limbo to your beck and call.

[florvaine]

want to expand on these...

molly has a vinyl player with every lana album (even special editions of ones she already has). she's got a whole shelf and takes her time dusting them whenever she picks one out to listen to.

mary-beth was a pioneer of a very specific character/reader tag on ao3 - i'm talking most of the fics in that that tag are from her account. kudos + commenting WARRIOR.

karen is never designated driver, can handle at least 4 fireballs and her favourite mixed drink is rum and coke. when she's drunk she's so protective of the other girls she is out with.

tilly 100% has a tiktok account of her scrapbooking. at least 4 finished books, all chunky and colourful, and she has an second ongoing scrapbook to the side specifically for commenter requests. sometimes she does voiceover videos with a storytime and her followers eat it up every time.

charles has watched every david attenborough documentory. he knows it's the cycle of life but he gets a little nervous for the tiny creatures running that barely escaping being caught. every so often he falls asleep because he always watches them at night.

javier somehow convinced john to get a matching stick and poke with him, a small pistol on their shoulders or something. john chickened out just over halfway through, his kinda looks like a hairdryer. after some time, they just look like blobs.

kieran doesn't push 'ugly' villagers off his island because he feels bad. the type of guy to not want to make any bad decisions in any storyline game because he doesn't want to make the NPCs/other characters sad.

the first time jack went to olive garden, he only got mozzarella sticks - then he finds out about the never-ending pasta bowls, sets his first record, and keeps going back to try and beat it.

part twowowwowow !!! ☆ part 1 on my profile

whispers are mine, background pics are from pinterest (except molly’s which i took myself) ♡

[florvaine]

lost comfort and found familiarity.

Escaping the prison was a mess, and Carl is devastated when he can only find his girlfriends red jacket, but not her. (afab! reader)

genre: heavy angst to fluff

warnings: death, blood, gore, panic/anxiety attack, !carls’ SA scene!, kissing.

-— DREAD BEGAN TO FILL THE PIT OF CARL’S STOMACH WHEN THE HEAVY REALISATION SET IN. That realisation was that the prison was overrun, the Governor and his goons having broken down the wired fencing with a tank and brought in dozens upon dozens of brain-deteriorated, famished walkers into the previously safe confines of the prison.

They had killed Hershel in cold blood using Michonne's katana, leaving his severed head to pool a red sheen on the grass. Somewhere in the time of his beheading bullets began to ring out around the borders of the prison.

Cars, trucks and military-grade vehicles began to fill the courtyard, Rick and the Governor are beating each other bloody with their bare hands by the overturned bus.

“Holy shit.” He hears you say, and once he looks to his left to find you, his heart hurts a little more.

You’re typically comforting smile has vanished like the peace had just a few hours ago, instead pulled in an open-mouthed look of pure shock and horror. Your eyes are blown wide, brimming with a small collection of tears. There’s dust and debris flying everywhere, staining your cheeks. A shotgun is tight in your grip, ammo stacked in your pockets and an army knife clinging on your belt.

He’s only ever seen you this devastated when the farm got set up in flames, and when you had been told that your brother had been bit.

Carl gulps, pulling you closer to him via the strong grip he has on your hand. Both of your palms are sweaty, but it was barely even registered as the tank that the Governor had hijacked shot another bomb into the crumbling, brick walls of the prison.

“We gotta go!” He says, running in the opposite direction of the explosion. You follow behind him, still holding his hand as an anchor to keep you aware of reality.

Your eyes drift around the series of events around you. The obliteration of your home, the snapping jaws of the decaying walkers that drooled and reached to take a chunk of flesh from either of your bodies. Bullets rain hell on everything that moves, sparks of orange and yellow shining from all directions, the scent of blood, gunpowder and dust is heavy as it clings to your clothes and hair.

You stumble, tugging on Carl's hand, "We have to get your Dad!" You point to where Michonne is helping him up, and the blue-eyed boy falters.

A loud bang followed by the sound of debris hitting the floor, a flash of heat passed over each of your skins. Between the flash, he sees his dad covered in splatters of blood, bruises and cuts stumbling towards a break in the metal fence.

Every sense in his body is muddled, an annoying, high-pitched ring in his ears makes his clammy hands raise upwards to press against them, sounds muffled as dust coats his tongue like thick, chalky medicine. His eyes flutter as the light passes, debris clinging to his lashes and dirtying his freckled face. Carl sniffs, his head turning around rapidly to see you again.

Except you were gone.

Just like the flash of orange light and thermal blast, you had seemingly dissipated into thin air. His first reaction is panic, in a form that roots his body into the concrete floor at the thought of you being hit by the bomb, therefore disintegrating instantly.

Carl feels sick to his stomach and he removes his hands from his ears, picking up his gun that clattered to the ground and spinning in circles to catch even a glimpse of you.

"Y/n?" He shouts even if his throat was aching from the particles in the muggy air.

There's no response, "Y/n!" He calls out with more urgency, his feet moving quick against the ground as another round of bullets pass beside him.

The shaggy, brown-haired teen dashes through a gap between the cell blocks, keeping as low as he could whilst running, pressing the sheriff's hat his father gave him just a few days prior against him skull.

Then everything stops. It's practically silent if you ignore the echoes of the snarling walkers that invaded the space. His eyes brim with salty tears, scrambling to pick up a too familiar red cloth discarded on the floor.

His heart is put on pause for a few seconds as he kneels down to claw at the jacket. Your favourite jacket. Bright red stained with black smudges and bloody hand smears, an open hole passes cleanly through both sides of the left sleeve, encircled in a deeper scarlet that dripped in a sickening curve of an open wound.

Time passes slowly, as if God himself was providing him time to grieve. You had slipped through the cracks of his callousing hands, the blood trapped under his fingernails suddenly more obvious as he scratched at the drying liquid on the jacket. His heart hurts. So does his head, a throbbing pulse that matched the pants and trembling breaths that exited his chapped lips. His body washes out any adrenaline or happy emotion an refills it with dread and mourning.

He feels like crying. Sobbing, screaming your name until his lungs collapsed and his throat was raw. Vocal cords torn, shattered like his heart that would no longer beat with the same life he had with you. His thoughts turned from joyous hope of a future with you and Judith outside the crackling prison to disbelieving hurt at the realisation you were not near him anymore.

With no body, their could be no funeral. Nobody in the limited black attire they collected throughout their time in the apocalypse. With no grave to bury you under, you could not rest.

But without a funeral or a tattered corpse of your being, Carl refused to believe you were dead.

The sound of bullets restart his heart again like a defibrillator, and he's back in the moment. There's shots in the courtyard, the boy scrambles up, clinging onto your jacket with harsh breathing.

There's two walkers further along the cell block. Carl ties the jacket around his waist. Rage slowly drips into the building acceptance in his mind, and the shotgun that he held previously was snagged up off the floor.

The gun is raised, aimed perfectly for the decaying heads of what used to be morally guided people. His breathing picks up slightly.

One shot rings out, bullet shells hitting the ground. Chunks of skin, bone and rotting organs spills over the floor and the walker hits the ground with a dull thud. He steps over the remains with what could only be described as a bitter mixture of anger and sadness on his face.

The second shot is fired, and the first victim is joined by the other. A mess of liquid ruby changes the grey hue of the floor, the sound of blood spilling like tossed water would usually sicken him.

His gaze drifts towards the bodies, and he is repulsed at the image of you, your hair splayed against the concrete and your eyes wide open yet unseeing, glossed over in grey as your plump lips turn blue, skin cold. Your chest does not rise. You are still, graceful and dead.

He blinks, and yet again you were gone. Carl looks up from the meaningless corpses.

His own dad looks back at him.

"Carl," It doesn't sound like him, there's a hint of liquid that gurgled in his throat as he spoke, and Rick gulps it down. He's breathing heavily. A collection of red patches adorn his beaten face, curls from his hair and stubbly beard pressed against the sweat gathered on his skin.

The two of them limp away from the remains of the prison, trauma and sorrow tossing and churning in their minds and stomachs. They had lost not only you, but Judith as well.

One of the only memories of his mother that he had. And the only hope that Rick had of raising one of his children without any fear even in the apocalypse.

That night the two of them exchanged no words.

-—-

1 month, 27 days and 17 hours.

That's how long it had been since Carl had last heard your voice. Him, Rick and now Michonne occupy a two story house in a leafy road surrounded by woods. They visit the neighbouring homes further down, once he even found a 112 ounces worth of chocolate pudding, and ate it in one sitting. Alone.

The words 'alone' has never been in the forefront of his mind this much before. He wonders if you would've enjoyed the pudding with him, or comforted him on his worst nights as his dad slept on the sofa barricading the front door. Maybe you would've stopped him shouting at his unconscious body.

He was terrified, that night. Because the sleeping body of his dad would sometimes look like you - except there's a bite on your shoulder and a bullet wound punctured between your closed eyes.

Now there was no resting body on the sofa as his dad was awake, alive and moving whilst Michonne helps the two of them work with their slightly tense familial relationship.

Sometimes he'd get bombarded with questions about you. He'd still answer with one phrase.

"She's alive."

The same tone, the same memory starting to form before his ocean eyes whenever he blinked. After a while it went from being a quivering statement of hope to an exclamation of law.

Every time you were brought up negativily, it ended in him storming out of the house and sleeping in a different one for the night, and coming back in the morning to his anxious dad who was very close to vomiting and a worried Michonne.

Carl knew you wouldn't just leave or give in that easily. It wasn't in your blood that stained the jacket he kept folded upstairs in one of the rooms.

He had washed it, any trace of what happened at the prison left in a stream of water; the hole from your bullet wound was sewn together as best as he could. No more smudges of soot and crumbling brick smeared down the hood and arms, no more scarlet hand prints that grabbed and tainted your clothing.

Carl had one mission that he would complete - he had to complete it before anything else.

And you were going to get your jacket back - alive.

-—-

Terminus was a horrible idea. It had been advertised as a safe haven for anyone in need of it, offering sickingly sweet luxuries that no other place had before.

Who knew it was run by cannibals that captured, disarmed and intended to eventually eat them? Not Carl, that's for sure.

They had barely escaped with their lives, and Carl could only wonder how many more times he could dodge death until it inevitably caught up with him.

But in the back of his mind, he knew he would avoid it for as long as he possibly could, because if he kicked the bucket then he wouldn’t see you again.

At least they found everyone else - including Judith. That was one miracle that Carl dreamed of, and it was accepted, so the last one was you.

Many nights and days he had spent wondering where you were, if you were thinking about him too, some other days passed with tears and muffled screams of your name; those days he’d be comforted by the tight arms of his dad or Michonne wrapped around him.

Carl would sometimes have nightmares of that grimey, old man that pinned him against the floor, Michonne and Rick having to see him at his most vulnerable in that moment. That was the one time he was grateful you weren’t there. Not because he didn’t want you to see him so shattered and broken, no.

He knew that whatever was going to happen to him, would happen to you too. And with the predator pinning him down, the company of his equally as vile creatures that held Michonne and Rick as captives. Nobody would be able to save you in time.

Part of his innocence was picked up and snapped that night. He fell asleep with your jacket over his torso, and he let his quivering frame curl into yours.

He wanted to see you again, in real life. Not a part of the fractured, twisted part of his imagination. He wished to hold you close against him, kiss you under the stars like you had done too many days ago. Everything Carl found that he thought you’d like was in a small pouch at the bottom on his bag.

A thin-chained necklace, a gossip magazine, a comic book. A small heart shaped rock that he had found. Most importantly, your jacket.

Carl was intelligent, observant. He could tell everyone had already grieved for you, mentioned your name in speeches of motivation saying ‘do it for her’. He hated it.

Another argument happened whilst they were all moving down the abandoned road, towards a new hope of life.

-—-

His father brought you up again when he saw Carl wearing your jacket. They had stopped for a break, sitting in the middle of the road whilst Daryl went hunting for anything they could eat.

“Carl,” He spoke, voice slow and gentle as if he was a ticking time bomb, “I think it’s time you let go of her jacket.”

Everyone’s eyes moved from his father to his son, eyes slightly widened and mouths clamped shut. The air becomes tense as the blue-eyed teen looks up at his father through the corner of his eyes.

Carl swipes his tongue over his lips, “Why’s that?” He spoke, Judith coo’s in his arms, pulling at the strings that tightened the hood.

Rick adjusts his stance, placing his hands on his hips and thinking of what to say to his son. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he speaks.

“I just think, well we just think that,” The curly-haired dad gestures to everyone with one hand, “It’s time to let go, son.”

Carl lifts his head fully, eyebrows knitted together in scrutising disbelief, “You all think she’s dead?” His tone is harsh, accusing and targeted to pierce their racing hearts.

Everyone knew that the mention of you being dead was something that the boy didn’t agree with. Stubborn as ever, Carl points his gaze towards his dad. His gaze as sharp as daggers and Rick knows hes in for the long run.

“She disappeared, Carl. We can only guess what happened to her.”

Carl hands Judith to Carol next to him and she takes her without looking at the boy, “You can guess, but I’m not guessing. I know she’s alive.”

“She’s got lost, nobody saw where she went. She’s alone.” Rick argued, his voice louder.

“She has a gun and a knife!” Carl replies, shouting over his father. Michonne stands up and removes her gun from her holster, as did Abraham and Tara when a branch snaps behind the wooded trees.

Daryl shows himself, empty handed. Everyone internally groans, but they give him a look to tell him to be quiet and point at the arguing boys.

Rick places his hands on his sons shoulder, looking down on him, “People have still died with a gun, kid.”

Carl pushes his dad away from him, face contorting into pure anger and vemon lacing his features, “Don’t touch me.”

“I’m just tellin’ you the truth, Carl.” Rick points at him, eyebrows raised and his voice returning to the soft, almost patronising tone from before.

“But it’s not the truth!” Carl argues, his anger put into lashing out against his own blood, “She’s alive, I know it! I see her, Dad!”

Michonne places a hand on Rick’s shoulder when she hears him sigh and prepare himself, “Don’t-”

“She’s dead! Trust me. She. Is. Dead. If you’re seeing her like I see your mother, then she is not alive anymore!”

It goes silent, a few birds fly overhead with calls of their scratchy language. Even in the open surrounded by trees it has never felt more claustrophobic than ever for the Grimes family.

Carl stiffens at the mention of his mother, the woman that birthed and nutured him through his pre-teen years. The woman he eventually ended up killing.

Rick takes his silence as an opportunity, “Let her go, Carl. That’s my only advice.”

Tears form in his lashline as he stares back at him dad, and the sheriff’s hat against his head has never felt more heavy than in this moment.

“But everyone saw Mum’s body.”

Rick has never turned around quicker than in that moment. The mention of his lovers lifeless body, deep cut in her lower stomach flashes under the glaze in his eyes and Rick swears he can see a white dress move through the treeline.

Carl continues, “We saw Mum’s body,” His voice trembles and he sniffs, “I knew she was dead more than anyone else here.”

It’s deathly silent. Everyone knows what he’s referring to, and everyone is scared shitless to say anything to either of them. Rick takes a deep breath, but doesn’t speak.

A droplet rolls down Carl’s pale cheek, and he looks down to ensure no one saw him wipe it away, “We haven’t seen hers. Until we see her body, I’m keeping her jacket. But when we find her, she’s gonna have it back.”

Rick only nods lightly, picking up the supplies he agreed to carry.

Nobody makes any objections to continuing to move further up the road - towards Alexandria.

-—-

You have never felt so close before. Yes, they were extremely suspicious and afraid of Aaron and his husband, Eric. Having been tricked into a cannibal house just a week ago does that to a group of people.

But walking up yet another road, littered with lifeless corpses of walkers with bullets making their brains paint the pavement. Carl knows only one thing.

He has never been this sure that he was going to find you.

Aaron is rattling on about what facilities they had. Running water, heating, electricity. Promises of necessaries they haven’t heard of for years now.

His dad is on edge, not particularly fond of the idea, but he knew that everyone was so tired and burnt out that they needed just the idea of a safe place to be just to bring more motivation to themselves.

So far, Aaron’s words of a 15 foot, metal wall that bordered Alexandria and protected the insiders was true, and Carl begins to feel more energetic and hopeful than before.

Carol notices this, and questions the boy, “What’s up, Carl?” She looks at him, and he looks back.

“She’s here, I know it.” He replies and then looks forward again, walking ahead of her.

Carol furrows her brows and decides to take harder and longer looks at the walkers on the floor.

The group arrive at the large, metal gate. The journey felt like hours for each of them, but extra long for Carl. He was antsy, and fully compliant to anything any of them told them to do. If Aaron or Eric told them to stop, he would. If they told him to go find a bird, kill it and bring it back, he would.

The gates finally screech open, Carl feels as if his heart is going to burst open. An alarm sounds in the back of his head but not one of worry, but one of intuition that told him she was here.

He looked into the gated community as the gate opened fully, and felt alienated as soon as he entered with his group. They were dirty, hair knotty and unclean against the pristine and organised residents of Alexandria.

People poke their heads out of houses and stare, smiling or looking upon them with apathy. Every face Carl doesn’t recognise.

They get told to hand over their weapons. Their refusal is argued, and eventually they give in. It’s hesitated and unsettling seeing all their guns and knifes piled onto a trolley.

Carl is the second to last person to place anything on the trolley, his handgun is held in his hands tightly as he walks over to the collection, placing it down and reaching for his knife-

“Carl?”

It’s a voice further along the pathway into Alexandria, and he looks up in slight confusion.

His blue eyes meet hers, they’re as recognisable as ever. Finally.

His body is practically overflowing with emotion - relief, joy, sadness and the most overpowering feeling of love.

The knife clatters to the floor, there are hands reaching for him, tugging on his clothes to hold him back and the leaders that he didn’t care to remember the names of tell him to stay put.

Instead he runs. It’s a run of desperation. He’s afraid that if he doesn’t run fast enough, you’ll disappear again in the aftermath of an explosion. You’re running too, a hand against your mouth to cover sobs.

The two of you meet halfway, arms wrapping around eachother as a form of physical touch to ensure that the other that this is real.

“You’re alive,” Carl whispers, breathing heavily and clutching the back of your head that was pressed against his chest, “I knew it.”

You’re both crying, holding eachother in a tight, cathartic embrace that released any inkling of doubt that the others heart wasn’t beating.

Carl’s hands clamber to hold you face in his hands again. You let him, raising your head to look into his eyes. He runs his thumbs against your soft skin, scanning your face.

His head lowers, yours lifts, and your lips meet in a greeting that was way past it’s due date. Eyes closed, experiencing something that has only been a dream for so long. You didn’t care that his lips were chapped, he didn’t care that yours were slightly cut up from you biting at the dead skin there.

It’s messy, teeth clashing and your noses bump one or two times, but all that you care about is that he’s here, and that he finally found you.

You pull apart, and your eyes fly open to witness his still closed like he was still in shock. His lashes flutter, and you make eye contact once again.

There’s a sense of melancholy realisation that slowly ebbs through him. The fact he hadn’t been there to witness you grow up alongside him during the time you were apart. He admires the change in your facial structure, features from before stronger and more prominent to show that you had grown up.

“You’re just as beautiful as I remembered,” His thumb wipes away a few of your tears and rolls over a small scar that streches up from your jawline to your cheekbone and his eyebrows furrowed in slight worry, “What happened?”

You press yourself further against his palms, relishing in the feeling of him again, “I survived, Carl.”

His name has never sounded so good before. His brain feels funny, his heart floating as he pulls you in for another kiss. It’s less messy this time, not that either of you care.

Carl pulls away again as he’s reminded of his mission, his forehead against yours, “Your jacket,” He gives you peck, and departs again, “I have your jacket.”

His hands leave your face to pull the rucksack of his back, and in panting breaths you gasp softly as he pulls the red fabric out of the bottom of the brown bag, holding it out to you.

“I cleaned it, sewed up the bullet hole,” He holds it up, showing the messy threading, “It’s not the best-”

He’s cut off by you taking it from him with a sniffle, pressing it against your heart and clutching it.

“I love you, Carl.” Your voice trembles, and he smiles, pressing a kiss against your forehead, brushing a few loose strands of your hair from your face.

“I love you too.”

You unzipped the red jacket, struggling to get it on; Carl moves forwards to help you slide it on over your arms again.

Where it rightfully belongs.

-—-

[florvaine]

— heavy is the crown !

It’s not often Bakugo gets a minute to rest, especially since he started travelling.

fantasy au: bakugo x kirishima x fem!reader warnings: fluff/general, not much dialogue it's a lot of big words SORRYY a/n: this is me doing a bit of worldbuilding for a bigger fic i'm writing lol

w/c: 1.1k

(art by @/milmil on twt!)

For the first few weeks it was strange being nomadic.

Bakugou was not accustomed to being on the move having been coddled by his father to try to find an outlet to his anger and held close by his mother as she showed her inflexible way of ruling their Tribe. Though she had her strange way of showing it, Mitsuki cared for him and deep down he knew that.

She had sent him and his Dragonborn - Kirishima - on his Trial later than he was expecting. For centuries, those seeking Furtherance took their leave from the tribe towards the backend of winter to try to complete the journey before the next hit.

"You're taking control of this clan once I depart, you'll need to be prepared for the fervor of a volcano," She had muttered whilst holding his face, thick paint of flora and fauna staining her fingertips.

The sun beat down heavily, especially in the kingdom of Draconix, when Mitsuki had seen him off with a kiss to the crown of his head and a blessed amber amulet hung around his neck. The Singe fur on his cloak quickly became troublesome throughout the start of the journey, sweat clinging to his forehead and along the contours of his torso.

Along the way, they encountered someone else, a stray traveler trying to get to a faraway village to complete their own mission. At the time you had been fighting tooth and nail to escape a group of bandits you had already roughed up. With a single activation of his magic, Kirishima scared them scampering into the throng of deciduous trees.

It only took you passing out from a hit to your head from before and Kirishima's nagging to convince Bakgou to take you along. The place you mentioned to be traversing to was along the way to where they were planned to be, so at the next stop he reluctantly spent more of his coin to get more rations of dried fruits and meat.

With every sunset you got closer, meeting old and making new friends who shared stories about the blonde in so much detail you felt as if you had been beside him his whole life.

Between the inn rooms that the three of you yearned for, Bakugou wouldn't hesitate to take the longest shift of night watch in fear of Kilmonges, thieves or worse. He'd keep his ungodly hefty swords on either side of him and refused help throughout the day. He took the burden of navigating by map, noticing if anyone strayed off the given path.

But you could see it.

The usual confident steps became sluggish and slow-tempo, the furrow in his brows just the slightest bit too taught. His shoulders hung with the heavy weight of being, ultimately, responsible for not only Kirishima but another person who he hadn't even predicted to join the voyage. Sometimes he was so deep in thought that you could practically hear his doubt and nonsensical strings of words.

It came to a head just after everyone had narrowly escaped a hunting hoard of spruce spiders. Nasty, colossal species of arachnid with hair-like quills that could dwarf half-grown spruce trees.

The sun had begun to retreat behind the horizon of towering trees and sprawling mountains. In the distance ahead, a collection of cliffhanging houses light up as people strike runes for thir lanterns.

The temperate forest you had all settled into was home to the fearful - spineless pixies and fanged deer who refused to harm others. The leaves ranged from dusty cool tones and tough bark, roots crawling over the edges of a path created of multicolour sea glass. The fleeting rays remaining from the sun reflect off of each coloured crystal and refracting in a mesmerising flow like silken robes dancing in the wind.

The grass was stocky here and had a strange adaptation, as the sunlight was often obscured by the thick overhang of unwavering trees, and were near transparent to the point they were blue from taking in water and minerals. Picking a blade would release a small pocket of potable water.

Dinner was fire-smoked salmon, sparkling sourdough bread with ghoulberry jam and a wide array of fruits - blackberries, starstriked strawberries, blood oranges and crisp apples. You didn't mention the way Bakugou picked at the bandage around his upper arm, over the protective band of warm ink.

Smoke tickled your nose as you took in the familiar scent and cooling breeze, a much accepted respite from the direct contact with the sun in Rokopi. You and Kirishima had been babbling away from either side of the now dwindling fire, flames flickering to dormancy a while after the moon had awoken.

The diminishing flames highlighted the contours and protruding structures of each others visages, foxy colours cast over the high points of Kirishima's nose, chin and lips and the cheekbones and lowered forehead of Bakugou.

"Is he finally asleep?" You mumble, your eyes falling on the slack body of the blonde.

Kirishima stops his rant about his harpy friend Mina and turns his attention to his travel partner. His chest rose steadily underneath his layers of woven traditional necklaces. The body paint he was typically on top of washed off from a spring, leaving behind pale strips of his natural skin tone beside sun-kissed expanses of muscle. His cape, hefty and expelling warmth, was collapsed in a pile behind him and he leaned back on it, the fire licking at the spikey strands of thin gold.

Bakugou's generous helping of lashes airily rested on his cheekbones, his face void of the typical scrunching you had assigned to him. Shoulders slumped, but not with the weight of the world anymore. Now it was the weight of the air behind him, softly carving along the muscles of his strained back in a strange massage that relaxed him.

The redhead let a smile cast itself onto his face, "About time - he hasn't fully rested since we began our journey."

In the minutes to follow, you and Kirishima had gotten as close to the blonde as you could ('strength in numbers, it's what flegdlings do in the Tribe,') to doze like the barbarian. His crimson wing outstretched to cover Bakugou's and your backs from the forest and to preserve body heat. Though you knew Kirishima was just feeling a twinge clingier than usual.

Hell, he hadn't meant to fall asleep to the two of you meandering conversations, but there was something so... comforting about it.

He never admitted that though, lest Kirishima would actually talk his ear straight off the side of his head.

[florvaine]

bakugou katsuki in denial ;) warnings: none, reader is mentioned to have a telekinesis quirk (im obsessed with the idea of telekinesis atm) genre: fluff, headcannon-type-thing notes: take this draft from months ago as i try finish the first chapt. of brutal <3 mwah love you guyssssss!!

totally-not-crushing!katsuki bakugo who angrily denies accusations denki and mina throw at him, asking the ashy-haired boy if his lingering eyes and slightly kinder actions towards you were intentional. he’s yelling pretty loudly, calling the two of them names in the empty common room of heights alliance, and it’s no surprise that denki called kirishima down for backup.

totally-not-crushing!katsuki bakugo who gets tired of being interviewed, so he storms out of the common room with his hands deep in the pockets of his grey joggers. his expression is aggressive, a dangerous snarl on his face and with his thin eyebrows pinched together.

the moment totally-not-crushing!katsuki bakugo gets into his dorm room he collapses onto the sheets of his head, hands behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling with vermilion eyes.

he doesn’t like. he hates you. he hates your stupid hero costume that’s a perfect mix of tactical and cute, he hates the way your hair looks good 24/7, he hates the way you give him genuine smiles that reach your pretty (e/c) eyes, scrunching them. he hates how attractive he finds it when you get serious.

totally-not-crushing!katsuki bakugo who despises the twisting and churning of his stomach, the heavy beating of his heart, and the amount of focus he has to place into not accidentally setting off his quirk when he’s near you.

he hates how he goes all out on you during sparring because he knows you can hold your own against him. he hates how funny you are even if it’s unintentional, the fact that he hides his grins behind his hand when you say a joke. he hates the way his eyes immediately go to search for you in a sea of people, or whenever someone mentions your name he’s suddenly intently listening in.

totally-not-crushing!bakugo who, 5 minutes after clambering onto his bed, pulls his phone out to search up the symptoms he’s having. of course, he knows how the human body reacts when the person likes someone, but he would sleep easier if google tells him it’s something else.

totally-not-crushing!bakugo who slams his phone onto his bedside table with gritted teeth once scanning a few answers and articles about ‘how to know if you like someone’ from this bullshit reporter and writer.

totally-not-crushing!bakugo who has to actively avoid looking at you, he's hyper aware of everywhere his eyes move and if he even sees a glimpse of you (h/c) hair he's going to turn bright red. too bad for him, there's practical hero studies today!

and it seems you had some adjustments made to your costume - a whole new design and colour scheme that better suited your quirk and a big hood that covered your head. oh, and the same style of boots that he has - you even said that you got the idea from him!

trying to ignore your whispers with mina at the back of the group, he listens in at aizawa groups everyone in pairs for the practical exercise. and it was just his luck that totally-not-crushing!bakugo was grouped with you.

he wanted to yell in disagreement, but as soon as he saw you walking up to him, totally-not-crushing!bakugo saw the look on your face as you rattled on about ideas of what faux villains you two were up against, and he swallowed down his shouts. instead, he plasters on a disinterested face and hums along with your words.

turns out, the two of you are quite a duo. with your telekinesis, the two of you could rescue the dummy civilians and safely bring them to the safety in a matter of seconds, and he kept any threat at bay - both on the ground and in the sky.

totally-not-crushing!bakugo who gave you probably one of the kindest compliments he's even given that year - 'you're not the most useless, i guess,' and he even squeezed in a hesitant 'good job' at the end. but you barely heard it from behind his clenched teeth.

and you just looked so happy that he had been nice for once, and instead of commenting on the struggle to say the praise, you smile at him with those dimples, sipping water from a plastic cup provided to you by momo, and thank him.

totally-not-crushing!bakugo who feels a strange feeling in his chest and gut when you comment on the fact that the two of you made a good team, and should probably try work together in the future.

and he's actually going to sleep with a tiny, minuscule smile on his face thinking about the both of you creating agencies, and partnering up when you're both capable heroes.

still, you wont get the number one spot, he wasn't willing to give that up.

...yet.

[florvaine]

killshot ! (pt. 1)

there's more in saint denis than sweaty old men and poncy women.

arthur morgan x hired gun!fem!reader x javier escuella (i couldn't resist he's so yummy)

warnings: canon-typical violence, maybe ooc arthur?, romantic javier

a/n: i hope the pronoun use in this isn't confusing ugh :<

wc: 3.4k

part 2: (N/A)

There are tales that counter off every cobblestone in the streets of Saint Denis. Every pass of the rickety wooden wagons over haphazard roads picks up another passenger who shares stories of a shady figure that hides in the underbelly of the town, shrouded in the darkness from the buildings, flitting with the fissures of smog.

He wears a white blouse rolled up to reveal black clothes. Cinched with a midnight vest and pinstripe trousers. The few people that escape are paranoid at the sound of clanking silver spurs and hefty gun belts. A bandana helps him blend in with the night after he pulls the trigger.

The aforementioned ones who escaped speak of him like a demon. Overwhelming, dominating and elusive that even private investigators hired with dirty money can't find him.

But the woman Arthur's talking to now talks fondly.

She says that he never said a word but took the money she offered shakily with gentle hands sifting through it. He split the money she gave in half and handed one back, pocketing the rest whilst gesturing to the small toddler grasping at her leg. His stare lingered long on the bruises that she wore and the split lip she had gained from her ferocious husband when he came home without dinner.

Arthur's honestly a little surprised when she said that the day after he took care of her husband, she offered him to stay for dinner, and only when he took off his bandana and spoke for the first time did she realise it was a woman.

"Tomorrow she's staying for a meal; I'll send her your way. She has a slight hand and takes any job she can."

And as he waits on the outskirts of Saint Denis the night after, between a tall fence and the factory, he's another minute away from calling bullshit on the story. The woman he spoke to was intoxicated and threw up right after she started walking to her home; she could've been pulling an unhumorous joke on him.

Arthur tuts and looks around once more, seeing no black vest or pinstripe trousers. Nobody wants to stand out in the sweltering heat, and so he curses himself and wipes the sweat from his brow before putting his hat back on.

"Goddamnit, Morgan, y'moran" He mumbles to no one. He sniffs and turns to unhitch his stallion when he hears it.

The sound of holsters hitting one another on an overcrowded belt, the clinging of a fully stocked bandolier and the ominous clanking of spurs but no footsteps. But the sounds are rhythmic – one, two, one, two, one, two. Calculated, calm, composed.

It's then that he remembers what the woman said to him.

"Just be mindful to hold your tongue; she doesn't take kindly to men that don't."

When the woman turns the corner, she doesn't walk towards him, facing him from a few feet away. Arthur lifts his chin and scans her.

Pinstripe trousers, a black vest, leather gloves, and a bandana obscuring the bottom half of her face. If he didn't know she was already a woman, he could see how others might mistake her. Whilst her stature isn't alike to him or Charles, it's clear even under clothes that she has a reliable amount of muscle on her. Her posture, the glint in her sharp eyes commanding.

Arthur cleared his throat, "You the boogie man they all talk about?"

The woman sighs, taking a few more steps up to him. Her turn to check him over. It's near impossible for him to not feel as if he's in ill-fitting clothes with the daggers you move over him. The honey-brown hair that peeked out from under the gambler hat he wore. Stubble roughed his features out, a barely noticeable layer of red overlaid on his fair, sun-kissed skin. Once you deem him safe, you huff.

"Who's askin'?" She crosses her arms, tilting her head.

Arthur places his hands on his hips and slants his weight. "Look, we don't have to do this whole," He flicks his hand up and down, "Thing, woman tha' hired you once told me you take jobs."

It's hard to deny the southern drawl that smothers your ears was nice to listen to. Syllables unsaid but not missed, fully understood without pronunciation. You wonder if he speaks different languages; does he keep the accent or try to come across as fluent?

"I take jobs that pay well – so, whose asking?" You repeat with more emphasis than before.

He groans, "Arthur Morgan, I just wan'na know if you'd take a robbery job. Heard you're slight-handed."

"Robbery, you're bold. Where?"

"Riverboat."

"Which one?" You glance to the side with furrowed brows and back at him, "There's a tonne of 'em."

"Grand Korrigan, I believe,"

You nod up and down with a rising smirk on your face, "I know the one – 'The Queen of the Lennahechee' – I'm guessing you're goin' for one of the gambling tournaments?"

Arthur shifts, "Would be simple not to."

The cool air brushes through the lane, and you both accept it gratefully. The heat still lingered into the darkness of the night, the stars in the sky hidden by the pollutants bellowing out of the chimneys that spat it out even during the last hours of the night. Arthur doesn't exactly know how to do this.

He's killed hundreds of men and people who crossed him, faced torture from an old friend of Dutch and got home with looming sepsis without help. Hell, he's run from multiple government agents without receiving even a scratch from guns, knives or swinging fists. He's fled state lines and snuck into lands that he's sworn away from to rescue others. But now, faced with someone he would typically not suspect of doing the same, he's awkward.

Awkward, like when he noticed how much he stood out against Mary and her prim, proper lifestyle. How he tried to hide the mud he tracked inside on the polished tiles of her house. Awkward, as if he was asking her father for permission to be his daughter's partner, and isolated when he was chased out of the house with curses and disapproving statements.

He feels strange as he continues to be interrogated, flustered from being put on the spot under her criticising gaze, annoyed by the endless questions, and angered by her bargaining for a cut of the take; he doesn't know why a part of him is relieved when she outstretches her hand and agrees to having 15% of whatever they snatch under the noses of the wealthy on the riverboat.

"I'll be there before it leaves; you wait for me. I'll go after your take if you don't."

That morning, as Hosea and Javier wake, Arthur tells them of the woman that slinks around the ombre of Saint Denis. The woman who would assist them in picking pockets and obtaining even more money from the job. And they unsurprisingly were angered by him including a random person on a job without consulting them too.

"Have you lost your mind, boy?" Hosea asked with rasp, his furrowed brows adding more depth to his aged face.

Javier, still half asleep and slowly coming to terms with what Arthur confessed, shared his thoughts. "So you heard of a random hired gun and offered her a cut of the job that we came up with – and trusted her?"

Only after he told other people and heard the story from his own mouth did he realise how naive he sounded. He tries to find the words to articulate his thought process.

"Listen, she's killed people for money. If she rats us out, then we can turn her in," He reasons, "She's already a wanted woman, she's got som'thing to lose like all of us."

They all look back and forth at one another, and Javier is the first to make any movement. Raising a hand, he rubs between his eyes and groans.

"If she gets the slightest idea, one of us has got to kill her." He glances between the other two, dark chocolate eyes checking for reactions.

"I'll do it, I brought her onto the job."

Javier stands for a second, sighs and shrugs, then wanders off to make a mug of coffee. He would be lying if he said he wasn't intrigued. It's not often that he works with hired guns outside of the Van der Linde gang, but it's never been a woman.

Staring into the murky, dark brown drink, Javier lets his mind wander to who this woman could be, so important that Arthur trusts her without having met her before.A part of him thinks the man is stupid, but belittling one man can't hide the fact that he's curious.

Hosea stays behind.

One thing Arthur can trust is that Hosea will tell him the truth. Pure, unaltered and unfiltered truth. It's always been that way. Dutch would tell extravagant stories of robberies, playing off injuries as battle scars. Hosea would chip in and calmly explain that he was near tears as he stitched up the younger man.

Arthur's watercolour eyes meet the older man's face. His eyebrows were still pulled taut in thought. He scans the grass as if each individual blade had wisdom to tell him. Chewing on his bottom lip, he opens his mouth.

"It's risky, my boy. Who knows what she's going to do? Both she and the woman that told you could be working for others, she could turn around and try to steal all of our take."

"I," He sighs, the corner of his mouth pulling into a slight wince, "I know, but –"

"If you think she's clean, that she can help us with this job, then I trust your judgement. You know I do." Hosea places a hand on Arthur's shoulder, the previously stiff cotton shirt turned pliable with use and wash and stitch.

With that he walks off to do whatever else, leaving Arthur to reflect on his choices. With every passing moment he has conflicting thoughts. One second he believes he did the right thing, the next he's cursing himself and pacing.

There's nothing he can do but wait.

If you were going to be on an ornate riverboat with people who have an abundance of cash, you need to look the part. So, you went to the tailors.

The building is tall and intricate. Doorframes chiselled with care and time, the doors creaking from the popularity of the shop. Bells stationed by them let out light twinkling, the windows free of dust and in decorative frames. Plants are set up around the tables and on the polished oak planks of the floor.

He's careful with his measuring tape, circling your body with precision and care like you've never seen before. He jots down numbers and notes with admirable handwriting. The man takes coloured fabrics to your skin and mutters his incomprehensible thought process out loud.

Eventually, he draws up a quick and scratchy sketch of a ballgown dress. Corsetted with small fabric off the shoulder onto your upper arms. Something quick and relatively cheap for a tailored robe.

As he's putting away fabrics, you lean over and unclasp a beautiful necklace from its display on a velvet bust, slipping it into your sleeve and into your satchel. Pure silver, embellished with glimmering gemstones that just exude the impression of affluence.

The tailor tells you the gown will be ready the day of the job, a long while before you need to be there, so you have time to prepare and get accustomed to the outfit.

After you returned to your established camp hidden in the brush of the swamp, you flipped your trunk upside down to find an old pair of pumps. Short heeled and chunky enough so that if you needed to run, they would be more stable. Reinforced with a strap around the ankle, they were a safer option for an escape.

Throughout the rest of the day, you trekked through the town, accidentally bumping shoulders with women dressed head to toe in riches. By the end of the day, you had cultivated a raggedy satchel full of accessories even a princess would kill to have. After the job, you planned to sell them to a fence.

The day of the job finally came with warm rays of sun paired with cooling air that whipped hair and dress hems. Thankfully the muggy air had seemingly dissipated; however, the rancid fumes still hung just low enough to catch at the back of your nostrils.

Applying a small layer of makeup to help you blend in with those blessed with limitless time, you went and picked up the dress. You changed in the dressing room of the shop, laced up at the back with the help of the flustered tailor.

The dress barely scraped the floor when you had stepped into your heels, a thin scrap of the dress fabric off your shoulder. The corset made it difficult to breathe, but the flowy skirt of it gave much room for movement and room to strap smaller weapons underneath without detection.

Afterwards you took a trip to the barbers, moving through the city with precision. In a back alley you equip the necklace that rested on your clavicles, catching the sunlight every which way, and a set of dangling earrings that matched quite well.

A kind redheaded hairdresser offered you a seat when you arrived. You gave a quick rundown of where you were headed, a well-thought-out lie of being an oil tycoon’s wife. She carefully pulled, pinned, sprayed and arranged your hair into an extravagant hairstyle you'd never be able to recreate.

Looking in the mirror, you barely recognised yourself. It's rare you get to dress up; the odd job called for you to sneak into government parties to poison drinks or slit throats in bathroom stalls. For so long you've grown accustomed to seeing dirt and mud and blood coating your face as you clean it over a pond, used to washing away sins of others splattered on your skin.

You gave a small extra in your payment to the thankful woman and took your leave. Flagging down a free stagecoach, you ask to be taken to the other side of town by the docks.

The man eyes you up and down with gruel stuck between his crooked yellow teeth. A scraggy moustache under his nose and piercing grey eyes. He lets you in and sets off.

"So," A grating voice calls back to you over the sounds of the city, "What's a pretty face like yours doing here alone?"

You scrunch your face up and switch your speech, "I was just seeing a friend of my husband."

"Husband, huh? There isn't a ring on your finger."

Groaning internally, you sigh and answer, "The diamond became loose the other day, don't want to lose it, so we took it to a jeweller."

"Can't be a good ring if the gem is coming off," He snorts.

"Well, it's perfect for me." You reply curtly, trying to signal that you want the conversation to end.

A second of silence passes, and you sigh as he takes the hint. Looking out the windowless frames, you watch as the streets change from littered to clean, cobblestones to wood and the outfits from scrappy to sophisticated. The sun sets behind the silhouette of Saint Denis, casting familiar shadows that grew with every minute that passed.

Just as you arrive at the port, the man speaks up again, "I can be more than your husband."

He snatches your wrist as you exit, and you pull it away with haste and strength he clearly wasn't expecting. Blinking, his face turns sour before you mimic him, grabbing the bottom half of his face in one hand and squeezing his lower jawbone with a painful amount of pressure.

"I don't have time nor patience for being held up by an atrocious," Your lips snarl, "Stagecoach driver, sitting in manure all day and serving other people. Husband or not, I'm not interested."

Fingernails dig into the extra fat in his cheeks before you push his face away. In the time you walk a bit further up the docks, the driver curses and goes to make chase. In the distance you see Arthur barreling towards you. Meeting halfway, you wrap yourself around his arm and mutter to him quietly.

"You're my husband."

He blinks, "What?"

"Be my dutiful, rich husband and get that man away from me." You return, gently pushing him towards the angry coach driver.

Arthur turns his head back towards you to see you shrug and continue walking to where he was standing before with Hosea, Trelawney and Javier.

"Jesus,"

A puff of air escapes him as he faces the much shorter and scrawnier man. He takes a second to grab the man by a lapel of his blazer and get into character.

"My wife tells me you were squawking at her the whole journey; I get it. She's," Arthur licks his lips and thinks of a compliment, "She's got nice... collarbones."

The man looks up at him confusedly, and Arthur regrets his choice, "Huh?"

"Listen, what I'm saying is that you need to step back. Ladies like her don't like being hassled, and I ain't opposed to a fight."

That got the other man anxious, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as he realised how out of his comfort zone he was. In a split second the coach driver apologises, refuses any payment and flicks the reins of the horses to escape the wrath of your fake husband.

Arthur fixes his suit (which really didn't need to be) and begins to walk back over to where the others were. There's a glint in Javier's eye as he talks to you, repeating your own name back to you and pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your hand.

He draws closer, catching the man's attention as he's introducing you to everyone else. Hosea and Trelawney greet you normally, the latter removing his hat and pressing it to his chest as he gives you a small bow.

"Please, no need for that; I'm like you." You brush him off with polite words, though Arthur recognises the tick in your brows.

Hosea, Trelawney and you become engrossed in a quick rundown of what was going to happen. Javier pulls Arthur a little further away and talks hushed.

"Is she spoken for?"

Arthur's slightly taken aback and gives him a puzzled look, "How in hell would I know?"

"You were the one that spoke to her before," He reasons, gesturing with his hands and looking at him expectantly.

"Do you see a ring?" The honey-haired man sighs.

Javier turns and not-very-discreetly stares at your left hand. Free of rings or any jewellery, light callouses formed and slight indents from the inside of your gloves that you most likely took off just minutes ago.

He puffs his chest, looking like an exotic bird seeing a potential mate. Arthur watches as he pushes forwards after your debrief with the others to let you hook your arm around his. He guides you to the boat behind others docking, with everyone else following behind.

"There he goes again," Hosea mumbles and turns to the remainder of the group, "Can't resist, can he?"

Trelawney gives a short laugh, "I'd just say he's proactive."

The couple ahead take a few minutes, getting searched for and having any weapons confiscated by the pair of guards. The woman wasn't patted down around her skirt, something you'd be taking advantage of.

You lean closer to Javier to whisper in his ear, "I have a few knives and guns under my dress if things go sour."

"Really now?" He mutters, giving you a sideways glance.

You nod as the officers let the others on and call you and everyone else up. It's a moment surrounded with bated breath as everyone is stripped of any gunmetal and patted down. Relief passes over each person as they're cleared onto the ship.

Last in the group, you were searched last. You refuse to recoil at the feeling of gloved hands pressing your sides and turning you around to check for signs of anything. The anxious stares of the others burn into you, yet you still refuse to show any sign of being afraid.

"You're free to go, ma'am."

With that, you were on. And so was the job.

[florvaine]

a moment to focus.

Even after a panic, you and Carl both have time to recalibrate again.

Genre: fluff, hurt w comfort.

Relationship: Carl Grimes x Reader (gender not mentioned)

Warnings: typical TWD related warnings, swearing, possible grammar/spelling mistakes

-— IT HAD TAKEN A WHILE FOR RICK AND MICHONNE TO ALLOW YOU AND CARL TO GO OUTSIDE OF ALEXANDRIA ALONE. Michonne was a little more open to the idea, Rick needed all three of you to try convince him before actually even considering it. Nevertheless, it's amounted to you and your boyfriend finally being permitted to go on a small, unimportant supply run into the nearest city for whatever you wanted.

The trip wasn't too long, slightly strenuous due to the lack of mobile transport, but scenic and peaceful. It seems as though Rick passed through before you two left, clearing it out all the way to the town. Clouds sprinkle the sky, a few covering the sun momentarily before the heat returns onto your backs. The leaves on the trees had started to turn orange and yellow, as if the sly chill now in the air didn't already signal the end of Summer and the introduction to Autumn.

Now, you and him are separated by the dusty shelves of a decrepit book store, Carl attempting to find a new comic book series to indulge in and you trying to find a longer book for you to distract yourself with.

Sighing, you put another paperback into it's spot before you picked it up, reading yet another unconvincing blurb. You scan the place, the sunlight filtering through the dirtied windows across the rectangular building, tiny particles of dust float in the air like miniature pixies. The floor, a dark blue carpet, it covered with debris from the falling roof tiles, showing just how old the store was.

The shuffling of boots behind you takes your attention away from the appearance of the place, instead making eye contact with Carl. He's in his monochrome flannel, a white shirt underneath and slightly baggy black jeans over his brown boots; a new bandage over his eye and his hat shading his face.

"I found one," He looks down, flicking through the colourful pages quickly before stuffing it into his canvas bag with the others, "Got the whole series as well. You found anything?"

"Nope," You reply, turning back around to the sign that read 'FICTION' in bold capitals, "It's like the same story is just titled differently and published over and over."

As you're about to take another off the shelf again you accidently knock a thickly binded one off onto the floor. A cloud of dust follows and an array of growling sounds from the back room. From where the two of you are stood it's a clear view to the door with a hanging 'EMPLOYEE'S ONLY' sign on it, the source of all the noise.

"I didn't even know they were in there." You mutter.

"Neither."

There's a moment of silence as you crouch and pick up the book, putting it back on the shelf. In the process you pick up your bag from the floor, slinging it over your shoulders and sniffling from the dust. The snarling continues, the muffled sound hanging in the air around you two.

Glancing back at Carl, you reach for the axe hanging from your belt, "Should we check it out?"

The brunette steps ahead of you, hand on the handle of his knife as he rears closer to the door. He presses his ear to the wall and listens, holding a finger up to you to tell you to be quiet. Obliging, you move to stand just behind him, awaiting his input.

"It doesn't sound like there’s a lot of them, we could go in and take them out, see if there's anything else we can take back." He looks back at you, tilting his head slightly as he gauges your reaction.

You nod, shrugging, and a second later the two of you enter the room with your blades and weapons drawn. There's no lights, as expected, only the limited natural light that fell from the small oblong windows at the very top of the large, grey-walled stock room. Steel shelf after shelf, each holding multiple boxes - opened or not - as well as packing stations for online orders and bags for those at the till in the front.

The first thing you notice is the green bag dangling from a sturdy nail in the wall to the right of the door. Unzipping it you were greeted with a collection of bandages and gauze, sanitary supplies, plasters, a tourniquet, as well as latex gloves. Showing the bag to Carl he gestures to his bag, and you quickly shove it in with his comics, carful not to damage them in the process.

Moving further in together, you covering his back and him covering yours, the two of you look down an aisle at a time. The first had two walkers which you both took out immediately before going down it, taking your time to open each box in case something was hidden. It seemed to be time wasted as you both end up with nothing afterwards.

Carl walks to the end with a huff, turning around the corner to go into the next aisle, announcing it to you in a mutter.

He squints, the room not exactly the best for him to be in. Not only does he now have a blind side, but the lack of light and ruined depth perception is really messing with him. He moves his head to try see better, counting four zombies as he gets closer to them.

It takes him a minute or two to get them all, the first and second going down easily as he had caught them by surprise. Struggling with the last two due to them crowding him, he huffs and makes quick work of driving his knife into their skulls. Their bodies fall onto the tiled floor like sacks of dirt. He could never get used to the sound when he takes his knife back never gets easier to hear, nor does the sight afterwards. Carl has to stop himself from overthinking - there's no use in spending precious time dwelling over the dead.

He pokes his head around the closest boxes, smiling as he sees you opposite him, occupied with another box on the other side of the shelving unit. Shining his light onto them, he finally catches your attention, you giving him a huff of a laugh before placing whatever you were inspecting down.

"You found anything?" You ask, glancing at a box of paperback books. You take it out, skimming over the blurb, with your interest piqued you place it in your bag.

He shakes his head whilst you do so, "Nothing, it's all branded bags, books and tissue paper, best we got was the ki-"

The brunette cuts himself off with a curse, suddenly disappearing from your limited view from the other side of the unit.

"Carl!" You shout, blinking rapidly as you try pull yourself of the frozen state you found yourself in.

The panic shoots straight to the nerves in your legs, sending you bolting the shortest way to reach the end of the unit you were on.

With your torch long forgotten you take a single moment to register what was happening in the dark - a crawler underneath another unit grappled onto his ankle like a bear trap, dragging him towards the snarling, snapping jaws of death like a ravenous piranha.

As if the surprise encounter wasn't already the worst, his gun is far from him and on his blind side, hand grasping on dust and ceramic grey as you continue to rush to his aid. Coming closer you draw your axe from where it was on your belt just as Carl plants his free foot onto a bottom shelf to try push himself away.

In a second you put all your strength into bringing the weapon into the air and down onto it skull, crushing the decaying bones and flesh underneath the force of which you did so. Blood spurts in every which way, the walkers head like a scarlet grand canyon when you remove the blade. There's droplets scattered along the material of his and your shoes, and a drop or three on your face.

You huff, looking at Carl. He's panting, eye wide and slightly hunched to remove the now loosened hand from his leg. There's a singular drop of sweat from his knitted brow which he wipes away with the sleeve of his flannel. The panic you felt filters through your veins and into the ground, dissipating as soon as relief overshadows it.

"You alright?" You ask, crouching to sit beside him.

The long-haired boy nods, "I'm good,"

"Why didn't you use your knife?"

He closes his eyes in a grimace, "I panicked."

"I thought we were way past panicking when seeing a walker, Carl," You reply, half worried, half angry.

"I thought I was too," He trails off, taking off his hat and resting his head onto the box behind him.

Sighing, you hold back the rest of your scolding to give him another once over. Your view is limited from the lack of light, however his leg is okay and his face seems fine, not a scratch in sight, just dust and grime smeared over the texture of his freckled skin from the time spent exploring. Messy brown locks from his fringe hook onto the material of his eyepatch. Now he sits back, with his eye closed you can see his lashes gently pressing against the slightly flushed skin beneath his eyes.

His own eye catches yours, but you don't look away, and neither does he. It seems he's doing his own check, light cobalt scanning every inch of your face for anything he knew was out of the ordinary. If the two of you didn't just escape the other being bitten it would've made you nervous. It takes a moment for his eyebrows to furrow and the warmth of his palm to press against your face.

Carl pulls you closer to him and for a second you believed he was going to kiss you like he did that morning, instead he hyper fixates on an area on your forehead.

"You're hurt," He mutters with slight haste in his words and takes his hand from your face, immediately taking off his bag and pulling out the kit you found earlier.

Your face fills with confusion as you raise your hand to touch your forehead for the injury you weren't even aware of. It's not a cut but a shallow gash and you hiss as you finally feel it.

"Don't touch it!" He scolds you lightly, rifling through the kit and pulling out a wide plaster and an antiseptic wipe.

You lean back into the unit behind you, mumbling, "I didn't even know I got hurt,"

Carl says nothing in reply, his only focus being the now dripping wound on your head. He gently pulls you into a golden ray of sunshine from a window, away from the now fully dead corpse and to see better with the light casting over your figure. You don't care about the stinging from the antibacterial wipes, taking advantage of his distracted state to run your eyes over him again, trying to indent his being into your mind. Cast in amber behind him, an intense yet nurturing stare directed towards you, with everything in this world today, you don't think you've ever seen this look on him before.

It's undoubtably attractive, being so important to someone that they look at you like that.

"Focus looks good on you." You say, voice low and your gaze on him.

For a second he glances back at you, eye contact sticking like dripping honey, before he looks away, shuffling slightly and licking his lips. It nearly pulls you away from the light pink fading into the tips of his ears. The sound of thin plastic tearing from paper sounds around the two of you as he opens the plaster.

He takes a sharp breath in, "You hit your head or somethin'?"

"No, I think I'd remember that."

His eye is back to the gash as he lines the plaster up perfecting with it. Before you know it he's swiping the rubbish underneath the shelf and slinging his bag onto his back again. After he gains his footing he reaches his hand out to you, and soon enough the two of you are up and moving again. The both of you agree to just scan the place quickly and get out, but before you split up again he reaches for your wrist, lightly pulling you back into him.

His lips are on yours right after. It was only a peck, but who were you to complain? The second you register it, it's gone, but it speaks volumes. It's a 'thank you', his way of displaying you the feelings he felt the moment he was in danger, and the moment you took him straight out of it, and the time he took to patch you up even if it wasn't a major lesion. He cares, and he is grateful for the things you do and are even you aren't aware of them.

The look in his eye when he pulls away speaks for him in a way so that he doesn't need to actually say anything. He's never been fond of PDA (if it even counts when you're in a warehouse alone) but it seems even Carl Grimes reaches his boiling point sometimes. Hands lingering on your shoulders, he slips them off the straps of your rucksack and to his side, where his knife and gun now rest again, before speaking again.

"Let's just go, we have everything." He declares, leaving no room for debate. You shrug and follow behind him, the two of you now on the way to exit the bookstore.

"Fine by me." You reply. wc: 2.3k

[florvaine]

silver spikes and pastel ribbons.

headcannons of Hobie with an opposite aesthetic gf. (afab! reader)

genre: mainly fluff, slight angst, nsfw(?)

warnings: little nsfw if you squint, crying, some kid gets a car lobbed at him 😭

i imaginee the two of you actually met at one of his gigs 🫶🏻

He was on the stage, flicking his roughened fingertips on each string on his guitar, a harsh rift sounding through the amp on the edge of platform as he moves his hand further up the fretboard.

Then he looks in the crowd, right by the barrier of sweaty, headbanging and most likely hammered fans, and you’re right there.

Directly in front of him, pressed against the metal-barred barrier that security was struggling to keep people from hopping over.

What caught him off guard wasn’t only the fact you were fuckin’ gorgeous, but the fluttery, light pink dress that was just above the middle of your thighs. White lace trimmed the v-shaped neckline that was held up by thin, spaghetti straps.

Strips of silky ribbon cascade from the wrap around your waist, dangling pearls and a small-chain necklace decorate your collarbones and shimmer like the sheen of sweat that held stray hairs against your temples and your forehead.

And your shoes - a pair of white, glossy, open-toed high heels that added a few extra inches to your height (Hobie secretly wanted to give you a few other inches), but even with them Hobie could still tell from the stage that he was way taller than you.

He misses a single strum of his guitar, so he temporarily redirects his attention back to the gig, his hickory eyes still wandering over to you from under his mask.

100% got the security to practically hunt you down so you could meet him backstage.

He’s a little anxious because they were taking a while, and he’s slightly disappointed at the thought you already left.

But then there’s a knock at the door and one of the security guards speaks muffled through his private backstage room.

“Hobie, got the girl you were askin’ for.”

The rest is history, really. You were officially dating after 7 painfully long months.

You got along well, even if everything else about each other was contrasting, you’re political ideals, music taste and humour are practically a copy and paste.

The two of you get undoubtably get some stares.

A man clad in black leather and silver spikes and a woman dressed like a doll stood out a lot against the Nike trackies of London.

“Everyone’s staring, Hobie.”

“Ignore ‘em, hun. They’re pissed JD is shut.”

Every now and then he takes you to a more quiet, downtown street with a collection of thrift stores and craft shops.

Hobie’s definitely caught in Hobbycraft at least twice a week 😭😭

Literally loves your style - everything from your jewellery to the way you get your nails done.

He’s whipped ‼️

Loves everything about you, but especially your hair.

If you wear wigs he’s helping you install it, if you have naturally curly hair he’s taking note of each step for later on, he reads the labels of every hair product you own.

I feel like he has a thing for curly hair idk why I just get the vibe.🤭

Hobie definatly told Pav and Gwen about you when you first met, like the next day he’s at the Spider Society talking even more than usual.

“She was stunnin’, I’m tellin’ ya’ now. Really nice eyes,” He turns away from them and mutters under his breath, “And tits.”

Gwen smirks, “You’ve told us, I’m pretty sure.” She nudges Pav, and he’s giggling like an excited schoolgirl.

“Never thought I’d see Hobie have a full-blown crush!” Pav comments.

Hobie hums, a small smile on his face as he stares infront of him. Gwen and Pav share a look before they imitate the way he looks - like a lovestruck idiot.

It’s funny with one of you in the other’s room - Hobie, dressed in dark blues and blacks with an overall threatening aura just sat on your pretty pink bedsheets in your floral-scented room.

Sometimes you’ll randomly go on a tangent about a new dress or concert tickets whilst doing something else, and you’re convinced he’s uninterested.

Next time he’s at yours he had that new dress in a silk scarf wrap, or he pulls the tickets out of one of his pockets.

You’re in the kitchen of your apartment, stirring the milk into your tea as Hobie scrapes butter onto two slices of toast you had put in.

When he’s finished, he slides the plate over to you before leaning back on the counter and looking at your over his shoulder.

“Thanks, Bee,” You pick up the plate, moving it closer to you for easier access to the toast.

There’s two rectangular, shimmery-sheened tickets underneath the circular plate.

You’re shocked, looking at the ticket now in your hand, eyes moving from the words and numbers printed onto it and your boyfriend.

“Hobie, you didn’t have to!” You say.

“You said that ya’ wanted to see them, so I got us tickets.” He shrugs, a small proud smirk on his lips.

Movie nights every Friday after dinner 💕

Sometimes he has to leave early or he shows up later on, but he makes up for the time lost by bringing you your favourite food and drink from the local corner shop.

If you’re in college or uni, he will swing in every break and check in on you and everything.

When it comes to cuddling, he’s the big spoon 95% of the time unless he had a really shitty day.

Like really shitty.

It’s not very often Hobie crys, and even when he does it’s not for very long.

The man prides himself in being Spider-Punk, saving civilians whilst preaching his beliefs to his followers that feel more like a family than fans.

He can only hold on so long, and it’s only a matter of time before he can’t save someone.

Sure, the little boy wasn’t dead, he was in hospital after a car had been carelessly tossed into him by the anomaly he was supposed to contain.

After visiting the boy in hospital, chanting apologies and ‘get well soon’s like a broken record, he goes to the first place he can think of.

Yours.

There was something so special, so serene and comforting in the confines of your cluttered shelves and organised wardrobe pressed against the walls of your bedroom.

Hobie knew it wasn’t the room, but it was you.

You, so different and relaxing. Calming and exciting, understanding and motivating. Anywhere was safe if you were there.

He swings through shadowed alleys, reaching your apartment over the bustling roads and honking horns of the cars below.

Hobie perches on your small balcony, and taps on the window.

In his reflection, Spider-Punk looks back at him. Strong, unbeatable, selfless and stubborn. But as he pulls the mask off, the fabric hanging limp like a ragdoll cat in his had, Hobie Brown stares back at him.

Tattered, exhausted, overwhelmed and in desperate need to be in your arms.

The window opens. His mental image of himself splits away as soon as he sees your face.

“Rough night?” You ask, voice slightly raspy and muffled, yet still as soothing as hot tea and honey on a sore throat.

The routine begins when Hobie nods. He clambers in, he takes off his boots and jacket and leaves them by your desk, his mask discarded somewhere beside them.

You pull out one of his white, soft cotton shirts from your dresser, and a pair of dark grey shorts. He gets changed, you make a cup of tea.

Then he cries. Salty droplets of embodied sorrows paired with the pinch of his eyebrows and the slight quiver of his bottom lip.

Each time a tear drips down his soft cheeks you wipe it away with your equally as soft hands, smearing the liquidated sadness into his now clumpy lashes.

You count sixteen droplets this time before he stops, and you stand up to offer the silk scarf he wrapped your gifted babydoll dress in, and he takes it before wrapping the coarse, black wicks that topped his head.

And then he’s curling his back against your chest, holding the hand of your arm that loosely covers his waist.

Their consciousness fades into two seperate slumbers. A comforting silence drapes over the two lovers, knowing that the other will be there when they awake.

-—-

[florvaine]

giggling and kicking my feet at the thought of old-school love with shoto todoroki <33.

he’s sneaking out of his house to see you late at night just to cuddle up with you laying your head on his chest in your bed, no need for blankets because he’s using a small amount of his fire quirk to keep the two of you warm.

there’s no phones, so he’s sending letters to you everyday. even if you’ve seen him and spoke to him, you still receive a long letter, delicate words carved out in black ink, crafted his love for you into words with his bare hands. they’re tied with twine, a small, pressed flower encased inside the careful folds of the yellowing paper.

every week there’s a new bouquet at your doorstep. even when the two of you were in u.a, and he was slightly more reserved, your parents would still bring up a vase with a smile and comment on him being sweet. nowadays, he would knock on your door and give them to you personally.

every now and then he’s purchasing clothes or products for you - this can range from a dress you were eyeing up in the window of a yellow-walled shop, or a pair of loose slacks you mentioned months ago. perfumes that remind him of you, jewellery that, in his words, ‘don’t even come close to being as beautiful as you are’.

you want to see a new movie? he’s got you, and he’s brought all the snacks the two of you can ever want. casual bike rides? once you stop at the top of the hill, he’s not looking at the breathtaking view of the tiny town, but instead your face and the look of tranquility in your eyes. new vinyl you want? it’s wrapped in a brown-paper with a short note taped to it.

your laugh is contagious, as well as your smile. he’s showed more tenderness when he met you, his sister noticed.

the rain doesn’t stop him nor you, either. todoroki would happily run down drenched streets with you, hand in hand and twirling you so the hem of your soaked dress flows upwards at the movement. and then he’s pulling off his jacket to drape over your soggy torso.

he’d 100% place his coat down on a puddle so you could walk over it without dirtying your new scarlet heels.

and by god does he swear that he is the happiest, luckiest man in the world when he proposes to you.

“will you marry me, let me be your husband?” and then he’s sliding the indestructible metal loop on your ring finger with a tear-soaked kiss to your knuckles afterwards. there’s a shimmering gem, your favourite gemstone, that you mentioned once nearly a year into your relationship.

the wedding is extravagant. he took care of the venue after you talked about where you wanted it to be. besides, it was both of your days - but mainly yours.

he cried happy tears when he sees you, clutching a bouquet of red, white and grey flowers in a floral, silky wedding dress with a trail that tsu and ochako have to hold up so you can walk. your veil is long and lacy, but he can still see your face and styled hair. even katsuki can’t hold back a quivering smile.

the vinyls he gifts you get used, after moving into a cosy little cottage house on a hill with a open, emerald garden with acres of apple and peach trees. the two of you sharing glass after glass of port as the music blasts from the corner of the room. and then, he’s whisking you up from your seat on the sofa and you’re slow dancing. todoroki noses at your cheek and you can feel him smiling as he presses his lips against yours in a wine-tasting kiss.

but he’s scared when the doctors bring up the chance of you being pregnant. as frightened as he is at the idea, he’s by your side every step of the way. at your bedside whilst your in labour, letting you cut all circulation off from his fingers and shout curses at him.

and he waits patiently as his little girl is being cleaned and wrapped up, using his ice to cool you down, his hankercheif to wipe sweat off your face and tucking baby hairs behind your ears, kissing your forehead and muttering sweet nothings of encouragement.

when he holds your daughter, he swears that for as long as he was alive, she would not have a father like his.

and even after the time changes, as his daughter grows up, he still finds himself more enchanted with you by the day. he finds himself admiring every forming wrinkle on your face, the silky silver strands in your hair. but your eyes are as gorgeous as ever, and you still have the spark that you did when you were younger.

once your daughter leaves for collage, a bittersweet goodbye, the two of you move. and now the two of you are that sweet elderly couple that sit together in rocking chairs on the porch, overlooking and waving with smiles at others going through the same.

“(y/n)?”

“yes, love?”

“do you want to go on a walk through the park? i heard it’s delightful during autumn.”

“of course, give me a minute to grab my coat, hun.”

old love with todoroki shoto <333.

[florvaine]

—– requests: OPEN

please note: it may take a while for me to complete asks, please be patient! when requesting, outline what fandom, character, gender/pronouns used and the storyline.

‘what do you write for?’

[ask in rq’s = nearly all characters/too many characters]

— TV SHOWS

the walking dead

(DARYL DIXON, rick grimes, michonne grimes, carl grimes, maggie rhee, GLENN RHEE, ROSITA ESPINOSA, tara chambers, carol peletier)

alice in borderland

(arisu, usagi, CHISHIYA, KUINA, ann)

arcane (all characters!)

— GAMES

red dead redemption

(arthur morgan, JAVIER ESCEULLA, CHARLES SMITH, john marston, hosea matthews, sadie adler, sean macguire, abigail roberts, karen smith, MOLLY O’SHEA, lenny summers, mary-beth gaski, tilly jackson, EAGLE FLIES)

sally face

(SAL FISHER, ashley campbell, larry johnson)

stardew valley

(all bachelors + bachelorettes)

danganronpa

(ask in rq’s!)

the walking dead series

(clementine (final season ONLY), lee)

the last of us

(joel miller, ellie (more to come))

the quarry

(all characters!)

detroit: become human

(CONNOR, kara, markus)

life is strange

— ANIMES

my hero academia

(ask in rq’s!)

tokyo ghoul

(ask in rq’s!)

cyberpunk: edgerunners

(ask in rq’s!)

deathnote

(ask in rq’s!)

haikyuu!!

(ask in rq’s!)

nanbaka

(ask in rq’s!)

soul eater

demon slayer

‘what will you write?’

will

- fluff, angst, headcannons - can try with smut

- i only write x readers (female/genderneutral)

- wlw, wlm & gender neutral relationships

wont

- dark content (inc*st, abuse, p*dophilia, dubcon)

- certain kinks relating to smut (scat, watersports, etc.)

- oc x reader or char x char

[florvaine]

hello! im just coming on here to say that im not going to be active for a while, there’s a lot going on at the moment! feel free to keep requesting, but i wont be able to do any for around 4 or more weeks.

luv you guys, make sure to take care you yourselves <3