#Reader

[knebellindemann]

[jijournal]

hii!! could i request oliver wood yule ball headcannons or a fic related to oliver asking reader to the yule ball?

THICKER THAN A BROOMSTICK | O.W

summary: Quidditch is brutal, but nothing compares to Oliver Wood’s hopeless attempts at flirting—too bad the only person who doesn’t realize he’s asking you to the Yule Ball is you.

wc: 2.1k+

cw: oblivious!reader, reader is on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, down bad Oliver.

A/N: Thanks for requesting!! MWA!

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

The Gryffindor locker room always smelled vaguely of sweat, leather, and a little too much pride. You were used to it by now—Quidditch came with its fair share of bruises and bad cologne. And Oliver Wood, your relentlessly intense captain, was the embodiment of both. He was also currently staring at you from across the room, looking at you as if you were a goddess.

“Okay, team! Good practice today!” he barked, a bit too loudly for someone whose voice cracked halfway through the sentence. “Except for you, Bell—next time, aim for the actual goalpost, not my nose.”

You stifled a laugh and sat down on the nearby bench. “In her defense,” you said, removing your glove with your teeth, “your nose was in the way.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Oliver muttered, mostly to himself. You were fairly certain he'd lost all his mental stability somewhere between the third and fourth practice this week.

“So,” he said suddenly, too casually to be natural, “let’s say—hypothetically—you were going to ask someone to the Yule Ball.”

You turned to him, instantly intrigued. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he repeated, nodding as if trying to convince himself. “What would be the best way to… do that?”

“Ooh. Okay. First of all, don’t use the word ‘hypothetically.’ That’s suspicious. And no stuttering. Confidence is key.”

“Right. Confidence...” He scratched the back of his neck, looking no where near confident.

“Ooooh,” you grinned, loosening your hair from your braid. “Got your eye on someone, Captain?”

Oliver looked like you’d just asked him to strip naked on the pitch. He rubbed the back of his neck, the tips of his ears turning a Gryffindor-jersey shade of red.

“Well, yeah,” he mumbled, eyes darting everywhere but your face. “There’s this girl.”

You gasped, full of exaggerated excitement. “WHO?! Wait, let me guess—Ravenclaw? The one with the really long plaits?”

“No,” he said, smiling slightly, “she plays Quidditch.”

“Ooh,” you said again, wriggling your brows. “Well, you should totally ask her!”

“I’m trying,” he deadpanned. And you just patted his shoulder encouragingly.

“Don’t be nervous! Just go up to her and say, ‘Oi, you. You’re hot. Dance with me.’ Works like a charm.”

Oliver blinked at you.

You blinked back.

“Don’t worry!” you chirped. “You’ll figure it out. I believe in you.”

And then you walked off humming the Weird Sisters’ latest hit, not noticing how Oliver dropped his forehead against the cupboard behind him with a muffled groan.

The thing was, Oliver Wood was not a subtle man. Subtlety was for people who didn’t run 7 a.m. drills and shout “THIS IS WHAT WINNERS DO” while dangling off a broomstick.

But around you? He tried. Really.

You just… didn’t get it.

There was a time where Oliver wordlessly tossed you a small box. It was square, wrapped in crinkled gold paper with an overly dramatic red bow. One of his main attempts on asking you to the Yule Ball.

You blinked at it. “Um. What’s this?”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking like he might physically combust. “Just… thought you’d like it.”

You opened it carefully—and gasped.

Inside was a charm bracelet. But not just any charm bracelet. The little pendants were Quidditch-themed—a broomstick, a tiny Gryffindor lion, a chocolate frog, and most tellingly, a miniature golden Yule Ball ticket.

You picked it up, charmed. “Oliver. This is adorable. Did Angelina make this?”

His mouth dropped open slightly. “What? No! I—I spent all week on that—”

“Aww. You should really sell these,” you said, slipping it on your wrist with a grin. “You’ve got such a good eye for girly stuff!”

He groaned and put his head in his hands.

Or, the time when he “accidentally” bumped into you outside Charms, dropping an entire bouquet of enchanted daffodils from his bag, then spent ten minutes trying to explain why his textbooks smelled like a greenhouse.

“Oh, is that for that girl you like?” you’d asked cheerily, nudging his side. “You’re really going all out!”

He gave a weak laugh. “Apparently not enough.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Later that week, he tried again. You were in the library, of all places, tucked between Quidditch Through the Ages and a half-eaten Chocolate Frog. Your brow was furrowed, tongue poking slightly out of your mouth as you annotated a diagram of broomstick aerodynamics like it was the most thrilling thing on earth.

He slid into the chair next to you, trying to keep his voice steady. “Hey. Been thinking about the Yule Ball.”

You didn’t look up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, swallowing. “Still… haven’t asked anyone.”

You finally turned to him, eyebrows raised. “Oliver, you’ve been talking about this mystery girl for like a week now. Just ask her.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder!” you grinned, nudging his side. “Be romantic. Write a letter or something.”

The idea struck him like a Bludger. That night, he scribbled down a note on parchment, messy but sincere:

You’re brilliant. I like you. You’re the best flier I know and possibly the only person who scares me in a good way. Would you go to the Yule Ball with me? —Someone Who Should Really Just Say This Out Loud

He slipped it into your bag the next morning.

By dinner, you were holding it up like it was cursed. You’d read it three times and then loudly declared, “Okay, who wrote this?” you demanded, waving it at the table. “This has to be a prank, right? Angelina?”

Everyone shook their heads.

A prank?! What in Godric's beard? She thought it was a prank!

You turned to Oliver. “Was it you? This sounds like something you’d write if someone held you at wandpoint.”

His face burned. “Wow. Thanks. No, it wasn’t me.”

“Pity. The part about being scared of me was kind of hot.”

He choked on his pumpkin juice.

A few days later, you were helping him clean up after practice—well, “helping” in the loosest possible sense, mostly tossing broken broom bristles into a pile while he sorted spare Quaffles. You were humming to yourself, twirling your wand, and he watched you for a moment, heart thudding in his chest like it was trying to leave without him.

“I’ve got a question for you,” he said, clearly working up the nerve.

“Shoot.”

“Are you a snitch?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

You blinked at him. “Because I’m fast?”

“Because I’ve been chasing you all year.”

Silence.

You squinted. “Oliver. You're not even a seeker. And was that a pick-up line?”

He groaned, tossing a Quaffle into a crate like it had personally offended him. “Forget it.”

“No, no! I’m using that. That’s going in the Hall of Fame. I’m going to try it on McLaggen.”

“Please don’t.”

By the time the Yule Ball list was due, Oliver had tried everything—letters, awkward compliments, late-night “hypothetical” questions. He’d even brought you a Butterbeer after practice once, charmed so the foam spelled your name. You drank it and said, “Aww, thanks! This must’ve been meant for someone else, but lucky me!”

He had never been closer to quitting Quidditch and fleeing to Romania.

And now, now, you were sitting beside him in the common room, still in your post-practice jersey, hair windblown and socks mismatched, talking about the Yule Ball again like it wasn’t currently eating him alive from the inside out.

You threw a cushion at his face. “Come on! Just tell me who she is already.”

He caught the cushion, clutched it to his chest like it might prevent him from exploding. “She’s… she’s this girl who drives me insane.”

“Cute,” you said, absently braiding a strand of your hair. “Go on.”

“She talks too much. Never takes anything seriously. She flies like she was born with wings. She’s always got mud on her socks and she never notices when someone’s obviously trying to ask her to the damn Yule Ball.”

You blinked. “Oh. She sounds… vaguely familiar.”

“Yeah?” Oliver said, finally standing up, pacing now. “She should. Because she’s YOU. IT’S YOU! I’M TALKING ABOUT YOU.”

You stared. The common room went very still. Even the fireplace seemed to freeze.

“…Me?”

“YES, YOU.” He flung the cushion back at you. “I’ve been trying to ask you for weeks. The bracelet? The daffodils? The letter? The Butterbeer? The way I keep saying I fancy a girl who plays Quidditch right next to you?!”

You held the cushion in your lap, blinking at him in slow, stunned horror. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“Wait. Soooo you like me?”

Oliver groaned so loud it probably woke up the Fat Lady two portraits over. “YES. Godric's beard, YES. I like you. I have liked you since the first time you swore at me for calling extra practice on a Saturday.”

You looked at him—red in the face, fists clenched, somehow adorable even in his panic—and then started laughing. Hard.

“Wait—wait, hang on,” you wheezed, standing. “You mean to tell me this whole time you were trying to flirt with me, and I was just—completely missing it?”

Oliver looked at you like you’d just confirmed his most traumatic suspicion. “YES.”

You giggled again, stepping forward. “Well, I am a bit thick, apparently.”

“No argument here.”

You smacked his arm. Then, a little softer, “So… is the offer still on the table?”

“I—yes!” Oliver stammered, practically tripping over his own breath. “Of course, yes. I mean—unless you're joking, in which case—bloody hell—I’m going to pretend I didn’t just have a minor cardiac episode—”

His words were frantic, uneven, like they’d been building for weeks and had nowhere else to go but out.

And still, somehow, he thought he might be dreaming.

You didn’t say anything. You just stepped forward, grabbed a fistful of his collar, and tugged him down to your height—firm, deliberate, like you’d been meaning to do it for a long time.

“Wood,” you said simply.

He blinked. You were close enough now to see the scatter of freckles over the bridge of his nose. His breath caught in his throat.

You leaned in, brushing your lips against the shell of his ear, just enough for him to feel the words.

“You talk too much.”

And then, before he could speak again—or overthink it, or panic, or launch into another charmingly idiotic monologue—you kissed him.

It wasn’t perfect. Not at first. His lips were warm, and the tip of your nose bumped clumsily into his. You nearly laughed into his mouth. Someone, somewhere across the common room, definitely let out a scandalized whistle.

But none of that mattered.

Because the second Oliver got over the shock—the second his brain caught up with the fact that this was real, that you were kissing him—his hands found your waist like they’d been trying to solve that equation for weeks. He pulled you closer, carefully but without hesitation, like he never wanted to let go again.

When you pulled away, his eyes were still half-closed, lips parted slightly like he wasn’t entirely convinced it was over.

“I…” he started, then stopped. Cleared his throat. “I wasn’t ready for that.”

You folded your arms across your chest, trying to act casual even though your heart was beating faster than a Zouwu “Clearly. You froze like I casted a Full Body-Bind Curse"

He let out a half-laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You kissed me.”

You raised an eyebrow, shifting your weight onto one leg. “Don’t sound so offended. I thought you liked me.”

“I do like you!” Oliver said, exasperated, throwing his hands up again. “That’s the whole problem! You’ve got me all twisted up, can’t think straight half the time you’re around—Merlin, I planned seven different ways to ask you to the Ball and none of them included getting kissed into silence.”

You grinned, watching him unravel like the sleeves of your old team jumper. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

He huffed. “You’re ridiculous. You know that?”

You plopped down on the couch again, tugging him by the hand until he flopped beside you like a man defeated. “And yet. You still like me.”

He nudged your leg with his. “So. We’re going to the Yule Ball together?”

You turned your head to look at him—really look at him, flushed and glowing from the firelight, jersey wrinkled, hair messy, and smiled like someone who’d just won a championship.

“Yes” you said softly. “We are.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder.

Oliver laughed and let his head fall against the back of the couch. “Good. I was starting to think you didn’t like me back.”

You smiled, "That would be impossible"

And just like that, Oliver Wood—star Keeper, hopeless romantic, and newly confessed disaster of a crush—beamed at you like he’d just won the Quidditch Cup.

(And maybe, just maybe, he had.)

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[ysvxnielle]

ᩧ ֺ ۪ 　"hey... buddy."

── .✦ ꒰ husband!sae itoshi x f!reader ྀི ꒱ —

cw: childbirth ,, fluff ,, kinda ooc ?

"push, mrs. itoshi! push!!" screams, yells, and grunts were heard outside the room, where you were about to give birth. sae waited outside, impatiently, walking around. few moments later, the nurse walked out. "congratulations! it's a boy!" sae's eyes widened, as he looked at the newborn. the nurse handed the baby to him. sae was still surprised, staring at the baby, who was cooing in his arms..

after a while, sae spoke, "hey.. buddy." his huge finger, gently reached for the baby's small hands, and his son, grabbed his index finger. he was utterly jolly. his son was just born! he was amazed and proud of you. the nurses soon took the baby for monitoring and all, while sae walked in the room you just gave birth in, sweating like crazy, chest heaving, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted.

"hey, baby.." you started. "hey..", sae let out a breath, smiling softly, "i'm so proud of you." you smiled at his words. "soo.. it is, a junior sae, hmm?" he chuckled softly. "let's name him, shohta, as we decided for the boy." you interrupted, "i love you sae." sae leaned in closer, "i love you too.", for a kiss.

ෆ a/n note: hii! this idea has been in my mind for a while.. i hope u like it!!! credits for the lovely divider: @dollywons

written by - @ysvanielle (me) | please do not copy, steal modify or repost or translate my content onto any other platforms or tumblr !

[vacantfields]

I know i draw Six all silly and hot but hes also very very soft with you :] He loves and cares about you so deeply and would do anything for you

[ashthesalamipiece]

HII! Could you do Katsuki x Fem reader, where she had very long hair, and one day got a pixie cut, I feel like he loves women with short hair..

"Shattered Strands, Soft Sparks"

Katsuki Bakugou x Fem!Reader

Word count: ~3,200

It had taken you a year to grow it out.

Long, silken strands that reached the small of your back. It flowed like honey down your spine when wet, a curtain of warmth that draped over your shoulders in the cold, something Katsuki had—more than once—braided clumsily when he thought you were asleep on the couch.

And you liked it. Once.

But there was something about letting it go that felt… freeing. Like you were peeling off a layer of yourself you didn’t need anymore. That girl with the careful trims and long, polished waves—she was tired. And maybe a little lonely inside all that softness. You didn’t want soft anymore. You wanted air. Ease. Edge.

So you sat in the chair at the salon and said, “Cut it. Pixie.”

The stylist hesitated. “All of it?”

You smiled. “Every last inch.”

---

The second you stepped out onto the street, your head felt ten pounds lighter. You barely recognized the breeze sweeping your neck, and the sun kissed the back of your ears like it was meeting them for the first time.

People noticed. Whiplash glances. Stares. A few approving nods.

But the one opinion you cared about most was going to be the hardest to get. Because Katsuki Bakugou—your gloriously, frustratingly explosive boyfriend—was not a man who gave compliments freely. Or at all, really. You had to earn them through battlefield blood or kitchen victories. And even then, they were quiet, almost begrudging things.

You had no idea how he’d react.

Still, you walked into the shared apartment with your chin high and keys jangling in your hand like armor.

“Katsuki?” you called.

His voice came from the kitchen. “You better not have forgotten the—”

And then he turned.

Stopped dead in the middle of pulling a pan off the stove.

The silence that followed could have been mistaken for fear—except Katsuki Bakugou didn’t get scared. He stared, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, like you’d punched him in the gut with a glitter bomb.

You stood in the doorway, hands in the pockets of your bomber jacket, trying not to shrink under that gaze.

“Well?” you said. “Say something.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Then—

“You let someone hack your hair off?”

You winced. “Ouch. Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”

He slammed the pan down and stalked toward you, boots thudding on the hardwood. You stood your ground even though your heart stuttered with every step he took.

“You had that shit since high school,” he said, stopping just in front of you. “You used to bitch about split ends like they were personal betrayals. Now you just... chopped it all off?”

You exhaled through your nose. “It’s hair, Katsuki. It’ll grow back.”

He didn’t speak.

Just stared.

You tried again, voice quieter. “I needed a change.”

“Change?” he echoed like the word was foreign.

“Yes. Change. I felt like I was hiding behind it.”

He scoffed. “You weren’t hiding from me.”

“I know that,” you snapped, suddenly defensive. “This wasn’t about you.”

His eyes flickered at that. Something softened in them—barely—but it was enough for you to keep going.

“I didn’t do it to impress anyone. I didn’t do it to ‘make a statement.’ I just… wanted to feel different. Lighter. Like myself again.” You looked down, then forced your gaze back to his. “Do you hate it?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached up slowly—like you might bolt—and touched the side of your head. His fingers slid along the curve of your ear, grazing the freshly exposed skin behind it. Then up, brushing through the short strands at your temple.

“You look... sharp,” he muttered.

You blinked. “Sharp?”

He pulled back, face twisted like the word had betrayed him. “Yeah. Like—you could cut glass with that jawline. Or kill a man with a look. And I mean that shit respectfully.”

You blinked again.

Then laughed.

It burst out of you in a startled wave, and his scowl only deepened.

“Don’t laugh,” he grumbled, turning away. “I’m being fuckin’ serious. You look like one of those Bond girls who walks in and everyone dies two minutes later.”

You doubled over.

“Why the hell is that funny?!”

“Because,” you wheezed, “you basically just told me I look like a badass assassin and expected me not to melt.”

He looked at you out of the corner of his eye. “Well, don’t melt. You’ll ruin the effect.”

You straightened up, cheeks sore from smiling. “So… you like it?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Then—

“...I love it.”

Your heart did something traitorous in your chest. “Yeah?”

Katsuki shrugged, arms crossed, looking like he wanted to explode just to avoid saying what came next.

“I mean—I’ve always thought chicks with short hair looked hot as hell. Kinda hoped you’d try it someday. But I didn’t wanna say anything and make it seem like I gave a shit.”

Your lips parted. “You did give a shit.”

He looked away, ears pink. “Shut up.”

You stepped closer, tilting your head just enough that your hair—short, soft, feathery—brushed his jaw when you leaned in.

“Well,” you murmured, “I’m glad you like it.”

He grabbed your waist with both hands and yanked you in like gravity had given him permission. “Yeah,” he muttered into your neck, voice low and rough. “It’s real fuckin’ distracting.”

You grinned. “Gonna be a problem?”

He tugged your earlobe with his teeth. “Definitely.”

---

Later, he braided the back—what little he could—just for old time’s sake. It was a mess, crooked and barely held with a tiny clip, but he muttered, “It’s tradition,” and refused to let you fix it.

And as you curled into him on the couch, head light and heart full, you realized you didn’t feel like a different person at all.

Just more you.

And Katsuki—well, he hadn’t fallen for the hair.

He’d fallen for the girl who cut it off without fear.

[imagine-darksiders]

Y/N, in tears: You're so fucking ugly

Pseudo: ...You're absolutely hideous

Basically a love confession at that point

The Boy [their biggest shipper]:

[umi-no-onnanoko]

[moodymisty]

𝕺𝖋𝖋 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕰𝖉𝖌𝖊

Author's note: The first chapter is done! I really hope you guys enjoy this! Relationships: Damarion(Ultramarine OC)/NightLordSerf!Fem!Reader Warnings: Blood, Brief mentions to unconsensual sexual content, The sorts of things you'd expect being a Night Lord serf Word Count: 2911

Guilliman reads the report in his hands with an inhuman level of efficiency. His eyes gloss over each and every word darting from line to line, faster than any baseline could ever dream to process. Through this he remembers key pieces of information to form his conclusion once he finishes the hundreds and hundreds of lines within a few moments. Statistics, casualties, recorded vox chatter between astartes- all memorized.

-recovery of valuable data successful

-investigation of reason for ship’s abandonment conducted

-no signs of external attack. Suspected internal conflict

-survivor found

-plans for extraditing survivor to nearest habitable colony delayed

Guilliman diverts his eyes from the information in his hands looks to the marine in front of him. He stands stoic and at attention, hands behind his back as he stares at Guilliman and awaits a response. The primarch gives him a momentary once over, looking at the condition of his armor and the look on his face.

He’s young, but not that young. His scars are somewhat minimal, mostly surface level; A helmet is locked onto his belt not far from a basic issue combat knife. A standard, by the books Ultramarine. Nothing particularly special.

“This… survivor; You found them.”

The marine nods. Damarion; Guilliman remembers the name from the report. He spoke on vox that he found a survivor amongst the derelict ship after hearing screaming he soon located the source of. He shifts his weight from one ceramite boot to the other.

“Yes. A serf.”

Guilliman tenses and loosens his jaw, continuing to watch the marine intently. He raises a hand and rubs his cheekbone. He supposes this is the sort of mess he gets bestowed with whenever he dares to muster a thought of being bored. Curse it all, he should've perished the thought before they set off.

“A singular serf? They managed to survive whatever happened on that ship? I was informed it looked like a battlefield.”

Damarion takes a step closer and his hands drop from behind his back, going into a slightly more casual pose as he begins to explain.

“It looked as if the crew formed two separate hierarchies and slowly killed each other off. The rest either escaped or perished somewhere else.” Guilliman hums. Seems sound enough. The Night Lords are far from unfamiliar in terms of infighting, and the idea of them slowly killing each other during a power vacuum is not one that he would blink much of an eye at.

"We were in the barracks hall, one of the quarters had been locked from the outside. I heard yelling from the interior." That was shortly before they managed to get inside, and presumably found a disheveled, hungry serf. Locked inside for safekeeping by the owner, Guilliman would presume.

“Alright. What is his name?”

Guilliman’s brow furrows in confusion when the marine becomes… Nervous.

He shuffles a bit and it makes his armor plates clank against each other, pursing his lips. He suddenly has a bit more trouble looking his own primarch in the eyes, shifting from side to side.

“She… Doesn’t have one.”

The look Guilliman gives him only further heightens the marine’s unease. The two look at each other at odds in a sort of standoff, but not from a personal conflict. Guilliman hadn't expected the serf to be female; Even if there wasn't much reason why he shouldn't. He prods for a bit more information that wasn't in the report.

“What do you mean she doesn't have one?”

The marine clears his throat awkwardly, habitually covering his face with an armored fist for a moment.

“She claims that she doesn’t remember it. That they gave her a new name when they took her for a serf.”

Guilliman raises his eyebrows; He supposes that along with whatever she's encountered, one might be forced to no longer use their own name, or forget it outright. It would be one of the milder things he’s heard in terms of the abuses that baselines face when under the ‘ownership’ of the Sons of Kurze. It seems serf might not be the correct term. Guilliman attempts to pry even further.

“And what was that?”

Damarion suddenly regains any nervousness he’d previously lost, and opens and closes his mouth not unlike a fish suffocating on a beach. It takes a moment before he actually begins speaking again.

“With all due respect My Lord, I cannot repeat it to you.”

Guilliman now grows multiple more layers of confusion, quickly growing frustrated with the roundabout way this conversation is going. Why will one of his men answer an extremely simple question?

“You can’t?” The young marine swallows thickly enough that Guilliman notices his change in demeanor. “And why not?” His brow furrows as well.

“It was, something related to her reproductive organs.”

Guilliman doesn't recoil, but disgust quickly paints his face. He knew that Curze’s sons lacked honor, but it seems the surprises are neverending. He never hears the end of their horrors and abuses against human life; If anything, they only seem to grow like some sort of malignancy.

“Very well.” Guilliman takes a habitual glance towards the datapad, despite the fact that he’s long since memorized the information contained on it for this particular excursion. “And you denied the process to have her transported to Macragge?” Damarion curtly nods once more and returns his hands behind his back into a proper formal stance.

“I wish to take her on as my own serf.”

Guilliman wants to rub his temples and sigh. This all is a mess- But at least it will be this marine’s mess now. As long as he isn’t having to continue dealing with this, then the primarch supposes there is no harm then just letting this young marine have away with it and forgetting this all has happened. If something inevitably goes awry, one of his captains will deal with it.

“Very well. I do not have the time to deal with a singular serf. if this is what you wish, by all means. Just keep her out of trouble.”

Damarion nods. He can work with that.

He hopes.

Leaving Guilliman's office with a respectful bow, the first thing he does is return to his own quarters- knowing you'll still be inside.

Half of the reason that he decided on taking you on as a serf was ever since finding you, you've latched to him incredibly hard. But at the same time, you're horribly frightened of him. It’s as if since he’s established he won’t immediately kill you, he’s proven to be the safest option. But the Night lords surely instilled a heavy, all-consuming fear of astartes in you, and everything about him down to his smell sets you off; It doesn't take much to send you cowering into the corner as if he is going to wring your neck.

You are now his serf, and he will expect a particular decorum from you, but the last thing he wants is for you to fear him.

When he enters his quarters he hears you jump, eyes wide with fear that only calms a bit when he's someone you recognize. The rag is tight in your grip, and it takes him to notice his quarters is immaculate in comparison to how he left it. Every corner is cleaned, the cot blankets are refolded and the floors are spotless. Your voice is still a bit scratchy when you speak.

“Hello Master.”

He winges a bit at the title. Lord was acceptable among the Ultramarines and commonly used by the serfs, but many preferred just their rank or family name. It was something they were used to being called. Master had a connotation to it that he wasn't fond of, particularly when coming from a sickly serf currently on her hands and knees cleaning the floor like a single spot found would spell her own demise.

“Get up off the floor.”

He gestures bluntly, wanting to get you off of sitting on the cold metal floor. You keep refusing to sit on anything else.

But instead of getting up you just cower, looking up at him worried as if you were about to get beaten into submission.

“I'm sorry, I cleaned everything and I didn't want to dirty it.”

The room is indeed spotless, he's surprised you managed to do so much in such a short amount of time. Not that there is much in his quarters to clean; Ultramarines tend to forgo trophies and excessive keeping of things that do not provide any worth to them. The room now reeks of harsh cleaning chemicals that burn his nostrils, and he notices the skin on your hands is inflamed. You've surely been in here this whole time, just toiling away. Damarion doesn't even remember a time you've left his quarters; You're far too frightened to do such a thing so soon after being brought back from the derelict vessel.

“You did fine. Now get up off the floor.”

You slowly rise up, fiddling with the front of your new clothes. Shrinking like you're prepared for a beating, Damarion feels a bit ill at the idea that such a thing was a regular occurrence for you. You still have bruises that he’s noticed already, ones so new that only recently had they begun to fade.

Wilting like a flower, your head lowered into your shoulders and your voice quiets enough that his ears need to prick up in order to hear it.

“I'm so sorry, I'm just a stupid-” He groans and raises his own voice, cutting you off.

“Quiet with that woman, you're fine. Just sit on the cot.”

You suddenly begin look at him like he just asked you to dance. Your eyes dart around his face, and he feels as if you’re checking to see if he’s laid out a trap for you. Not being taken for his word is aggravating him, but he holds it in.

“What? But that's yours…”

Quickly reaching his wits end, he attempts to find more rope in it anyhow and hold strong. Had you been anyone else he would’ve long since pushed you off, but he just…

He can't get visibly upset. The last time he did you cowered like he was going to kill you, and he would rather not see that again. He doesn’t like the feeling of fear like that; From assuming his so monstrous that he would crush you simply for annoying him.

He put this on himself. He supposes this is his punishment for his impulsivity.

“Yes it is, but you can sit on it. Were you only allowed on the floor?”

You nod. He should’ve assumed as such. What callous tyrant would beat his serf within an inch of their life enough times that they now cower in fear at any astartes, with the wounds to prove it, but allow them to sit on his cot? Much to his surprise, your voice raises a bit and you provide a bit of context to your odd behavior.

“My master only let me onto the cot when he wanted to use me.”

Damarion resists the slightly hot feeling in his mouth at such a casual admittance. Use you… the implication was easy to understand. You look at him blankly unaffected by such a thing, before skittering to sit on the edge of the cot.

“Is that what you want from me?”

He sees you reach for your the top of your robes and start to undo it, and jolts towards you before he can fully register the affect of such a quick motion. It causes you to skitter backwards in fear; Your clothes are partly undone and bunch awkwardly.

A pair of marines passes by his open door during this, seeing him reaching for a serf cowered in fear and attempting to undress herself.

“Do not-!”

He takes a deep breath and lowers his voice. He attempts to remember his training, remember the many times his superiors told him to keep hold of his temper as he straightens up.

The marines pass. He knows he'll be hearing from his superiors about this. He’s already gotten in trouble enough times, whats another he supposes.

“Do not do that again. There is no need to undress yourself.”

He's going to need to somehow get a second cot. Or by Terra, at least a blanket for you to lay on. He would feel like a monster for making a sad, beaten serf sleep on the cold metal floor.

The other serfs might be able to get you something, perhaps.

Going near the serfs quarters had been an odd affair for him; He's never seen the place. When he ordered what he wanted done, it hadn't taken long for someone to inquire about the reason.

“You are the one with the serf from the Night Lords ship?"

He didn't confirm or deny it- he had no desire to do such a thing to a random serf. Though the confirmation that the news is spreading is, abit concerning.

Of all the things he would be known for, it wouldn't be his valor it would be for his...

Wrapped tightly in the tattered remains of your robes he carries you cradled in one arm- the other holds his bolter. He doesn't look down at you, and simply continues forward as he follows his squad. They all look at him curiously.

...Moment of impulsivity.

Satisfied with this success, Damarion goes to have his armor removed. This mission was the last of his current rotation, so he's due to be removed. It's a long process, and doing so gives him plenty of time to think. The mechanicum that begin the process pay no mind to his unfocused eyes, his body going through the habitual motions as piece after piece is taken from him.

He regrets doing this. Taking you.

You would do better tossed in with the other serfs. His eyes stare of at nothing as he feels the electrical jolts of his armour disconnecting from his armouring suit. For a brief second it feels like he's missing a part of him, but that feeling fades after a moment each piece is removed.

They always said he had a temper. Was impulsive; Too brash for an Ultramarine. He made a split second decision to the Primarch himself and now there's no way he can go back.

You'll settle with time.

Baselines might not be as stoic as them, but you're flexible, adjustable. And this ship will surely prove more pleasing than whatever it was like with the Night Lords. It won't be long until you begin to behave normally. Like a frightened animal, you just need a bit to realize you're safe.

You had acted surprised when he had lights in his quarters, and whenever he returns to you, he finds them off. He's seen you squint almost as if your eyes hurt because of the lights, and Damarion assumes you spent much of your time in at pitch black.

He makes a discontented sigh at no one in particular once his armouring suit is peeled from him and detaches from his ports. His skin almost feels odd now that it touches the stagnant air, and that brief, uncomfortable feeling of now being out of his armor lingers for a few minutes before it fades. What remains however, is his desire for a shower. The stench of him is now unsealed and he wants for not much more than to not stink like a sewer. That becomes his first order of business once the Mechanicum are finished.

Once he is clean and covered in his casual linens, he returns to his quarters to see you sitting on the ground again, and the spare bedding he had requested is sitting folded on his cot. You seem to have made no attempt to touch them, and if anything, you seem to be actively avoiding even looking at them. He gestures vaguely.

“...They are for you.”

The way your voice pitches when you look at him gives him an odd feeling.

“Really?”

You hesitate grabbing them for a moment after he nods, before you finally pull them off his cot and make almost a sort of nest on the floor. He watches for a moment out of just sheer curiosity, before throwing his weight onto his cot.

He is able to slow his own brain instantly and soon after fall asleep, though unbeknownst to him you stay awake for a good bit longer. You watch him intently to make sure he's really asleep, fiddling in the corner on your blanket. The idea of sleeping in the same room is still unsettling. The dim candles that are lit provide just enough light to see most things, but not strain your eyes.

Only once you know he's asleep, do you attempt to get some sleep yourself. The fear still remains, an astartes is in here your body is tight like a spring, but eventually the fatigue takes over and everything finally goes black.

[nykie-love-anime]

B Flat

Y/N: Satoru Gojo... Gojo: Oh no, 'Satoru Gojo' in B flat Gojo: You're disappointed

Masterlist

[platonic-writer]

Ok ok so I have an idea, how about headcanons on Dottore with gn child if they got kidnapped, like I can just imagine him destroying everything and everyone in his path just so he can find them. Also if your not comfortable in writing kidnapping a minor that's fine <3

Ooo this is gonna be so fun to write!!!sorry it took so long 😭🙏LIKE I FORGOT MY PASSWORD

Your Request has been made!☆

KIDNAPPED GN! CHILD READER & PLATONIC DOTTORE

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

You really didnt mean to go outside without your dad's clones!

It just... kinda happened?

But its okay you know damn well that your dad won't take long

Dottore wasnt a sentimental person, really he wasnt supposed to even get attached to a dumb and actually lovely kid

The moment he realized his dumb kid wasn't with anyone he grinned

Afterall they thought that a harbinger probably wouldn't care if a dumb kid went missing

And dottore knew he could take his time with finding you, i mean cmon he had the most oblivious kid that ever existed

Meanwhile with gn!reader

" Mister weasel... i don't wanna question your way of styling your own hair... but what is that..?σ(^_^;)?" -gn!reader

" what. WDYM MY HAIR? JOHN WHY DID WE KIDNAP THIS FUCKER?" -weasel looking ahh

" i dont know. You do look like you have a weasel on yo head tho.( ・_ゝ・)"-John

Yeah no the kidnappers want yo ass gone

But a job is a job so they gotta do what they gotta do

The moment they do hurt you, you yourself know that your dad won't spare them

" r.i.p on yall i hope yall survive(ﾟ_ﾟ)"-gn!reader

It wouldn't be a surprise if dottore suddently had more Subjects for his experiments

Yes you watch it, and yes you get to stabby stab them

Id think dottore would double the security on gn!reader and always try to be with them to protect them, he would also carry different kinds of sugar to distract you sometimes if it gets a bit too graphic for his kid

A kidnapped reader is no problem for dottore, i mean he has clones to help search for the kid

Dottore can't stand gn!reader, his child, to ever get hurt so he may aswell try to make you immortal

After some time gn!reader starts to just always try to get kidnapped

Dottore can't take all the heartattacks anymore

"WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS GETTING KIDNAPPED!?"-dottore

"dunno ┐('～`;)┌"- gn!reader

Sneaky little child just wants attention from her dad

Dottore with his fucked up mind actually finds it good that gn!reader keeps getting kidnapped because he can be their savior, because logically if he saves you, you will adore your dad more (--->or that's what he thinks)

Summary: He will always love you even if you're a bratty child who keeps trying to get kidnapped. He will always get panicked tho when he hears that you've been kidnapped. He's now paranoid and has to keep you in his line of sight. He's a Helicopter parent who loves his child dearly and would do whatever he could for said child.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

THANK YOU FOR READING THIS!! i have to get used to writing again after so long- again sorry for not posting much;((　｀□´)

( there will come even more headcanons from now. FRFR)

[clairewritesfanfics]

I feel like Sinster or Lenseless would understand the desire to cut them open to see what makes them work like they do the most. In fact think the two of them would find it flattering both for different reasons.

Mini Theater

"I think about cutting you open sometimes," MC admit, voice calm, almost clinical. "Not to hurt you but just to understand. To see what makes you work. I wonder how much anesthesia it would take to keep you under, and then that thought only makes me more curious. Which I know is rather messed up."

Sinster shrugs, thoughtful before looking back. "That’s fair. I’ve thought about eating parts of you before—feeding you parts of me too. That way we’d literally be part of each other. But I’d rather die than hurt you, so... no go. Still, if you ever decide to are gonna cut me open all you have to do is ask. But if do, could you take something out so I feed you something? Maybe a piece of my liver? People eat that all the time. I bet there's a recipe to make it nice."

Lenseless just laughs—loud, delighted, eyes too wide. "Anesthesia? Who said I’d need that? When are we doing this? I’ll clear my schedule. Honestly babe, I can’t wait."

I've always adored using cannibalism to express love (ahem, Sukuna).

I feel like a Mark (any of them) would have the mindset of "even though I can't have all of you, you will always have me" so they happily offer themselves to you on a silver platter.

(Also, love your mini theatre!)

[bangtanxmegan]

the eyes language

lewis hamilton x reader

(Inspired by "A Linguagem dos Olhos" – Péricles)

The sound of mixed voices, cutlery clinking against plates, loud laughter from distant cousins, and that unmistakable smell of Sunday lunch in the air. Everything was chaotic… but at the same time, comforting.

Lewis was there, in the middle of it all. Sitting in the backyard of your parents' house, watching people come and go, parallel conversations happening, uncles telling silly jokes, aunts worrying if there was enough food for everyone.

He was just another guest… just another person in that typical family lunch scene.

But even with all the noise, his focus was fixed on only one thing.

You.

You, standing in the kitchen, laughing at something your mom said, wearing a floral green dress, your hair tied up carelessly, and that light expression of someone who feels at home. You stirred the pots, placed a hand on your waist, and from time to time, turned your face towards him… with that look.

That look.

Lewis smiled to himself. Fiddled with his beer bottle, distracted. Your cousins next to him were asking if he ever got tired of living in airports. He answered politely, of course… but his mind was somewhere else.

With you.

In the way you moved… natural… effortless.

In the way your eyes searched for his through the crowd, as if saying silently: “Relax, I’m here.”

Whenever he looked at you, his mouth would go dry, his hands would freeze, and his blood boil. He didn’t understand where all that power you had over him came from.

And with you… it was no different.

Whenever you looked at him, your smile would brighten, everything would change, and you'd start to want him just as much as he wanted you.

He remembered how many times he had already gotten lost in that look. In hotel rooms, after races, during late-night video calls… and now, right there, it all seemed to make even more sense.

Lewis noticed the details. The way you hugged people, how you smiled shyly, how you played with your hair whenever you were nervous.

And when you finally came out of the kitchen, carrying a big pot in your hands, his eyes followed you like a magnet.

You walked over to the table, set the food down, and in the middle of all the noise, children screaming, overlapping stories… you looked at him.

Without words. Just one shared glance that said it all.

He noticed again how you had this absurd ability to speak to him with just your eyes.

To calm him.

To provoke him.

To understand him.

To call him.

Lewis adjusted himself in the chair when he saw you giving him a small, knowing smile, like you were fully aware of the effect you had on him. And you did. Always.

— "Do you want some more rice?" — You asked, your voice low, just enough for him to hear, as you leaned closer to his chair.

— "I do… but I think what I really want right now is something else…" — He replied, almost in a whisper, with that provocative, low tone.

You laughed. Lowered your gaze, pretending to concentrate on the spoon.

Between one plate and another, Lewis kept watching you. You talking with your grandma, playing with the kids, wiping the corner of your mouth with a napkin… and every now and then, sending him those quick, sharp looks.

He thought about how much you had changed his life. How the silence between you two was always comfortable. How even when you said nothing… you were saying everything.

After dessert, when everyone started spreading out around the house, getting ready to sleep, you walked past him and whispered:

— "Come… outside."

He stood up immediately. As if he’d been waiting for it.

Out in the yard, with a light breeze blowing, you leaned against the wall. Lewis walked over. Placed his hands gently on your waist, pulling you close.

— "Did you know we have a love language that’s just ours?" — He said.

— "Which one?" — You asked, curious.

— "The language of the eyes… you break me down just by looking at me like that."

You smiled. Rested your hands on his chest. The whole world seemed to disappear. It was just the two of you.

— "And you? You pretend to resist… but deep down, you love it." — You teased.

He didn’t answer. He just leaned in and kissed you right there… with the intensity of someone who just couldn’t stand to only look anymore.

The kiss was slow at first. His hands slid along your waist, up your back, like he wanted to memorize every inch of you.

When you finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against yours.

— "That’s why I fell in love with you… You know that, right?" — He said, still breathless.

— "I know… it’s the same reason I fell for you."

Lewis chuckled softly. Hugged you tighter.

And there, on a regular Sunday afternoon, with the smell of beans and meat and the sound of kids playing in the background… he knew.

No matter where he was. No matter how many flights, how many races, how many time zones.

One look from you… and he was home.

Always.

thank u for reading! <3

requests with lewis hamilton are open

[ysvxnielle]

ׂ ᩧ ֺ ۪ 　　　"ONLY FOR THE NIGHT"

── .✦ ꒰ boyfriend!sae itoshi x f!reader x boyfriend'sbrother!rin itoshi ྀ ꒱ —

cw: threesome ,, p in v ,, unprotected sex ,, nicknames ,, hate n hard sex ,, all characters aged up ! mdni ,, hair pulling ,, blowj*b ,, a bit ooc

its surprising how you end up in this situation. both brothers thrusting in you hard. it all started at this function and you were sae's plus one. sae always knew rin had a crush on you, not that sae didn't admire you, but rin.. was something else. sae's hand on your lower back the entire time. "ill go grab a drink." he whispered in your ear, as he walked away.

rin's eyes were on you the entire time. the soft silky long, black, backless, sleevless dress, hugging your curves perfectly. rin approached you with a boner. "you look stunning" he spoke in a low voice. you turned around, "you don't look bad yourself, rin", you teased with a small smile. oh, rin prayed you dont notice his growing boner, he bit his lip, making you raise a eyebrow.

within minutes, you were hurried in a suite room, stripped by sae, as rin waited impatiently on the bed, palming himself through his pants, eyes on you the entire time.sae fucked you with hard, long and fast thrusts, "fuck.. so fucking tight, all f'me, hmm?" on the other hand, rin thrusted in your mouth, he scoffed at his onii-chan's words.

"if so, why is she sucking me so hard, like its all she has gotten in months?" at rin's words, sae grabbed your hips tighter, sayin, "she sucks me every weeknd, what do you know about her. tell him, babe" looking at you, which made your eyes roll, you couldn't say a word, due to rin, just whimpers and moans.

"she can't even choose who she wants, don't be so full of yourself, onii-chan." sae glared at rin, who was pulling your hair, "yet, shes full of me every night after every match." sae barked back. your pussy clenched harder around sae's dick, as you came once.

your hands gripped rin's thighs, nails digging in, earing a gasp from rin, as your legs shaked. "what a slut, loves getting used like this, by us, huh?" rin spoke as he thrusted long inside you one last time, before pulling out.

you gasped, chest heaving, eyes wide, as you let out a loud moan. sae raised an eyebrow at rin, "about to cum, already?" he chuckled low and dark, making you roll your eyes. "no,", rin barked. "i was just-" without warning rin pushed in your mouth again.

as you creamed all over sae's cock, while rin came into your mouth as well, sae suggested to swap positions. sae pulled out and stared at you. "where are the condoms?" rin asked, as he pulled out as well. making you moan loudly again, as your pussy clenched around nothing, and drool dripping down your lips.

rin put on the condom and pushed in fat cock inside you, he started with slow thrusts, letting you adjust. sae didn't put his cock in your mouth immediately, he just watched the show, watching his girl get fucked by his younger brother. "n-need you.. please.." you said as you looked up at sae, while you clenched around rin's dick.

sae smirked, "hah, see? even though you are the one inside her, she still demands me." without warning, sae pushed his cock in your mouth, your lips immediately sucking him.

you started to reach your peak, eyes going hazy, as you fainted. lord knows how long they went on, switching positions and places till they finally came too.

ෆ a/n note: hii, hey! a few days ago, i asked YOU guys to vote for my next story! and threesome w the itoshi brothers, got the most votes! sooo, here it is! i hope you enjoyed :) | credits for the lovely divider: @dollywons

written by - @ysvanielle (me) | please do not copy, steal modify or repost or translate my content onto any other platforms or tumblr !

[conjureher]

dudes in kevlar ; dick grayson synopsis : growing apart, dick believes, is the worst way to end a friendship. 1.1k words | gen master.list

The Bludhaven night is cold, far colder than usual, Dick thinks. Though he's no stranger to wintry nights, his familiarity with the cold is of no use.

It's on nights like these that he can't help but think of an old friend – a friend he misses quite a lot but can't get back in contact with. It's been about 7 years since he's last seen you; and all throughout those 7 years, his mind has been consistently plagued by thoughts of you, wonderful you.

It's a bit pathetic, you see.

One might imagine that 7 whole years is enough to get over the grief of losing a friend, or simply drifting apart, but not for Dick. When all is said and done, a large part of Dick still missed you, waiting for your return. He dreams of the day that he wakes up to your voice, to your voice telling him he's stupid for saying the things he did; he dreams of the day that he is once again blessed with your presence.

He still remembers the day you left.

The memory is not held with fondness, but with a bitter sense of distaste; more towards himself than at you, never you. That is, until recently. He's 22 now and he's had time, enough time, to digest what happened that day. Why he said certain things, he'll never quite understand. Why you said other things he's had time to process, and he understands you. He's always been able to understand you more than he could himself, it's a sixth sense to him, second nature, if you will.

If you came back today – no, right now – he'd still be able to decipher all your little quirks. No time apart could take that away from him, and just the thought of that pains him to a degree nothing has ever before.

When New Jersey nights are a bit tougher than others, he likes to think back on your friendship. He likes to think you two were more than just friends, perhaps teetering on the blurry line between two good friends and two teenagers in love; but he's never gotten the answer to that question.

Maybe he never will, and Dick's not quite sure he's okay with that.

– SOME TIME AGO, DICK'S NOT QUITE SURE

“You know, dudes in Kevlar aren’t usually bested by trash cans.”

Your laughs fill the dingy alleyway, only serving to make Dick feel a tad bit more ashamed of himself. Oh, how the mighty have fallen!

“It came out of nowhere, I swear!” Dick groans, peeling bits of trash off his suit. 

You're all smiles as you help Dick wipe trash off of himself, "Jeez, you stink! Maybe we should just hose you down..."

"WE SHOULD NOT!" Dick is quick to intervene in your planning, slowly scooting away from you so as to not be held captive and forcefully taken to some place with a hose – it's happened before, you know, you taking Dick to various places against his will (yeah right, he could never really say no to your whims).

"Maybe Bats will let us borrow his hose," you fake wonder, scratching your nonexistent beard as if you're actually pondering the notion.

Seemingly coming to a verdict, you shake your shoulders and make way for the alley's exit; Gotham alleys aren't exactly the safest to linger in at night.

You're both resting atop one of Gotham's many rooftops, eyes still wandering about searching for trouble - for something fun.

Dick still stinks like garbage and you're trying to avoid sitting too close to him; the fucking bastard had the audacity to smear some uncleaned garbage juice on you! You're definitely gonna get him back later, but now's not the time for plotting revenge.

"D'ya think we're gonna be doing this hero stuff forever?" you blurt out. Your question hardly sounds like something previously rehearsed, more like something you really really needed to get off your chest, to get out of your system.

It takes Dick a moment to answer, but you find his answer all the more disappointing, "I mean, yeah? There’s always going to be another criminal to stop, especially in Gotham.”

Your smile falls, just a bit, but Dick notices, he always does. Instead of replying, you take to staring out at the night sky before you two, hoping to whatever deity that is out there that Dick forgets what you said in the first place.

He doesn’t, well, he can’t. “It sounds a bit doom and gloom, but I don’t think I could, in good conscience, stop being Robin. I want to be a great contributor to Gotham's eventual peace,” Dick smiles — it’s infectious and leaves you a bit more optimistic than before.

“I guess…” you murmur, not wanting to meet Dick’s eyes — you know he’s looking at you, but you don’t want to look back, not yet — “I love this, I really do. I’m just not sure if it’s something I want to dedicate my life to.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you’re regretting them, bits of shame creeping up, “forget what I said, actually.”

It’s a plea, a prayer for the conversation to close. But Dick doesn’t answer your silent plea, and maybe that’s where he went wrong that night.

After all these years, Dick’s not exactly sure how that night ended up how it did. His brain gets a bit foggy and he feels like throwing up whenever he tries unraveling the night — maybe it’s because his body knows how terrible he was, maybe he doesn’t need that reminder.

He does remember your friendship never being the same after that night.

He does remember trying to fix it, relentlessly battling for your affection, but you never really healed.

–

He sees you in a bit of everything he does. You haunt him, entirely unintentionally on your part. He's sure you're not thinking about him as much as he's thinking about you, but that's not the best deterrent.

All he asks the universe is one more chance. Just one, he only needs one, any more and he'll feel like the greediest man alive. Would the universe still love a greedy man like himself if it knew he was doing it for love? Or would he be damned for eternity?

You wouldn't condemn him for hoping, for wishing for better. You'd tell him his wants were entirely valid and then come up with a foolproof plan on how to make it happen.

But you're not here.

Maybe you'll never be.

And god does that hurt Dick to realize, to come to terms with.

SAM SPEAKS : hiii! sorry i was gone for so long... #not cool... i just started reading goodnight punpun and that has truly consumed me entirely! i have a couple things sitting in my drafts (a tim drake ask, somethign something yuuta okkotsu something something) so im hoping to post those within the next few days huzzah! love you guys, stay safee

[ashthesalamipiece]

HAIII can you do some more dad katsuki? and they have a daughter, she’s turning one and her first word was ‘boom’ after katsuki was feeding her in the highchair and he was showing off his quirk to her to distract her

BOOM

Her first word was an explosion.

Katsuki swore he wasn’t gonna cry. He really did.

But then again, he also swore he wouldn’t let that weird mushy banana slop touch his shirt again, and here they were — bib stained, chest stained, hair probably stained, too. His daughter, cheeks stuffed and wild-eyed in her high chair, was giggling like he’d just told the world’s funniest joke.

"Look at Daddy, huh? Watch this."

He held out two fingers and popped a tiny snap of a blast in the air, harmless and warm, like a sparkler fizzing in his palm. She squealed, thrilled. He did it again, a little bigger this time.

"Boom," he said, watching her eyes track the flash, like little golden suns locked on target.

"Boom," she echoed.

Katsuki froze.

"What'd you just say?"

She blinked up at him. Then grinned. "Boom!"

Bakugou’s heart made a weird, lurching thud in his chest — like maybe it exploded too. He staggered back a step, nearly knocking over the applesauce jar on the counter.

"You—you said boom," he whispered, voice suddenly rough. "Holy hell, you said boom."

He scooped her out of the chair without a second thought, banana goop and all, cradling her like she was made of glass and nitroglycerin all at once.

Her tiny hands patted his cheeks. “Boom!” she repeated proudly, absolutely delighted by the sound.

He buried his face in her soft hair and exhaled like he’d just run a mile. “You’re my kid, alright.”

Behind him, you peeked around the corner with your phone recording, catching the exact moment Katsuki Bakugou let out a choked laugh and said, “Shit, her first word was my damn quirk sound.”

“No swearing in front of the baby,” you reminded him gently.

"Yeah, yeah," he murmured, already rocking her in his arms, murmuring boom back to her in return, every single time she said it — like it was her name, her power, her birthright.

And damn it if it wasn’t perfect.