I write fanfics, so feel free to shoot me any requests or send an ask to just chat !! I write requests out of order! The current fandoms I'm in are Pokémon, Call of Duty and Marvel.
My Masterlist
My anons- Lunar, 🕊️, 🪶, 🦇, 🐑, ⭐, 🌆
Fandoms I write for - Pokémon, Marvel, Black Noir
I wil NOT write:
OC x Canon
Hyper spesific requests (falls under "oc x canon", this excludes speific pokemon, spesific profession/job, spesific features or spesific conditions as they're still v broad and open so I can write whatever I feel like)
Fem readers (Any fem reader requests will become GN!Reader)
Poly relationships (It's not my thing and I don't understand how they work, any poly relationships will be written platonically,)
Nsfw/smut/suggestive
Spesific race requests,
Adult x minor
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Simple dni - if you fake disorders or support people faking them. (This isn't a safe space for them AT ALL. Serious issues aren't cute or quirky). I block freely.
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HI! may we have og black noir sfw headcanons with a non-supe reader? Tysmmm
OG!Black Noir x Reader | Headcanons
This takes place roughly around S1, equal or take, established relationship
Earving is a gentle lover, he prioritises your saftey and comfort over anything.
To him, you're a squishy human that needs to be carefully handled.
Even if you are muscular, it doesn't matter, he has assassinated people who are more durable, supes who are more durable, so (to him) humans are all the same to him.
To no one's surprise, he'd keep his mask/helmet on for the better part of your relationship. His insecurities run deep- just look at his closet. He only has his two suits. That's the only thing he owns (apart from the two boxes of Buster Beaver art he's drawn).
You had to buy him new clothes for him to wear something else, but even then, he would more often than not put a hoodie over his suit and call it a day.
And to be fair to him, everything you picked out for him was either a smidge too small or too big. It wasn't your fault either, he didn't know his size, and his suit was custom made to fit his body so you couldn't get it from there.
The most skin you'd see is his hands or the bottom half of his face, where his scarring was the least severe.
Dates with him would be mostly inside your own homes. Sometimes he'll prepare home cooked meals for you whilst other times, when the pain is worse, the two or you cook together or just buy takeout.
Other dates would include him taking you out to secluded spaces- but that only happens when the two of you are fully comfortable with eachother. (The last thing he wants to do is to scare you)
He can drive. He knows how to. It's not easy and he would much rather take an uber. But he will drive if it makes you feel safer.
100% hides your relationship from the public. He has enough enemies to overwhelm the average hero.
Black Noir's love language is a mix of quality time and gift giving.
He loves making unique and personalised gifts. If you have any characters, he will draw them to the best of his abilities.
Black Noir has tried making ribbon roses before, but they all ended up wonky and his fingers were covered in hot glue. (He threw the roses away not long after. He didn't want to give you something less than perfect).
Sometimes he settles for a 'gift basket' which is filled with your favourite sweets, snacks and a plushie or two. All of it is picked out and arranged with care and a delicacy that he only shows you.
Well, hellou, in new here and im gonna request for Mysterio ;D
Me encantaría ver a Mysterio conI'd love to see Mysterio with a reader who doesn't fall for his drone tricks, not because she's intelligent, but because she's naive. She simply finds it funny that he tries to deceive her with his high technology. A little comedy and irony would do him good.
Otherwise (if you didn't like the previous idea) with a reader who designs his outfits every time he appears in public, whose clothes are refined and give him that heroic style, with a love-hate relationship
Sorry if it too long, ty!! ly ♡♡♡ (You are NOT FORCED to do this if u didnt like it, ofc)
~♡ꜝꜞ ❝ 𝓕ake it til you make it ❞
────── · · Mysterio x fem ! reader
a / n : MYSTERIO MY HUSBAND MY MAN HE DID NOTHING WRONG RELEASE HIM
summary : quentin and you never got along too well, but after Tony wronged you both and completely destabilized the three-pack unit you all were once so much time ago, well, you might aswell settle for working with someone you don't like for the sake of wronging someone you hate
🏷 ,, ( @harebrainedhare , @d3adbr3inc3lls )
The penthouse stretched above the New York skyline like a glass-and-steel accusation against the city below. Rain streaked down the floor-to-ceiling windows in lazy rivulets, distorting the lights of the city into watercolor smears of amber and white. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled. A low, grumbling promise that matched the tension coiled in the air of the sprawling living space.
You stood in the center of the room, a measuring tape draped around your neck like a particularly uncooperative scarf, surrounded by bolts of fabric in shades that would make a peacock jealous. The coffee table had been pushed aside to make room for your workspace, a chaos of swatches, sketches, pins, and the kind of organized madness that had always characterized your design process.
Quentin Beck lounged against the back of a leather sofa, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that particular blend of impatience and barely concealed amusement that had driven you up the wall for the better part of two decades. He was wearing nothing but a simple white undershirt and dark trousers, clothes that did absolutely nothing to diminish the broad lines of his shoulders or the way his arms folded to emphasize the muscle beneath the fabric.
It was infuriating.
"You're taking forever," he said, his voice carrying that theatrical drawl he'd perfected over the years. The one that made everything sound like a line delivered to the back row of a packed theater. "I don't have all day to stand here while you play dress-up."
You didn't look up from the sketchpad in your hands, continuing to make notations in the margins with a pencil that was running dangerously low on lead. "If I'd known you were going to be this insufferable, I would have designed you a suit made entirely of burlap and called it a day."
"Burlap?" He pushed off from the sofa, taking a few measured steps toward you. His footsteps were deliberately audible on the hardwood floor, each one a small declaration of intent. "And here I thought you had some semblance of taste."
"I have taste," you said flatly, finally glancing up at him. "I just don't waste it on you."
His lips curved into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes—that sardonic, knowing expression that had always made you want to either slap him or kiss him. Sometimes both, in rapid succession. "Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart."
The word landed like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through the carefully maintained composure you'd been cultivating all evening. Your grip on the pencil tightened almost imperceptibly.
"I need you to stand still." you said, your voice clipped and professional. "Or do I need to explain the concept of measurements to you like you're a child?"
"Oh, by all means," he spread his arms wide, a gesture of mock surrender. "Explain it to me. I'm just the one whose life depends on this suit fitting correctly. What would I know?"
"You know plenty," you muttered, finally setting down the sketchpad and picking up the measuring tape from around your neck. "You just choose to be obtuse about it."
"Obtuse," he repeated, savoring the word. "That's a new one. I'll add it to the collection."
You stepped toward him, close enough that you could smell the subtle hint of his cologne. The measuring tape dangled from your fingers like a challenge.
"Arms out." you commanded.
He obliged, extending his arms to the sides with an exaggerated flourish that made you want to throttle him. "Like this?"
"Don't be a smartass."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
You pressed the measuring tape against his chest, running it across the broad expanse of his pectorals and noting the number with clinical precision. His body was warm beneath the thin cotton of his undershirt, radiating heat that seemed to seep through the tape and into your fingers.
He was still. For once.
But his eyes tracked your every movement, watching the way your hands moved across his torso with an intensity that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You could feel his gaze like a physical weight, heavy and searching.
"Bicep," you said, moving the tape around his arm. The muscle flexed involuntarily beneath your touch, and you pretended not to notice. "Stay still."
"I am still."
"You're flexing."
"I'm not flexing."
"Your bicep just grew three inches. I can read a measuring tape, Quentin."
He laughed. It was a low, genuine sound that caught you off guard. It was rare to hear him laugh without the undercurrent of performance that usually colored his every interaction. "Maybe I'm just excited about the suit."
"Maybe you're a compulsive liar."
"That too." His voice dropped an octave, intimate and teasing. "But you already knew that about me."
You pulled the tape away from his arm and stepped back with a deep frown, faking annoyance, needing distance. The air between you had gone thick, charged with something that had nothing to do with the work at hand. You busied yourself with writing down the measurement, using the pretense of professionalism as a shield.
"Shoulder width." you said, not looking at him.
When you stepped back into his space, you had to rise on your toes slightly to reach across the breadth of his shoulders. The position brought you closer than strictly necessary, your chest brushing against his for the briefest of moments. You both froze.
"Careful," he murmured, his breath warm against your temple. "People might talk."
"People can talk all they want," you said, your voice steady despite the rapid flutter of your heart. "I need this measurement."
"Of course you do."
His hands came up, settling on your hips with a casualness that was anything but. The touch was light—barely there, really—but it burned through the fabric of your shirt like a brand.
"What are you doing." You asked, keeping your voice flat.
"Steadying you," he said, the picture of innocence. "You were wobbling."
"I wasn't wobbling."
"Your knees were shaking."
"Because I was on my toes, you absolute- ugh." You cut yourself off, pulling away and jabbing the tape measure against his shoulder with more force than necessary. "Stay still."
"Whatever you say, sweetheart."
That word again.
Something inside you snapped.
Before you could think about what you were doing, you looped the measuring tape around his neck, pulling it tight enough to cut off his breath for just a fraction of a second. The fabric bit into his throat, not enough to hurt, not enough to do any real damage, just enough to startle the air out of his lungs and wipe that insufferable smirk from his face.
His eyes widened, then narrowed.
You held his gaze for a moment, watching the flicker of surprise morph into something darker, something almost hungry. Then you released the tape, letting it fall loose against his chest, and stepped back with a calm that was entirely manufactured.
"Apologize." you said.
"For what?" His voice was rougher now, affected by the brief pressure on his throat.
"For calling me sweetheart. You know I hate that."
"I know," he said, rubbing his neck with one hand. "That's why I do it."
You let out a loud groan, eyes rolling so fard into your skull it was a wonder they didn't get stuck there. And then you were off on your way back to the table to grab another something.
"Fucking bitch."
The words were quiet, muttered under his breath as he turned away from you. But the penthouse was silent except for the rain, and you heard them clearly.
You froze mid-step, the fabric you were reaching for forgotten.
"Excuse me?" You turned back to face him, one eyebrow raised in dangerous challenge.
He met your eyes without flinching. "I said you're a fucking bitch."
"And I said," you replied, your voice dropping to a dangerous timbre. "Fucking excuse me?"
Quentin took a step toward you, his expression shifting from annoyance to something more complex. More heated. "Don't act like you didn't hear me. I've called you worse."
"You have. But that doesn't mean I am going to tolerate it from you while I'm at work." You held up the measuring tape. "You want a second round?"
"I'd like to see you try."
"We both know I could take you."
His laugh was sharp and disbelieving. "In your dreams."
"In your nightmares, more like."
He advanced another step, and you held your ground. The space between you had shrunk to almost nothing, close enough that you could count the flecks of gold in his eyes. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body like a furnace.
"Bitch." he said again, softer this time, the word almost tender.
"Jackass." you replied, matching his tone.
"Is that the best you've got?"
"No," you said, tilting your head. "I've got plenty more where that came from. We've been doing this for how long now? I've got an arsenal."
"Twenty years," he said, and there was something almost wistful in his voice. "Twenty years of you being a pain in my ass."
"And you've been a pain in mine. I'd say we're even."
"Not even close."
"We're closer than you think."
His eyes dropped to your lips for the briefest of moments, so quick you might have missed it if you weren't already hyperaware of every micro-expression on his face. Then they flicked back up, defiant.
"Whatever you say, sweetheart."
You took a deep breath, letting the familiarity of the nickname wash over you. It was absurd, really—the way you two danced around each other, always circling, always testing. Twenty years of this push and pull, this exquisite torture. Twenty years of pretending the tension between you was mere annoyance when everyone with eyes could see it was something else entirely.
You turned away, reaching for the swatches of fabric you'd set aside earlier. The movement gave you a moment to collect yourself, to shove the inconvenient feelings back into the box where they belonged.
"Let's test some colors," you said, your voice brisk and businesslike. "Dark purple or dark green. Pick one."
"What's the difference?"
"One makes is green, one is purple." You said flatly, your expression the dictionary description of deadpan.
"Wow, how enlightening. Which one makes me look more handsome?"
You met his eyes, your expression remaining deadpan. "Neither. The purple makes you look ugly. The green makes you look uglier. If it were up to me, I'd choose green."
He rolled his eyes so dramatically that it was almost comical. "You have no taste."
"I have impeccable taste. I just choose not to waste it on you."
He scoffed, but he didn't move away from you. Didn't try to create distance. If anything, he seemed to lean slightly closer, as if drawn by some gravitational pull he couldn't control.
You pressed the green fabric against his chest, smoothing it over the broad plane of muscle. The color brought out the warmth in his skin, complemented the darkness of his eyes. It was a good choice. A really good choice.
Not that you'd ever tell him that.
"You're taking forever," he said again, but there was no heat in it this time. Just the familiar rhythm of your bickering, a dance you'd perfected over two decades of mutual disdain and unwilling attraction.
"I'm being thorough."
"You're being slow."
"I'm being precise. There's a difference."
"Not from where I'm standing."
You pulled the green fabric away, replacing it with the purple. This one was richer, deeper, with a subtle shimmer that caught the light. It would look stunning on him, especially under the holographic projections he'd be using to create his illusions.
"Turn around," you commanded. "I need to measure the back."
He complied, turning slowly, and the movement gave you a perfect view of his retreating form. His shoulders were broad, tapering to a narrow waist, and his ass-
You caught yourself staring and looked away sharply.
But he caught you.
"I saw that." he said, his voice smug with triumph.
"Saw what?"
"You checking me out."
"I wasn't checking you out."
"Your eyes were literally on my ass, sweetheart."
You had nothing to say to that. Nothing that wouldn't incriminate you further. So you did the only thing you could think of.
You reached out and smacked his ass.
Hard.
The sound echoed through the penthouse, sharp and unexpected. Quentin's entire body went rigid, and you watched with satisfaction as he slowly turned back around to face you.
His expression was a masterpiece of conflicting emotions—shock, indignation, and something else entirely. Something that burned hot in the depths of his eyes.
"Did you just-"
"I did." you said, stepping around him to face him fully. "Figured if you're going to call me out for looking, I might as well touch. Turnabout is fair play." You shrugged, deliberately casual. "Besides, you don't have a bad figure. I figured you could use the validation."
"You-" He sputtered, genuinely for once. "I am going to strangle you."
"I'd like to see you try."
His hands came up, not to your throat, but to your waist. He pulled you against him roughly, your bodies colliding with enough force to push the air from your lungs. His grip was firm, almost painful, and you could feel the tension vibrating through his entire body.
"Say that again, you little-" he said, his voice low and dangerous.
"I'd like to see you try." you repeated, keeping your gaze locked on his. "What are you going to do, Quentin? Actually hurt me? We both know you won't."
"Don't be so sure."
"You're a lot of things, but you're not a woman-beater. That's beneath even you."
The words landed like a slap. His grip tightened, then loosened. His jaw worked, the muscle twitching with barely suppressed emotion.
"Bitch." he said again, shoving you off of him, but there was no heat in it this time. Just exhaustion. Just longing.
"Jackass."
"You've made my life a living hell for twenty years."
"Mutual sentiment."
Silence stretched, with both of you standing merely a feet from each other, eyes locked onto the other's, searching for the one that would break first.
The sound of a throat clearing made you both freeze.
You both turned to find one of the men from the tech room standing in the doorway, a man pushing fifty with a receding hairline and an expression that could only be described as profoundly exhausted.
"Are you done eye-fucking each other," he said, his voice utterly flat, "or should I come back another time?"
You and Quentin scrambled apart like teenagers caught by a parent. You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, could feel the frantic beat of your heart.
"We weren't-" you started.
"That's not what-" Quentin interrupted.
"It was just-"
"The measurement-"
The man held up a hand, cutting off the stream of denials. His expression didn't change. "I don't care. I really, truly don't. I've been working for Tony Stark and then for you two for long enough that nothing surprises me anymore." He sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. "We've got the first rough prototype of the drones ready. You should come take a look when you're done."
He turned around and walked out, leaving you and Quentin alone in the sudden, deafening silence.
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
"Eye-fucking?" you repeated, your voice strangled.
"I believe that's what he said," Quentin replied, his composure cracking slightly. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "In his defense, he's not entirely wrong. At least on my part."
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Earving!Black Noir x Reader | Drabble | If a man loved you, he would be scared to touch you.
Note- Takes place sometime around S1,, established relationship,
Black Noir, who takes his time with you. Who touches you as if you're a delicate piece of pottery that could shatter at the slightest touch.
Black Noir who fears that the smallest bit of pressure could bruise your skin and break your bones.
So he holds back, retracting his hands when you show the smallest bit of discomfort. He's good at noticing it.
Sometimes you'd have to wrap his arm around you, and keep it there to show him that it's okay. That you won't break. That you can handle being touched by a supe.
In those situations, he would stare at you. His body would be rigid and tense. He'd be holding his breath. His thoughts would be running wild, are you sure that you want this? What if he accidentally bruises your skin? What if-
And at the very end, he would lean against you until his side is barely brushing yours. His thick armour --he insists on wearing it-- closing the space between the two of you more.
If his armour touches you, he barely notices, or refuses to notice it. He's scared to do anything. He's scared to feel something. To let himself like something that he could lose.
He's lost so much during Payback, he can't afford to get close and lose you too.
And when you reach up to unbuckle the straps of his helmet, he'll hesitate. His body will go stiff. What if his scarred face makes you lose interest?
His helmet will slide off, you will see his eyes. One healthy, dark brown eye, shining in the low light of the room whilst turning other is a milky white hue, surrounded by ugly scarring.
You don't flinch away. You never have, you never will. Not at the first sight of his worn, scarred, hands, calloused with decades of working in his field, and certainly not at the disfigurement around his left eye.
The fear in his eyes is clear as day as your fingers slip under his collar to pull his balaclava up. He doesn't stop you. No. He lets you pull his mask up until it slides off his head.
The left side of his head is bald with old burns and disfigurement. Flesh regrown in a way that makes your heart twist at the untold history he refuses to tell you.
His eyes stare at you, the warm hue of his healthy eye and the milky depths of his sightless eye, waiting for you to say something. Anything.
The kiss that follows surprises him. The man who had tried so hard to hide himself from the world, often shutting you out just to stare at something as if the air was having a conversation with him.
He wants to recoil. To hide away. To scribble down that you're doing the wrong thing by staying with him. By staying with damaged goods, that he's the wrong person-
But he can't help it. You're so sweet to him, you light up his day by just existing. Surely one kiss can't be fatal.
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ABC anon here! Separating the asks just as you wanted !
Please make N ABCs 🙏
SFW ABCs | N Harmonia | Headcanons
Note- Mentions of trauma,
A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)
At the start of the relationship, N is not affectionate at all. He will -slightly- flinch when he is being touched, and he'll recoil when you try to hug him, but as your relationship grows, he will become more open to affection, and eventually, he will give you awkward hugs.
B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)
If you aren't a pokémon trainer, he would be a great friend. And if you are one? It'd take him a while to trust you and give you a chance.
Friendship wise- he's a great friend with loyalty that knows no bounds. You've proven that you're a trustworthy person after all!
C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)
Cuddles with N are a bit awkward. He doesn't know where to put his hands. Do they go behind your back? Should he rest his head on his hand? Arceus help him if you spoon him, he'll be more awkward then.
D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)
It takes N a while to settle down with you, he's an awkward mess at the start. He can barely cook anything, but he's really good at keeping your spaces tidy. He'll cook vegan meals for most of the time, and vegetarian ones if you ask him.
E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)
N would break up with you in person, he'd be a bit awkward, but he'll tell you that he wants to break up. He'll give you some time to process it, but he'll walk away pretty quickly afterwards. If you abuse your pokémon, he'll take them.
F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)
Commitment SCARES N, so you'd have to be the one who proposes to him, this would also be a long time into your relationship.
G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)
N is rather blunt. He hasn't been taught on how to sugarcoat things, so he opts to tell you everything as it is. It might be harsh now. But it almost always ends up being better in the long run.
Physically? He's both and neither at the same time. He hesitates to touch you. He doesn't want to do the wrong thing and accidentally hurt you. Most of the time, he will be more gentle than he usually with everyone else.
H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)
At the start, hugs feel awkward for N. Someone having their arms tightly wrapped around him isn't his favourite thing, but he likes them more if you've been dating for a long time, engaged or married.
His hugs start off awkward at first. Real awkward. But in the end, his hugs feel more natural.
I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)
It takes N a long time to say it, and when he does, it comes off awkward and wrong sounding. He's not used to saying it or having it said to him. N would probably say "Love you," more often than "I love you," or anything else. But when he says "I love you," he really means it.
J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)
N doesn't get jealous easily, instead, he's the type of person to shut himself down if he thinks that not worthy of your attention or love.
K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)
Just like every other bit of affection, kisses are awkward. He'll kiss you on the forehead, the cheeks and even the top of your head. Sometimes he'll kiss your hands and knuckles too. Being kissed? N isn't too picky,
L = Little ones (How are they around children?)
N is awkward around children. He doesn't know how to act around them -how could he? When his whole childhood has been isolated in one room, he's bound to not know what to do.
If you ever want kids, just know that he will need A LOT of therapy before he can even become a decent dad. (Don't blame him. Blame Ghetsis.)
M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)
During the early mornings, N fills up your 'mons food bowls so they have something to eat when they wake up. He's not much of a cook, so he will come back to bed afterwards and wait for you to wake up.
If he does make breakfast, its usually something really simple but healthy,
N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)
If you aren't Stargazing, you're probably sleeping. N tries to not bother you when you sleep, opting to be in a different room, but if you ask him to, he will lay in the same bed, even if he doesn't fall asleep.
O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)
N isn't used to having someone he can rely on so it takes him a very, VERY long time to open up. Especially about how he was raised. Part of him thinks his childhood is normal, so that's why he hasn't shared much about it either. Everything else comes a bit quicker though.
P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)
It depends on the subject.
The abuse and mistreatment of Pokémon? He will easily get angered if you support it. Breaking up worthy angry. He won't tolerate disrespect for pokémon.
Other things? He's usually more patient, but it also depends heavily.
Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)
N tries to remember every little detail to show you that he cares !! It's his first relationship, he wants to show you that he can be a good partner!! Of course-- he will forget a lot of things, trauma related forgetfulness isn't an easy thing to deal with, but he tries his best. He mentally repeats what you like and dislike until it becomes second nature. He might forget stuff like what you talked about last night, but he will try to remember the most important things.
R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)
Early in your relationship, the two of you volunteered at a pokéshelter and went out for drinks and to stargaze after it closed. The way you cared for the pokémon when he wasn't watching made him realise who you were ad a person, that you were willing to help the inoccent and the broken, hence its his favourite memory.
S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)
N can get quite protective at times, especially when it comes to Team Plasma, he will do anything to make sure that they don't catch you.
He will always insist that he doesn't need to be protected, but he will be greatful if you tell him when you get even a small whiff of Team Plasma.
T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)
Chances are, you are his first partner, so he will try his best to be the best partner you could ever ask for. He will try to remember dates, and he'll work hard on getting you gifts. If he can't do any of those, he will do chores around the house, especially if you work a regular job.
U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)
N tends to isolate himself a lot- it's his default state, so he'd easily come back to it if something is wrong. Only your pokémon can really get him out of that state, especially when he thinks that you're mad or upset at him.
V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)
N tries to make himself seem more presentable for dates, but outside of showering and brushing his teeth. He doesn't really do much. If you ask him to, he will sit infront of a mirror and spend hours combining his hair.
W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)
No- N grew up hyper independent as he was isolated from everyone, so dating and relying on someone has become a luxury for him.
X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)
N is horrible at communicating, so his love language is acts of service. He likes to do things that make your life a lot easier,
Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)
If you're a pokémon trainer, or keep any as pets. N wouldn't like you from the start. He despises trainers and anyone who keeps 'mons. He'll come to accept you being a trainer later on if you are one, but only if your pokémon put in a good word for you.
And it goes without saying, he would never date you if you're abusive to your 'mons. The most he'll do is take them and leave. He can't live with himself knowing that he left some poor inoccent creatures in an abusive environment.
Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)
N has a random sleep schedule. Sometimes he's up until the crack of dawn, and other times he's sleeping in until noon.
Could you please do a sequel to the obsessive Spinel one? I would love to know how things progress in regards to further canon timeline even as far as after the timeskip. When exactly does the reader find out, what happens next?
Obsessive!Spinel x RVT!Reader | Part 2
CW- More obsessive, stalking, toxic relationship at the end, mentions of kidnapping,
His obsession ran deep. If you could be compared to something, it'd be the oxygen in his lungs keeping him alive.
He'd do anything to keep you by his side. Anything.
So even after Liko tells you about Spinel and how he was the one who brainwashed her, you never believed her. Spinel- your best friend who's always getting you things you're running low on!
At some point, Friede even hears about it, and he tries to convince you to avoid Spinel but Friede was a liar. He'd often tell you half truths to make you believe a certain story!
To say that you see Spinel everywhere is an understatement, but the two of you have always had the same tastes so it wasn't surprising. You were bound to run into eachother sooner or later.
You swear that he carved some spot out in your head for himself.
When you do find out how obsessive he is, the two of you would be in the third month of your relationship-- it's not like he's done something wrong either, he's a perfect partner, he knows what you need without you needing to ask or beg for it.
But, despite all the positives, you can't help but feel shaken up.
Leaving the relationship is the hard part. You're not even sure if you have a choice, he probably bugged every device you own, and purchasing new ones isn't a viable for you.
With him working at Exceed, and having the equivalent of a small army working for him, it complicates everything so much more.
Not to mention the amount of money he has that he'd be more than willing to use to get you back.
Never tell him that you want to leave. He will use any dirty tricks in the book to make you stay.
Love bombing would be the first one he'd use. Spinel will buy everything you ever wanted as long as it isn't a way to travel unless he --or someone grunt from Exceed-- is there with you.
Spinel will try to explain away the grunts by saying that they're only there to make sure that everything goes smoothly. And to his credit, they'll do just that if you travel. They'll carry any luggage, bags, trash, anything that you need carried.
Your freedom will slowly start to be limited too.
The scary thing is that you will never notice it until you're asking Spinel to go out with your friends.
If you don't ask him, he'll guilt trip you. He'll try to frame it into him caring about you and you randomly leaving scares him. He has a lot of enemies that will be more than happy to sweep you off the street to blackmail him.
He will make up enemies and pay people to kidnap you if you don't believe him.
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I came across a fic writer quite some time ago who shared requests they weren't doing/didn't get to allowing anyone else to write them if they wished.
No idea whether this is something that suits you or those who've sent you requests.
I don't think requesters are really going to get upset by someone else writing them? Especially the vaguer requests and having no OC's the requester could claim. At worst if they didn't like it they could ignore it?
Not gonna lie I understand both sides,, especially if someone really wanted a specific person to write their req,, and I also understand that some fanfic authors might not know how to write something,,
I have a doc somewhere that's just stuff that will never see the light of day, but it's usually non requested stuff,
Tbh I'm going to try to complete every request if I can,, and so far I've only actively ignored two and deleted one of them from memory (Someone accidentally calling reader whilst they (cc) are bathing,,, it felt too suggestive, even if nothing happens)
I finally caught up with pokémon HZ!! I like to think that it makes me more likely to write something, (I've started a few new drafts,, so I hope that I can finish something),