VILLAINY?

BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA:

— ALL MIGHT ; toshinori yagi

( 18+ ) bruised ego | part one ; f!reader / all might young!might. you & toshinori have a great working relationship. all might is like a mentor. a great guy. a real, stand-up dude. a hero who inevitably has to help you deal with the side-effects of being hit with a love quirk. ( 18+ ) bruised ego | part two ; f!reader / all might young!might. he should have waited for you. but no, toshinori felt like he had something to prove. now, roles are reversed and he needs your help. #bruised ego | the tag ; includes headcanons, drabbles, and asks pertaining to the bruised ego series ( 18+ ) all smite + tears ; f!reader / all smite part of the #birbs smut blurbs ( 18+ ) toshinori + voice ; f!reader / toshinori part of the #birbs smut blurbs ( 18+ ) toshinori + breeding kink ; f!reader / toshinori part of the #birbs smut blurbs sex ed ; nurse!reader / vice principal yagi "please tell me they paid you well for these thinly veiled metaphors about finding the clitoris." ( 18+ ) guilty jerk off ; reader / toshinori part of the #birbs smut blurbs ( 18+ ) post-mission office sex ; f!reader / all might part of the #birbs smut blurbs

— HAWKS ; keigo takami

meet & greet | part one ; f!reader / hawks you manage to snag two VIP meet & greet tickets for your nephew's birthday. he insists you join him. part one of two. ( WIP ) meet & greet | part two ; f!reader / hawks coming soon. ( 18+ ) keigo + begging ; f!reader / hawks part of the #birbs smut blurbs #meet & greet | the tag ; includes headcanons, drabbles, and asks pertaining to the meet & greet series

— DABI ; touya todoroki

burner cell | part one ; f!reader / dabi you end up at the league's bar, unbeknownst to you or your drunk friends. you just want to go home. set in the early days of bnha. burner cell | part two ; f!reader / dabi after a week of silence, you finally text dabi. burner cell | part three ; f!reader / dabi a night out with dabi. #burner cell | the tag ; includes headcanons, drabbles, and asks pertaining to the burner cell series

— SHOTO ; shoto todoroki

can't we be seventeen? ; f!reader / shoto he's loved you since he was seveteen.

— RED RIOT ; eijiro kirishima

noise complaint ; f!reader / red riot red riot feels really bad about absolutely wrecking the shit out of your treasured plants, or eijiro kirishima falls in love at first sight.

— SUNEATER ; tamaki amajiki

( 18+ ) tamaki + tentacle ; f!reader / suneater part of #birbs smut blurbs

— ENDEAVOR | enji todoroki

( 18+ ) endeavor + whipped ; f!reader / enji part of #birbs smut blurbs

— ERASURE HEAD ; shouta aizawa

( 18+ ) aizawa + eating ; f!reader / shouta part of #birbs smut blurbs ( 18+ ) shota in love ; imagine what he is like in love ( 18+ ) aizawa + doggy ; f!reader / shouta part of #birbs smut blurbs

— MINDJACK ; hitoshi shinso

( 18+ ) mindjack + quirk ; f!reader / hitoshi part of #birbs smut blurbs

KIMETSU NO YAIBA:

— KYOJURO RENGOKU

the fool ; f!hashira reader / rengoku all you wanted was to pass out in your room, but no. here you are, dragging yourself (quite literally) up the mountainside to the ubuyashiki mansion's onsen.

— SANEMI SHINAZUGAWA

moonbeam ; f!hashira reader / sanemi you & shinazugawa have a score to settle, but you never did agree on the stakes, did you?

— TENGEN UZUI

( 18 + ) fingering and sound ; f!reader / tengen part of #birbs smut blurbs

— YORIICHI TSUGIKUNI

( 18 + ) ginger and miso ; f!reader / yoriichi part of #birbs smut blurbs

JUJUSTSU KAISEN:

— SUGURU GETO

the fall ; f!reader / geto it's loud. geto can silence it. set post-hidden inventory.

— SATORU GOJO

be okay ; f!reader / gojo you've been promised to one another since the very beginning. be okay | part two ; f!reader / gojo the engagement is on. you move to tokyo. ( 18+ ) gojo + lineage ; f!reader / gojo part of #birbs smut blurbs

— NANAMI KENTO

( 18+ ) nanami + tie ; f!reader / nanami part of #birbs smut blurbs ( 18+ ) picture your face / whisper your name ; f!reader / nanami Nanami Kento has had feelings for you since your joined the sales team as his junior. You've felt the same. He's resigning. The feelings aren't.

KAIJU NO. 8:

— KAFKA HIBINO

"you look ridiculous in that outfit." ; f!reader / kafka prompt request; angsty

—SOSHIRO HOSHINA

( 18 + ) agreed ; f!reader / hoshina part of #birbs smut blurbs

MODERN WARFARE:

— SIMON RILEY ; ghost

handler's manual | part one ; f!reader / ghost moth is the 141's intel specialist. ghost is the 141's resident freak. handler's manual | part two ; f!reader / ghost moth & johnny spar. ghost is in a bad mood. moth's theories grow. handler's manual | part three ; f!reader / ghost a new year's eve honeypot brings a realization. handler's manual | part four ; f!reader / ghost you can't sleep. simon can't either. handler's manual | part five ; f!reader / ghost kortac makes an appearance. you owe a certain colonel an apology. ghost ain't about it. handler's manual | part six ; f!reader / ghost no graves + mess hall bolognese + laundry day ≠ good ghost mood? blood & body ; f!reader / ghost set during mission: alone. you won’t die today.

— JOHNNY MACTAVISH ; soap

liar's den ; f!reader / soap drinks and pining shared.

HALO: TV SERIES:

— JOHN-117; master chief

pedestal, altar, cross ; f!reader / john-117 drabble series set post-season 1, slight canon-divergence, game & book references. john severs that hormonal pellet between his vertebrae and things change between him and you, his brokkr technician.

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE:

— CALEB ;

( 18+ ) insubordinate ; f!reader / colonel caleb court martial? more like squirt martial. (i'm sorry.) (i'm not)

ONE PIECE:

— RORONOA ZORO ;

swan dive ; f!reader / zoro port d'beau proves to be anything but an easy job. you almost drown, zoro saves you. [set post-arlong, pre-alabasta] drunk with zoro ; f!reader / zoro headcanons with being drunk with zoro ( 18+ ) double penetration + sanji ; f!reader / zosan part of #birbs smut blurbs ( 18+ ) sleepy ; f!reader / zoro tw: consensual somnophilia

— PORTGAS D. ACE ;

1. best of friends ; f!reader / ace headcanons about being bffs (in love) 2. best of friends ; f!reader / ace blurb about being bffs (and kissing) ( 18+ ) 1½. best of friends ; f!reader / ace mutual support? more like mutual masturbation ( 18+ ) spitfire ; f!reader / ace part of #birbs smut blurbs ( 18+ ) messy eats ; f!reader / ace part of #birbs smut blurbs

— VINSMOKE SANJI ;

( 18+ ) mutual masturbation ; f!reader / sanji part of #birbs smut blurbs ( 18+ ) double penetration + zoro ; f!reader / zosan part of #birbs smut blurbs

— DRACULE MIHAWK ;

( 18+ ) hand necklace ; f!reader / mihawk part of #birbs smut blurbs ( 18+) late night return ; f!reader / mihawk part of #birbs smut blurbs ( 18+ ) silent treatment ; f!reader / mihawk part of #birbs smut blurbs

— TRAFALGAR LAW ;

( 18+ ) intimacy headcanons ; hcs about law being a sexual creechur ( 18+ ) anorgasmia ; f!reader / law part of #birbs smut blurbs

— RED-HAIRED SHANKS ;

( 18+ ) step-captain, i'm stuck! ; f!reader / shanks part of #birbs smut blurbs

— VICE ADMIRAL SMOKER ;

( 18+ ) you can take it ; f!reader / smoker part of #birbs smut blurbs

— BUGGY THE CLOWN ;

( 18+ ) an egregious misuse ; f!reader / buggy part of #birbs smut blurbs

— SIR CROCODILE ;

( 18+ ) too busy ; f!reader / croc part of #birbs smut blurbs

The sun has begun to set, and the adults have settled in; he feels — in his heart — like he is only playing at adulthood, thrust too fast upon him. The men with crow’s feet and worn voices trade cigarettes and stories over wine, and laugh about days past that feel like dreams. Beer and wine sweat down their glasses in the heat.

Shanks has a habit of being romantic about things like this, about the old days, and so he regales his dueling partner with stories of the Oro Jackson.

Dracule is not listening.

No, his attention has been robbed.

He so suddenly feels like a boy, eyes lit up like two gilded coins in the sun. Behind you, the guitars swell.

You are wearing white. You are laughing — there is wine spilt down the front of your linen dress, and your hair is wild from the heat. You are playing with the children, waving them away from you like fruit flies drawn to your sweetness. They tug at your skirts and hang onto your boots, and you are not bothered, and Dracule feels like someone has reached into his ribs and squeezed. He is bothered. Shanks sees it.

You see it.

Through the crowd — through dancing brothers and sisters and cousins and aunts and uncles, through skirts and flags and cigarette smoke and plucked strings of the guitars — you meet his eyes.

You so suddenly understand the croon from the woman on stage, singing of young love.

He is handsome.

Terrifyingly so.

His eyes are gold, like the cross that hangs from his neck and rests against his sun-warmed skin. His shirt is loose, unbuttoned, draped open to the navel. Long legs cross over one another, and you know he is tall. His boots are pristine: deep red leather that has been cared for, much like the coat draped across the back of his chair with embroidered peonies. His hair is dark, and it falls in untamed, wild waves against the back of his neck. He is beautiful, really — and he stares.

You stare back.

Then the moment is gone as quick as it comes, bisected by divided attention.

The children cry your name, wondering why you’ve stopped waltzing with them balanced upon your shoes.

Shanks elbows Mihawk. The redhead's gaze darts back and forth, and for a moment, he wonders what his acquaintance sees.

The crowd swallows you both up, like the sea, and time spins on.

It is summer in the South Blue. He is twenty-six years old.

He is older. He has a new title. Marine Hunter.

There is anger in his heart, and a grudge that sits in his belly like a stone. He thinks it may sink him someday, may drive him mad — but Shanks is a consistent force against that fate. It feels, at times, that he is righted on a path after crossing blades with the young pirate. His new proclivity for distrust burns; it bleeds out of him in strikes of steel. Shanks handles it well, volleys and spars with the anger, until it is nothing but a split sky on an empty island.

Their friendship is strange, but it is all he has.

Shanks and wine.

The Festival d’Vendemmia.

A cork pops. Someone laughs. A breeze ripples the colorful flags hung high across the plaza. There is applause around the band in the corner of the plaza, and the swell of something slow and yearning begins in a tongue he knows.

The music stirs a memory of home. It feels like looking through warped, foggy glass. He remembers a voice. His mother, maybe? It does not matter. He will not sit here in the evening air and begin reminiscing like the others. That road is long, and he does not have the patience to walk it.

He drains his wine as Shanks chatters on and on.

It stains Dracule’s mouth red.

There is a tap on his shoulder.

His head turns, dark lashes rising. He smells like citrus and salt and something metallic — copper, or blood, you’re not sure. It doesn’t matter. Not when he is so beautiful up close. His nose is long and straight and sharp, and those eyes have the same gilded edge to them as five years ago. He looks a bit more grown up, with a beard creeping up his chin. It suits him.

You stand there, with wine-stained fingers, and cradle the glass decanter. You’re wearing white.

You, the beautiful one. The girl he thought about for years after the fact — with the children hanging on our skirts.

Dracule feels as though he’s been caught on the back step. He feels like he missed a parry, as his blade has slipped from his hands. He feels vulnerable. This close, you can see him for all he is — sweat-stained and exhausted, worn from hours of dueling in the dunes. He feels like a boy, and you look like a woman. Beautiful. Your mouth moves, but he is too busy gazing at your wine-stained lips.

Dracule is staring.

Shanks blinks between the two souls, and for once in his life, he shuts up. His brows climb slowly as the moment stretches on, curiosity burning brighter than the setting sun.

“I asked,” you finally repeat, the corner of your mouth twitching, “Would you like another glass?”

Shanks perks up. Dracule silences him with a pointed look.

He offers his glass. You fill it with a pour that is more than generous.

His eyes burn against your skin. You make a point of ignoring it, only giving in when you move to return the glass to his hands. Your eyes connect with his, and as he reaches, you pull back.

Mihawk’s brows pinch.

“You have been here before,” you state plainly; it isn’t a question, “But you’re not from here.”

“We’re—”

Dracule glares at Shanks. Shanks shuts up. He raises both hands in surrender and leans back in his chair.

“We’re merchants.”

“Is that so?” you lilt as you tilt your head, narrow your eyes, and accept the lie as payment for the wine.

His fingers brush yours. The contact burns. It feels dangerous, like him. Your eyes linger as distance grows. You flit away into the crowd, smile traded for small talk as you fill glasses and chat with townsfolk. Dracule cannot look away. Shanks can’t either. The future Yonko’s grin is peeled from ear to ear as he shakes his head, sips his beer, and leans in.

“Undone by a pretty thing, Mihawk?” Shanks chortles, “Perhaps if I wore a white dress, you would allow me a win in our next match.”

He pauses with the glass only inches from his lips and fires back: “Enough.”

Dracule sips and swears it's the best wine he’s ever had.

It is summer in the South Blue. He is twenty-seven.

Shanks lounges beside him, a bottle dangling between his fingers. The straw hat on his head is pulled down over his eyes. He has been in his cups since they arrived — for a while, they did not speak. For a while, all that moved between them was the drunken sway of Shank’s hand to lyricism in a language he did not speak.

The wine is as good as Dracule remembers. The music, too, and again he remembers something far away and twisted in thorns. It’s barely there, a memory that feels important. He thinks it must be his mother, because what else is worth remembering?

Shanks snores softly, and Dracule finishes his wine, and the moon hangs high.

The Festival d’Vendemmia.

The two pirates have been here for a while now — at their usual table — and the children have retired. There is no more swordplay with sticks, jumping rope, or games of tag. The air has changed. The lanterns burn bright against the stars in the sky, and the lights strung across the plaza cast shadows across the couples dancing slowly beneath them.

Tangles of movement. Steps forward and back, and hands in hands. Nose to nose. Fingers bunched in fabric, bodies pressed against one another. Intense.

He sees you, then — finally.

Your laughter burns as some lanky, baby-faced boy sweeps you across the plaza; Dracule’s fingers twitch against his glass. It is empty. Has been for a while now. You move with grace, floating with less sticky, syrupy movements than the other dancers, a testament to your interest in your dance partner. It soothes something in him to think you’re humoring something. The boy's hands stay idle on your waist. Appropriate. You lean close, say something, and you both laugh.

It strikes Dracule that you’re teaching the boy to dance.

You catch his eyes at that exact moment.

You blink, apologize to Tomas, and step aside.

Dracule’s palms start to sweat the moment you come to a stop before him.

You look him over. His beard is clean, lining his jaw. His hair is longer than last you saw him, and he is wearing a hat. The brim is wide, and the material is a red that’s so dark it’s nearly black. It hides his eyes in the shadows. His coat is draped across the back of his chair. That same gold crucifix rests against his sternum amongst chest hair, and the rolled cuffs of the linen poet’s shirt fall loosely around his forearms.

His eyelashes are long.

He is beautiful.

For a moment, you stare at one another.

Then:

“You lied.”

Dracule’s stoicism betrays the inner war within him.

“Did I?” he rasps.

You like his voice.

“You did, Marine Hunter,” you breathe, letting your eyes wander; your hands fall to your hips, and he feels a bit like he is being chastised. Then, your lips quirk. You smile. And Dracule swallows a roll of something warm in his belly. It is not anger. It is not annoyance.

It is new.

“The lie about being a merchant was clever,” you lean, hip popped, “I may have believed it, had I not seen your bounty poster a month later.”

“Ah.”

Your smile grows. No, blooms. Like a peony, petaled and soft. You look to his companion, and amusement dances in your eyes. The sleeping, red-haired one has a bounty poster, too. You’ve seen it. You and the girls in the vineyard trade whispers when new, dashing bounty posters are hung in the town square. During the wine harvest, in the late summer heat, you pick grapes off the vine and snack on the fruit in the shade, and you speak in your mother tongue about what it would be like to be whisked away by some handsome, dangerous stranger.

You kept his bounty poster — Dracule Mihawk’s — like it was for your eyes only. Ripped it right from the board, tucked it into the pocket of your skirts, and treasured it. It sits in your bedside table, tucked in a book of poems.

He looks much better in full color; living and breathing.

You hold your hand out.

He stares at it.

“Well?” you ask.

His gilded eyes narrow. “If you are seeking beri to keep my identity some sort of secret, I am uninterested—”

Your brow quirks in silent admonishment. He catches it, stops himself, and lifts his chin. His eyes narrow imperceptibly for a moment, the microexpression measuring your intention. He does not catch your meaning.

You turn your eyes toward the plaza.

Mihawk balks.

“I do not dance.”

“You are a swordsman, aren’t you?” you ask, challenging him, “A duel is a dance of sorts, is it not?”

“Perhaps,” he lazes back, “But it is not the bachata.”

Your grin grows. He didn’t think it possible, and there you go: wrinkling your nose and creasing the corners of your eyes as you beam at him. For a moment, you spy him wrestling with something close to a smile. He rolls his jaw, and you mimic the movement. You are teasing him, like he isn’t a man with a bounty and a reputation. Dracule crosses his arms.

You mirror him.

Shanks snores. He startles a bit at the sound, mumbles something, and settles back into the lull of his drunken nap.

Your smile twists into something wry as you look away, eyes fleeting across the plaza.

“Fine,” you concede, not meaning it at all, “I will find another partner.”

Dracule’s eyes narrow. His fingers twitch toward his empty glass. You notice.

“The young man by the fountain has been watching you since you stepped away,” he drawls, his attention piercing through the crowd. The man is blonde. He has a loose smile. He is chatting with friends of his; they’re all boyish and drunk. Your expression sours when you turn to look.

“He can keep watching,” you retort.

“Uninterested?” Dracule spars, his brow quirking.

It feels unfair when you drag your eyes down his chest, then back up to his face; you’re making your stance clear — you favor him — as you murmur, “Incredibly.”

Dracule’s jaw feathers. His eyes peer past you. “…Who is he?”

“A waste of our air,” you bitterly scoff.

Dracule sucks his teeth. He exhales, shoulders tense. He’s waffling. Wavering. His eyes flick to Shanks — fast asleep — and then to you. Then, again, back to the man who’s chewing his thumb and staring at your backside through the crowd.

Your eyes follow Dracule’s. You scowl. It is the Flemming’s son. Their eldest. The one your father keeps insisting is a nice boy. You know how these talks go. You’ve seen the men in your family sow this exact seed: he’s a nice boy from a good family; he would make a good husband, a better father. It is how marriages go here on this tropical isle.

Especially when the Flemming boy is set to inherit the only other vineyard on the island aside from your family’s.

But that isn’t why you have such a dislike toward Filip, no. It’s much worse. His father has always occupied some sort of political office on the island. He is a radical devotee of the Five Elders, never once challenging law or doctrine that maims the spirit of people, their culture, their livelihoods, or their land. They seem to have that man — and his son by proxy — by the balls. And you? You were educated. Well-read. Your own father always joked that the island’s News Coo knew you by name.

Opposites do not attract. Not when your own ideologies are already dangerous. Not when you help the others on the island print pamphlets and stuff them into wine barrels set across the Grand Line, distributing revolutionary manifestos. Art. Poems. Anything, really, forbidden by the World Government.

“He seems keen on you,” Mihawk rumbles, jutting his chin out to gesture to the gaggle of boys clapping the man on the back. There’s apprehension, though, in his expression. Dracule cannot put a finger on why you seem so displeased with the attention.

“Is he a scorned lover of yours?” the swordsman drawls, head tilting.

“Calling my propriety into question?” you drawl back, head tilting the opposite way, “How bold of you, Mihawk.”

Oh, this is dangerous. You spar with words — as if that were a duel. You dance around the question, redirecting, like you’re balancing a blade on your tongue. It is impressive, and Dracule’s usual stoicism cracks for a moment. The corner of his mouth ticks upward before it’s schooled back into its usual position.

“You know my name,” he states — attempting to feign boredom as he uncrosses his legs, “And yet, you have not given me yours.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I’m asking now,” he rumbles as he stands to full height; he towers over you as he grasps his coat and swings it over his shoulders. He moves like a shadow, and large palms reach up to adjust his hat. He kicks Shanks' boot to rouse his compatriot from his drunken stupor.

You suck your teeth to stop yourself from leaping at the opportunity. You roll your jaw and fend off a smile as you notice he is trying very hard to do the same. Your chin is raised defiantly. “You know, they generally advise girls against giving their names to pirates.”

His eyes narrow. You’re still teasing. Shanks, bent over his knees and rubbing his temples, laughs.

“If I do not know your name,” Dracule pauses pointedly before he murmurs, “How will I write you?”

Oh, your smile. It’s worth making a fool of himself, certainly, because Shanks does not let him live it down, not the entire way back to the docks.