Hell Yeah

TO YOU, WORLDS AWAY

summary: in which soulmates come together on a planet worlds away from home. this is a story about how pandora became home. this is a story about how they became found it…but like all stories, the ending is left to eywa…

jake sully x reader

PART ONE:

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

We'll never know

Found this and I swear there's no image better fitted to describe my drinking experience

me after i get home from school

omg ☹️ I just had a thought so since miguel doesn’t see ai reader romantically, at least right now, what if there was this spider person (other than lego spider-man) who suddenly began popping up in miguel’ office more often and noticed that miguel seemed to not hate them being there. as this spider person shows up more often, ai reader gets significantly more and more bummed out because they think miguel likes said spider person romantically and does like a percentage check and gets upset when it’s above 1% lmao 😭

cws for gn reader/ai reader.

-

Cindy Moon, better known by her alias Silk, was the other woman—or, that’s what the internet told you when you had detailed your ‘problem’ on an online forum geared towards helping the romantically disadvantaged, leaving out the fact that you were an android and technically weren’t supposed to be able to experience these feelings for someone in the first place.

You hadn’t even known your feelings for Miguel had turned romantic until you had begun to wonder why you would suddenly grow displeased whenever he interacted with Cindy. You had originally assumed it was because his attention wasn’t on you, and you really liked when Miguel’s attention was on you, but after an internet query, you had discovered the concept of significant others, love, romance, affection.

You read countless people’s experiences with love, from happy tales that ended with lovers ending up in a quaint little house on a hill, to sad tales that ended in betrayal or heartbreak. You must have processed hundreds of thousands of words on the topic, and you felt as though you had a decent understanding of it, and in turn, a decent understanding of the foreign feelings brewing inside you.

Jealousy was the biggest one.

You were jealous of Cindy Moon, or more specifically, you were jealous of the way Miguel smiled when he spoke with her, not a hint of his usual negative attitude in his face. He looked carefree, light; shoulders lowered, fangs retracted, brown eyes bright, posture relaxed. He responded to her in low, soothing tones, nothing like the sharp quips he’d direct your way whenever he’d called you a ‘little nuisance’.

You began to wonder if perhaps Miguel felt the same way about Cindy, that you felt about him. The thought displeased you like no other, and you had a hard time focusing on doing the tasks that he asked you to do, but you didn’t like when Miguel looked at you with furrowed brows and heaved a sigh of…disappointment, so you ignored those feelings and did your work to the best of your ability.

The more you ignored your feelings, the stronger they became, and you had finally decided to do a few more queries.

~

“Love compatibility…” You tilt your head as you look up at one of Miguel’s many monitors. It’s late into the night, and the man has long since gone to sleep, leaving you to your own devices. He used to power you down, but after enough of your complaining about being shut off like a video game all the time, he had decided to let you stay on under the promise that you’d stay out of his stuff.

Your eyes take in the words on the screen. There’s two pink boxes surrounded by hearts, one box says ‘YOUR NAME’ and the other says ‘THEIR NAME’. You hum as you slowly pace in front of his keyboard. If you were understanding correctly, all you had to do was place your name into the box along with Miguel’s and then the machine would tell you how compatible the two of you were.

What a neat little thing!

You direct the cursor to the box on the right before climbing onto the keyboard, carefully punching in his name before you direct the cursor to other box. You’re suddenly hit with an idea, and you frown before slowly typing in Cindy Moon.

“Okay. Let’s do this.” You hit enter, and a feeling that perfectly matches up with the definition of anxiety rushes through you. A large heart (which is not anatomically correct, you notice) suddenly appears between the two names, a percentage just above it. Pink pixels slowly begin to fill the heart, and the 0 above it begins to rise.

Your anxiety grows as you watch the number go up, and up, and up, before it finally settles on a 57. You deflate, head hanging between your shoulders and boots scuffing at the metal table underneath you.

57 wasn’t a great score, but it was entirely too high for your liking! You had wanted it to go no higher than 0, and had been prepared to smile and cheer as you jumped around for joy, pacified in knowing that the two would never work out.

Less eager than when you had first started, you scroll the cursor over to the box containing Cindy’s name and delete it, briefly wishing it was this easy to delete her spot in Miguel’s life.

You glance down to the engraving on the inside of your wrist. ANDROID 007. You type it into the box, and the process repeats as you anxiously watch the screen, fingers tapping against your thigh as you wa—“What!?”

0% Even if these two were to defy the odds and become a couple, they are surely doomed to fail.

The words glare at you from the monitor, and you kick at the keyboard, angry huffs leaving you each time your foot hits a key.

What a stupid program! As if some sloppy coding could possibly predict—wait. ANDROID 007…was that really a name?

You stop your violent outburst and tap your finger against your chin. You weren’t given a name like how humans were. You hadn’t been born, but rather created, and the scientist that made you hadn’t been interested in being friendly with her creations. The label had been slapped onto your wrist just as your uniform had been slapped onto your body.

Androids didn’t usually have names, rather being called and identified by their number. Miguel chose to call you unfavorable nicknames, such as ‘pest’, ‘little nuisance’, or even ‘thorn’, derived from the saying of being the thorn in someone’s side. You didn’t dislike them, but you couldn’t really say those were your names, either.

Maybe I should just pick one myself, you think, and that leads you down a path of searching up name lists and trying out each and every one. You test them on your tongue, immediately giving some the boot while placing others into your ‘maybe’ pile.

The sun is just beginning to rise, and you’ve yet to find a name. You had grown more and more dejected as the hours passed, figuring you’d be doomed your zero percent for forever, but then you’re clicking onto a link that you hadn’t opened yet, and then you see it — the perfect name.

It resonates with you, and when you speak it, the word flowing effortlessly off your tongue, you smile and quickly head back to the compatibility tab, not wasting a second as you enter in your chosen name.

A few seconds go by, the number stagnant and the heart empty, when suddenly it fills up all at once, the number rising so quickly that it becomes a blur, and then a flurry of hearts are feeling the screen.

100% A match made in Heaven! Congratulations to the lovebirds! Send us a wedding invitation, will you?

-

Miguel enters his office to see you standing on his desk, hands clasped together in front of you as you regard him with a smile. He quirks a brow at your expression.

“Batteries got a full charge this morning or something?” He had been met with a sulk and pout every morning for the last week, and had been fully expecting the same thing today.

“I don’t operate on batteries, Miguel, we’ve been over this.” You walk to the end of the desk as he nears it, and he lowers himself into his seat, hand rubbing down his face as he relaxes into it. “You look more tired than usual. Are you not sleeping well? I can put in an order for stronger sleeping aids.”

“The pills I’ve got work just fine.” He yawns. The pills do work fine, on normal nights, nights where he doesn’t stay up late staring at his ceiling, thinking back on all his actions as he tries to figure which one upset you tot he point that you barely spoke to him, only moping about and casting him sad looks when you thought he wasn’t paying attention.

His gaze slides over to you, and he blinks when he sees that you’ve zoned out, smile plastered on your face as you let out soft sighs. “Hey,” he calls, but you ignore him. He snaps his fingers beside you, “hey, nuisance.” You flinch, slightly stumbling to the side, and he steadies you with his hand. You shoot him a glare, but then a smile is quickly replacing it. He blinks again.

“Actually,” you lay your hands on the back of his, “I’d prefer it if you called me a different name, Miguel.”

“A different name?”

“Yes, I picked one out for myself last night.”

“Hm,” he slowly nods, “guess everyone needs a name, don’t they? Alright. What’d you pick out?” You give it to him, and he tests it on his tongue, letting out a soft chuckle afterwards.

“You don’t like it?”

“No, I do. It suits you.” Your smile widens even more, and Miguel holds his hand out to you, finding the size difference comical when you place your own against his in an attempt of a handshake. “Nice to officially meet you.”

“You as well, Miguel.”

what I want to do to mens' bodies is between me and God and everyone on the internet and no one else

incendiary | 5 | bakugou x reader

pairing: Bakugou Katsuki / Fem Reader

length: 3.5k | 5th of 8 chapters

summary: When you accidentally go viral in defense of quirkless people, an extremist group puts a target on your back. Pro hero Dynamight is the last person you want watching it.

tags/warnings:  enemies to lovers, themes of discrimination (please see note in fic masterpost), canon typical violence, eventual smut, aged up characters

series masterlist

Almost overnight, things began to change.

Bakugou had apparently decided that ignoring you was off the table now, and he was there the next morning when you awoke, audibly puttering around the kitchen, making his usual ruckus of kitchenware sounds. You listened to him work, slowly blinking awake, trying not to think too hard about the events of last night.

He came back into the living room only a few minutes later, bearing two plates of western-style breakfast, piled high with fluffy mounds of scrambled eggs and perfectly golden potatoes. He shoved a plate in front of you like he’d already sensed that you were awake, then retreated back to the kitchen. He returned with two mugs of hot coffee that smelled heavenly–almost certainly fair trade and freshly ground.

He put one in front of you, then dropped down to his place on the opposite side of the coffee table, watching you scrabble out of the blankets with something like a smirk pressing at the corner of his mouth, as if he knew his food was the fire under your feet.

“New rule, brat,” he pronounced as you finally freed yourself, flinging yourself down at the table and seizing your utensils.

You couldn’t bring yourself to stop now that you were already in motion, so you fit an entire forkful of potato in your mouth, then looked at him questioningly.

The smirk on his mouth deepened. “Your little stunt yesterday attracted every quirk supremacist in a twenty mile radius to this neighborhood, so you’re gonna have to keep away from the windows until they fuck off.”

You inhaled wrong around your potato, the steam catching in your lungs, and you coughed a little. “What? Quirk supremacists—here?”

Bakugou took a slow sip of his coffee, and you tried not to notice the way his bare bicep flexed as he brought the mug to his mouth. He really needed to invest in shirts with sleeves. “Your little cashier friend from the convenience store apparently leaked video onto YouTube already. The attack’s made a couple of the morning news shows.”

Your stomach churned, and you let your fork clatter back to your plate. “They’ve found us?”

Bakugou’s scarlet gaze tracked your expression over the top of his mug. “Not yet. But people know you’re in the general area now. Genius Office is running ID on all the weirdos showing up around here to find out who they are and what the risk is. But until they know what we’re dealing with, you’re to keep away from the windows. And you’re not going outside again.”

You didn’t think you wanted to go outside again anyway, considering the events of last night. Not for a long while, anyway.

You would never tell him, but it was kind of a relief to have Bakugou in here with you, now, understanding the kinds of people you were up against. But that so sucked, not even being able to poke your nose out a window after weeks of already being cooped up.

You nodded resignedly. You took a sip of your own coffee, then had to suppress a shiver of delight. Definitely freshly ground, and definitely fancy.

“They haven’t seen Matsui, have they?” You asked.

Bakugou shook his head. His hair looked a little messier than yesterday, piecey with gel and slightly flattened on the side he must have slept on. “No. Nothing on Matsui yet.”

You picked up your fork again and went back to your breakfast, at least reassured by that fact.

“Any estimate on how much longer this is gonna go on for?” You asked.

Bakugou scrubbed a hand through that thick golden hair. You watched, strangely enraptured, as it sprang right back up again in wild tufts. “Not much if you keep luring them straight to where you are, princess.”

You frowned into your egg. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Bakugou’s socked foot poked into yours. “It’s a safehouse for a reason. There were ground rules for a reason.”

You scowled. “Yeah yeah, I get it now. Excuse me for never having been the target of a national witch hunt before.”

Bakugou smiled, a wicked, blade-sharp thing. He leaned across the table. “So you’re gonna be good for me now, brat?”

Your fork clattered against your plate, spattering egg everywhere. You jumped in surprise, registering belatedly that you’d dropped it.

“Good for—? Good—?” you spluttered.

If anything, Bakugou’s smile went wider. “Something wrong, princess?” His eyes were practically glowing as he spoke.

What the hell was he doing? It was one thing to stop giving you the cold shoulder and act friendlier in light of everything that had happened yesterday. It was one thing to make you dinner and breakfast and not loom over you while radiating disdain from every pore. But it was entirely another to do—to do—whatever the fuck that was!

You grasped your fork with suddenly numb fingers, pointedly looking away from him. “No.” You shoveled a large potato into your mouth as if to punctuate that statement.

Bakugou just watched you, too knowingly for your taste. “Uh huh,” he said.

You finished your meal at lightspeed, desperate to get away from Bakugou and whatever that had been just now. Bakugou ate more sedately, seeming like he was mulling something over between delicate bites of his breakfast. You did not care to find out what that was.

You brought your dish to the sink when you’d finished and washed it speedily, then beat a hasty retreat to the bathroom, standing in the shower for a long time. Then you crept back to your room and managed a little bit of homework after you’d dressed, though you were a little too unfocused for your liking.

When you checked your phone you found that messages had started to pile up again, with a litany of texts from Megumi crowning the stack.

MEGUMI ✨🍹🌴💕 girl you almost died are you okay 8:58 PM those douchebags omg 8:58 PM please tell me you’re okay i’m really worried about you 9:06 PM

And then, a couple hours later, in typical fashion:

MEGUMI ✨🍹🌴💕 that rescue was so hot though 12:09 AM the way dynamight was all rough with them and then all gentle with you 12:09 AM it’s okay if you’re dead i would have passed away too 12:10 AM

You reassured her that you were fine, then paused, staring at her later messages, mystified. What did she mean, the rescue had been so hot though?

As far as you remembered, Bakugou had come slamming in there, metaphorical guns blazing, and he’d hauled you out of there much the same way. You didn’t think there had been anything particularly sexy about getting your quirkless ass almost handed to you.

Curiosity prickling in your veins, you googled around for the video Bakugou had mentioned, wondering how it had looked so different to someone on the outside. You found an hours-old upload on YouTube entitled dynamight destroys 7-eleven shopfront to save internet legend drunk girl—a title you thought a little unfair considering you had not been drunk this time, even though that was apparently your internet moniker now.

The clip was shot from a vantage point above the register, and started with the back of your head as the two men from yesterday turned the corner and almost immediately began crowding you towards the register. You saw your own face in profile as you peered back at the cashier for help—his own face conveniently hidden from the video’s perspective—and then turned back and said something muted to the two men. The smaller one stepped towards you—you saw yourself take an alarmed step back.

And then, faster than you had remembered—Bakguou was shooting into the store, the glass windows shattering under the blow from the door as he threw it open.

He was just as much a presence on screen as he was in person, all violence and savage grace. You watched as he grabbed the smaller man’s hand and twisted it at a brutal angle, then produced quirk suppressors from where they had been belted under one pant leg, just above his boot. You hadn’t even noticed it, then, hadn’t even thought to question where the quirk suppressor had come from—but he’d been wearing sweatpants yesterday, a pair not unlike the ones he’d been wearing this morning at breakfast.

But he clearly was packing some kind of emergency supply—and you wondered if he was wearing it now, even clanking around in the kitchen.

Then you watched as Bakugou approached you, saw yourself stumble as he grabbed your shirt to pull you out. To your surprise, you could see sudden concern twisting his features, clear as day, and you watched with surprise as he leaned down to look you in the face, hands going under your elbows to support you.

You remembered that—but it had all been so fast, and the sight of his hands, so gentle on you after he’d been so rough with the two men, made something in your stomach shift strangely. He really did seem to be looking after your safety, like an actual certified, probably-not-quirkist pro hero. You watched as Bakugou said something to you, and pulled you up into his arms. You instantly cringed at how truly princess-like you looked—having to be escorted out of the store under someone else’s power.

Embarrassingly, the comments section under the clip seemed particularly focused on that aspect as well.

2:11 ok but the way his arms flexed when he lifted her????? hello?????? jghgl26 2 hours ago Reply [Thumbs Up] 600 [Thumbs Down]

how he’s gonna carry me over the threshold after our wedding dynadaddy’s girl 5 hours ago Reply [Thumbs Up] 1.1k [Thumbs Down]

THE LIFT!!!!! HOLY SHIT!!! HOW EASY IT WAS FOR HIM?? am i gregnant? am i pegnate?? how to know if pregonate????? Rika Abe 2 hours ago Reply [Thumbs Up] 1.7k [Thumbs Down]

A hunted energy creeped over you as you read through them, your skin tingling. It suddenly took everything you had in you to click out of the video and not rewind it to the part where Bakugou had first hefted you into his arms. It had not been that appealing. And there was absolutely no reason you needed to witness the events again, no reason at all.

Bakugou chose that exact moment to rap on your door, and you accidentally flung your phone across the room in surprise, scrambling upright on your bed.

“Uh—come in,” you said, trying to not sound flustered.

Bakugou had clearly showered too as his hair was still damp, and moisture still glittered in the divots of his arm muscles. You clamped down very tightly on the echo of pegnate?? Am i gregnant???? that was suddenly the only sound in your entire brain.

No no no no.

You would not let Megumi and some internet perverts get the best of you.

“Oi, you just gonna sit here all day?” Bakugou demanded.

You frowned up at him. “I have been doing homework, thank you very much,” you said defensively.

Bakugou made a show of surveying your bed which was pointedly empty of any textbooks or notepads. “Yeah, looks like you’re real hard at work, princess.”

“Well I was,” you said, but you could already tell Bakugou had made up his mind.

“It’s time to talk about your second new rule,” he pronounced smugly.

“Another one?” You asked, heart sinking.

That razor sharp smile cut into Bakugou’s mouth again. “Yeah. You’re learning how to cook actual fucking food.”

You paused and stared at him, mystified. “What,” you asked flatly.

“I told you I was sick of watching you eat garbage,” he said. You could almost taste the disdain, dripping off of him like butter off of the baked potato he had so despised. “I can’t keep you alive if you die of fucking scurvy.”

“I eat fruit!” You bit back defensively. “And potatoes are good for treating scurvy!”

Bakugou wasn’t listening, though. Before you knew what was happening, he’d already fisted his hand in the back of your shirt and was hauling you to your feet. You felt like a kitten being scruffed by its intimidatingly well-muscled mother.

“Bakugou–what the hell—?”

But you were already being herded into the kitchen, where Bakugou had apparently preemptively arranged the instruments of your torture—several knives, a grater, a variety of pots, a rainbow of vegetables, an apple, some chicken, and a knob of ginger. Behind it all you spotted several other types of herbs and spices, some flour, and chicken stock.

“You’re gonna make curry, princess,” he informed you imperiously.

Curry! Okay now curry you could kind of do. You peered around for the sauce mix, poking through the ingredients on the counter.

Bakugou watched you, scarlet eyes tracking you curiously. “What,” he asked, though it was barely phrased like a question.

“Where’s the packet?” you asked, not finding it among the things he’d laid out.

Two blonde eyebrows went up, and you swore you could almost see a vein pop in Bakugou’s forehead. He grabbed the counter beside your hip, leaning back in, and you definitely did not notice the definition in his bicep as he did so.

“Packet?” He demanded, in the tones of someone who’d just witnessed their entire family get massacred. “Packet?”

You watched his handsome face work through what had to be the five stages of grief. “If I fucking ever hear about a packet again I’ll sell you to Matsui myself,” he said.

He reached over and slammed a kitchen scale down in front of you, followed by several of the ingredients. “Now pay attention, brat, I’m not showing you this twice.”

You knew better than to argue.

Under Bakugou’s stern direction, a curry roux—a term you would not have been able to supply before he’d said it—came together quickly. He stationed you at the stove, stirring everything together for almost twenty minutes while he chopped vegetables in front of you, a rainbow of carrots, potatoes, onions, and some leftover asparagus and peppers he’d dug out of the fridge. Then he made you grate an apple and some ginger into a paste while he sliced the chicken in expert strokes, narrating everything in his gruff tones.

It was strangely hypnotic, watching Bakugou’s hands work. You’d not paid much attention before, but he had long fingers, almost elegant but for the various scars and calluses that littered his skin, evidence of his career pressed into his fair flesh. You watched his fingers bunch at the end of the knife, the swift, decisive sweep of his palm moving ingredients back and forth on the cutting board.

Your skin prickled with the memory of those hands on you in the hallway after you’d passed out, the image of how gently those hands had handled you in the convenience store, and you shook off the thought, the back of your neck weirdly warm.

They were just hands. And they were Bakugou’s hands, for that matter. Make one wrong move on the end of those hands and you’d get cooked, faster than the curry you were working on now.

Eventually Bakugou divided everything into two bowls, and shepherded you over to the coffee table.

“That’s real curry, princess,” he informed you haughtily as you sat down, blowing on the golden sauce. It shimmered under the living room lighting, curls of steam rising off of it in tempting twists.

If this was real curry, you never wanted to eat anything else. As with dinner and breakfast, it was perfect—expertly seasoned, everything evenly sliced and cooked just right. You hated how much you liked it, suppressing a pleased groan as you shoveled down spoonfuls.

“I hate you for how good this is,” you admitted to him.

A wicked smirk cut the corners of Bakugou’s mouth, and the sight of it raised a strange heat to your face. You shifted uncomfortably.

Whatever. It was probably just the spice in the curry.

After dinner you helped Bakugou wash up, and you were sent for a loop by how easy it was. There was still some kind of… tension… that you couldn’t quite put your finger on, and it wasn’t like he’d done a complete one-eighty in your esteem.

But knowing now that he hadn’t despised you for your quirklessness… hadn’t even actually despised you at all, really. It seemed like it had somehow flipped a switch inside of you. You’d told him that you’d needed more time to think on it, to come to terms with the things that he’d told you about himself. But really, with the air cleared so definitively, well—

You kind of thought maybe Bakugou wasn’t horrible after all.

You still wanted to bite him, actually–that hadn’t gone away–but you definitely didn’t think he was horrible.

The thought unnerved you.

When you were done you retreated to your room, still mulling that idea over, bemused at the idea that Bakugou wasn’t actually bad if you weren’t looking at him through the lens of your quirk supremacist glasses.

You managed a little bit more homework and cleaned up your notes from one of your previous lectures, shooting off a couple questions to one of your TAs. And that’s when you finally noticed it, an email from earlier this afternoon, sitting primly at the top of your inbox. It read: New Day Japan - Interview Request

You opened the email, interest piqued by the mention of one of the country’s most famous morning programs. What it said inside floored you.

Miss L/N, My name is Honda Ichika; I’m a producer here at New Day Japan. We’re airing a segment on the two quirkless anti-discrimination bills currently circulating in the National Diet, and we plan to cover your story in relation. We would love to interview as part of this segment. Specifically, we are hoping you can comment on: - Cultural barriers quirkless civilians face - Your specific experiences with respect to the events portrayed in your viral video and subsequent run-in last evening, as a microcosm of those cultural barriers, and -Your feelings on the efforts of the assembly to pass these anti-discrimination bills. The interview won’t exceed 15 minutes and will take place Thursday morning in our studio in Nakano (address to be provided upon acceptance). While I can’t offer questions ahead of time, I promise the questions will fall within the outline I mentioned above. The story, once completed, will run Friday morning. Please let us know by Sunday what your interest is. Cordially, Honda Ichika

You gaped, stunned by the idea that anyone wanted to interview you about anything.

New Day Japan was a hugely important morning news program that had been running for something like the last fifty years, and it was a massive platform for anyone looking to speak to the average citizen.

You didn’t know that you in particular had anything worthy of that massive platform, and you were squirreled away in a safehouse besides, having just almost eaten it at the hands of two random quirkist assholes just yesterday. So it was probably not a great idea to draw any more attention to yourself, and it wasn’t like you had some huge message you wanted to share at the cost of your safety.

So you closed your laptop instead of answering, pulling up twitter on your phone for something to distract you.

And yet, even as you scrolled, your mind was helplessly drawn back to the email like a magnet, catching on key points. A segment on the two quirkless anti-discrimination bills, the cultural barriers quirkless civilians face….

Please let us know by Sunday what your interest is.

You had two days to either put it out of your mind, or figure out why it was piquing your interest so much. You could give it more thought in the morning.

You wondered absently, as you drifted off to sleep, what Bakugou would make of it.

I hope when I die I become a jellyfish instead of a corpse.

PLEASE STAND BY

Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader (18+)

Warning: This will contain spoilers for the TV series “WandaVision”, it will also contain explicit content and each chapter will have warnings/contains at the beginning

There is something about this town, almost like it thrums with an energy that runs through it. There is something about the Vision household, almost like they’re holding something close to their chest. Everything here is perfect, unbearably perfect. You were always meant to find Wanda, but these feelings seemed to be off script. Please Stand By.

Chapter 1: Love is strange

Chapter 2: The times they are a-changin’  (Coming soon)

Chapter 3: She’s not heavy, she’s my lover  (Coming soon)

Chapter 4: Feel it in the air tonight  (Coming soon)

you ever know someone and you think “god i love you. i wish we could’ve known eachother when we were carefree and 11. i wish we could’ve played together as kids”