#Incendiary Blonde

[queenofwands89]

Do you do fanfic requests? If so I was hoping for maybe an angsty enemies to lovers with Tyler Owens, like they are rivals and just got off on a bad start that spiraled into them hating each other but slowly seeing there's more there but being in denial until maybe like Reader gets injured in a chase or helping someone and Tyler realized how he truly feels? Idk lol. Just need some good angst and hurt comfort.

Stormfront Showdown (Part 1)

Tyler Owens x fem!Stormchaser!reader

Summary: Y/N and Tyler have been longstanding rivals, their past filled with unresolved conflicts and clashing opinions on storm chasing. With vastly different approaches to tracking and studying storms, their heated debates have become legendary. Now, with the upcoming storm chasing convention on the horizon, tensions are set to skyrocket. You know Tyler will be there, and the question is: will this be another explosive encounter, or will the storm finally bring them together in unexpected ways?

Word count: 2262

Warnings: Enemies to lovers, rivals to lovers, verbal sparring, competition, dumb blonde joke, teasing, a little angsty idk.

Notes: Thank you so much for your request! I apologize for the delay; I recently started school and things have been hectic. I took a bit of creative liberty with your request and turned it into a short series. I hope you don't mind! If anyone wants me to make a taglist, just let me know. I hope you enjoy it—bye! 💜

The storm chaser convention is your annual pilgrimage as a weather enthusiast or professional. The ballroom of the Kansas City Grand Hotel buzzes with anticipation. As you stand at the entrance, your eyes sweep the room with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. You don't particularly enjoy these crowded events, preferring the solitude and precision of your solo chases, but your presence here is a necessary evil—an opportunity to share your findings and emphasize the importance of safety and scientific rigor.

You smooth the front of your blazer, double-checking your notes for the panel discussion. It’s then that you spot him: Tyler Owens. The Tornado Wrangler himself stands surrounded by a throng of fans and admirers, his laughter loud and infectious. His rugged appearance, complete with cowboy boots and a well-worn hat, seems to dominate the room. Boone is there too, camera in hand, capturing every moment for Tyler's YouTube channel. Lily, Dexter, and Dani mingle nearby, each in their element.

You inhale deeply, trying to steady your nerves. The name Tyler Owens epitomizes everything you abhor in storm chasing—recklessness, unchecked bravado, and an insatiable thirst for sensationalism. To you, he is the living antithesis of diligent scientific inquiry and responsible journalism.

Your last encounter with Tyler was nothing short of disastrous. What began as a simple disagreement escalated into a full-blown public feud, broadcasted for the world to see via social media and various news outlets. You had penned a scathing article, meticulously criticizing his methods as dangerous and irresponsible. Your words were sharp, intended to signal a wake-up call not just to him but to the entire community of storm chasers.

Tyler, never one to retreat from controversy, responded with an incendiary video. Filled with passionate retorts and dismissive gestures, his rebuttal ignited a firestorm of reactions, polarizing the storm-chasing community and capturing the attention of a captivated audience.

The bitter memory of this exchange still lingers in your mind, a festering wound that has yet to heal. Now, as you anticipate another face-to-face meeting with him, you feel the weight of that unresolved animosity. You brace yourself for the confrontation that seems as inevitable as the approaching storm you both intend to chase.

The panel is called to order, and the moderator introduces the speakers with a flourish. You take your seat, your heart pounding in your chest. Tyler settles into the chair next to you, flashing a charming smile that belies the tension crackling between you.

"Welcome, everyone," the moderator begins. "Today, we have a diverse panel of storm chasers who will share their unique perspectives on this thrilling and dangerous field. Let's start with you, Y/N. Can you tell us about your approach to storm chasing?"

You take a moment to collect your thoughts before speaking. "I believe storm chasing is an essential tool for advancing our understanding of severe weather phenomena. My approach focuses on meticulous planning, data collection, and public safety. The goal is to minimize risk while maximizing scientific value."

Tyler leans forward, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he addresses the room. "You know, while I truly appreciate Y/N's unwavering commitment to safety," he begins, his voice smooth and confident, "we sometimes overlook the bigger picture. Storm chasing isn't just about data and caution—it's about raising awareness and capturing the awe-inspiring power of nature."

He pauses for effect, letting his words sink in before flashing a charismatic smile at the crowd. "My team and I, we're not just scientists; we're storytellers. We bring these magnificent storms to the world, showing people a side of nature they rarely see."

His smile widens, eyes sparkling with excitement. "We have a saying in our crew: 'If you feel it, chase it.' Because in those moments of raw, untamed nature, we find our stories, our inspiration."

The room erupts in appreciative murmurs and nods of agreement, some even breaking into applause. Tyler's infectious enthusiasm and charm work their magic, swaying the audience to his perspective, if only for the moment.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. "Raising awareness is important, Tyler, but not at the expense of safety. Your methods put not just you and your team at risk but also the communities you travel through."

"And your methods," Tyler shoots back, "might yield scientifically valuable data, but they often lack the human element. People need to see the raw, unfiltered power of these storms to understand what we're dealing with."

The panel has been raging on for twenty minutes, each of you firing verbal volleys that keep the audience captivated. The tension is palpable, and it’s clear that you and Tyler aren’t on good terms.

Tyler leans forward, a cocky grin spreading across his face. He’s baiting you, and he knows exactly which buttons to push. "You know, ever since that article you wrote, questioning my methods, I've been wondering. Maybe you're just not a fan of a little excitement? Gotta admit, though, it did spark quite the public feud."

The hint of satisfaction in his voice is unmistakable—he’s reveling in the attention, the controversy, and most of all, the fact that he’s gotten under your skin.

You snap back, your tone fiery and unapologetic. "And with good reason. Your methods are reckless, Tyler. Capturing nature is one thing, but ensuring the safety of our team and the community is paramount. Data collection can be done without playing Russian roulette with our lives."

Tyler smirks, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Ah, but without taking risks, we miss out on the most stunning phenomena. The beauty of a storm isn't just in its data points—it's in the visceral experience."

Your eyes narrow, voice sharp and unyielding. "Visceral experiences are meaningless if they end in tragedy. We need to strike a balance—pushing limits, yes, but with calculated caution. Not reckless abandonment just to feed your adrenaline addiction."

Leaning in slightly, his voice drops to a teasing whisper, "Careful. If you play it too safe, you might end up in a cozy weather office instead of out there chasing the real action."

You raise an eyebrow, your smile icy. "Better a cozy office than a hospital bed, Tyler. Besides, in the office, I can keep an eye on your antics, making sure you don’t turn yourself into a cautionary tale."

Tyler chuckles, clearly unfazed. "Touché. But admit it, you'd miss our epic sparring sessions out in the field."

You smirk back, your tone dripping with sarcasm, "Maybe. But I'd miss watching you lose a battle of wits with a breeze. It's like a real-life dumb blonde joke, but without the punchline."

Boone, with his characteristic enthusiasm, interjects, "You both have valid points! The thrill and the data—can't we find a middle ground here that marries both perspectives?"

Tyler grins at Boone's comment, "Maybe, Boone. But finding that middle ground is easier said than done."

The moderator, sensing the escalating tension and the need to maintain decorum, finally calls for a break. Their calm yet authoritative voice cuts through the cacophony of arguments, bringing a temporary ceasefire.

"Let's take a ten-minute break to gather our thoughts," the moderator says, brokering no argument. "This will give everyone a chance to cool off and reflect."

The announcement is met with a collective exhale from the audience. You can feel the adrenaline coursing through your veins as you step away from the podium, your mind racing with the flurry of ideas and rebuttals. Tyler shoots you a confident smirk, clearly reveling in the public sparring.

As the room buzzes with low conversations and people stretch their legs, you glance towards Boone, Lily, Dexter, and Dani. Boone gives you a thumbs-up, his eyes sparkling with excitement for the next round. Lily offers a supportive nod, while Dexter's contemplative gaze meets yours, as if silently urging you to remain steadfast. Dani approaches you quietly, her concern evident.

"Take a moment to breathe," she advises softly. "You’re doing great, but don’t let him get under your skin."

You nod, appreciating the support as you resolve to keep your composure for the next part of the debate. Tyler may have won the crowd for now, but the debate is far from over.

You step away from the panel, finding solace in a quiet corner of the room. You sip your water, your mind racing with a mix of frustration and determination. A voice interrupts your thoughts.

"Y/N," Tyler says, his tone unusually soft. "Can we talk?"

You turn to face him, your eyes narrowing. "There's not much to say, Tyler. We clearly have different philosophies that will never align."

He sighs, running a hand through his blonde hair. "Look, I know we've had our differences, but we're both here for a reason. We're passionate about what we do. Maybe... just maybe, there's a middle ground we haven't considered."

Before you can respond, a group of Tyler's ardent fans—mostly attractive young women whose adoration for him is barely concealed—swarm in, interrupting your conversation. Their laughter and excited voices fill the air as they clamor for his attention, each holding out their phones for selfies.

"Tyler, can we get a picture with you?"

"You're amazing, Tyler, can you sign this?"

Their voices form a cacophony of admiration and eagerness. Tyler gives you a fleeting look, a glimmer of regret in his eyes. As he turns to handle the eager fans, you seize the moment. You walk away quickly, your strides purposeful and filled with resolve.

By the time Tyler manages to take a few pictures and sign a couple of autographs, he looks up to continue the conversation, but you're already gone. He scans the room, his expression shifting from hope to dejection as he realizes you're nowhere to be seen.

His shoulders slump slightly, and a look of displeasure shadows his face. The admiring fans around him continue their cheerful chatter, but his thoughts are elsewhere. He looks in the direction you went, frustration evident as he contemplates the vanished opportunity to bridge the chasm between you.

.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ.   ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

The second day of the storm chaser convention dawns with a swirl of excitement and anticipation. Yesterday had been a whirlwind, with Tyler and you continuing your intense, verbal sparring match during your panel. As soon as it ended, you purposely avoided Tyler for the rest of the day, determined to keep your distance and focus on the upcoming events.

Today, however, is different. You feel a surge of excitement as you head towards the sign-up area for the competition on advanced research—a competition you have won every year. You stride confidently through the bustling convention hall, ready to claim your victory once more.

Approaching the registration table, you're taken aback to see Tyler there, pen in hand, scribbling his name onto the sign-up sheet. Your eyebrows knit together in a mixture of surprise and annoyance as you walk up to him.

"What are you doing here, Tyler?" you ask, folding your arms across your chest. "This competition has strict rules that you couldn't follow even if they were spelled out in neon lights."

Tyler smirks and meets your gaze. "Decided to sign up this year. Thought I'd give you some real competition."

You lock eyes, each ready for a verbal duel. The air between you crackles with tension.

"If you think you can handle it, by all means, try," you retort, your voice tinged with sarcasm. "Just know that this isn't your usual chaotic escapade. This requires precision and knowledge—qualities that, frankly, I don't think you possess."

Tyler chuckles softly. "We'll see about that. Underestimating me might be your biggest mistake."

Before you can continue your exchange, the host of the panel steps up to a microphone, capturing the attention of everyone in the room. The host, a renowned meteorologist named Dr. Sandra Jacobs, greets the crowd with a warm smile and a practiced ease.

"Good morning, everyone! I'm Dr. Sandra Jacobs, and it's my pleasure to welcome you to this year's storm chaser convention!" Dr. Jacobs begins, her voice carrying effortlessly through the room. "As many of you know, this convention is a celebration of the fascinating and often dangerous world of storm chasing. It's a place for experts and enthusiasts alike to share their passion and knowledge."

A murmur of agreement ripples through the crowd as Dr. Jacobs continues.

"One of the highlights of our convention is the competition on advanced research. It's a chance for storm chasers to showcase their findings, methodologies, and innovations in storm tracking and prediction."

Your eyes shift back to Tyler momentarily, a competitive fire igniting within you.

"This year, however, we’ve decided to change things up," Dr. Jacobs announces, her eyes twinkling with excitement. "There will be no rules and no limits! The stakes are higher than ever, with $100,000 in research funding and a special feature on Discovery Plus for the winner!"

A collective gasp and murmurs of surprise and excitement ripple through the crowd. Your eyes widen slightly, processing the unexpected twist. Tyler glances at you, a satisfied grin spreading across his face.

"No rules, huh?" he teases, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Looks like your little rule-book speech just got thrown out the window."

With that, he turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, both frustrated and fueled by the sudden turn of events. You watch him go, your mind already strategizing how to adapt to the new, unpredictable landscape of the competition. The game had just changed, and you are more determined than ever to come out on top.

[andypantsx3]

INCENDIARY | 8 | BAKUGOU KATSUKI x READER

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: romance, enemies to lovers, sexual tension, light hurt/comfort, themes of discrimination, canon typical violence, smut, aged up characters, fem pronouns + afab reader, 18+ mdni LENGTH: 3k, FIC MASTERLIST

For a few seconds, nothing made sense.

There was a rush of heat over your skin, skin-meltingly hot, and an arm around your waist. Then an explosion blew out all the sound around you. Your ears rang, and your hands scrabbled for purchase in Bakugou’s uniform as you were violently jerked backwards.

A rush of cooler air met your skin, and you realized you’d been pulled out of the car just as you watched it swerve and hit a light pole, the glass of the passenger windows shattering. You couldn’t hear the crunch of metal over the muffled ringing in your ears, but you could see the side of the car wrap around the pole, could imagine the metal squealing and screaming.

You were jerked out of the way again just as another rush of flame went flaring past you, so hot it felt like it had singed your skin, Bakugou’s arm curling around you as he aimed an explosion into the flames to blow you clear.

It was a testament to his strength and control that he was able to maneuver you with one arm, even as the two of you twisted midair, holding you tight against him as he caught his balance, bracing to steady you as you tripped wildly over yourself. He yanked you behind a parked car, blocking any clear shot at you, leveling a hand over the roof. Your hands still fisted in his uniform, you whipped around for the source of the flames—

Only to find him clearly, grinning wildly in the middle of the street, watching you over the top of the car.

Matsui looked just like the picture you’d been shown, all those months ago in the police station. He was plain, with dark eyes, thick dark brows and wisps of curly black hair. He might have been any other salaryman in the country, except for the naked hate that hung off his features as plainly as his clothes from his wiry shoulders.

Your heartbeat thudded against Bakugou’s chest, your nails digging crescents into the material of his uniform as a cold thrill of fear went down your spine.

And Matsui wasn’t alone. A jolt went through you as you noticed another figure beside him—a figure you’d last squared off against over the prickly grass of your campus lawn.

It was one of the QRAs. He seemed to be missing his other friends from that night, as the YouTube video you’d rewatched had made it clear you’d been yelling at three men the evening this had all started. And you were at least gratified to note he looked nervous, small and sweating, but the same hatred glowed clear across face.

It was funny, that all these months later, you had never actually learned his name. He was just some faceless jerk to you, a symptom of a cultural disease.

Bakugou’s voice in your ear, slightly muffled, notified you that your hearing was slowly returning to you. “—eyes on Matsui,” he was growling, and you realized he was speaking into an earpiece. “Some other fucking chump is with him, quirk unknown—”

But you knew it. You remembered from the comments of the video that had started this all: my guy out here with a pencil-sharpening quirk and he thinks he’s genetically superior.

“It’s—he can square the tip off of cylindrical objects,” you said, your voice slightly too loud in your own ears. “He was on my campus.”

A blonde eyebrow went up, but Bakugou quickly relayed the info, his eyes never leaving the pair in the middle of the street. “Get Monoma on the fucking cylinder idiot, I’ll get Matsui,” he finished. His mouth went hard as he seemed to listen to something back, grunting in return.

“Alright brat,” he said, turning to you. His tone seemed just a little bit clearer, the gravel in it pronounced. “Genius Office has a bunch of heroes on the way, not that we’re gonna need them for two fucking idiot civilians. Our backup is just a few streets that way,” he gestured in the direction of Matsui and the pencil sharpener guy. “I need you to get around them and make a run for them while I cover you. Can you do that for me?”

Your heart pounded in your throat, and your legs went weaker at the idea of moving out from behind the car. But Matsui had just torched one car—you were sure he’d be at it again in a minute.

You gathered yourself up, nodding. “Yeah. I can.”

At least Bakugou had been putting you through the paces this week so you had some level of exercise under your belt. You suddenly wished you’d had more, though. “I can run,” you said, to reassert yourself.

“Good girl,” Bakugou said, scarlet eyes flickering down to you momentarily. A little smirk touched his mouth, like he knew what he was doing.

You were embarrassed when a feeling like determination surged through you, your body responding to him even at a time like this. You let go of your death grip on his hero costume, testing your legs out under you. Somehow, the burn of your face was helping distract you from the weak, jelly-like consistency of your knees.

A spurt of flame made you jump, but it was just Matsui shaking out his hands, grinning at you over the roof of the car. He seemed to like that he’d scared you, and the guy with the pencil sharpening quirk laughed, pleasure twisting his thin mouth.

“Come on out, drunk girl,” Matsui finally crooned, his tone soft and medial. The sound of his voice made your skin crawl, and you suddenly wished for the deafening ring of Bakugou’s explosions again. “You think you’re my equal, don’t you? Weren’t you just on your way to tell the whole world that? Come on out and show me, little girl. Come out and show everyone how equal we are.”

The little pencil sharpener next to him looked smug, as though his quirk was any match up to Matsui’s either. You glowered at him, lip automatically curling.

“Just fucking run, brat,” Bakugou told you. “‘M gonna rip his intestines out right through his asshole, you’re not gonna wanna see it.”

A horrible little gurgling laugh escaped you. It was reassuring, Bakugou’s confidence. Fear still tingled down your spine but you thought if you started, you’d be able to keep running.

“Tell me when to go,” you breathed, testing your step again.

“Start running left as soon as I get out over this car,” Bakugou commanded. “He’s just some overpowered internet troll, he’s not combat trained. He’ll take the shot at me as soon as he sees me move and it’s gonna hit the right side of the car. It’ll block his visibility and you can get behind that bus stand before he’s done.”

You nodded. “And then?”

“As soon as he takes his next shot you keep going and don’t stop. I’ll handle him from there. Monoma’s in range and he’ll get the cylinder fuck as soon as I can get him clear of Matsui.”

You made a noise of acknowledgement, grateful you had Bakugou’s combat experience on your side. “Okay. Okay. I think I’m ready.”

Bakugou’s gloved fingers briefly touched yours and he nodded. Then he shook out his arms, bracing them behind him. “That’s my girl,” he said, sending a devastatingly feral smirk your way.

You had just a single moment for your heart to trip over itself, a flush breaking out across your skin. And then an explosion ripped apart the pavement behind him.

Immediately, a towering column of flame whirled past and you launched yourself out from behind the car just as you saw Matsui’s figure disappear behind it. The heat distorted the air in front of you, shimmering and waving as you threw yourself through it, tearing down the street as fast as you could.

A roaring explosion from Bakugou’s direction drowned out the slap of your feet, and you slid behind the ads papering the wall of the bus stop just as Matsui’s flames dissolved into the air. You heard another volley of explosions, crackling like fireworks, loud and obnoxious and clearly designed to draw attention.

The clatter of loose gravel pinged off of the bus stand, kicked up by the force of Bakugou’s power. Some of it skidded underneath, bouncing off your shoes in a riot of dusty pebbles and chunks.

You peered back out, trying to judge when to make your next move. You caught sight of Matsui aiming another shot after Bakugou, and your grip reflexively tightened on a piece of gravel, the rough, grainy edges cutting into your fingers. You watched as Bakugou dodged some sort of projectile thrown by the pencil sharpening asshole, too, and then maneuvered quickly as Matsui’s flames blazed to life in his hands.

As you watched, a sudden, overwhelming incredulity seized you. Matsui and the little pencil man were so dedicated to the idea of their own superiority that they were willing to risk life and limb against pro hero Dynamight. Their inflated fucking egos surpassed even quirk supremacy—like they thought they needed to feel truly supreme in all things, even against the firepower of one of the most dangerous pros of all time. Even as Bakugou clearly was just drawing attention and dodging until you were clear of the situation. He was so obviously just playing with them.

It was insane. It was stupid—they were so fucking stupid. They were so unbelievably full of themselves, and a white hot feeling choked you, all-encompassing in its intensity.

A certainty gripped you, like the memory of that night on campus when you’d first encountered the pencil sharpener QRA. It was so reductive, the idea of measuring yourself against someone based on arbitrary traits like strength or quirks. It was the ideology of a child, of an idiot, of someone so insecure in their own place in the world that they needed to dig people out of their own places so they could be insecure too.

But people were better than that. People could learn to be better than that, like Bakugou.

If anyone was lesser in this world, it wasn’t quirkless people. It was people who let themselves act lesser like this in their desire to be more, instead of confronting the reality of their own character.

And you had already proved you were not the type of girl who could keep taking things lying down.

Before you knew what you were doing, your grip was tightening on the piece of gravel. Your vision squared in on Matsui and the QRA, and your arm drew back, hefting the gravel in your hand. And then in a wild fit of emotion, you sent it arcing through the air, spiraling tightly, a messy but certainty-fueled throw.

It hit the pencil guy square in the back of the neck, knocking him into Matsui. Matsui stumbled, and the flames at his fingertips stuttered and guttered out.

Even from a distance, you could read the surprise on Bakugou’s face. An ugly, shocked laugh suddenly escaped him. Matsui quickly staggered back to his feet, wheeling on you.

But then an explosion swept across the street, blowing Matsui and the pencil guy right into the side of a building, your distraction the only opening Bakugou needed. They hit the stone with a dull thud, sliding down in a heap together, the pencil guy letting out a groan.

Bakugou and the hero you recognized as Monoma were there in an instant, strapping quirk suppressors right around their wrists, bearing them down to the ground. As soon as they had, a flood of other heroes and officers came washing out into the street, boots quickly scuffling in their direction.

You watched as officers cordoned off the street, ushering curious civilians back into their homes, and began to document the damage Matsui had caused. Several squad cars and an ambulance rolled into view, their lights sending flashes off of the surrounding windows, and Matsui and the pencil QRA were bundled away into them.

An officer came over to take a statement from you, and you fumbled your way through an explanation, mind still churning. You’d ended it. For all the talk about the superiority of their power, all it had taken was a wild throw from you to make both Matsui and the QRA stumble. All it had taken was the strength of your conviction to give Bakugou the opportunity to disable them for good.

Bakugou stalked over as soon as he’d given his own report, tearing off his gloves with his teeth and stowing them on his belt. His hair was a little windswept, and there was soot along the hinge of his jaw, but he was otherwise unharmed, not even a single burn through the fabric of his uniform. He glowed with the flush of a fight, of a job well done, and you thought he had never looked quite so handsome.

“Nice shot, princess,” he told you, flashing you a wicked white smile, sending a searing heat pooling in your stomach. “Thought I told you to run though.”

But he didn’t seem angry, because then his calloused fingers came up to take your chin, and he seized your mouth in a hard kiss.

You felt yourself flush all the way down to your toes, kissing him back eagerly. You were heady with your own success, with the way Bakugou had looked at you.

“We’re gonna be late for the interview,” you said when he finally let your mouth free.

Bakugou looked momentarily like he would rather bear you back off into the safehouse than let you go to the interview. And you did plan to thank him incredibly thoroughly for the save, once you’d made it back into some semblance of privacy together.

But you had things to say, still. Things to say now especially that you’d shut down a couple more internet trolls so handily. Now that you’d proven the ferocity of their ideology didn’t hold up in the real world—not when regular, everyday people like you had something to say about it.

“Always running that fucking mouth, brat,” Bakugou said, but his tone was nothing but appreciative. He set upon a nearby officer with alacrity, commandeering him and his car to shuttle you over to the studio, stuffing himself in after you resolutely.

He kept a hand on you the entire way, and stalked after you down the halls of the studio, sending the hordes of producers and production assistants into a frenzy. When they finally let you out of hair and makeup after scrubbing all the street grime off of you, he watched you carefully, those eyes hot on you as you settled into the chair opposite your interviewer, his mouth quirked up in a ferociously appreciative smirk.

The interviewer greeted you, and you answered her back, feeling safe and warm and secure under your boyfriend’s watch. And then the interview began, and she prompted you carefully, the same questions you’d been running over in your head for days.

“We’ve asked you here today for commentary on the cultural barriers that quirkless people like yourself face, and the National Diet’s efforts in passing a bill that would help tackle these issues,” she said, nodding at you warmly. “Is there anything you think is especially important for people to know about what it’s like to be quirkless in a society like ours?”

You took a breath in, and reviewed your answer determinedly. You’d bash quirk supremacy the way you had Matsui, like it was a neck and you were a bit of gravel, kicked up in all the fighting.

You leaned in and ran your mouth like you always did. This time, with nothing but firm resolution, assurance, and one admittedly hot, supportive boyfriend behind you.

UPDATE: QUIRKLESS LEGEND TAKES DOWN PRO-QUIRK BIGOT | REACTION Mika Reacts · 2.19M subscribers 3 hours ago · 11:24 · 1,006,041 views Description Hey guys, quirkless girl aka “drunk girl” is back on my channel in a jaw-dropping joint takedown by her and pro hero Dynamight. Right before an interview on New Day Japan yesterday… [SHOW MORE]

karma is a rock, karma is the gravel to ur neck on the weekend greenhopp 3 hours ago Reply [Thumbs Up] 900 [Thumbs Down]

omg they gave him the fucken combo!!!! 🪨💥my man got the 10 piece with a biscuit no drink goddamn Hisa Ota 2 hours ago Reply [Thumbs Up] 600 [Thumbs Down]

yooooooo remember the time i said she didn’t need a quirk to put one of these bros in a coffin?? dm me if u want ur future told. now accepting venmo and cash app. yeetus deletus 2 hours ago Reply [Thumbs Up] 1.2k [Thumbs Down]

END NOTES: We finally made it, guys!! Thank you so much for sticking with this series for what ended up being over 1.5 years, my longest fic span yet, and being patient with me every step of the way. I have said it before but this fic especially has been my biggest challenge, and I am so grateful for the support that helped me make it all the way to the end.

I also want to say thank you again to my sensitivity readers @darkenedniqhts and @cat-slippered for helping me tell this story in the cleanest and most respectful way possible. I would not have tried my hand at anything with themes like these if it wasn't for you guys helping hold me accountable and educating me at key points. I appreciate everything you have done to make both the story and myself better over the course of its telling. I will be forever grateful.

[eldritch-spouse]

I had a whole into, that I cut bc I’m not built to be a writer (bless you soldiers), and ain’t cultivating those skills here.

To cut to the chase:

I SPENT MONTHS

ENJOYING FOUL LEGACY FANFICS

And ALLL these writers describe a monstrous creature from the Abyss, who’s only motivation is fighting, death, and destruction. They kept calling it a moth monster with claws, fur, armor, and cape-like wings. He had a single glowing eye and only communicated in chirps/growls and the like. With nests and hunting and ALL THAT GOOD SHIT

And THEN— and then I decided just the other day, “hmm I’m craving a visual right now. Why don’t I check out a picture of this thing”…

AND HE’S JUST SOME GUY

They always harp on how terrifying this “creature of the abyss” is and if anything, it has an adorable little face. The only thing he has, is that he’s big. A big dude. That’s all he got.

I was MISLED and DISAPPOINTED. And that was all I could think about for like 20 minutes straight afterwards.

I even almost made a new favorite afterwards, Capitano. Who was in the staunchly humanoid category, but at least I wasn’t LIED TO about it! It’s a Monster of a Man vs a Man of a Monster here

Anyways, rant over. Goodday Dear Pin!

If I was 10x more motivated I might cope hard enough to make my own design 🤔

I. I don't known what the fuck you're talking about.

But I do understand that pain. Which is why I literally don't get into long fanfictions or even books without knowing that the "monster" is to my liking. Also because I've gotten way too comfortable with reader inserts and have no desire to read about some girl named Rebbecca with flowing blonde locks and green eyes- But that's just my desire for accommodation showing.

Can I say something that might be slightly incendiary? Foul Legacy is anime styled. And in terms of monster designs, you're either going to find the coolest thing ever or a fucking twink with horns. No in-between.

[girlgroupshots]

Under Arrest - (G)I-DLE Soyeon

pairing: Soyeon x Male Reader rating: Explicit word count: 1.3k content warning: contains (consensual) use of power play/power dynamics between a crime boss and cop.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Jeon Soyeon. Looks like you finally slipped up.”

Your haughty voice echoed as you closed the door to your cruiser, making your way towards the blonde-haired woman who was currently handcuffed and pressed against another officer’s cruiser.

Jeon Soyeon. The woman behind one of the largest criminal networks in Seoul. A fact that was the worst kept secret in law enforcement. Everyone knew what she got up to. Catching her on it with evidence that would stick, however, was a different story. For that reason, you could do nothing but watch as she went about her daily life, even making appearances at nightclubs and events as if she was a law-abiding citizen.

At least, it seemed, until now.

“I bet you thought you’d evade us forever didn’t you,” you tsked as she looked at you with an unflinching gaze. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t think it’d be an expired registration that finally put you away.”

“Is that you, Captain? I didn’t know they sent the head pig just for me,” Soyeon taunted.

As incendiary as ever.

You laughed off her insult. After all, you had heard worse in your time. Usually from people that worked for her. “I’ll take care of things from here,” you waved off the officer who had been standing guard with her, leaving the two of you alone. “Let’s make sure you’re not carrying anything that might hurt me.”

Without hesitation you grabbed Soyeon by her handcuffed wrists and spun her around. She let out a huff as you pressed her front against the car. Your hands moved over her hips, covered by her red dress down past where the hem ended and to her thighs.

“Isn’t this a little excessive for a car stop, officer?” Soyeon said, this time her voice practically taunting you. “You don’t have anything on me, why don’t you give me a ticket and stop wasting our time, yeah?”

“You really think we can’t make something stick?” you accepted her challenge. ‘Seems like you were dressed for a night on the town.”

“Did you want an invitation? Is that what this is about?” she replied with a smirk. "All you have to do is ask."

"Is that all it takes? A badge and a question and you're handing out invitations?"

As you spoke you trailed your hand up under her red, leather dress, sliding along her thighs. Any pretense of looking for a weapon was quickly disappearing. In response, Soyeon subtly but surely spread her legs for your touch. "Spreading your legs for anyone who asks? Is that the truth behind the legendary Jeon Soyeon?"

She huffed in response, her breath catching for a moment as your hand slid higher. "You must really struggle with the ladies if an invitation is so scandalous to you. Is this the only way you can get girls? By handcuffing them and pinning them to the car?"

That comment got to you.

You pushed the crime boss forward, bending her over the hood of her sports car. She let out a grunt, as her chest landed on frame, her head turning to the side. At this angle her ass was perfectly angled to press against your groin, her mini dress riding up to expose. “That smart of yours is going to get you in trouble.”

"If this is supposed to prove me wrong, you're doing a terrible job," as if to prove her point, Soyeon shook her ass against your groin. "Does fucking criminals turn you on?"

Your face turned red with arousal and anger. If it wasn’t clear by now this wasn’t your first rodeo with Soyeon. She was a constant presence and thorn in your side. And whether because of that or in spite of it, she knew how to push every one of your buttons. Of course, it didn’t help that was, in fact, the hottest crime boss in town. Pixie haircut, cherry lipstick, and red dress to kill. Most people would be too intimidated to ever talk back, let alone accost her. Authority included.

When she spoke again it was her taunting words that snapped you out of your reverie “Go ahead, I’ll let you touch me this time. Fucking with you is getting me wet.”

It was here that you could have left her wanting. Now that she was the one eager and asking for your touch it had given you the upper hand. But Soyeon was no fool. She wouldn’t have given you that power without knowing that you wanted it as desperately as she did. No matter how much you tried to talk tough. With that said, you still had little ways of sticking it to her so you weren’t just following orders.

“That’s so generous of you” you said, sarcastically. “But I can think of something better.”

Rather than run your fingers under her dress to feel her dripping arousal or sliding them inside of her, the sound of your belt unbuckling filled the night. Soyeon didn’t say anything at first, but she must have heard the sound as her head turned to the side, a slight smirk on her features and a curious eyebrow.

“You’ve gotten bold, Captain.”

“And you’ve gotten reckless” you chirped in response.

At the same time you freed your length from the confines of your pants, already engorged from the power play that had been going on between yourself and the crime boss. Lining your cock up, you prepared to slip inside her already excited pussy, “They caught four of your men dealing in the north part of town. Fuck.”

You grunted, trying not to moan too loudly as you entered her, rocking her body against the patrol car. Soyeon, on the other hand, was not nearly as subtle; openly moaning but not giving you too much. She was going to make you work for every sound.

“I told you…not to sell there…” you panted, rough thrust steadily building to a rhythm as you buried yourself inside of her.

Soyeon laughed, another pleasured moan leaving her as she did. “I may have gotten a little greedy. Is this my punishment for making you do a little extra work?”

“Something like that.”

The truth was you had been on Jeon Soyeon’s payroll from the moment she came to power. It was a business arrangement that came with it’s perks. More than a few clearly. And while everyone from your co-workers to her lackeys assumed that the two of you hated each other and were bitter rivals. They failed to be privy to the truth that you and Soyeon had grown up as childhood friends. Life had taken you on different paths only to later bring the two of you back together again.

“Better hurry, officer. You don’t know when they might call you on the radio” Soyeon taunted.

Despite her words you could feel her clenching around you each time you filled her. Her breaths becoming heavier even as she continued to play up your roles and tease you. In reality she was just as affected as you. Chasing the same high and release that you were. After this the two of you would go back to pretending to be bitter enemies but right now you felt it was okay to indulge just a little.

You hunched over Soyeon slightly, feeling her petite breast through her shirt as your pace quickened. This time she didn’t have a sharp retort but only managed another moan of pleasure as she rocked her hips back the best, she could to meet your efforts.

“Shit. Fuck…you…Smug bastard…!”

Her words trailed off into a cry as her thighs quivered, body shaking slightly as her orgasm ran through her body. It was all you needed to send you over the edge after her, pulling out and shooting your release to the side, landing on the ground and cop car. You grunted, leaning slightly onto Soyeon as she pressed her face into the vehicle in an attempt to regain her own breath.

“Ha…ha…What are you going to tell your men when they hear an officer made you cum?” you taunted.

Soyeon rolled her eyes, panting slightly, “Shut up and get me out of these cuffs.”

You couldn’t help but grin to yourself. Some might think you were wrong for helping a criminal who happened to be your childhood friend. But it had its benefits.

author’s note: bringing this over from ao3. there isn’t enough soyeon appreciation honestly.

if you enjoy my work and are able to support, consider supporting me on Ko-fi!

[ohlookapan]

The Edge of The Knife | Wintersberg

“You know, Winters, you've got guts. I wonder if you'd still look pretty with em’ ripped out and strung along my floor like tinsel.” Pairing: Ethan Winters/Karl Heisenberg (Resident Evil: Village (2021)) Content Warning(s): Knives(?) Tagging: My lovely proofreaders, @thatsthewrongwallcraig & @dandeliongrahamlecter! A/N: Playing around with action/movement over dialogue. Definitely not an excuse to write for these beautiful dumbasses again. Enjoy below the cut!

****

If Heisenberg thought Ethan was pissed before, he was livid now.

And the bastard fucking loved it. 

Those soft, fair, snowy cheeks burning like hot coals; that golden hair all messy and ruffled like a hay bale; those hazel eyes smoldering like embers (he swore they turned red at some point, though maybe he was getting ahead of himself). 

And those lips. God, those thin, soft lips. Karl swore they'd be the death of him–the way they slimmed, pursed, and fired the most incendiary threats at him like a catapult. 

God damn those lips. God damn those eyes. God damn that hair. God damn those cheeks.

God damn Ethan Winters. 

“Give me the flask, Heisenberg. Now.”

Ethan's command wasn't just that, not even a demand. It was a warning. One that Karl was far too bored and smart to heed. 

Like a shark, he circled the father, letting his murky eyes traipse around his figure like a map, the object of his revolution being the most beautiful, bold, blonde X he'd ever seen.

“Now, now, Winters,” Heisenberg purred, tone loose and drenched in sweet velvet. “Is that any way to go about asking for things we want?”

A purr was met with a growl. No, a snarl. 

“I'm not asking, jackass.”

The lord hummed, coming to a stop right in front of Ethan. His cool eyes became freezing, piercing daggers. 

“Tsk, tsk. You speak to your mother with that dirty little mouth, Ethan? Maybe I should teach you some manners, hm? Put you in your place.”

If you looked at the two men, you couldn't tell which was the predator, and which was the prey. Especially when both seemed to lunge at each other. 

Barely, just barely, Ethan's feet moved first. He bolted toward Heisenberg, a hand out in the direction of his pocket that cradled the final piece of his daughter. 

Heisenberg almost wanted to hate him for making this so easy, but the electricity he felt shooting up his arm when his gloved hand gripped his wrist was like a drug. 

In a flash, before throwing him up against the wall, Karl swore that he could feel remnants of stitches or… Staples against the man's wrist. 

Christ, this kid's more like Frankenstein than me. He's more versatile than I thought. 

Heisenberg turned Ethan into a whip, spinning and sending him around and up against the wall with a crack (and yelp) to match. 

In all that time in keeping tabs on Papa Winters as he stormed across the village, a thundering shotgun in hand, he'd heard Ethan's pained whimpers more than enough times. He knew that the more painful something was, the more grit Ethan's whining was gripped with.

The one he heard this time nearly put him on his knees. 

Note to self. The kid can handle rough.

Ethan's calloused fingers wrapped around the grip of his gun and his muscles had begun their recoil to tug it free from the holster just as Heisenberg rushed him. 

A leather hand slammed against the wall while the other darted to the other man's belt and ripped the tucked-away knife free. It made a beeline to his neck, the edge of the blade just dancing along the slim hairs. 

“A word of advice buttercup,” Heisenberg murmured, breath rising and falling like waves against those cherry-tinted cheeks of Ethan's, a husky chuckle on its heels. “Try using knives next time. Better for close encounters, wouldn't you say?”

The blonde's chest rose and fell, barely pressing flush against the other's as it lifted. Frantic, he forced his body still like spotted, target prey; yet those eyes of his were another story entirely. They darted all over Karl's face as if trying to memorize every wrinkle, every line, every scar--God, were there a lot of scars. The patriarch's eyes trailed along each of them as if they were a road map. One that all led back to one place: Karl's eyes. 

Even as they hid behind the vaguely opaque discs of his shades, Ethan could make them out, clear as day. 

He knew Heisenberg well enough–probably too well for his liking–to know just how much he was holding under his tongue. He could only imagine all the things he wanted to say to him. Though, it should be noted that just because he could didn't mean he should–and certainly not that he would. 

In those eyes of his, Ethan could see how unwavering they were, and how they effortlessly they chased after his own. He could see the centers of them slowly expand, almost as if they wanted to suck the blonde in and never let him go. 

Almost challenging the metal lord (or maybe as a means of getting away), Ethan tilted his head up to meet the cold, cracked wall; leaving that smooth, pallid neck of his exposed to the edge of the knife. 

“You won't,” he breathed, the air between his and Heisenberg’s face feverish and volatile. “You need me.”

Damn right he fucking did.

A wolfish grin flickered on Karl's face, and the weapon's blade went from teasing to kissing the skin on the pinned man's throat. 

“You'd like to see me try, wouldn't you, peach?”

“Dying to.”

Fuck, the growl he heard. It almost matched the grin he couldn't rip away. 

“You know, Winters, you've got guts. I wonder if you'd still look pretty with em’ ripped out and strung along my floor like tinsel.”

Heisenberg could take that knife he was holding and slice the tension between them like bread. It only thickened and electrified as the seconds ticked by, and as their eyes dashed around in a game of tag. 

Finally, the kid spoke up. His voice, to Heisenberg’s surprise, was weak. It was shaky, coated in air and coarse moxie. 

“You don't scare me. You know that right?”

Heisenberg’s eyes flashed in surprise, only to melt into a sly, heated glare. His mouth shaped into a smirk. The voice that left it was nothing more than a humming rumble. So much so that Ethan could feel it against his chest, tangled with their heartbeats.

“Ethan, Ethan, Ethan," he tutted. "Is that your way of telling me to try harder?”

Heisenberg expected many things from the man he'd pinned to the wall; A punch, a bullet to the chest, to spit in his face and throw a harsh 'fuck off and die' in tow. 

What he didn't expect was for him to lean in. He didn't expect to be met with a grimace, or to feel the very edges of his golden hair teasing his forehead, or even to see Ethan's hazel eyes dilating to match his own, fighting for total control. 

He didn't expect to see his lips pulled closer to him, aching to bridge a gap. Karl Heisenberg didn't expect to feel his cheeks match Ethan's and their heavy dusting of rouge. 

He sure as hell didn't expect what he'd said to be the last thing he heard before pouncing on the father with dizzying need.

“Go on. Let's see what you're really made of, Karl Heisenberg.”

[monstrousgourmandizingcats]

do you think laura lee is a catholic? I always thought she was a protestant (mainly bc im a catholic from NJ and the snippets of her pre-crash life didn't seem to line up w/ my experiences) but i've seen some people say she's a catholic and you're like the catholic expert on here so i wanted to ask you

No I do not. Laura Lee is Protestant as all get-out.

I think people read Laura Lee as Catholic for a few different reasons. The first is the "Camp Mary Magdalene" thing; this seems to be the name of her summer camp in the 1x08 flashback (although as @lais-a-ramos has pointed out there's other stuff in this scene indicating that this is a meet of multiple camps and thus CMM might not be her own), and, while it's a weird name for a Catholic summer camp to have, it's a way weirder one for a Protestant one to have. But this doesn't necessarily mean much other than that she or her parents wanted something "faith-based"; I grew up in New Jersey as well, was raised vaguely Christian by a lapsed Catholic mother, and went to a summer camp so Jewish that we sang the Israeli national anthem every morning. (This would come across as very incendiary of the camp in Current Year, but this was the late 2000s, and at least la Mantovana is a great melody.) The nondiegetic reason for the camp's name is probably just that the people who make the show don't cornplate these things as much as autistic Yellowjackets superfans* do.

There's also the "our blonde patron saint" description of her in the season 1 scripts. I think "patron saint" is being used more broadly and allusively here; my guess is that direction was written by someone who was from a Catholic background themselves. It also ties into the show's broader themes around these girls' devotion to exalted, stylized qualities in one another. That's hard to square with a Protestant understanding of sanctity and a lot easier to square with a Catholic one.

On a broader sociocultural level, I suspect people "want" Laura Lee to be Catholic because her sort of Ned-Flanders-before-his-eponymous-TV-Trope-set-in genuinely-well-meaning Evangelical God-bothering is unfortunately kind of unusual these days. It's been supplanted by something much more aggressive and mean-spirited, including outside the US; South America in particular produces both a disproportionate number of Laura Lee stans and a disproportionate number of EXTREMELY right-wing Evangelical communities that have given her kind of Christianity an even worse name than it has in left-leaning parts of North America and Europe. So I think a lot of the fandom would like Laura Lee to be Catholic because it's a flavor of conservative-ish Christianity that people find easier to understand in a character they like. I totally get this; I'm Catholic myself. But no, I don't think she actually is Catholic. The first L in Laura Lee is for latitudinarian; the second L is for low church.

*Of whom I am the foremost; I think I was the first person in the fandom to notice that Shauna's holy card in the pilot is anachronistic, since Our Lady Undoer of Knots was not a widespread devotion outside Latin America until Pope Francis was elected. It's very popular now, so my guess is that the prop was a holy card that a Catholic member of the cast or crew happened to have close at hand during filming.

[broadwaydivastournament]

Movie Musical Divas Tournament: Round 1

Betty Hutton (1921-2007): Incendiary Blonde (1945) - Texas Guinan | The Stork Club (1945) - Judy Peabody | Red Hot and Blue (1949) - Eleanor Collier | Annie Get Your Gun (1950) - Annie Oakley | Let's Dance (1950) - Kitty McNeil

"She's literally Annie Oakley! Anything you can do she can do better! We love a diva who brings energy and comedy along with her singing and dancing chops." - anonymous

Vera-Ellen (1921-1981): On the Town (1949) - Ivy Smith | White Christmas (1954) - Judy Haynes | Call Me Madam (1953) - Princess Maria

"She’s so PRETTY and CAT-LIKE this little pixie FELINE QUALITY she is so tiny but her dancing is BIG" - anonymous

This is Round 1 of the Movie Musical Divas tournament. Additional polls in this round may be found by searching #mmround1, or by clicking the link below. Add your propaganda and support by reblogging this post.

ADDITIONAL PROPAGANDA AND MEDIA UNDER CUT: ALL POLLS HERE

Betty Hutton:

Vera-Ellen:

"Not her most impressive number [video below] of all time, but I think it's very charming and shows off her tap and singing skills as well!" - anonymous

Photos and video submitted by: anonymous | Photos submitted by: @funnygirlthatbelle

[paintermagazine]

‘The incendiary blonde!’

‘Torchy Todd’ (1950)

Created by: Bill Ward

[inabirdcage]

@spookyagentfmulder

He just wanted to find his brother.

The breakdown had been vague - man looking to be in his late twenties, entered altercation. Seemed to set off some form of incendiary went off, leaving several injured, and the man was quickly apprehended. The follow-up was where it began to fall apart.

No records. No identification. Just a distraught man who seemed keen to not answer any questions, only asking to be let go. When they arrived, he was leaned over the interrogation table, fountain of golden blonde hair cascading over his face, rested into his hand, a low, strange sound of distress beginning to emit from him.

Archimedes didn't know what to do from here. He just wanted to find his brother. And he was drawing more attention than he should. He'd almost laugh if he wasn't feeling so terribly trapped. They'd taken his sword, of course, as well as his armor. He hadn't fought it, trying his best to be cooperative. But he felt cold, and vulnerable, only in pants and a tunic now.

[andypantsx3]

incendiary | 6 | bakugou x reader

pairing: Bakugou Katsuki / Fem Reader

length: 3.7k | 6th 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

“Absolutely not,” Bakugou growled.

You just barely managed to step back as he reached for your laptop with one heavily-muscled arm. He swiped downwards as though he meant to shut it himself, physically closing the book on this discussion.

You let out a strangled noise, stumbling away, beating a quick retreat around the counter as the whisk he’d been using in the pancake batter clattered off the side of the bowl. You knew he could jump it if he really wanted, but the buffer between you made you feel better, although his instant rejection raised your hackles.

“Wait, why not?” you asked, although you’d been uncertain about the request yourself. It’s not like you had set out to accidentally become one of the most famous quirkless people in the country. Not to mention every time you stumbled back into public view, it seemed to just prolong your stay here, and put you in additional danger with Matsui and his group.

“Because it’s a fucking target on your back, idiot,” Bakugou said, pinning you with those scarlet eyes. “All this work to protect your bratty ass and you want to signal to Matsui right where you are?”

“Well, no,” you huffed. “But how many chances do you get to be on TV? This has to be carefully thought through.”

One blonde brow raised as Bakugou crossed his arms over his chest. You noted he was sleeveless again today, in nothing but a black tank, and all that bare muscle was looking especially pronounced at the moment—possibly from the workout you’d heard him finish a half hour ago . You forcibly dragged your eyes back up to his face, only to find he was watching you in disbelief.

Oh. Right. He was on TV like every day.

“Well, how many chances does a normal person get to be on TV?” you corrected, your face feeling hot for some reason.

The haughty, dismissive twist of Bakugou’s features made your back molars ache with that familiar need to bite him again.

“You’ve already been on TV and look where it got you, brat,” Bakugou said, returning to beating the pancake batter with a little too much vigor, his biceps straining.

Your gaze snapped to the motion of his arm, and you wisely chose not to pursue the subject any further, lest he deprive you of pancakes. Also your mouth was suddenly weirdly dry, and you felt a little bit like you needed to sit down.

This discussion could be put on pause for a minute.

You beat a hasty retreat from the kitchen instead, throwing yourself onto the couch where all your textbooks were still waiting for you, highlighter and pens uncapped where you’d dumped them all over the table. You sighed, flopping down and returning to your homework, feeling weirdly hot and displeased.

Bakugou was technically right. You ran a huge risk giving an interview on Japan’s biggest daily news show. And you didn’t even want to be famous—you wanted nothing to do with the level of internet notoriety you’d received, and you were so eager to be out of this damn safehouse. Now that Bakugou had apologized and you’d cleared the air, it somehow felt like the safehouse was even smaller than before.

Over the last few days, you and Bakugou had done an awful lot together. Cooking, eating, making actual human conversation. He’d also indicated he would let you watch one single hour of trash reality TV later this evening, which was almost nice of him. This entire morning, you’d found yourself compelled to spend time out in the living room while he cooked, trying not to peer at him over the top of your laptop screen as you finished up a paper.

All that interaction felt like you were occupying very close quarters, however, and that strange sense of tension was still there between you, though you couldn’t put your finger on quite what it was now. It was probably safest to evacuate the safehouse before anything came to a head.

You finished up your homework, trying to push the interview request to the back of your mind.

But it stuck around stubbornly, as if superglued to the forefront of your brain. There was this roiling feeling within you, like the one that had come just before your blowout with Bakugou. And his saying no only made things worse—it was like he’d lit a pilot light, dangerously close to a trail of gunpowder…

The request lingered in the back of your mind over the following days. It was there when you fell asleep, when you showered, when you brushed your teeth. It lurked in the cup of the measuring spoons as you and Bakugou cooked together once more, in the faces of the actors during your single permitted hour of “idiot TV”. For something you were fairly certain you could have said no to just a few days ago and never thought of again, it had alarmingly persistent sticking power.

On Sunday afternoon you found yourself blinking back to yourself in the shower, realizing you’d lost dozens of minutes to contemplation, staring sightlessly at the ugly floral curtain. You sank to the floor of the shower, huddling into a contemplative ball under its steady spray. A memory niggled at your mind, fuzzy, barely remembered, and yet disturbing in its intensity.

The flash of an ugly blue-and-green polo, a pasty leer, and a surge of white hot anger, climbing up your chest, into your throat, and then—and then—

And then the convenience store. The two men, advancing into the space you’d ceded. A request that they mind their own business and leave you to yours.

“You wouldn’t know a thing about minding your own business, you fucking freak,” echoed on loop in your brain.

Wouldn’t know a thing about minding your own business—because you had asked a bunch of QRAs to back off. To back off of people like you.

And…well didn’t that make it your business? Yours, more than anyone’s? You were the quirkless person whose very existence was being picked over. You were the quirkless person getting harassed on the street, in the classroom, in some random convenience store where you were just trying to buy a sandwich. You were the person trapped in a safehouse because someone wanted to murder you—all for minding what was exactly your own business.

Before you knew what you were doing, you’d risen back to your feet, and were shampooing your hair with a vengeance. You rocketed through your personal care and all but leapt out of the shower, and stuffed yourself into your change of clothes, still half-wet.

And then you found yourself peering into the living room, and risking the fragile peace you’d found with Bakugou once again.

“The fuck about ‘no’ are you not getting?” Bakugou demanded, whipping around to stare at you before the question had even finished leaving your own mouth. He was stretched out over the yoga mat, holding himself perfectly level, with his feet not even touching the ground.

You gaped, your mouth falling open as your brain went momentarily offline. All thoughts of the interview evacuated your mind. “What the fuck are you doing?” you demanded, your eyes flicking unwillingly to his straining biceps.

Bakugou’s red-eyed glare cut through you. “It’s a fucking pushup, idiot.”

Your head shook as your eyes lingered in the dips and swells of his muscles. That black tank top he was always wearing was slowly riding up over the flat plane of his stomach and you could just make out the shadow of an intimidating set of abdominals from this angle.

“Nuh uh,” you said stupidly.

A blonde eyebrow raised, and he slowly, agonizingly pushed himself into an impossible ninety degree angle and on into a fucking handstand.

You could feel how slack your jaw was but there was nothing you could do about your caveperson image. Your eyes were nailed to the trim waist and mouth-watering set of abs bared by this move. “You—pushup—that’s not—” you just managed to clamp your mouth closed as that horrible echo of pegnate?? gregnant?? tolled in the depths of your mind.

You were so focused on the flex of Bakugou’s arm as he lowered himself again that you almost missed the flash of a smirk across his mouth.

“Got something else to say, brat?” he asked.

The smugness in his tone raised your hackles, but it took you several more minutes to fumble around and locate your faculties for human speech. “I—yes, as a matter of fact. I’m doing the interview. And that’s not a question, it’s a statement.”

Bakugou pressed into another handstand, and then pushed up out of it, easy as anything. A vague sense of annoyance buzzed about you like a mosquito as he righted himself. Showoff.

“I already said you’re not, princess,” Bakugou said. Sweat glinted at his collar points and the line of his hair, giving him a faint glow in the afternoon sunlight. That sweet, tangy caramel scent met your nose again as he moved closer, crossing those biceps over his chest.

You tried not to go cross-eyed. “Well… I already said I am,” you told him, yanking your eyes firmly back up to his.

Something about the look on his face made your teeth ache to latch over his skin again, to clamp down and bite.

He leaned in, bringing a whiff of caramel with him, and you stumbled back a step, surprised. “You mean you’re not gonna be good for me, princess?” he asked, something smug thick in his tone.

Instantly your face flamed, the way it had a few days ago over breakfast. Good for him? Good for him? Your ears went so hot that the air around them chilled you.

“I’ll show you what’s good for you,” you said nonsensically, raising your hands to his chest to push him back, only to find he was as immovable as a stone wall, and as hard as one, too. Your hands froze on his pecs, your face getting even hotter with the heat of him under your hands.

A wicked smirk carved the sides of his mouth, and your brain suddenly fuzzed with static, panicking.

You couldn’t think—all you could do was reach up, catch a fistful of his hair, and yank him down into a headlock.

“Oi, what the fuck—” Bakugou swore, twisting. You clamped your arm down, panicking harder, realizing you’d just grabbed a trained combat professional, desperate to keep him down.

But Bakugou wasted no time. No sooner had you tensed your arm than he’d seized you under your legs and back, pushing you straight up and over his head. You flailed, trying to grab back onto him, but he swung you right down on the yoga mat he’d been occupying, grappling for your arms and pinning you down neatly. He managed it in under two seconds, and you stared up at him, dazed, taking in the incredulous look that split his stupid handsome face.

“What the fuck was that for, brat?” he demanded, his face filling up your entire vision.

“Showing you—what’s good for you—” you managed to cough out, winded.

A feral smile slashed across Bakugou’s mouth, completely unexpectedly. “I’ve met fuckin’ babies who can do better than that.”

You glared up at him, trying to angle your foot to kick him off of you, but he shifted, pressing his knee down on your leg in warning.

“You’re not doing the interview,” he said firmly, his tone final.

But you had already made up your mind, the second you’d sifted through those memories in the shower and realized just why the request had stuck with you. And not even pro hero Dynamight was enough force to stop you.

“Yes I am,” you told him, staring him straight in the eye. You tried to put all your conviction, all your determination and intent into your stare, into the firmness of your tone.

“For what?” Bakugou demanded hotly, his grip tightening on your wrists.

“For me!” you said. “I keep getting accused of not minding my own business, for being a nosy bitch or whatever, and I’m sick of it! Being quirkless is my business. I completely intended to mind my own business the night of the first video, going out with my friends and getting drunk, and it’s those QRA assholes who showed up on my campus in the first place! And then in the convenience store—all I was doing was trying to buy a sandwich!”

Bakugou’s mouth pressed into an annoyed line. “Yeah? And what are you even gonna say, brat?”

You grunted, trying to shift him off of you, but he held fast, pressing you down harder into the mat. “I want to give a real account of what it’s like to be a quirkless person who is minding their own business. Who was literally just living my life, uninvolved in any sort of activism or anything, and still got pulled into multiple situations where my life and my safety are threatened! The point is that ordinary people need to care about this stuff because it apparently can seep into your life whether you think you can avoid it or not. And some of us have been learning the hard way.”

Bakugou’s brows furrowed, his full mouth curling up in distaste like he hated to even be contemplating what you’d said. “So you wanna let Matsui know right where you are because you’re what—pissed off?”

For a moment, the only thought in your head was leaning forward and biting that expression right off of his face. Your whole brain was swirling with the barely-contained need to do something to him—until a revelation dawned on you.

You would be letting Matsui know right where you were.

Matsui, who had been waiting in the shadows like some sort of phantom harm. Matsui, who’d been bold enough to send a threat to your university, had been bold enough to run his mouth in all of the unsavory parts of the internet, but hadn’t yet been bold enough, or knowledgeable enough, to make his final move. Matsui—-who no one could actually touch or bring in until his threat was confirmed to be real.

And really, what better way to confirm than to draw him out?

You stared at Bakugou, your eyes running down his now-familiar features. That pert nose, that pretty mouth, always set in determination, those blazing scarlet eyes, always searching out a fight. His blond brows, still drawn down in focus, and the haughty tilt to his jaw. If there was one person equipped to handle Matsui, if he did come for you, it was the annoying pro hero currently pinning you to his yoga mat.

“What, scared to fight him?” you asked, knowing exactly the kind of reaction it would get from Bakugou.

His teeth gritted, and he leaned down to put his face into yours. “I ain’t scared of shit.”

“Then what’s the issue?” you asked. “Didn’t you say at the beginning that you wanted to hunt him down yourself and crush him?”

Bakugou’s expression darkened, getting slightly redder like he was getting angry, like he knew you were baiting him—but if there was one thing about him, it’s that he was an incredibly consistent personality. “I’ll fucking destroy him.”

You quickly suppressed the smile that threatened to overtake your mouth. “Good, then we’re in agreement.”

Bakugou looked almost apoplectic. “We are not in agreement, you goddamn brat,” he spat.

“You just said you were gonna destroy him!” you said. If your hands had been free, you would have thrown them up in exasperation.

“Jeanist has to agree to this idiot fucking plan, and he’s not gonna do that if it puts you at risk, you fucking brat. There’s no guarantee that Matsui wouldn’t bring a bunch of his quirk supremacist friends, it would be extremely easy for you to get your ass blown off the face of the earth. What makes you think you’d even fucking make it out of there in one piece?” Bakugou growled.

You looked up at him, slightly touched by the concern. But try as you might, you couldn’t imagine Bakugou of all people losing track of the fight and letting you get cremated. The more you insisted on this idea, the more you believed it yourself.

“Because I’ll have you,” you said simply.

Bakugou paused, blinking down at you through long, golden lashes. His face went suddenly still in a way that you hadn’t seen before, and without his features twisted up in disdain, he looked instantly, incredibly handsome. “What,” he said flatly.

You squirmed a little in his grip, embarrassed by how sincerely you meant it. But you pushed on. “Because I trust you to protect me,” you said. “You have so far. And you’ve proved I was wrong about you before. You haven’t given me a reason not to trust you.”

Bakugou’s face spasmed, like he was desperately trying to not feel human emotion, but you could see the way the tips of his ears went pink through the ashy blonde strands of his hair.

You thought this had been a rather effective play on your part, though you did mean it. He’d saved you once before, made you tea and food and let you cry in front of him like a big dramatic baby. He’d apologized, and spent the last week trying to make it up to you, albeit aggressively, by letting you get away with more and trying to feed you real meals.

Actions spoke loudly, and Bakugou’s actions had proven himself to you, as far as you were concerned.

Those scarlet eyes cut away from you, focusing on some point on the floor to the left of your head, and it was then you knew you’d gotten him.

“You’re a goddamn pain in my ass,” he said, his voice slightly more gravelly than before. “You can go on one fucking condition.”

You nodded eagerly, thrilled with your success. “Okay. Yes. Whatever it is, yes.”

Bakugou’s lip curled, and his gaze cut back to yours. “You’re going to learn self-defense before you go on that stupid fucking show.”

You blinked. “In less than a week? During finals week?”

“As much as I say you will,” he growled, raising his eyebrows at you significantly.

You got the impression then that this was a non-negotiable point for him. And much as you doubted you’d been an expert by the time Thursday rolled around, you couldn’t deny the idea had merit. You probably weren’t going to take out Matsui himself, but it wouldn’t hurt to know how to suppress someone with a lesser quirk.

“Okay,” you said, nodding. “I’ll do it.”

Bakugou shifted over you so he was crouched over you, almost sitting on your stomach, still pinning your wrists down at the side of your head. A mean smirk overtook his face again, and a warning light flicked on in the back of your brain.

“First lesson, then, brat. Try to get out of this hold,” he said.

You stared up at him in disbelief, incredulity and annoyance instantly bubbling up in your veins like they’d just been set on a hot stove. “Now? Get out of this?” you demanded.

Bakugou’s smile was a wicked, feral thing, and it made something hot curl in your stomach, even more disconcerting than your annoyance. “If you wanna make it to your computer in time to respond to the email, then you’d better hurry up,” he said.

Immediately you started bucking in his hold, trying to shove him off of you with the raise of your hips, trying to twist out of his grip like a spineless jellyfish. Bakugou held you down, looking far too self-satisfied, and way too relaxed, like this was child’s play to him, while you struggled for your life. You kicked and curled and squirmed but none of it would dislodge him, and the insane urge to fucking bite him rose within you again, blotting out all rational thought.

Before you had realized what you were doing, you’d turned your head and brought your mouth to one of the arms holding you down. And then you leaned up and bit him right in the middle of his bicep, clamping down for all you were worth.

“What the fuck—!” Bakugou shouted, suddenly pulling his hands off of you just as hot, reflexive sparks of his quirk shot out of his palms. The motion jerked the skin of his arm out of your mouth, and you could see the ring of your tooth marks left in the firm muscle, smell the ashy sweetness of his quirk heat the air around you.

You realized he’d only moved to protect you, but that was enough of a surprise for you to buck him off of you, sliding quickly out from underneath him.

He recovered quickly enough, catching you by the scruff of your shirt and slamming you back down on the yoga mat. He covered you with his body again, his palms still hot from his quirk.

“What the fuck was that you goddamn brat?” he demanded.

You gave him your shittiest, smuggest grin. “Self defense,” you said. “And I escaped your hold, even if only for a second, so I win.”

Bakugou looked beyond pissed.

“You’re gonna get it, you shitty fucking brat,” he told you warningly, his tone going darker.

But you didn’t care. You were far too satisfied with your unexpected win, and the realization of your desire to bite him that had compounded over the course of your isolation with him.

You loved the look of him, incredulous, furious, and so impossibly golden and handsome over you—this, you thought wildly, was worth any revenge he could think up. This was exactly how you wanted him.

And then Bakugou moved, his revenge swift and merciless.

He uttered your name like an oath, ducked his head. And then he caught your mouth in a kiss—hot and furious.

And the tension you had sensed building all along finally snapped.

[celticcrossanon]

My dream about William

Dear Celta I am the disappointed in Charles anon from yesterday. I wanted to post something here and not on Reddit. I may post on Cat’s blog too.

This morning I dreamed about William. I was dressed in a dark suit with white blouse and I was a blonde woman with a pony tail of around 35 in age. We were sitting together in a dark sedan style car. the Wheel was on the right so we were in the UK. It was just the two of us and we were chatting in the stationary car, I recall telling him “well that’s the sort of thing that happens when you work in retail.” it was a normal conversation we liked each other there was laughter.

The scene changed we were still in the car now with two other officers in suits. William was at the wheel and we were in a wide alleyway. Suddenly William reversed fast all the way down the alley and I recall the car swinging round as we escaped down a road with a slight decline. In the distance behind buildings I saw an explosion and missile strike. I told him, “there are bombs behind us too.”

The next scene William and I were in a room with two doors on the same side at one door was a threat at the other door I was on the floor and William was in front of me ducking. The person at the first door threw an incendiary at me. It was a red velvet box like one that contains a ring. I scrambled for it but it would fumble and when I grabbed it to throw away it would stick to my fingers, I kicked at it and eventually grabbed it and threw it away from us. It did not explode.

The following scene was a car park with cars for diplomats, they were all leaving and I arrived asking where my box was “the shoes I had been gifted where are they?” nobody knew and I replied “I can’t wear these shoes they have evidence from the attack on them, they’ll need them for forensics.”

It was all too vivid and I am worried about attacks on William. I felt quite sick this morning and I still do. So can we all put a white light of protection around William and his family?

I know it’s only a dream and manifestation of my current anxiety about this situation. But I still think we should be vigilant.

*

Hi Nonny,

I will post this for you. I think sending protective energy to William and his family is a very good idea. At the very least, the threat level against them has increased because of Harry. White light of protection it is.

[thebahwrites]

hey bah! here goes a very romantic warmup prompt for hangster

(thanks for putting it on my dash btw 😉)

Hangster + Red Threads

THERMITE

noun

a mixture of finely powdered aluminum and iron oxide that produces a very high temperature on combustion, used in welding and for incendiary bombs' "thermite grenade"

Let's get together on the sharp edge of a knife I'm gonna let love tear me down

The first time they lay hands on each other turns out that they want to get under each other's skin like animals claw through fur and flesh. Bradley Bradshaw has grown weary of Jake Seresin running his mouth like he runs a three ring circus. A showman of his own demise, Hangman commands attention and says things he means because he always means something; like he's a poet of terrible preambles. Bradley understand he does so after spending enough time around the man, that every word comes chock full of reasoning behind, even if at first you can't catch it. But the first time Rooster's hand come in contact with Hangman's too-warm skin isn't because of desire; it's because of white hot rage. Burning like thermite, bursting anger at words that the blond had thrown his way, he wraps one hand around his arm and another around his throat with eyes burning wet. If this were a cartoon scene, Rooster would be steaming out the ears as he pushes him against a wall. He can hear the way Hangman's breath is knocked out of his lungs and his eyes cross a little as his head hits the wooden wall. In fact, all he can hear and feel is Hangman under his hands, skin too warm, muscles too firm, eyes too bright.

People's shouting around them are all muted, Bradley's ears are roaring as Jake laughs. He laughs in his face even as he's pinned against a wall; laughter that burns back like mustard gas, blistering his lungs as he breathes it in. He may have one hand around Hangman's throat, but it feels like he is the one having the life choked out of himself.

He pulls his hand from the man's throat and closes a pulled fist back but allows his knuckles to connect with the wood right by Hangman's right ear instead. His heart racing like he's ran up a mountain, his own breathing so loud in his ears. Whoever is pulling on Hangman's noose like strings, making him dance to this song of cruelty like the unreal boy he is, has no mercy for Rooster. Splinters from the wood etch themselves into his skin but all he sees are green eyes digging back into his.

When they're finally pulled apart from each other, Rooster realizes there's no coming back from this; whatever this is. Tangled into each other forever, when he tries to fall asleep that night, Hangman's — no, Jake Seresin's rapacious eyes made of verdigris patina burn into his memory and keep him awake, tossing and turning.

Bradley can still hear Hangman's cruel, fluttering laughter loud and clear, making his heart skip enough beats to play another song.

[originemesis]

@kugel-bitch cont. from xxx

Before she makes a grab for Adam's reaching hand she takes a quick moment to shed the kevlar layer stifling her sense of touch, plucking the gloves off her fingers and leaving them there amidst the blond blooms to be retrieved at a later time. She does not want anything to repress her ability to absorb as much of this experience as she can within whatever span of time she is granted. All of it, every last, minute detail, she wants it chiseled into the deepest niches of her mind, so that not even eternity's corrosive influence can scrub these memories clean from the essence of her being. Much of her life has been relatively unremarkable. She was not created to be a witness, or an incendiary to extraordinary events, so she has little to look back on in terms of outstanding moments, but this she wants to hold onto, with everything that she's got. Palm against palm, she hoists herself back into an upright position but remains put inside the cradle of Adam's wingspan, hanging off his every word as if he were reciting a previously unknown chapter of the holy gospel to her. There's no end to the fascination she has for the machinations of his mind—he's made it easy to maintain throughout the years, ever taciturn in regards to his innermost thoughts and feelings. Of course there is much she has learned to glean from his day-to-day disposition but it is very different to actually hear him voice the things that go on inside the dome of his cranium. He speaks her name and her brows shoot skyward. "Me?"

Okay. Something is up. Like, up, up. Way above her current understanding of what this venture is really about. "I think you're giving me a little too much credit right now, Adam...are you—" Amidst the confusion and the steadily climbing rate of her heartbeat the words are getting lost on their way from her head to her tongue. She stares at him through the reflection of the moonlight gleaming in his visor, bouncing off the glass and in turn casting a silver-gold glow on her bemused countenance. She may be humanoid in appearance but this lighting very much accentuates the ethereal nature of her flesh, how it gleams like finely carved, polished marble, entirely void of the fine lines, dimples and pores that give humans their unique, rugged appearance. When the light catches her at just the right angle, he might see the subtle, mother-of-pearl-esque colors swimming in the whiteness of her face, like the inside of an oyster's shell. "—are you okay? You feel...warm. really warm." Just then she realizes that she is still holding onto his hand, but she makes no move to pull away. Something tells her that he might be in need of a spot of moral support right now. "...yes, of course, you know you can tell me anything. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere...Tell me what you're thinking."

"-take the credit then? Unless you'd prefer a little more than a 'little' to cash out now?" He'd spent too much time with the flock to not take note of how she seemed to buckle at the sudden shift in his tone that only seemed more potent with the addition of Eden's cicada population. The cadence of crickets and frogs crooned as normal, but he'd already taken their song for his own inside his head and began to push it outwards with the help of his helmet- a base of the former thing...improved. More notable. The wind in the pond's cattails probably joined in a scratch or two on top of it. Anything nearby seemed willing to become a magnified instrument with whatever had happened to switch the atmosphere on like a microphone.

The golden gait of his gaze fell to observe how her form shimmered its shedding disguise beneath the moon. She was opaline- a form that drew him nearer still and promised the golden light of his splendor would always be reflected and even improved when she blended her various colors with his before reflecting them out again. "Y-yeah...the fuck wouldn't I be?" He assured with a huff, though made no movement to withdraw from the proximity of their faces just yet. "It's just...you're so-" Words caught in his throat a moment, and with a swift swallow, he chased after them.

"...so pretty."

Giving the bare hand coaxed within his a careful squeeze, he was quick to offer the look of concern on her face a quirk of a smile behind his visor. "Feelin' real shitty I didn't spend V-day with ya now." He added, a twinge of remorse caught in a grimace. She'd already came to him about it, and yet he'd still been too sore to delve further past a noncommittal grunt and a 'don't do it again then, slut'. With a seamless shift, he leaned backwards to observe her face propped up in his claw and to dig the edge of his thumb into her cheek, rubbing fondly in a deep yet slow circle. It's her prompting out of concern for him that drives him to relent with sagged shoulders and feathers fluttering until each respective wing met one another around the back of hers as he doted over her with an assortment of clucks and coos.

Time to be a man about it- [until 3:05 for this part OOf-]

"...so hear me out." Leaning in to the subtle acoustics the garden provided, he set to work inside his helmet- lining up the custom sounds of nature with a scrambling of style that bet fit him- best fit her the more he tinkered away at it. The sound coursing through him and threading into the universe around them was all encompassing at first- and for the time being it seemed to have no direct source, though perhaps the bass beginning to thud against them tucked close to one another would reveal that it was the thudding clatter of his heart against his chest that seemed to be the culprit in the matter. Their first day in the garden was spent with the configuring of such noises and vibrations, and so deep were they that it was hard to notice the time that passed and how utterly inconsequential it was to an angel's crooning while using every edge of the universe for its game.

It was only when the light from the moon had faded to the early temperance of dawn that he began his musings- musical and rumbling in his chest. "...once upon a time-" His wings would follow the first few words dropped, flaring outwards fully to let her admire the last of the moonlight's kisses along his feathers as the dawn cycled through them. "...I used to romanticize...used to be somebody- hff...nevermind-" A shrug. "...don't miss it that much now."

His croons cycled through the equalizer, magnifying the depths of each word until they reverberated with the effort that ripples along water formed when fingertips dipped into the surface of puddles recently shed from an earlier morning drizzle. "I feel it sinkin' in. Days where I wonder where I've been-...in picture perfect..." With a puff, he scooted the back of his knuckles beneath her jawline, ghosting along it with the precision of a guitarist with a lute at his disposal. "-porcelain. But I wont' lose a pound. You said I-" The music of the garden's initial sounds concentrated by his efforts began to deepen with each note that helped pull him upwards slowly but surely. Without a flap or a flutter, but with wings on full, outstretched display, the melody began to tug him upwards while he observed her from above with mild amusement. Was it clear to her now that his voice was amplified in a way that did not hurt the senses- but boomed with enough brightness to bully both heaven and hell into witnesses of his cause? "-would make a better lyre...I never face the music when it's di-i-ire...and I breathe ~ disaster...ever-after. Don't pull away from me now."

The day had already begun to fade again in the golden light of second-day's sunset when he rode the current at his current capacity carefully around her- wings outstretched and fluttering about her shoulders as he circled just above her head. "Don't you move." A firm chirrup later and he was barely grazing her cheek with his feathers as he rose higher into the air above her. "Can't you stay? Where you are-...just for now?" A smile tugged at his visor, overly warm when pinned in her direction. He clicked his teeth and continued with a warble. "I could be your per-fect disaster..." Disaster as it was to curl the ends of his wing tips around her face and coax it back to ensure she followed his movements, he did so with an extraordinary amount of care despite having to babysit all the different sound emittances from his helmet in addition to what he crooned next.

"-you could be my ever after? You-" A gritty growl dug its talons in, unwilling to let her go now that they'd already been left upon the stage of infinite time at his request via the sound frequency he channeled through the very depths of his chest. The violins he'd heard often in heaven could be heard too- repurposed for his own design. A collage of sounds all meant to serenade her. "-could be my ever after...after all? I could be your perfect disaster..." He'd been perfect once before, after all. A perfect being in this place that made her stare so much in wonder at...how he longed to put on a performance that would have her look at him that way. "You could be my ever after-apologies!"

With a harsh flap, the angelic broadcaster launched himself backwards away from her, coming to rest within the bough of a tree above the thicket. The drums from their band were recorded in various means in his files, but he'd found just the right pattern of them to admit at that moment and applied the sound of them just as the third day began to breathe its sigh into his lungs. "I'm not myself." He argued that fact with a gesture to the face he wore. He knew she probably wanted to see what was underneath it now more than ever- to see him and see if he was just joking around and jerking her chain, but there was no way he could support the orchestra of sounds without the thing locked in place now and thrumming with all manner of fervent frequencies. "But I can guarantee-! That when I get back? You won't believe...that you know me well."

Palm flat against the bark of his perch, he circled the trunk of the white oak, eyes trained down on her and talons dug in to scratch the post as if he could grind their initials in without a second thought. "Don't wanna think about it-" A spot on the bark where a heart and the initials A+E rested received a hearty scratch from his circling efforts. "I'm fuckin' TIRED of getting SICK ABOUT IT-" Talons curled in and a fist met the heart once with a melodic slam that he used to launch himself away from the base of the tree and out amongst its leafy boughs were his light grazing of weight against the lighter branches shook leaves and unripe pollen free to fall overhead.

With a brutish beat of his wings to bat the weaker limbs away- snapping what couldn't withstand his fury in that moment and sending them tumbling down, he scoffed with the same energy he'd toss to a crowd of gathered exorcists all looking for that serotonin boost to get worked up for their next extermination. "Now stand back up- and be a MAN about it. And fight for something!" He demanded, wings cracking with each emphasis of- "fight for something! FIGHT for someTHING!" The final 'thing' was just the burst needed to launch himself down into the patches of flowers he'd collected at the tree's base, ripping them up with his wings beating furiously on impact. "Oough ~ you said I would make a better lyre? Never face the music when it's dire. I breathe-" And he did- the sharpest inhale when he saw the glow of the moonlight on her skin again pitching her into a mold that he could never replicate despite all his furious feather flares. She'd always exude a sense of divinity he could only hope to graze should he work the tempo up enough to get airborne. "-disaster. Ever ~ after. Don't pull away from me now..."

Golden light flashed- sparked as if by his claims, and as he began to rise again without the assistance of wing flaps in favor of having them outstretched and on full, flashing display under the light of the third day's half moon, the golden flashes formulated and formed the golden ax in his arms just in time to meet a thunderous strum of his angelic specialty - the strings. All of them attached.

"Don't you move-...can't you stay? Where you are...just for now??"

[loosiap]

Hii! I'm currently learning how to retexture/recolor hair and I have a question: there are items like hairs with dread/braid/wavy textures and eyebrows I want to recolor in the hair system I use but I want to keep the original texture. As you know, you need to apply the base texture on hairs before recoloring but the base texture I have is made for straight hair. How can I recolor without changing the texture?

Hello ^^ I never tried recolouring eyebrows so I'm not sure what is the best method for them but when it comes to hair that have texture you don't want to change you basicaly want to just recolour original texture. I can't find any step-by-step tutorial for this exept for Skittlessims one: LINK, I haven't watch it but maybe it could be helpful. @Goatskickin gave nice tips on how she recolours here: LINK (volatile hair action by Pooklet she's mentioning here you can find: LINK. If hair system you're using requires grey as base instead of volatile you can just desaturate volatile to get it). I used to recolour hair very similar to Goat when I was using PS but now I use gimp. Hair system I use require volatile base for gimp and for that I use IaKoa's curves. There is grey-to-volatile and incendiary-to-voliatile curves I use to get base colour I need. Depends what works best I desaturate one of the blonds or I start with grey texture and play with brightness/contrast etc to get it as close to base grey as possible in order to run grey-to-volatile curve or I use incendiary-to-volatile curve on blond texture and then if needed I play with desaturation or brightness/contrast etc to get it as close to volatile as possible. It's basicaly one big trial and error method for me.

Does anyone know more tutorials showing hair recolouring that could help someone who's starting with recolouring?

[gatutor]

Arturo de Córdova-Betty Hutton "La rubia de los cabellos de fuego" (Incendiary blonde) 1945, de George Marshall.

[pulpman2]

The Incendiary Blondes

“Please don’t kill me!” the German pilot begged as Francine pressed her knee into the man’s chest, and her left hand onto his shoulder, forcing it to the tarmac of the airfield, while she raised her right hand aloft, holding a deadly looking knife, in order to strike. “I surrender! Please take me prisoner, Mademoiselle!”

With her two companions, cheekily named the “Incendiary Blondes” by Captain Carter, the American officer that the all female (and coincidentally blonde) maquis had rescued, were busy firing fusillades at an enemy plane and the German ground crew advancing on them, the soft hearted Francine took the time to rip what remained of her yellow linen skirt into strips and used them to tie the German hand and foot while he lay on the ground. “Thankyou, fraulein, thankyou,” he gasped before the French woman used a further strip of material to gag him. “I am not taking you with us. You can take your chances on the tarmac.” she told her captive before leaving him hogtied on the runway and hurrying towards towards the plane Carter was even then revving for take off. Marie extended a hand to haul her aboard. “It will be a squeeze, Francine,” she smiled. “Less of a squeeze than it nearly was,” the woman replied looking back at the pilot, bound, gagged and squirming on the ground.

My interpretation of the story behind the cover to The Wild Assault of Carter’s Incendiary Blondes, Real Man magazine (September 1961)