#and I know this one is gonna be mostly ignored by the bulk of my followers

[starlitangels]

The Spare Room

Alternative title: “[ASMR] Nightmare Comfort With Giant Dad” Well. The new little series for Hades made me want to write a short but sweet direct sequel to the episode we just got because I was feeling ✨inspired✨ I know there’s not a lot of GB fans around here but those who are around are delightful people and I hope this makes you happy! Despite how short it is 1.3k words

—

“Hades? Oh, Hades?” the beautiful, familiar voice singsonged softly. “Have you fallen asleep in your workshop again?” A gentle brush of fingertips down his cheek accompanied by light laughter like the wind through budding trees. He stirred slightly, but his eyelids were too heavy to open.

“Per… Persephone…” Hades mumbled.

“Yes, my darling,” she said. He felt her kiss press to his hairline. “You’re working too hard again.”

“No, I… I’m not.” But he knew his voice was too tired to be convincing.

Persephone twisted the ends of his hair through her fingers. “Oh, my dear Hades. I do worry about you.”

“Don’t worry about me, Persephone. I’m alright.”

“Is that so?”

“Mmhmm.” He definitely sounded sleepy.

“Alright then. I’ll believe you.” There was a smile in her voice. She placed a kiss delicately to the corner of his mouth. “And who is the little one in the spare room?”

“P… Pandora.”

“Oh what a delightful little name. Where did you find them?”

“Ess…”

“Esselheim?” Persephone gasped softly. “How lovely. Are they a friend of Prometheus?”

“Yes, my dear.”

“How wonderful. You’ll have to introduce us when you wake.”

“When I… wake…” Hades agreed, nodding. “When I wake!”

His eyes snapped open and he was instantly alert.

His workshop was empty, precious Persephone nowhere to be seen. The fire had burnt down to embers and charcoal. She had been another wishful dream lingering on the edges of his consciousness. Making his heart ache, yearning for her return. One he sometimes wasn’t sure would ever happen.

Hades got to his feet and heaved a sigh.

He left the workshop, moving as quietly as one his size could, toward the now-occupied spare room.

He pushed the heavy door open just enough to peer in. To check and make sure everything was alright.

Compared to the giants the bed was made for, the sleeping Joten was minuscule. Despite the darkness, Hades could see them sleeping peacefully. Unaffected by anything around them. The more mechanical of their biomechanical functions in stasis for the night.

Pandora.

They’d allowed him to choose their name by the culture and conventions of his people. Hades still wasn’t entirely sure what about the gesture had touched him so deeply on an emotional level. Perhaps it was the trust. Perhaps it was whatever connection of responsibility he’d developed for them back when Odin first brought their head to him and he’d done his best to bring them back to life. The little Joten, small even for their own kind, who bore a name with no meaning. Now bearing a name of his kind.

Pandora…

He really needed to write to Persephone. To let her know about his new assistant. He had a feeling she would adore them, just as she had in the dream, still tugging gently at the edges of his mind. How he wished she was home with him.

Pandora shuffled in their sleep, cooing quietly. Hades smiled, fondness fluttering in his chest. How sweet and serene they looked. So unlike the worry that had plagued their features through the entire adventure they’d shared with him, Odin, Ulysses, and Fenrir.

They deserved the rest. Uninterrupted by woe.

He thought to leave them, but just as he was twisting to go, he heard a slight yelp. He whirled. Their face had twisted. Stricken with stress. “Fen… Fenrir!” Their whisper was urgent and terrified. “No… no! Leave him alone!” They started squirming, mechanical functions activating. “Odin!”

Hades hesitated only for a moment at the threshold to their room before slipping in. He crossed to the bed and crouched beside it. “Little one, it’s okay,” he soothed. “It’s just a dream. Come back to the waking world. Sh, sh, sh. You’re alright.”

They gasped, eyes flying open and sitting bolt upright in bed. “T—Hades!” They almost seemed surprised, stumbling over not calling him by the name they were used to.

“You’re alright now, little one. It was just a bad dream.” He opened his arms, offering them a hug.

They scrambled out from under the blankets and crawled over to him, grabbing him in a hug. They were too small to fit their arms all the way around his waist or shoulders, but they could almost reach around the circumference of his neck. So that was where they held on. He held them against his body with his hands, too much larger than them to even use his arms.

“There we go. It’s alright. You’re alright, little one,” he reassured them. “I promise. It was just a bad dream.”

Their heavy breathing slowed down a bit as they clung to him. He didn’t even mind the way their hands had caught in his hair in their haste to hold onto him. Making sure they were comforted was more important.

“Hades… you’re shaking,” they said quietly.

“I had a dream as well.”

“A bad one?”

“No. A sad one. But only because I woke and it ended.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Pandora, do not be sorry for me. I’m alright. I just want to make sure that you are also alright.”

They didn’t respond immediately. “I’m… I’m okay,” they said softly. “I dreamt about one of the times Fenrir found out what had happened to him. The time he attacked Odin.”

“Ah. I can see why you were so distressed.”

They nodded, their chin digging into his shoulder with the movement, but it didn’t hurt. “Yeah. It wasn’t… wasn’t fun.”

“No. But you’re alright now.” He placed a hand carefully on the back of their head. “I’m here. You’re safe. I promise.”

“Thank you,” they whispered. Still a bit shaky.

“Of course, little one.”

“Will… will you stay with me until I fall back to sleep?”

“If that’s what you wish, I would be happy to.”

They nodded. “Please.”

“Of course. I’ll be right here. Would you like me to continue the story I was reading earlier?”

They shook their head. “Not this time. I don’t think I’d be able to listen properly.”

“That’s alright. We can just stay here until you drift off.” He moved so he was closer to the bed, waiting for them to climb away from him and get back under the blankets. But they didn’t. They just held onto him and rested their cheek against his shoulder, eyes closed.

He rocked back and forth, comforting instincts activating, holding them close.

The trembling in their limbs from their fear eased to stillness after a while. When Hades looked down, he saw the peace had returned to their face. Their breathing had deepened and the soft lights of their mechanical functions had faded back to stasis.

A soft smile tugging on his mouth, Hades leaned forward so their body tilted back into his hands, letting go of his neck. He gently set them back down on the bed much too large for them and pulled the blanket up to cover their body.

Their small hand took a fistful of the top blanket and they burrowed beneath it, snuggling up.

“That’s it, little Pandora,” he breathed. “Get some sleep.”

He used the barest tip of his finger to brush a bit of the blanket off their face before getting to his feet and easing out of their room and shutting the door. As quietly as someone his size could, of course.

He thought for a moment to return to his workshop, but decided, after taking time to ponder, to go to his own room instead.

It would be preferable to dream about Persephone in bed, rather than dozing off in a chair. He just hoped that she would grace him with her presence, even in sleep, once more.

—

Tagging some GB Fans who might enjoy this: @palilious @gwenifred @ryn-halo26 @daveyistheloml

[lover-of-mine]

I’ve thought about it and considering we haven’t seen Lou on set yet if he’s going to be back in season 8 (though like everyone else I would not be mad if he just didn’t come back at all lol) I feel like one or more of the 3 following scenarios is happening

1. He’s been on set but for such minor scenes just to wrap up that storyline that it just so happened he wasn’t caught on camera

2. He’s not allowed to be involved in any PR including behind the scenes videos because of his cameo nonsense

3. He hasn’t been on set yet but he will be and they just didn’t have time during opening emergency stuff (which is what they’ve been filming I believe) to deal with BT breakup so maybe the first 3 eps focus on the emergency and Eddie and Tommy isn’t really mentioned (unless maybe by Buck to lay groundwork that it’s not working out) and then he comes back in ep 4 or later for the breakup.

I’m curious your thoughts now that we’re a little further into filming and have gotten some behind the scenes stuff.

Okay, I think that no matter what that man is under the most strict NDA an abc lawyer ever had to write. Second, they don't film things linearly and our first sign that Marisol was gonna be back was almost a month into filming even tho she was in 701, there's a chance they filmed emergencies in a bulk because of location availability and consistency or just because it was easier to block those together and he didn't show up yet because they are just now starting to film non call related stuff. But I feel like the longer we don't see him the options are:

They decided bringing him back is not worth it and that the narrative can take the hit of having him being written off off-screen because of the chaos the ghost of his presence can create (ref most recently the comments on Kenny's reel but literally anything else) or that they found out that the cameos were a breach of contract and they are not bringing him back at all. This is the less likely scenario in my head, but it is a possibility;

He already has been in to film whatever scenes they need him in. Like, they clustered them together, locked him and Oliver in a set for a day and then sent him on his way without anyone else seeing him because he's under the most strict NDA known to men and the rest of the crew just didn't post him;

He will show up soon and still be in the opening arc because realistic anything they film up until the end of the month can end up in the first episode anyway (opinion of a video editor, considering how s7 was, maybe even first week of September could still mean first episode);

He will show up soon but will only be addressed once the opening arc is over. I think this one is extremely unlikely mostly because the longer it takes to address the relationship, the crazier things are gonna get, just watch the way the other side is already losing it, it's gonna get worse once the show starts airing, he needs to be addressed quick, ignoring him within the narrative for 3/4 episodes is gonna create problems, for marketing and for the narrative;

He's been there multiple times already and they actually are hiding him. Hiding as in making a point of not letting anything involving him hit social media. This is a network show not a marvel movie so I don't see why they would hide him, but at this point I need to say it is a possibility that he is being hidden to avoid creating conversation.

He's a schrodinger cat. He's both there and not there at all times until we see something definitive. I still think they need him for at least 2 scenes (maybe one if they do the rest of the work with Buck talking to other people but it will be pushing it) so I'm not holding my breath for him not to come back at all. But I also know he's gonna be addressed in episode 1. Ali was addressed in 301, Taylor and Ana are both in 501, Natalia is addressed in 701 and Marisol is in 701. Whatever happens with him, we will know in 801.

[planet4546b]

signoise questions!!! feel free to ignore as many as u want, sorry there are so many i am just very 🙇 (emoji of person leaning on folded arms and looking interested if it doesnt load right- just looked this up and it is actually a person bowing??? i have always parsed it as like a more restrained :eyes: emoji. huh) abt all of the parts its very cool!!!

-decade: have u read the city & the city by china mieville? whatre the inspirations for this if u have any off the top of yr head? was this like a rogue architect (i am thinking of the cartographers without borders post about a flat and level kansas watch out for the 900ft cliff bisecting kansas city post) or was it an official govt project or something?

-twins: i really like the name lariat for a city thats v cool also since theres a bunch of plays, are they all extant in their entireties or is it like a classical texts situation where we have fragmentary records? im really interested in the mixed media part of signoise & how different parts might be told, are u thinking of adding video or audio or anything?

-bell expedition: SO interested in how a caver becomes "disgraced." excited to see a bunch of cave content about the mar.

-pareidolia: a) VERY cool name i love it b) are u going to make the photographs they take?

-pepper's ghost: i dont have a specific q about this one i would just like to register my extreme excitement to see what happens w it.

& i guess just a more general q, do u have a rough idea of what media(s) each story is going to be in? also i am really really liking the name choices youve made for places etc.

i misread bowing as bowling and my confusion about that emoji only grew. but ozzy hi!!! thank you for the questions im gonna try to hit all of them :D

1. i HAVE read the city and the city (really enjoy it) although it ironically inspires a different city on the map (primary and meridian, which is where the playwright stuff mostly takes place). decade’s primary inspiration is pretty explicitly superstudio’s continuous monument, as well as a handful of other postmodern avant- garde architecture concepts, like constant’s new babylon. visually also something like blame, though i have yet to actually read blame i know not by reputation alone. the vibes of it are actually very much that pefectly level kansas post LMAO

decade’s architect is a supercomputer (also known as decade) that produces the plans that the people then construct (also very invisible cities, i’m just blanking on the name of the city itself that’s constantly building). a lot of decade’s story is pure mystery for this reason: how did they build a supercomputer? how and why does it create its plans? what is it building for? why is it that the only records of the city are from decade itself, and next to no records from its citizens exist? what was their form of government, who did decide to build, who led this project? much to uncover!!

2. mairzy finch was a relatively minor playwright during their life, and had one play that really became well known and four or five other less known ones. the bulk of their history is about a massive series of plays that are in fact fragmentary and were all found after their death and are being ‘completed’ and published by almas verrier. so there is a lot of classics to it in how those plays are reconstructed, published, and continually found (and the controversy around all of that), though this is not a project that gains a lot of scholarly attention, its pretty much only verrier and samira that are interested at all.

i would absolutely LOVE to add audio especially to these plays, within my ability as a single creator. although i will likely needle my sibling who used to act to get notes on things like stage and audio design (the entertainment interlude in kentucky route zero is a HUGE inspiration here).

3. quite simply, eric has previously led groups in which multiple members died, and while it is generally understood that that’s a bit of an occupational hazard, the general caving community has concluded those specific deaths could have been avoided if eric was not pushing the group to fuel his own ego. Oops! and glad you’re excited for the cave content because ohohoho so am i!!!!

4. my favorite thing about the name pareidolia is that when i’m researching other things i ALWAYS run into this word and go oh cool and go to its wikipedia page and forget one of the first images on the wikipedia page is a cave formation LOL. and yes i almost definitely will be!! i will at minimum be recreating them via digital art, but i have So many cave photos i can use various ways, and im thinking about getting some cheap ass camera to print physical photos as well. i have in my mind what his most famous photograph is and im so excited to recreate it GAH

5. i’m also SO excited about this one so glad to hear it!!! these two are characters that are close to my heart but have been at the fringes of signoise’s main story for a while, getting to spotlight them is super exciting for me. and there’s some weird late game plot developments with them that are fun. they also are the mechanism for my favorite Samira Realization and a catalyst for her downward spiral. woohoo!

6. the mixed media aspect of signoise is BRAND new and a lot of that i’m still brainstorming to figure out what’s even possible for me to do, but what i do know is the general format for each:

playwright: play scripts and academic papers (possible audio recordings/set plans)

decade: architectural plans, radio transmission transcripts

bell: interviews with bell and everett (god i would love so bad to make and photograph minis for specific cave scenes here)

pareidolia: photographs, research notes (?) i need…something else here but im still figuring out what (largely photo manips and limited animation. hopefully via physical camera)

peppers ghost: radio broadcast transcripts (i have the least wiggle room for other media in here i think, iltheres too much of it to be voice acted via just like dragging in family and friends and it’s pretty limited to radio. but i’ll find something im sure)

and thank you!!! naming things is difficult (the like…7 hours i spent trying to find names for all the new characters. god.) but i have quite a bit of fun with it. i like sounds ^^

[hazbinshusk]

I have a question- I admire your work, like-, fangirl type of admiring, and you were one of the reasons why I started writing -first headcannon, chains and tears was inspired by some of your writing (some others too, like irl but mostly yours and theirs), but HOW, how can you write everyday/almost everyday?? Like, life, writing block, just- HOW?? Are you a goddess or something? Because damn I’ve tried but I can’t- anyways, I freaking LOVE your work!! Keep going, you’re a bigggg inspiration

okay, first of all, you're gonna make me cry being this sweet to me <3. The idea that I'm actually inspiring someone else's writing? godly. seriously, thank you soooo much!

but I'm here to tell you right now, I don't write everyday. I wish I could, I really do, but I don't have it in me. What I do for work is so mentally and emotionally draining that honestly, most days I get home and I can't even think of writing. I'll turn my laptop on, and I'm lucky if I get a sentence out before I'm doomscrolling because that's all my brain can handle. I don't even have the energy to answer asks most days.

I do try to write as often as possible, but I end up doing the bulk of my writing on weekends. On a really good day, with the right inspiration, I can write a good few thousand words in a day, which probably isn't a lot, but by the end of the weekend I can have 2 or 3 fics ready to publish (more if they're shorter). Then I set them up in my drafts so I can post them throughout the week.

honestly, I think a lot of that comes down to the support and love I'm getting from a new fandom too. I used to (and want to get back to eventually) write mcu x reader fics and I was so burnt out on them because I would get so little in the way of interaction outside of kudos on ao3 or I would get so few reblogs that fics I'd spent hours if not days on would end up with less than 100 notes. And that sucked, because it felt like I was just throwing this writing I worked so hard on into a void. And I wrote a lot of fics, so maybe people were just expecting them to keeep coming without the positive feedback? idk. I know I'm not entitled to feedback, but it makes it really hard to write without it.

like, I have over 11,000 followers on my main blog (and sure, a lot of them might be following for other fandoms, or haven't been logged into for a while) but I get more asks and interactions on this blog in a day than I do on that one in a month.

so, the support has been a big thing for me, but trust me, I'm not writing every day. honestly, I'm punishing myself for not writing as often as I want. but go it at your own pace because if we burn out we just end up hating that we're not creating. I try to combat that by temporarily ignoring requests and writing my own ideas, but it can still be a lot. my fic count for this month has gone down considerably.

trust me, I'm a mess, but we can still write when we have the time/energy and that's good enough :)

[mississpissi]

im asking you to explain :mic: abby and her dad go

ok this all started w bulks post about “abby” meaning “father’s joy” and it got me thinking about the contrast between cecil’s relationship with his mom versus the relationship i imagine between abby and her dad. fair warning that this mostly exists in my head but u bet ur burger im still gonna try to back up my ideas w quotes from the text (AP lit and lang babey).

first of all, looking at cecil’s relationship with his mom is super important. one of the first things we hear about her is that she used to hide from cecil for days and that she covered all the mirrors in their house (33). she also tells cecil to “beware, be warned, be wary”, which she apparently says to everything and cecil interprets to mean that she’s proud of him. we also hear in “Homecoming” (55) that cecil looks forward to seeing his mom every year at the homecoming game and was disappointed when he wasn’t able to. in “It Sticks With You” (182), we learn their mother would take them into the woods and walk quickly, cecil saying, “I think she wanted to lose us in the shadowy labyrinth of tall trees.” she would leave flowers at the base of the same old tree every time. she would ignore cecil’s questions. in “Bedtime Story” (132), which im convinced is about cecil (but that’s another post), cecil says “he just wanted his mother to show interest in his curiosity.” and even if that story isn’t about him, it is a story his mother would tell him at night, one he never heard the end of. in the traffic section of “Pioneer Days” (143), cecil tells a story of a boy left behind, abandoned by his family, left with nothing but a snake. im also fairly certain this is about him (cecil loves to tell his own story without ever really telling it). 

most revealing is what cecil says in “Ghost Stories” about his mother and her death. we learn their mother left when cecil was 14 (whatever that means), that cecil “thought that Mom would be back at any moment, like maybe she was away on business. Or out for a walk. Or just hiding.” He says, “And Mom flew away, when all other defenses failed her.” we learn she returned many years later, sick and old and “sorry”. we learn that she died soon after in a way that was “mundane”, that cecil was at work when it happened. we learn that cecil mourned her passing.

all of this paints a picture of a relationship that was strained, full of pain, downright abusive. and we see cecil, as he does so often, retrofit this pain to be something more palatable. she was hiding because she was proud. she didn’t speak to him because she was focused on something else. her defenses had failed her. she was struggling with alcoholism and mental illness. she was playing a game. she covered the mirrors because of pride. she came back! her death was inevitable. he misses her. he grieves her. he loved her. she might have loved him. he makes excuses for her because to do anything else would be to admit that he had experienced immense pain- to re-experience this immense pain. better to change the story.

now abby. 

we don’t know nearly as much about abby as i wish we did. we know she “approach[es] life with a total practicality,” that she will save her pain for when she is in private (It Devours!). steve says, “With Abby around, I can't imagine a bad thing that could happen" (89). we know her relationship with cecil has been tumultuous, that she leaned on cecil and then on steve as she raised janice. in “Bedtime Story”, the sister in the story fought with her brother, telling him she hated him. “she would wrestle him to the ground and pull his hair.” after the boy is buried in the ground, the sister often visits the tree he becomes. she plants flowers, removes beatles from his bark, reads in his shade, plucks his fruit. she visits with a man and a child, visits with joy and with tears in turn. this sister, this abby mourns her brother and tries to protect him, fights with him, loves him. 

and, again, in “Ghost Stories”, we learn that abby was “reserved and controlling”, that she dropped out of college when their mom left to raise cecil, that she blamed him (that cecil blamed her for not being their mom). we learn that abby was there when their mother died, that her death prompted cecil and abby to reconcile their differences. we learn that cecil and abby are both haunted by their family. 

here’s where i diverge from what we really have. 

we haven’t really heard from abby. everything we know of her we’ve learned from cecil and steve. but i have to imagine she resented their mother, that she hardly wanted to drop her plans for her future to raise her younger brother.  i hardly have to imagine what it’s like to have that kind of responsibility thrust upon you when all you wanted was to live your own life. i have to imagine watching your mother die, your mother who just reentered your life after years of neglect, would hurt, would be complicated, would cut deep.

i imagine mr. and mrs. palmer bringing home their first born child, naming her “Abby”, naming her “father’s joy”, naming her after the pride that swelled in her father’s chest. i imagine mr. and mrs. palmer doing their best to raise their daughter in a town as hostile as night vale. i imagine them wanting a sibling for their daughter, someone to keep her company when they couldn’t. i imagine abby struggling with the idea for a moment, then embracing her brother wholeheartedly. i imagine mrs. palmer naming their son “Cecil”, naming him “blind”, naming him after the future she saw.

i imagine abby, her father’s joy, watching as he brought his son to “work in the pasture” with him (132). watching as her brother was injured by his curiosity, watching as her father avoided him in his anger. watching her mother hide from her brother. i imagine abby realizing she would have to be the one to patch him up, even while both parents were still home. i imagine abby hearing her father promise that he “would give [his] life for [his son]”, hearing him say her brother could never be a doctor because “he feared for the boy's future patients”. i imagine her wanting her father to offer his life for her, to invite her to the pasture. i imagine her becoming more reserved over time, realizing her brother needed more help and attention, willing to step into the background because she loved him, because she wanted to be strong for her family. i imagine her doing everything she could to live up to her name, to be someone worthy of the joy of her father.

i imagine abby, her father’s joy, watching him leave. maybe she knew why, maybe she was simply left. i imagine abby watching her mother slowly fall into paranoia and fear because of her brother, because of what she had seen. i imagine abby following her mother into the woods, placing flowers on the trunk of a tree she recognizes, trying to keep cecil distracted by playing a game with him. i imagine abby making sure cecil got to school, got food when their mother was hiding from him. i imagine abby finding out her mother too had left, left her with now full time responsibility for cecil. i imagine abby becoming controlling because she had to, because she had lost control over so many other aspects of her life. i imagine abby channeling what she could remember of her father, trying to be strong, reliable- ignoring that he had stopped being that very suddenly. i imagine abby yelling at a teenage cecil, telling herself that it was better than ignoring him like they had. i imagine abby finding out she was to become a mother, a mother without a father, a mother to a daughter who had more needs than she could handle on her own. i imagine abby finding a man who wanted to help, who could provide a stability cecil was unable to, for all his enthusiasm. i imagine abby, kicking her drunk brother she had raised out of her wedding, not willing to look him in the face for years without seeing her father, seeing her mother, seeing ghosts.

and i imagine abby listening to her brother describe their father on live radio. i imagine her cleaning up after the dinner steve made, hearing about a man with a “thin mouth… [and] threatening, beckoning eyes” (192). hearing about a man, their father, her father, going into the forest with a shovel, digging himself out of the ground. i wonder if she put the pieces together retroactively or if she’d had them all along. i imagine her waiting for the shower to cry. i imagine her hearing that cecil received a photograph of their father (201, 219). i wonder if she went to see it, if she was able to, if she even wanted to see it. i wonder if she listened in, checking that her brother was taking care of her daughter, only to hear that her father, the man who’s joy she had once been, was actually talking to cecil (224). i wonder if she wondered why he was reaching out to cecil and not her. i wonder if she called cecil after, or if she knew he meant it when he said, “I refuse to look into it further.” i wonder if she hopes that when cecil is made to remember their father, she gets to as well. i wonder how long she was her father’s joy, and how long she spent grieving whatever changed that.

most of all, i wonder if WE’RE EVER GONNA GET TO HEAR ABBY’S FUCKING VOICE!!

[akanothere]

About me

Part time fandom artist, full time clown.

20+, she/her.

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THIS IS A MATURE BLOG OFTEN ENGAGING WITH DARK CONTENT, HOWEVER I STILL HAVE DNIs.

THIS BLOG CONTAINS NSFW, BLOOD AND GORE DRAWINGS, TONS OF TOXIC RELATIONSHIP AND OTHER TW (ALL PROPERLY TAGGED UNLESS I FORGOT ONE OR TWO. IF I DO PLEASE TELL ME!!!)

FULL DNI, DOS AND DON’T, FANDOM CONTENT WARNINGS BELOW. I AM BAD AT EXPRESSING SO IT GETS LENGTHY BUT UM HOPE IT CLEARS UP EVERYTHING

THIS USER DOES NOT ACCEPT INSULTS, VIOLENCE, ABUSE, SLURS, AND DEATH THREATS TOWARDS HUMAN IN REAL LIFE.

What to expect or not here:

⚠️VERY IMPORTANT

I can tolerate/will create darker themed content when it comes to slashers or mature fandoms and villains. I would say this is NOT a safe blog (I mean come on those are bad guys what do you expect! Don’t be too delulu to a point you gonna make them a good guy). However I do not tolerate any form of violence, abuse and discrimination in real life. Seriously, get help if you come across to any of these.

All my darker artworks are NOT for you to follow irl (can’t believe I still have to say this in 2020s do people use their brains nowadays)— It is for me to explore darker concepts, trying to figure out how, for example, how people attracted by psycho criminals, WITHOUT using an existing criminal and hurting anyone irl. Bc everyone is FAKE, they don’t exist, it’s FICTIONAL. Also, to explore my own/seen traumas. I turn personal issues into NSFW kinks or simply dark shit etc, and cope with it as a fictional content. Not exactly the best idea I know but this keeps me sane and overthinking about the past irl. I do not tolerate death/abuse threats and insults towards human in real life, it’s stupid. And all of you should also keep every dark shit fictional content in fictional world. We do not need anymore crime irl thank you very much. Think before you act or talk. Fandom is not that serious to a point you wish death and suggesting violence upon someone.

For my Haikyuu or Naruto art those are mostly safe as hell (my opinion) just loving caring and tons of smooch smooch!😭💖 OMFG I MEAN BOKUAKA HOW YOU GONNA LOOK AT THEM AND THINK OF ANYTHING DARK HELLO EXCUSE ME

Generally I’m open-minded to all ships and kinks (even with complicated relationships where abuse are mentioned for plot reasons, or larger age difference), I’ll simply not interact with contents I’m not interested with… so it would be nice to not recommend any ships or contents through ask, because I mayyyyyyyy ignore it if I don’t like it lmao.

⚠️I draw fictional slashers/villains, g0re and blo0d and other dead dove/ abusive relationships shit, you are warned again!!! However irl crimes/ criminals supporters please do us all a favour go fuck yourself. People who can’t distinguish fictions from real life are not welcomed here.

I DO NOT accept any NSFW commission. Also again and again, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. This is NOT a minors safe space.

I create art for my inner peace and needs. I cannot babysit and accommodate everyone, so, if you don’t like, don’t engage. The definition of “problematic ships” differs from person to person coz fk me people nowadays overuse this too much to a point idk what is & what is not…

-

Fandoms and ships

Dead by Daylight

Ghostface centric, Ghostface x OC/ x reader, sometimes GhostFrank, GhostMeg and GhostFrankMeg-the-daddy-issue-trio-poly

⚠️IMPORTANT: It’s totally okay to consume my version of Jed Olsen X OC content and imagining in your brain it’s you or whoever his S/O is, but I block people who draw my version of Jed with themselves/self-inserts/OCs, or generally drawing him. It’s a culture here: impolite to draw someone’s design without permission😭💦 So please don’t take it personally, it’s just me not comfortable with sharing my design of Jed with other people’s self insert/OC. Also I have many plans for him so when people draws him (even not a ship art), it might actually interfere with my WIP sketches and ideas which makes me so awkward like “should I continue when someone drew it already???” However I am glad many people like him! Thank you for giving him love he really doesn’t deserve it he belongs in the trash💥

PS. There are some designs out here alike which of course is fine, I do not own the character himself, but I‘ll stay away or block if it’s too alike/ overly referenced. I stay quiet about things I don’t like so unless shoving it in my face, I will just walk away🧍‍♀️💦Need not worry!

Haikyuu!!

BokuAka, sometimes Tsukishima centric and SunaKita

Harry Potter (Wizarding World)

Tom Riddle centric, Tomione. Casual: Tomarry, Drarry/Harco, Voldantonin, Antonmione, GGAD, SebOmi/OmiSeb, Sebastian Sallow x MC, Ominis Gaunt x MC, Seb+Omi+MC trio friendship.

⚠️I DO NOT SUPPORT JK ROWLING’S TRANSPHOBIC SPEECH. TRANS WOMEN ARE WOMEN. IF YOU CAN’T ACCEPT OTHERS HAPPINESS AND RIGHTS, THIS IS NOT A PLACE FOR YOU. FK OFF.

ALSO THAT ONE TOMIONE ANON WHO KEEPS ANNOYING WRITERS WHEN THEY WRITE FOR OTHER PAIR— DO NOT INTERACT.

Don’t follow me for ships. See me as a cheap ass £10 all you can eat cushion buffet please. No quality of art here. Just pure delulu and bad drawing skills.

Naruto

KakaSaku, ObiRin, ObiKaka and InoSaku.

⚠️Note that my main ship in this fandom is KakaSaku, but only when Sakura is of age and usually I ship them in same age/ sort of colleague AU

Other games, films and anime

Who’s Lila?, Cube Escape & Rusty Lake series, Year Walk, Disco Elysiumc, Good Omens, Hotline Miami, Chainsaw Man, Golden Kamuy, Dorohedoro, any Kon Satoshi/ Ito Junji/ Wong Ka Wai’s creations, Horror and thrillers, Sci-fics

Fic recommendation lists

(Most of them are dark, dead doves and NSFW. Some are light and cracks! Read TW and tags. Read at your own risk.)

Danny x You/OC/SO

Tomione

[appalachianapologies]

lil baby small fic (ficlet? is that where that word is appropriate?) of the restaurant mafia au thing. context? who is she

@anguishmacgyver pspspsps

Mac has a love-hate relationship with the brick wall outside of the restaurant. Outside of James’ restaurant.

On the one hand, it’s rough and textured and sometimes Mac runs his palms against it and grounds himself with it. On the other, it’s rough and sharp and James loves nothing more than to push him against it, giving a nasally laugh whenever Mac’s head bounces off of it. 

Today, though, he’s using it for the former reason. 

After stuttering out some excuse about how it’s his break, Mac pushes his way through the backdoor a few seconds ago, breathing hard in the nighttime air. Despite it being on the wrong half of 10 pm, the August air isn’t kind, and there’s still a hot and humid vice that’s held around Mac. It makes him sweat.

No other reason.

Pushing a gasping breath out, Mac moves a few feet away from the door, before pressing himself against the wall. It’s blessedly cool against the otherwise oppressive heat, and he’d stay here forever if he was allowed to. Nevermind go home- Mac would bunk out here.

Nice and cool, and more importantly, alone.

Mac lets himself slide to his knees, finally letting himself feel all the hatred and panic and loathing and even more panic that he’s been trying to keep in since the dinner rush started. Both his mind and rush hasn’t seemed to have an end in sight.

Too many orders that weren’t good enough.

James screaming at him, spit flying from his mouth. Warnings that Mac has to do good next time, or else.

Or else.

Mac has long since learned what James’ “or else” means.

The thought sends him into another tailspin, breaths coming faster.

Letting a low moan out, Mac reaches up for his hair, pulling at the roots. He still has hours left before he can reasonably leave, and the later the night gets, the worse the company. The walls of the kitchen won’t protect him from certain men who walk in the door.

Pressing the back of his head against the brick behind him, Mac relishes the way that the mortar presses into his scalp. Tries to use it to ground himself.

Does the stupid breathing that Bozer tried to teach him that Mac never quite got the hang of. 

Breathe in and out. In and out and maybe try to hold it for a few seconds if he can, but mostly just in and out. 

Just in. And out.

“Gonna rip your hair clean out if you keep up with that.”

Instantly pulling his hands away, Mac’s head jerks up at the voice. Without thinking, he jumps up off the ground, ignoring the dizzy spinning that his head rewards him with. “Who the hell are you?” 

If Mac didn’t know any better, he’d assume that it’s one of  James’ lackeys. The guy stands tall  in the mouth of the alleyway, clearly bulked up. He reminds Mac of the guys who would smash his head into the brick if told, no questions asked.

“Relax, kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” Mac snarls back. “Who are you with?”

“Who am I with?” The guy sounds confused. He takes a step forward, but as soon as Mac flinches, he stops in his tracks. “I mean, I work at the restaurant next door, but I ain’t ‘with’ them.”

Of course. It’s obvious, now that Mac thinks about it- he should’ve realized it earlier. “You’re a chef,” Mac dumbly replies.

“Through ’n through,” the guy confirms. “Are you? No offense, but you’re lookin’ kinda young.”

“It’s none of your business.”

Holding his hands up in mock surrender, the guy mutters, “Jeez, okay.” The two continue to stare at each other for a few more seconds, before he asks again, “You okay?”

“Fine,” Mac answers, wiping his hands on the edges of his apron. “And my break’s done.” It’s not, but James would hardly complain if Mac spent more time in the kitchen and cut his own personal time down. 

After a beat, the guy replies, “Alright. Well, see you around, kid.”

Mac scowls at him, hoping that he can see it through the darkness.

Before he can think better of it, Mac pulls open the back door to the kitchen, wincing at the noise and smells that assault him before he even steps a foot inside. He allows himself exactly one second in a poor attempt to calm himself, and then walks inside.

It isn’t until the door clicks shut behind him that Mac realizes he doesn’t even know the name of the stranger.

[nyotasaimiri]

Arc Two (redux) 78

Arjun was right. There was a climb ahead, and a steep one. Nyota considered it in grim silence, gauging the potential drops, the strength of the rock, the slick ice. “I’ll go first and drop a rope for you,” she said at last.

Arjun folded his arms and watched her study the rocks. “Sparing my old bones?”

Nyota snorted. “Close enough. Fur’s good padding. I might bounce.”

That got him to crack a small smirk. “Don’t ask me to catch you. I’m too old for that.” He curled an arm to humorously demonstrate a lack of muscle, at least compared to Nyota’s biceps. He still had a fair bit of bulk to him, from a lifetime in the mines. Then his smirk turned into faint concern as Nyota eyed the distance again and backed up a few steps for a short running start. “You not going to use that grapple there?”

“Not for the first one.” Nyota nodded a few times, sure of her calculations. “It can’t be more than three meters up. I won’t need it.”

Arjun fixed her with a very dry stare. “With all due respect, Captain, you’re insane.”

Nyota ignored him, took her steps forward, and leapt.

A few moments later, she helped an astonished Arjun haul himself up onto the ledge properly. She answered his dumbfounded stare with a cheeky grin. “My childhood nickname was Lemur.”

He just shook his head and whistled. “Damn,” he said when he found the words again. “But you can still jump like that with your leg?”

The genuine concern in his voice touched something deep inside her and Nyota found herself smiling, a little sad but mostly gentle. “I am wearing the brace today,” she said, “so I won’t be likely to strain it. I expected a lot of walking, after all. And don’t worry too much. I put most of the force on the left.”

“Right. If you say so.” Arjun stuffed the concern back under his customary gruffness, but Nyota was learning that only some of it was real. He watched in silence as she aimed her grappling hook at the next ledge up, fired, and made sure the shot was secure.  

“Not as easy as I thought,” Arjun grunted as Nyota helped haul him onto the next ledge. He dusted frost off his pants.

“That was a steep one,” Nyota agreed. “The rest look a little easier.”

“Not that.” He looked up and met her eyes. “I couldn’t think of what to share next. Since you gave yours.”

That caught her by surprise and left her open-mouthed for a moment. Then she shook her head and smiled. Of course he would play by the rules. “Whatever you like,” she said. “It doesn’t have to match mine.” Ice stuck to the grappling hook; she tapped it on the stone to knock it off.

Arjun shrugged. “Feels like it ought to.” He looked around the room, taking in the ancient carvings faintly visible through the snow and frost. “Always liked old things,” he said at last. “I found a fossil when I was ten. Dad was showing me how to use a pick. The first rock I broke open had this shell inside, all tight and spiraled.” He held up his gloved hands to show how big it had been. “Dad said it meant our mine was an ocean, a long time ago.”

He reached over and helped break off the last bit of ice, earning a grateful hum. “I just liked the idea that where that little shell ended up was something that it never imagined.”

Nyota looked down at him, her dark brown eyes holding the blue lights in the room until they seemed almost black. “That everything it knew had changed?”

Arjun shrugged again. “That there was that little something left. That we knew what it had been.”

*

“They’re in over their heads and you know it.”

Lumen shook his head, quietly glad he didn’t have all the facial tells that organic folk had. “They’re gonna be fine. Now stay put.”

“No they damn well will not.” Hadley pushed herself up onto her elbows in plain defiance to drive the point home. “You hear them? They split up in there. That’s stupid and Nyota knows it.”

Lumen gave up on looking neutral and sighed, long and crackling, taking the blue ring out of his corona so he could run a hand through the loose mess. “It ain’t like they got much other choice,” he said. “Eldie can’t fight well enough, Namina ain’t much good in cold, and I’m the only one who can run the ship while she an’ Arjun are out.”

He caught the look in her eye. “No ya don’t. Doctor’s orders an’ I sure mean it.” He tapped the medical chart beside her bed. “Ya took as good a look at this as I did. Ya ain’t goin’ anywhere for a good while.”

She was considering raging. He could see that much in her pale mauve eyes. But her voice was soft and calm when she said, “I don’t want to let them die.”

Sometimes Lumen wondered if, after spending so much time around humans, hearts were contagious. He felt some kind of aching in his core, right where it would’ve been if he had one. A deep and roiling turbulence made of plasma and light. Lumen put a hand over Hadley’s hands and wished the aching would stop. “We ain’t gonna let them.”

Hadley squeezed his hand, and he knew then just how scared she was, acknowledging it even that tiny bit. She glanced over at his workbench, and the row of red stimpacks he kept ready to replenish field kits.

Lumen followed her gaze and creaked out a soft sigh. “Not yet, lil’ Firebrand. Only if we ain’t got any other choice.”

[izzy-b-hands]

12V

Just like that, we're done! A fight, an unseen reunion, then finally the coast, and home.

TW for violence, that gets fairly graphic towards the end. a lil implied steddyhands NSFW in there too.

---

"Can't," Chauncey pants as he approaches them. "Keep a good man down!"

"Good is maybe a bit generous," Stede says. "You're...not necessarily as bad as your brother."

"Not by very many degrees though," Ed adds. "And that's my like, two day assessment. I mostly saw you when you were presumed dead too!"

"I'm bringing you all back in body bags," Chauncey giggles. "You two as well, Fang, Ivan."

"We won't tell anyone," Ivan scoffs. "You act like this is the first homicide we'd be witnessing. Come on, man."

"It isn't up for debate," Chauncey sneers. "Sound carries, and I heard you. I heard you say you'll let them live. How many others have you failed to kill, and kept a secret from us, hm? Stealing my money, my parents' money!"

He's spitting mad now, literally.

"Seems to me though," Izzy says, stripping off his coat and handing it to Stede with a kiss. "That while you may want all of us dead, we also want you dead. You're outnumbered."

Chauncey glares at him, but nods. "True, but what of it? I can feel what my brother had; what Great Grandfather Petyr had! The power of being beyond death, but holding it in your very hands to give to others-"

"Oh boy," Jack mutters. "Look, that's very fun. I think all of us enjoy that feeling now and again, as vamps, yeah?"

Izzy nods when Jack looks at him. He's killing Chauncey no matter what, but let Jack make him feel small first.

"Thing is, when you say it like that," Jack winces. "You come off like a real dick. And you already seem like one, so doubling down on that is not-"

Chauncey charges Jack midsentence, only to have Jack collar him.

"Alright then," Jack smirks. "You really wanna end up like your brother, huh? You know-"

Jack leans in close to Chauncey's face, even as he pulls away. "I think I still have bits of his flesh stuck in my teeth. Why don't you check for me?"

Chauncey scrabbles away as soon as Jack drops him, and everyone laughs at that. How can they not?

"Izzy, I can tell you want him," Jack says. "We're your backup, but you have fun first."

He knows vampires can differ greatly in what abilities being turned grants them, how strong each ability is.

Still, it's extremely satisfying to pick Chauncey up by the arm, and fling him a good ten feet through the air. Strength isn't a bad stat for him then. Good to know.

"Let me return the favor," Chauncey growls and rushes him, but it's a simple matter of sidestepping at the last second to avoid the collision.

"I don't think you will," Izzy says, watching as Chauncey flails to stand again. "There's a reason most vampires won't turn someone so far past the point of a safe turning. You were pretty far past, by my reckoning. And you know it, don't you?"

He keeps his voice even as he kicks Chauncey hard. "You claim all this power or whatnot now, but you're weak. Your body knows it isn't fit to be back. It would start decomposing if it could. You can feel that too, I bet. Have you even fed since he turned you?"

"Shut up," Chauncey mutters.

That earns him another kick, before Izzy picks him up by the arm. "I won't, actually. I'm having a good time."

Chauncey stares him down, but his lip wobbles the slightest bit.

"You're hungry," Izzy continues. "You're cold, colder than you've ever been before. And tired. How long do you think you'll last like this?"

A tear falls down Chauncey's face. "He saved me. I ignored him and his condition for years, and he still saved me. I won't throw that away."

"He's dead," Izzy says softly. "He won't know."

"Izzy," Ed says sharply. "Come on."

"He made his bed," Jack protests. "Now Izzy's gonna murder him in it. That's the way it goes; you know that."

"That doesn't mean there can't be an ounce of mercy," Ed shoots back.

"This is mercy," Izzy interjects. "Ed, I know you aren't fond of the bulk of the killing. I understand. But this is what I've done for years for you. I've gotten them to where Chauncey is now, or something similar since they still lived. You technically have the final blow, but like I've already told you-"

He looks at Chauncey, leaning against him. "I'm the one who really does the killing. And I know what mercy looks like, here."

"I'll give you two options," Izzy says to Chauncey directly, staring into his eyes. "One, you play nice and I'll finish you off easy. You'll get in the van with us, and be a polite prisoner until we find somewhere to stop and pick up a stake. Or even a sharp branch, if you prefer not to wait too long."

"And two?" Chauncey asks. Tears stream down his face, but his quivering lip has become a wild grin. He licks his lips and Izzy can feel the energy radiating off of him. Like holding a wild animal back.

"Two, you keep being an idiotic ass, and I end you here and now," Izzy replies. "Everyone else got a taste of your brother, but I was out cold thanks to his bullet."

Izzy uses his free hand to gesture to the wound on his head. "I think I can shred and rip and rend like the best of them though. And I am incredibly eager for you to give me a chance at it."

Chauncey opens his mouth wide, and in one rapid movement tries to bite down further up Izzy's arm.

He doesn't intend to throw him into the side of the van, but in the heat of the moment that's where Chauncey ends up.

"Careful!" John calls. "We still need that!"

"Sorry!" Izzy winces.

"S'alright, just fuck him up already!" John replies. "Give us a show!"

There's cheers, even from Ed, who seems to have made some peace with the situation.

He stalks over to Chauncey, and hauls him up again. "You miss him, yeah?"

Chauncey nods, and speaks through broken teeth. "If I had known, I would have been different. I should have talked to him more, should have tried, at least."

"Do you believe you'll see him again after death? Your true death, I mean."

Chauncey nods as his eyes shut, and tears roll again.

"Let me finish it," Izzy murmurs. He's sure everyone is wondering what the fuck he's doing, but like he told them:

He knows what mercy looks like. It can change from moment to moment.

One of his first years with Ed, it was sending a final text to a woman's mother with the location of where he dumped the body later. Per the woman's request, asked so sweetly and softly he couldn't say no.

Another year it was an old man approaching him, hobbling out from a nursing home. Fast enough that it was clear he wasn't meant to be out and about at a late hour. He begged Izzy to choose him. Said he knew what he was doing, what sort of person he worked for. He had no family left and only illness for company. They shared a coffee at an all night diner before Izzy drove him home to Ed, to be bloodlet instead of stabbed or bitten. Ed drank his blood from wooden bowls older than all of them, relics they'd left behind now.

This is what mercy is for Chauncey now.

"It hurts," Chauncey sobs. "Doesn't it hurt for you?"

Izzy shakes his head. "I was turned properly, supervised and looked after to ensure it went right."

"I miss Nigel," Chauncey shakes and slips from his hand to the ground.

"Do you want us dead more, or do you want to see your brother more?"

"Nigel."

He tries to make the first bite quick. A hand over Chauncey's mouth as he digs his fangs into the front of Chauncey's neck. The flesh hesitates to let him tear it.

But only for a moment.

He spits out bits of flesh as he goes. He can't eat those, but he can tear them up as much as possible so most of Chauncey won't be found.

Even if he wanted to feed, there's nothing left in Chauncey. He tastes of decay already, sickly sweet then overwhelmingly rancid.

Everyone else goes silent as he bites and tears through gristle. Chauncey's sobs turn to a strangled choke, then nothing.

"I can finish ripping him to bits here," Izzy says to the others as they slowly approach him. He understands the comparison some make of vampires to animals now. He's never felt more like one before.

"Let us help," Olu says. "One person is still a lot, when you're going that far as to try and hide them that way."

"He tastes like shit," Izzy admits. "But I think he was happy, in the end. I asked if he wanted me to give him a second chance to see his brother. He said yes."

Ed nods solemnly. "You did give him mercy."

"Of a kind, yes."

The other vampires join him in a huddle over the body, while their human companions, Fang and Ivan now included, head into the slightly dented van to wait.

---

The sun is nearly starting to rise by the time they rush into the back of the van. Next to nothing remains of Chauncey, scattered in bits of rent flesh near the start of the field.

"I can't wait to sleep in a coffin again," Ed yawns as they settle against each other. "I'm not meant for van living."

"I hear that," Jim sighs. "We aren't far though now, are we?"

"Much closer," John calls back. "Want me to wake you when we get there, even if the sun is still up?"

They exchange glances.

"Why not wait till nightfall?" Lucius asks. "You did save the rest of us from that idiot. Least we could do is let you all sleep until sunset. Besides, we'll have to talk to Jack's contact-"

"Get a hotel room or something for now," Pete adds. "Just rest. The rest of us can handle it."

Izzy nods. "I don't know about the rest of you, but that sounds like the best idea."

He's warm and snug between Ed and Stede, and the idea of having to move any time soon isn't an attractive one.

Besides that, Stede is already half asleep on his shoulder. A golden curl hangs loose near his forehead, and Stede leans into his hand when Izzy goes to brush it back.

He feels Ed relax more against his other side, and he moves his free hand that way. It's not even a second before Ed holds it, his thumb rubbing over the back of Izzy's hand.

There's no protest, and he drifts off as Pete, Buttons, and The Swede double check the coverings over the windows.

--

"Night," John greets them softly, leaning into the van. "Jack, your contact had so much more ready than we expected-"

"Yeah, Black Sam's always had his shit together," Jack chuckles. "Only vampire I know who's 'retired.' Has his blood delivered via some contact at a blood bank like a goddamn pizza or something. He even golfs! At night!"

"He did say to let you all know you're invited to that, actually," John says. "He had a feeling you wouldn't be thrilled."

"Might not be my game, but we could go sit out on a golf cart or two and drink until it's fun," Jack shrugs. "If that's all he wants for him helping us, well. Ain't really asking for that much."

Izzy yawns and nods. "So where are we going then?"

John grins. "Wait till you see her."

The van is parked near a dock, on a gravel and dirt lot. Dark water laps below, the air cool as it shears off the waves.

The replica ship is grand. It sounds archaic as Izzy thinks it, but there's no other word for it.

Something straight out of the Golden Age of Piracy, and not kitschy as he expected. The colors and carvings are ornate. While it might be used as a tourist attraction, it was clearly still built with dedication and care.

"That's our ship?" Ed breathes. "Holy fuck."

"I love her already," Stede grins. "Do we...I mean, are we staying..."

"Lower decks are staff only except for tours," John explains. "So yeah. We get to live on her. No WiFi or all the modern amenities we're used to, but we have a key to that building just over there. They've got staff bathrooms, showers, vending machines, and WiFi if we don't want to keep using up data."

"I had one other really big dream as a kid," Stede says. "Do you know what it was?"

Izzy smiles. "To be a pirate?"

Stede nods. "This is pretty close, yeah?"

"Close as we can get in this age," Ed replies. "Give it time though, it might come back around to these areas again. History doesn't exactly repeat perfectly, but it gets damn close sometimes."

"Everyone else is on board already," John says. "I'm going to head on and get to bed, but I've got the key out on its hook if you need it, and a copy of the instructions for the building alarm and a whole bunch of other stuff Sam typed up for us...even laminated them."

Jack snorts. "I gotta make fun of him for that. He's such a fucking nerd."

"Maybe so, but we owe him," Izzy says. "Shall we?"

Olu, Jim, Jack, and John head towards the entrance ramp for the ship.

But Stede and Ed stay by him, staring up at the looming shape of the ship. Their ship, kind of. At least for some time.

"Think it's got a bed all three of us will fit in at once?" Ed asks.

"You have ideas," Izzy chuckles. "We just woke up and you want back in bed already."

"I do," Ed practically purrs as he wraps his arms around Izzy's waist.

"It's always good to recover from traveling like that," Stede adds, leaning gently back to kiss Ed, then back forward to kiss Izzy. "Besides, we all could use a bath. Get clean and cozy, enjoy the night, each other."

Ed's grinding against his ass, and Stede alternates between snuggling against him and pressing increasingly desperate yet chaste kisses to his cheek.

"Alright," Izzy sighs, and it feels like letting out a breath he'd been holding for far too long. "Let's call it a night."

[esotericfaery]

Intimate Spiritual Diary, Entry 10

TLDR; Being stardust, pushback, controversy, inspiration, personal growth, Aries, Pisces / Neptune, Mars, Sun, Moon, Rising.

How ironic…

The more complex we try not to be, because of pre-existing anxiety, or depression, or anything like that, the more complex we become.

The longer it takes to get through that accumulated shadow work.

This is the pushback from different parts of the psyche, as we war within.

I try to be inspired by my partial Aries cusp Ac, but as the Ascendant is only a tiny part of each horoscope; a mysterious cosmic magick which creates each person and thus begins the chart, it’s often not enough to leave me confident and bold enough to take action. Also, the Pisces side of my cusp Ac, as ruled by Neptune, causes fatigue of some level, to be a constant, by it’s very Planetary nature. Aries, as ruled by Mars, is one reason for why I feel so much electricity within me that I often have chronic insomnia along with chronic fatigue. I have bursts of anger which are difficult to identify with at their roots; though not normally. The watery seasons of certain years tend to cause them to erupt from within.

I search for purpose within this strange anger, which I thought I’d already cried away for good. I thrash-dance and feel into and out of each energy bundle, while listening to aggressive music as a healing aid.

As a Virgo stellium, I have to take loads of time to analyze things into the microscopic details, before feeling confident & bold enough for action. That’s the inherent ego attachment of each Sun placement to it’s zodiacal signs traits. It’s also how core self, the “I Am” presence concept many of us have learned about, expresses instinctively and naturally for a Virgo Sun, and for a Virgo Moon.

If only more people would understand, among other things, that about me, maybe they would stop deeming me as ultimately worthy of nothing more than impatience and dismissal. As a 7th House (all partnership types) Pluto (massive, heavily energetic transformation after destruction), conjunct (close to, and a melding of energies which are meant to lead eventually to some sort of harmony) Black Moon Lilith (both in Libra), this has been a common theme in my past romances, and in a few friendships. Mars (base human impulse, action) also in the 7th (in Scorpio), is where I’ve let my mouth run away from me in the past. Scorpio, ruled by Pluto, is the active part as the native sign of the 8th House, which expresses the most difficult changes we endure in life, and is a massive pushing energy because of the need for collective karmic balancing.

I’m determined to fully break out of this pattern, and never feel plagued by it again.

Don’t underestimate your Sun (ego) & Moon (emotional mirroring and bypassing). This duo are the only basic thing that even some of those stereotype-pushing pop astrologists tend to always get right.

Not that I recommend their pablum, of course.

This is me these days, trying to take a break from school, as my Ancestors are begging me to…

Well, I will keep trying to take more time off. We all deserve more time to relax. But, you know, earth signs gonna work.

Why do so many of us identify so strongly with our Ac (Ascendant / Rising) placement more than anything else?

Because it’s difficult to be human.

Because that’s the part of us which remembers on some inner level, the freedom and beauty of being stardust.

We want to live the entire life with the highest amounts of harmony and the most karmic resolution possible.

We can’t do this, if we think the Rising sign is the most important, and neglect everything else.

It’s difficult to not mostly want to identify with the purest memory of the self as a soul spark just being born.

It hurts less when we think it’s the most important, but in the long run, we are ignoring the bulk of the spirit essence that is the self. It often amounts simply, to each of us trying to escape our own inner needs, wants and desires. Because we think we’re undeserving of them.

And we can’t resolve enough karma that way.

We also can’t enjoy developing and playing with new skills and talents.

So let’s please stop.

Let’s declare that we are 100% worthy of all of the knowledge and all of the power to resolve all of the karma in this world.

And let’s take appropriate actions to do so.

[venusandsaturnsrings]

how would u say ur tarus rank in strength ?

like who would be the strongest

I LOVE RANKING MY TARUS!! my fav pastime thank u for asking <3 MWAH MWAH!!

as things stand, i have five tarus; inceltaru, puptaru, foxtaru, fratboy taru, and normal taru. a wonderful wide selection of tarus!! in terms of strength, there's a lot of variabilities in this selection (ie. visions and other physical advantages like fangies...) so we're gonna be ignoring anything outside of the 'base' each taru is workin with.

fifth place, obviously (sorry), goes to inceltaru... he's more of a string bean than anything, minimal muscle mainly because he rarely leaves the house. sure, he owns workout equipment he uses maybe once a week but between that and his diet consisting mostly of liquid (energy drinks), there's really not anything there to be built. he can absolutely rough you up a bit but he'll be heaving like he just ran ten miles afterwards, poor boy...

fourth place, foxtaru!! do note there's a considerable gap between inceltaru and foxtaru, inceltaru is just a pile of sticks. foxtaru actually has some meat on his bones, he likes to run for the majority of his exercise and he's very lithe so while he may not have major bulk, he's quick. foxtaru doesn't get nearly as winded from playing around with you and could happily carry you around regardless of your weight.

third place goes to frat boy taru. he's kind of the opposite of foxtaru in that he's not as fast but he's got MUSCLES. you won't catch him on the treadmill, instead he can be found pumping pure, raw IRON. broad chest, big arms, fantastic dorito body... give him the chance and he'll vault you like a spear (please don't he's not fast enough to catch and break your fall).

second place is puptaru!! he's got the speed of foxtaru (puppy genes = an innate desire for fast) and the muscles of fratboy taru packed all into one big doggy!! puptaru is very much a working dog and his body definitely shows that. need him to snag a bird straight out of the air?? consider it done. need him to lift a five piece four-hundred pound patio set?? it's in his arms, where do you want it. the biggest and most well behaved taru, really!! could launch you like a trebuchet but would never because that would hurt you duh!! he's got a couple braincells sometimes...

first place... it would be wrong for me to put anyone but canon taru here. all things considered, this is a man that has spent years doing nothing but turning his body into a weapon. it doesn't matter what any of the others start doing, they'll never catch up because childe himself, the eleventh harbinger, will already be doing it better. canon model be gone, i know he's yolked!!

if you were to throw them all into a ring they'd team up at the start, inceltaru would be mauled first for simply being the worst, then the others would take out fratboy taru for being the second worst, and then it would be an actual guy vs guy vs guy. foxtaru goes out next because he just doesn't have the strength and then it's puptaru vs canon taru. i think they'd form a weird truce because real recognizes real… but, ultimately canon taru would win!!

[coille-sunmane]

I've seen a couple other trans people, trans men in this case, talking about this, and kinda wanted to just say my peace.

A tough part about being a trans man is you are likely to be below average height, and this mixed with sometimes having a slighter higher pitch voice, even after your voice drops from T, can lead to people treating you like a child.

When I first started T and was in the second puberty part of it all, a lady at the grocery store complimented me for buying my own groceries, and when I looked at her kinda confused, she asked how old I was. At the time I was in my mid 20s. And she just gasped and gave the old "you look so young for your age". And yeah sure, I looked like a teenager. But this will pass, right?

Skip ahead a few years, I'm in my 30s and training for a new position which had me on the phone with my trainer basically all the time. She talks constantly, and can be nosy in this specific way people tend to be in the south. She was also present for my interview, so she saw me as well as heard my voice. I am slight, with a little fat, and while I make attempts to bulk, struggle with building the habit and routine for it (thank you depression).

I mention that my parents are both seniors at this point. My mom was in her mid 30s when I was born and my dad is a good bit older than her. Once I mention this, I hear a similarly shocked sound to the one from the lady at the grocery store followed by "Wait, how old are you? You seemed so young, we were all talking about it afterwards." I tell her, and she just talks on and on about how lucky I am to look so young.

A few years prior to this, a co-worker was being teased for being young. He was in his early 20s, my workplace is an office that is mostly 40-60 year old women. He gets defensive, turns around and asks me how old I am, trying to get one over on the co-worker teasing him. He thought I was younger than him. I wasn't. I was in my late 20s. He was embarrassed, and the co-worker had a good laugh at his expense. I smiled because it was funny.

But I'm gonna be honest.

It doesn't feel good when everyone thinks you're a teen to early twenty something. People think you are stupid, or ignorant, or immature. I get patronized off and on because people don't expect me to be capable of dealing with things. Even after I explain, in detail, that I know how something works already, I will get my hand held through the whole process again.

I pass, but every time this happens I hate my voice, and I hate my height. I want my voice to be deeper, I want to be taller. I want to have muscles. I can work on some of this, but others are things that are set and done, a curse of the sex hormones during my first puberty. Sorry if that language bothers anyone. But I'm allowed to feel however I want about my own body. Something can be a curse to me and a blessing to you, and that's ok.

This is all made worse by how TERFs talk about us. They frame trans men as stupid immature girls who are completely incapable of making autonomous medical or life decisions for themselves, regardless of the fact the majority are making these choices as legal adults. The fact I get treated like a teenager or early twenty something in half the places I go. The fact I worry people will think my husband is my father. Or that some of the weird fandom people will claim he's a predator because we have a larger than 1 year age gap, and I look and sound the way I do.

This is mostly venting, but... it's not a compliment to be told I look young for my age. I know some people like being told that and maybe I will appreciate it more when I'm much older. But all it makes me feel right now is infantilized, and it reminds me that I'm not as young as I used to be. I lost my youth to girlhood, and didn't have the childhood I wish I had. That my voice doesn't sound the way I want it too. That I'll never be as tall as I could have been had I not developed with the chromosomes I have, not had the puberty I didn't want.

This is a long post, and just the way I'm feeling. If you happen to see it and resonate with it then, I'm glad we can find some solidarity in these depression hours. If baby trans folks see this, understand it's not like this for everyone. Don't let this scare you. I am a million, billion times happier the way I am now than I was before transitioning. If anything, the fact I'm at a point where I'm sad my voice passes but just not how I wish it did, it's a good thing.

Just sharing my depression thoughts and venting about people frustrating me.

[3ammicrosleeps]

On my side of things, it's that it seems that we get a lot of bananas that are of the same (or similar) flavors. I am a selfish sort and will say thank you for making commander cards. but! also at the same time it's weird that with such a glut of product that things also feel more narrow than ever. previously, we'd get one major release per year, but it was always designed to cover a spot that wasn't covered yet. Wedge commanders, 4-color, support for types that hadn't seen their fair share of love, working towards completing the cycles of elder dragons, that sort of thing. Now it's different.

Now when a new set comes out i do a quick scan over the legendaries, see if any of them fit the types i've been hoping for, and then move on. it's very much like riffling through someone's bulk rare bin, but supposedly with material that's supposed to be made for my game mode.

Did you know that if I want to build a UBRG deck i still am stuck mainly with yidris? Because i sure am. Unless i want to use partners with questionable synergy or other franchise/universes within cards. Even then, it's slim pickings. Or, I just have to play with 5 color and try to ignore one part of it as much as possible. Meanwhile Simic is going to get something broken, green is gonna get some value engine, and white can go sit in the corner because it knows what it did.

It's things like this that made me tune out until bloomburrow, and mostly bloomburrow just has this charming art and worldbuilding that i can't ignore. It's giving me big kaldheim or New capenna vibes, by which i mean "so much love was put into this, and they're absolutely going to never give us dnd books for these worlds".

But hey. at least i can now make my aristocrats deck less one note in the art department, even if it feels that way mechanically. yay.

Howdy Mark. I've read your article and listened to the drive to work episode on Nadu, I'd like to hone in on the "design for commander" part As an enfranchised commander player, part of my frustration is simply the signal to noise ratio. So many new commander cards, specifically legendaries get flung at us every 2 months, it gets hard to even register the new stuff. To use your metaphor, the 800lb gorilla has more bananas than he can possible eat, and the giraffes are tired of slipping on them.

A few things:

Most cards are not for a single format.

Only so many cards can be designed for competitive tournament play, so a lot are designed for casual play (which isn't just Commander).

If the percentages of cards matched the percentage of players who played that format as their dominant format, the percentage of Commander cards would go *way* up. We are showing restraint.

[charlieknighte]

phoenix wright embarrasses himself at the function

Phoenix Wright/Miles Edgeworth + past Shi-Long Lang/Miles Edgeworth + the intricate rituals of Phoenix Wright/Shi-Long Lang

2,120 words

Was Edgeworth worried about his deeply contentious and overly protective husband meeting his one and only ex at a formal function? Yes. Was it a complete and utter disaster? Absolutely. Was it due to the reasons he expected? God, no.

“I’m just saying that he sounds like kind of an asshole,” Phoenix says as they file into the event venue with the rest of the crowd.

“I don’t disagree,” Edgeworth says, taking his arm to pull him closer so that they can continue their conversation amidst the throngs of people talking. “I’m only asking you to be polite if you must speak to him.” Phoenix grumbles. “Phoenix.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll try.” 

“Please don’t overcompensate for the time I played a hand in putting your ex in jail.”

Phoenix snorts. “Oh my god, shut up. It was barely a hand.” Though Edgeworth still doesn’t completely trust him to not begin white-knighting the moment he runs into Lang, he leaves it alone. Phoenix scans the room as they step inside, sizing up the crowd with much more readiness than Edgeworth, who would much rather crawl into a bathroom and wait for the whole thing to be over. “Welp,” Phoenix says brightly, “I’m gonna go make the rounds.”

“You’re insane,” Edgeworth says, as a compliment. “I’ll be at the buffet.” He lets Phoenix kiss him on the cheek without his usual we are in public, Phoenix, Phoenix, not now  tirade just this once, and watches him slip off into the crowd.

About twenty minutes later, as he is stacking appetizers on his plate and balancing a glass of champagne, he becomes aware of a malicious presence hovering behind him. No, malicious isn’t quite the right term. Vicious, perhaps. He turns slowly with his precariously piled plate of spring rolls and spanakopita wedges, and makes a great show of arcing his gaze down at Franziska von Karma. She’s wearing tall boots and a navy blazer buttoned closed, which reveals her true nature as nothing more than a very expensively dressed equestrian.

“Franziska,” he says courteously. “Going riding after this?”

She wholly ignores the dig. “Are you planning on telling your husband to stop being a little tart anytime soon, or will I have to club him to death with a vase at some point this evening? I’ve already picked the vase.”

Because the bulk of Edgeworth’s social energy has been put into looking like an irascible cunt so no one will speak to him, he has nothing more intelligent to say than, “What.”

Franziska, who doesn’t need to put any conscious effort whatsoever into making that expression, points into the crowd. Edgeworth seeks out the blue of Phoenix’s suit and has to stare at it for a long time before he fully accepts that the situation before him is real. Phoenix is holding a glass of champagne (unfortunate), engaged in conversation with Agent Shi-Long Lang (horrific), and he is leaning all his weight on one leg and giggling like a girl at a frat party (downright agonizing). Lang, who is at the very least wearing a two-piece suit and not some sort of insane fur coat for once, looks very much like a wolf batting around a little woodland creature for amusement (Edgeworth despises himself at once for this mental turn of phrase). A gaggle of suited interpol agents stand behind him in silent embarrassment, gazes averted. Phoenix giggles again. It’s audible across the room.

“Oh, god,” Edgeworth says slowly, feeling around the table for his drink. When he finds it, he drains it in one quick pull.

“I do not protest when you’re given a plus one for this event.” Franziska says, mostly speaking to herself, “I do not protest when you inevitably use it on that oaf. I do not even caution him as many times as I should to not make a fool of himself in public–and now I’m watching a repeat performance of one of the most deeply embarrassing men in my life making an ass of himself in front of my colleagues.” She raises her voice to address Edgeworth, whom she apparently considers to be one of the deeply embarrassing men in her life. “Do you not feel threatened by this?”

Edgeworth has never felt threatened by anyone expressing interest in Phoenix, and he never will. Phoenix has no game, for one, and Edgeworth has woken up to him watching him in his sleep enough times to be assured that he’s never going to be rid of the freak. No: the prevailing emotion he feels as he watches Phoenix flirt with Lang like he’s trying to get him to buy him shots isn’t jealousy. It’s secondhand embarrassment.

“Threatened, no,” he mutters to Franziska. “But the thought that I never want to be seen in public with him again has crossed my mind.”

Both of them watch in horror as Lang removes his suit jacket and presents his arm. Phoenix leans in and squeezes his bicep, laughing at an even more sickeningly high pitch. “Oh,” Edgeworth and Franziska say together in varying degrees of dismay and disgust, like audience members watching a particularly grisly knockout at a boxing match.

“I can’t bear to watch anymore,” Franziska says, turning around to stare directly at the wall, pretending to admire a horrible oil painting of a landscape and doing a piss-poor job of it. “Are you just going to stand there?”

Edgeworth reluctantly un-freezes from the stiff spectator’s pose he’d assumed. “I’ll go get him,” he says, with the grim air of someone about to drag their compatriot out of live combat. He puts down his glass on the edge of the snack table, but there’s no way in hell he’s abandoning his hors d'oeuvres. He’s going to need them.

He makes his way through the crowd, some of which parts for him willingly when they see the irascible cunt expression that he is no longer having to take pains to put on. Eventually, he reaches the gaggle of Interpol agents and threads himself into their number. “Phoenix,” he says at a higher volume than he needs to.

Phoenix startles and slowly turns to him with the look of a guilty dog. He doesn’t look particularly drunk save for the flush high in his cheeks. Edgeworth goes to stand beside him, putting a hand on his back in what he hopes looks like a show of spousal affection to anyone who doesn’t see him grabbing the back of Phoenix’s jacket in a death grip. Phoenix makes a minute, stifled choking noise and goes very still.

“Agent Lang,” Edgeworth says, stiffly but professionally.

“Heyy,” Lang drawls, highly unprofessionally. With his suit jacket slung over one shoulder, it’s visible that he’s undone about four more buttons of his shirt than Edgeworth thinks is acceptable to wear in public, which would still be two too many buttons to the average person. His shirt is silk and patterned horrifically with gold chains, and Edgeworth stews at the fact that he can pull it off without looking as if he’s about to leave the function to go blow all of his savings in slot machines. He shakes himself into the realization that he’s spent more than enough time starting at Lang’s cleavage and raises his gaze. He’s dismayed to see that Lang is grinning in that familiar way that says you’ve embarrassed yourself horribly and I’m going to tell everyone I know about it. He’s not sure which one of them he’s pointing it at.

“Would you. Please. Excuse us,” Edgeworth says through gritted teeth. Phoenix gives Lang the big, sheepish grin of a man who knows that his bad back is saving him from having to sleep on the couch tonight.

“Sure,” says Lang, with the easy smile of a man who is not afraid of Miles Edgeworth and knows that this will have no consequences on him whatsoever.

Hefting Phoenix like he’s carrying a disobedient dog by the scruff of its neck, Edgeworth begins to walk him away at an unreasonable pace. “He was nice,” Phoenix says in a rush, stumbling after him. Edgeworth decides that it’s best to ignore him, lest he get on his nerves enough to cause him to scream in the middle of a crowded venue. Somehow managing to balance his plate as they weave through the crowd, he tugs Phoenix behind the corner that leads to the bathrooms. He restrains himself from shaking him by the back of his jacket and reluctantly uncurls his fingers from its fabric.

“Franziska came to tell me that you were acting like a whore,” he informs him curtly.

Phoenix, who had been straightening his jacket and dusting himself off, stops and blinks up at him with innocent surprise that Edgeworth has trouble believing is genuine. “For–for talking to Lang? Did she really use the word ‘whore’, or was it ‘harlot’? Be honest.”

“The exact term she used was ‘little tart’.”

“Eh heh heh heh.” Edgeworth hates it when Phoenix goes eh heh heh heh, even if it’s now lucky to rank higher on the list of Phoenix’s laughs than the bimbo giggle he unleashed tonight. “Of course it was,” he says, grinning with more good humor than he deserves to have at this moment.

“So this is funny to you,” Edgeworth says, crossing his arms as best he can with his plate of appetizers, which he still staunchly refuses to leave on some table for the vultures of the event to pick at.

The smile immediately drops off of Phoenix’s face, replaced with a mockery of a studiously serious expression, lips pressed together and brows scrunched. “Nooooo. I’m sorry.”

“Are you really sorry? Because I’m going to be very sure that you are by the end of this conversation. First of all, why are you drinking? Second of all, what are you drinking and where did you get it? Because I would sure as hell like to wipe that entire interaction from my conscious mind by the time the night is though.”

“Um,” Phoenix says, very quickly turning small and embarrassed. He profers his glass like a peace offering, “It’s sparkling apple juice. I got it from the kids’ table.”

That is possibly the worst answer he could’ve given him. Edgeworth gives him a look, takes the glass and sniffs its contents: artificial apple flavor and an obscene amount of sugar. “My god,” he says, handing it back, recontextualizing the flush of Phoenix’s cheeks from drunken glow to a deeply embarrassing way for a thirty-five year old man to react to being flirted with. “You aren’t even drunk. You were being a tart.”

“Eh heh heh heh.” 

“Will you please be serious?” Now that he’s reasonably assured that Phoenix isn’t drunk–only an idiot–he figures that he can handle a harsher dose of reality. “Does it really take you two minutes of looking at a man’s tits to change your opinion of him from being ‘kind of an asshole’ to–whatever that was?”

“I mean, isn’t that basically how we started dating?” Phoenix ventures sheepishly, a joke that Edgeworth does not outwardly allow to land.

“You’re skipping over some very vital context. Don’t change the subject. You were embarrassing yourself. Franziska was about two minutes from killing you, and she’d already picked the murder weapon.” He raises his voice slightly, hopefully not enough for the people milling about outside the hallway to hear. “Do I have to remind you who you were embarrassing yourself in front–”

“I know, I know, I know! I’m sorry. I really am, I promise.” Phoenix smooths his hair back, beginning to look truly nervous. “I swear I wasn’t–I didn’t mean to get all–he just–he was really–” 

“I know,” Edgeworth admits begrudgingly. “He’s really very…”

“He’s, um… He’s just… damn.”

“Very much so.”

“Mm.” The flush is back in Phoenix’s cheeks.

Edgeworth releases the bulk of his hostility, shoulders dropping, sighing deeply. “Listen… I’m not upset with you. Lang is very… forward, and to say that he was wearing a shirt tonight would be an overstatement. I understand the urge to…” He waves generally. “That is to say, I know what it’s like for him to be the first man to ever pay attention to you. Well… second for you, I suppose.”

They share a silent look of solidarity, which quickly turns awkward as they both remember which of the three people in this situation have and haven’t known each other biblically. 

“I’m so, so sorry,” Phoenix says, deeply horrified, raising a fist to his mouth. Edgeworth does believe that he means it this time. 

Edgeworth unfolds his arms to gently touch his shoulder. “I’m not upset,” he reminds him. “I know you didn't mean anything by it. It’s only that I’m embarrassed to be seen with you after all that. If you’re going to ogle him, can you at least be less mortifying about it?”

The hopeful little look that was building on Phoenix’s face dies. “Oh, okay. Thanks.”

[hoe-imaginess]

a helping hand (or two) | dabi

Dabi x fem!Reader

summary: Dabi is suffering from an aphrodisiac quirk. Now he’s got a dick that just won’t quit, and you have to take care of it.

word count: 10.4k

contains: almost dub-con, handies, bjs, dick riding, dirty talk, slight violence, a very stubborn Dabi who has to be restrained 

a/n: self-indulgent & vaguely crack-ish. my idea of an aphrodisiac includes an overload of the five senses bc...idk I wanted to play w/ descriptive prose. my kink is describing Dabi’s horniness in paragraphs ok. meaty intro before the smut, hang in there

⤰⤰⤰

Dabi entertained the alley-dweller’s angry outbursts with sadistic patience. The man yelled at him, threatened him, boasted of all the ways in which he was going to make Dabi suffer for attacking and underestimating him—

Then, finally having decided that the fodder was no longer amusing him, the flame-user extended a glowing palm in preparation to finish the job. 

When you read the intention in Dabi’s movement, you fidgeted where you stood and calculated the risk of opposing him. 

“You can’t just keep burning everyone you don’t like,” you said, calculations made, deciding that you might as well attempt to be a voice of reason while you were paired up with him on this job. 

It was a voice he happily ignored. The white-hot glare of his palm smoldered into the bursting blue of his flames as they lit up his fingers.  

“Says who?” 

Trash was trash. If you couldn’t see that, then oh well. Folly on your part for thinking the tedious task of recruiting didn’t require this sort of disposal; what better to do with underwhelming candidates than permanently remove them from the talent pool? You shouldn’t have tagged along if you weren’t prepared for his methods. 

When the alley-villain realized that Dabi’s patience for his empty, arrogant threats had been spent, his dirt-stained face colored with fear, and his wild eyes darted in every direction of the alley to seek refuge from the imminent flames. He started to plead—which Dabi found grimly amusing given that the man had been spouting insults about his patchwork skin just moments before—then he shrank back against the alley wall, sinking to the ground in fear.

“The more bodies you leave the easier it will be for the police to track us.” You’d taken to your persuasions again, fruitless though you knew it was. 

“And?”

“And you’ll be compromising the entire League.”

“If all you’re gonna do is complain then you don’t have to tag along, ya know.” He spared a glance your way, with that drolly exasperated look on his face he always gave when he felt you were speaking out of turn. 

But his diverted attention proved costly: the alley-dweller suddenly went berserk, and was rushing at him with a final, rogue desperation to escape. 

The charge, surprisingly swift as it was, was also uncalculated, and Dabi narrowly side-stepped to avoid a blow. With an indignant sneer, he rounded his hand and kindled his flames anew: no more games, it was time to kill. But before he could retaliate, the lunatic was on him again, barreling toward him. 

Though fatally seared by the sudden discharge of flame that Dabi released, the derelict’s bulk was still sufficient to topple into Dabi and throw him off balance. He might have fallen from the impact if not for the way the man gave a wailing, pained shriek and threw himself away from the flames. 

Torched and agonized as the man was, his mounted attack hadn’t been a complete failure: though Dabi’s flames had mostly protected him, there was an unmistakable sensation of damage in him which left him suddenly rigid with alarm. 

Had he been wounded?

He looked down at himself, saw no injuries from which the bodily distress might have been roused. After a few moments the distress was gone, and he decided it was just adrenaline. Then, there returned the enervated frustration. 

“Trash,” he muttered indignantly, glaring at the steaming heap of the man, who’d stumbled over a litter of aluminum trash bins and capsized with them onto the ground. He wasn’t moving. But he was still whole, and not the pile of burning ash he could have been, should have been, now, after that little effrontery—

Your arm was on him before he could pursue the murderous thoughts. 

“Are you alright?” you asked, inspecting him carefully. 

Instantly and fiercely, he shrugged away from your touch. 

“Fine,” he grunted out, straightening and stiffening his limbs to convince himself of it. But that odd feeling was still there, burgeoning slowly at the sight of the man’s body fuming on the ground, at your own body standing so close to him. “If you hadn’t been running your damn mouth—”

“Sorry,” you conceded, more concerned with his demeanor than with defending yourself. In all likelihood he didn’t even realize how ruffled he looked. “Did he… are you hurt?”

“I said I’m fine,” he insisted firmly. 

While you stared at him in doubtful concern, an energetic heat crept up his spine. Slow, like an insect bite bringing its stinging warmth to a crawl over his skin, skin both scarred and unscarred alike. 

There was a smell, then, when he took his shallow breaths: something sweet, like lingering perfume, or fragrant incense—

Fairly quickly he realized the smell was coming from you, and glared at you in puzzled indignation, like the fact that this scent was yours and that he could smell it now—why could he smell it so profusely now, when he hadn’t before? What the hell?—was somehow offensive. Worst of all it smelled damn good. Had you always smelled that good?

“...What is it?” you asked carefully, not quite able to place the look on his face, but considerably unnerved by it, nonetheless. “Dabi…?”

Your voice—it held such particular tones that he hadn’t before noticed until now, as though he’d been deaf to what you really sounded like; how sleek and enticing your words were when they came out of your pretty mouth. 

Oh, and your mouth: lips parted fretfully in preparation for another concerned inquiry on his well-being, objectively innocent but suddenly, and infuriatingly, looking very much like they were tempting him for a kiss. 

Then when your pink tongue came to wet your lips in anxious trepidation, that too he saw as a maddeningly teasing gesture that made his hands feel hot. Then it was his feet; then his whole body. 

He began to fidget where he stood. 

Then, at the sudden onset of warmth in his head, he slid over to the alley wall, a splayed hand against the brick keeping his balance while he hung his dizzy head low. 

“What the hell,” he muttered to himself woozily. 

“Dabi?” You went to inspect him cautiously. You couldn’t see his expression through the curtain of black that had fallen over his face, but you knew something was amiss. “Are you okay?” you asked again. 

“I’m fine,” he huffed out, and you’d been oblivious to his hoarse breathing up until the moment you stopped in front of him. 

“Dabi,” you begged his attention now that his eyes had closed shut, his features pinched. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes, dizzied by the heat, began to play tricks on him. Even behind the closed lids he saw sparks flying, and swirls of white-hot passion dancing.

When the heat in him turned to a near-burning sensation, he opened his eyes and stared down at his body. Was his quirk activated? he thought confusedly. Or was the heat that licked his skin just a hallucination: flames that failed to consume him wholly? What the hell was happening? What was this—

The heat finally centered—mortifyingly—between his legs, and what had been confusion before was now full-blown bafflement. 

“Dabi,” you were saying again. 

The sound of your voice inflamed him not in aggravation, but something else. 

“You don’t look good,” you said. The way his breath had thinned to long, rough pants put anxiety in you. “...I’ll call Kurogiri.” You fished your phone from your pocket with the intention of doing so. 

A grunt was his response; he couldn’t coherently pick his words. Then, the anticipation of your voice again, on the phone, speaking in those tones and that sweet melody, made him shudder.

“No,” he muttered. 

You looked at him, the phone to your ear, the line ringing. “What?” 

“Don’t,” was all he could say, lower this time, almost in a growl. 

“But Dabi, you—”

Suddenly, at the thought of hearing your voice for even another second, the fire overtook him. 

First he slapped the phone from your grip. Its screen broke against the pavement and the voice that answered the call—too late, you thought fleetingly—stuttered on the line. Then he slammed you against the wall. 

Winded and bewildered, it took you several seconds to find your bearings. In that time he’d pressed against you, his breath so hot and so angry that it flushed perspiration over your skin. 

Gaping, your lips trembled. “Dabi, what—” 

“Shut up,” he seethed quietly, teeth baring. 

You recognized the wild look of violence on his face, but the lust in his hazy eyes wasn’t anticipated. Nor was the erection you felt pressing against your leg. You stared wide-eyed as the sinking realization came over you.

In desperation you pushed at him; he pushed back, corralling you against the wall even harder. 

The air was knocked out of your lungs, and with it, a dying protest, “Wait—”

He clamped a too-warm hand over your mouth, and pressed his face against yours. His forehead on your own felt feverish and sweaty; his eyes, like blue-burned coals, pierced into yours. You could smell the heat smoldering off of him. 

He loosed a shaky, unhinged breath. “Shut. Up.” 

Unthinking, your hand tugged at the one on your mouth, inadvertently digging into his staples. But his wild passion lent him a worrisome insensitivity to the hurt, and his other hand was going for your waist, squeezing into your shirt and wrenching you impossibly closer against him. 

The pain which erupted from his compromised staples only fanned the flames of his arousal. He didn’t know why. Of course he fucking didn’t. He didn’t even know why his body was moving the way it was: rutting against you, seeking friction for his aching dick. 

His mouth went to your neck but applied no kisses or intimate caresses; he just pressed against the skin and breathed in pants. He put his free hand to your breast, the movement not a calculated one, more like he was seeking leverage to his imbalance. The stuttering beat of your heart was palpable under his palm. 

"Fuck,” he sputtered out angrily, disoriented, and dug his fingers into your chest. You moaned behind his palm, both in shock and pleasure. 

All he needed to hear was the latter. 

The sound made him hiss a low and dangerous curse, and when he peeked his head back up, his pulsing eyes shone with something beyond just lust now: pure hunger. 

Just as he moved his hand away from your mouth with the intent of crashing his own against you in a bruising kiss, there was a sound behind him. 

In the back of his mind he recognized it: Warp Gate. 

Kurogiri, and possibly someone else, had answered your call for aid. 

Dabi utterly ignored it. 

It had nothing to do with him. 

He was only concerned with the heat. All he felt was the heat; all he saw was your lips: parted in dumbfoundment, dry, and begging to be wetted by his tongue–

There was a commotion, and then an angry voice that Dabi distantly recognized as Shigaraki’s. 

Then a blow to the back of his head took everything away.

⤰

A subtle transformation had overtaken his body by the time he woke. 

No longer was the heat excruciating, but it was still there, nevertheless: a curling medium beneath his skin which he felt the instant consciousness came back to him. With it, the dizzy ache in his head and the haze in his eyes. Then, finally: his limbs refusing to move when he tried to stretch them. 

At once he realized he was back in the bar, confined in a chair, with people gawking at him from all sides. 

He blinked his vision back to clarity, then scowled. “The hell?”

“Do you remember anything, Dabi?” That was Kurogiri somewhere to his left. Looking, Dabi confirmed his usual station behind the bar. 

Delaying an answer, the flame-user glanced around. Not all of the League was there, he saw. Besides Kurogiri, only Shigaraki and you were audience to the spectacle. 

You tried to avoid his harsh eyes when they landed on you, when they flitted across your features as if in an elaborate struggle to put pieces of a disoriented puzzle together. Solved, apparently, as his memory came back, his confused scowl worked into a realizing frown. 

“Shit,” he muttered in annoyance. 

Shuffling uncomfortably in the chair, he surmised it was rope binding his wrists behind his back, and his ankles to the chair legs. But the movement also brought attention to the hot pressure in his gut. 

Or at the least, he thought that’s where it was—until he glanced down and realized that despite the abatement of the wild heat, his erection still peeked proudly underneath his jeans.

Now he was scowling again. 

“What the hell,” he spat out, and suddenly, with his frustration flourishing, the heat was returning in slow order. 

He cursed under his breath. He looked up and glared at the first onlooker he set his eyes upon: Kurogiri. 

“Get me out of this shit.”

“I can’t do that,” the man replied regrettably. “When I came to retrieve you from the scene we had no choice except to put you down when you refused to listen. Given the nature of the quirk that you’ve been struck with, we have to take precautions until we know it’s out of your system.”

Dabi listened with steely suspicion. “What quirk?”

“An aphrodisiac—” You almost bit your tongue once you’d started, because the quick and fierce glance he gave you suggested he wasn’t entirely happy with you, and even less happy to hear your voice. 

“It’s an aphrodisiac quirk,” you stated, more calmly now. 

Dabi blinked, brows knotting in concentration. Spoken plainly that way, it seemed absurd, stupid. 

He scoffed dryly. “You’re joking.” 

“Really fucked up this time, didn’t you?” came Shigaraki from a spot at the bar, his arms crossed. “Serves you right, searching the alleys for trash. I told you to stop doing that shit.”

“Fuck off,” Dabi spat. “How was I supposed to know the guy’d have such a stupid fuckin’…” 

Dabi tsked and shuffled uncomfortably in his chair again. The bitterness he felt for his confinement was quickly gaining, and so was the returning arousal. A sweltering, uncomfortable warmth on his skin made him hyperaware of his flushed face, and he could practically feel the sweat teeming on his unscarred flesh. 

“I’m serious,” he muttered, glaring at Shigaraki. “Get me out of this.”

“So you can go ape shit again? No. It’s disgusting.” 

“I’m not gonna do shit, relax.”

Dabi was aware then that focus was being pulled in the room, pulled directly to you: the victim of his unbidden arousal.

With a roll of his eyes, he huffed a frustrated breath and gave you what might have passed for an apology, if he’d even bothered looking at you. “My bad, and all that.”

Shigaraki’s arrogant snort derailed whatever amendment you might have transpired to make. 

“You’re lucky the guy was still alive when we got there—barely,” your leader went on. “Told us a bit about what to expect from you in the next few hours though, once we promised we’d let him go.”

Dabi gave him a flat look of doubt. 

Shigaraki scoffed. “Didn’t keep that promise, obviously.” Then he was scowling behind Father. “I don’t like having to clean up your messes. Shouldn’t have to finish off your fodder for you. You can’t even do that right, can you?”

Dabi’s frustration was in full bloom now, despite reason persuading him against it; he’d gathered enough at this point—at the expense of his own body—to know that agitation of any kind would feed the quirk’s effects. 

Heat pooled low in his stomach when he demanded again, “Let me out of this shit right now or I’m gonna get mad.”

“Supposed to be a 24-hour thing unless you take care of it, to put it plainly,” Shigaraki responded.

“I assumed as much. So get me outta this shit and I’ll fuck off for a while.”

“Nah. Don’t need you going and causing a scene somewhere because you don’t know how to keep your pants on.”

You could feel the conflagration of tension in the room. Maybe it was Dabi’s quirk, maybe it was the alley-dweller’s mixing with it, making it dangerously palpable. Regardless, Shigaraki’s snark seemed to bring Dabi’s attention back to his body, to the insufferable bulge between his legs that demanded relief.

“This is stupid,” he declared bitterly, and tugged on the knots tied at his wrists, the throbbing heat in his lower-half lending itself to his quirk as it activated in licking flames along his arms. He was tired of this shit. He lost his temper all at once. “You’re damn crazy if you think I’m just gonna sit here—”

Then there was blue flame torching the back of the chair, blackening the rope which bound him and making the tethers frail enough to tear apart under a strong tug. He was freeing himself. 

From there, it all happened relatively swiftly. 

As he went to work on the binds at his feet with newly liberated arms, Shigaraki was in a conniption of angry protests, and Kurogiri fluttered nervously between taking action or remaining an onlooker. 

Then there was you, probably the least equipped to do much of anything to alleviate the situation, but nevertheless skipping to your feet the moment the chaos ensued. There was arguing, cursing, insults—then your voice, attempting to wedge some conciliatory reason into the room.

It did the exact opposite. 

Dabi had apparently forgotten of the trigger in your voice that sent his body into a frenzy. When you spoke up, your voice just loud enough to cut above the rest of the uproar, his aspiration to free himself tapered off as his sharp eyes honed in on you. 

His arousal came back with a vengeance; in his pants, his dick twitched angrily for relief, and that frenzy took over his thought process again. 

His flames burned the rope at his feet and he came at you, so close, so very close, not knowing why he was doing it but only that he needed to touch you—

You were frozen on the spot. But Shigaraki was reaching for something along the bar, and Dabi’s world went black again soon after. 

⤰

When he woke this time, his rope bonds had been replaced for something cold and metallic, something stronger to withstand the vehemence of his flames. Even the chair to which he was bound had been swapped for something sturdier than wood.

“You fuckin’ serious?” he spat out, even before his vision had centered. He knew where he was, and why he was there. No need for context clues. 

“You gave us no other choice,” Kurogiri amended carefully, the black vapors that composed him flitting about anxiously. 

“Told you that you’d lose it,” Shigaraki said, anger having replaced all his snarky tones of condescension from before. “You’re like a damn animal.”

Dabi hissed and put his head back, feeling the soreness at his nape from consecutive blows. If he weren’t so presently occupied with the curl of heat welcoming him afresh, he might have simmered on the idea of burning his relatively recent—but entirely disagreeable—boss to a crisp when this was over. 

Then for the first time Dabi realized you were absent, and glanced around as if in search of you. Good, he thought, when he confirmed that you were missing. You just... complicated things. 

“I’m fine now,” he insisted, as placidly as possible as if to give stock to his lie. The respite had done nothing for the arousal harassing him; the longer it having gone unsatiated, even in unconsciousness, making it all the more demanding. 

Mellowing his urgency to a non-existent degree was almost impossible, however. Dabi knew the way the soles of his shoes twisted and flattened restlessly into the ground below was anything but inconspicuous. 

“Just warp me outta here, Kurogiri,” he implored. 

“No,” Shigaraki answered. “Shut up. Consider this a lesson. No more rummaging for allies in shithole parts of town. This is what happens when you go dumpster-diving for recruits.”

“You want me to burn this place down?” Dabi threatened, testing the strength of his bonds. A flicker of blue teased along his jawline. “‘Cause I got no problem doing that.”

Shigaraki shrugged. “Sure. You’ll just burn up with it, since you’ve got no way out of that chair.”

He knew it was true, and worked his jaw. “For all you know the damn guy was lyin’,” he said as a final act of contempt, and gave his leader a leery, side-long glare. “And this shit might not go away on its own.”

“Guess we’ll have to see, won’t we?” 

Dabi sneered. Foiled, but regardlessly frustrated by the truth of it, he put his head back with an angry sigh and resigned himself to an attempted calm. 

⤰

You’d lingered in the bar’s back rooms for the better part of an hour before emerging. 

Shigaraki had instructed you to make yourself scarce, but you were drafted to stay by some guilty—and admittedly curious—sentiment. 

It was awfully unfair, you agreed, to keep Dabi chained up like he was—even in spite of the danger he posed under the quirk’s influence. But you must have overlooked that danger when you decided to slip into the main room where he was being held, long after you had been assured that Kurogiri and Shigaraki were gone. 

His back to the door, Dabi didn’t glance over his shoulder at the sound of your footsteps. It seemed he was sour enough not to offer greeting, and preferred to be left alone in his turmoil. 

He especially didn’t want your company, which he made clear by way of a harsh frown when you came into his peripheral. 

He tsked and readjusted uncomfortably in his seat at your arrival. “The hell do you want?”

“How are you feeling?” 

“Never been better,” he muttered. 

You were aware of how he avoided your gaze, and couldn’t know whether it was in an effort to stave off the arousal your presence had so viciously wrought before, or because he simply didn’t appreciate your company. The latter seemed just as likely as the first, though neither stopped you from taking a seat in one of the room’s couches so you could sit across at him. 

Your eyes were trained on his face, on the agitation creased into his expression. It was almost indecipherable under his otherwise cold demeanor. Clearly, the quirk was still in effect. If his tried composure wasn’t enough, there was a subtle tent in his pants that hadn’t gone away, not since its first appearance hours ago, you imagined. 

You didn’t realize you were ogling until he noticed. He tsked. 

“Take a picture,” he offered spitefully, immediately dissuading your eyes away from him. 

“Sorry,” you let slip, embarrassment flushing your cheeks, and in response he only lulled his head back again and shut his eyes. 

All was silent for a while, and might have remained thereby, if not for the way that the curt apology brought back the weight of guilt you’d felt to see his sorry state. 

“And I’m sorry for bringing you back here,” you spoke up. “Or at least, sorry that I called the others. I didn’t realize you’d be held up like this–”

“Stop talking,” he muttered. 

Mouth opening, then closing again, you almost swallowed down your next words. But again, they refused to stay unspoken. 

“I wouldn’t have called them,” you insisted, “if you didn’t—if you didn’t come after me like that. I was confused.”

No response. Only another uncomfortable shuffle in the chair while his eyes remained shut and his mouth a thin line. 

They’d put his hands in a sort of metallic sleeve since you last saw him, to discourage any more pyromania, you guessed. Though they weren’t visible, you could see how his arms shifted, how his tendons worked, and could imagine his fingers flitting anxiously inside the restraints. 

“Is… me being here making it worse?” you chanced to ask. 

He scoffed, and finally gave you his attention. “What?” Then, fully understanding your train of thought, rolled his eyes, and resigned them shut again while he relaxed into the chair. “Sorry to break it to you, sweetheart, but that dumb look you got on your face all the time isn’t exactly alluring.”

You frowned, and it was almost with cross touchiness that you argued, “But you came after me—”

“I’m guessin’ the point of the quirk is to make anything look fuckable.  So don’t flatter yourself.”

Despite all your caution, you couldn’t help but give the man a sour look. “You’re rude.”

He shrugged, the movement impeded considerably by his restraints. “Whatever. Anyways, you just gonna sit there and watch me? I’m not exactly in the mood for company.” He moved in his seat again, fighting the heat between his legs the best he could. “Unless you’re gettin’ off on my suffering and what not. Kinda twisted of you, if you ask me. Didn’t peg you as the type.”

“That’s not it,” you insisted quickly. “I just wanted to…well—”

“To what? Check in on me? Nice of you. But you can fuck off now.” 

A sudden twitch in his legs took the tension from the repartee. You looked down at the limb as he did. 

The burning heat in his veins took away practically all control he had of his extremities, rallied them into unconscious servants of the damn quirk until they were twitching, then relaxing, then twitching again.

You noticed this, too, and though his efforts to conceal the struggle were commendable, they left you in a state of shame, as if it were you bound in the chair with your arousal on display. Seeing someone so normally composed as he was in such a state was distressing, and admittedly, absorbing.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and let your rampant thoughts form to words. “Will it go away if you…”

“If I what?” Then once understanding, the smallest of smirks twisted his scarred lips. “Rub one out? How the hell am I supposed to know?”

You ignored the heat that dropped down your spine to hear him say it so unabashedly. “I don’t have the key to your locks,” you explained. “So I couldn’t let you out even if I wanted to.”

He gave no response, just looked away from you again. 

And here now was the adrenaline pulsing nonsense out of you, making you think crazy and debauched thoughts that would in any other situation be put down immediately by rationale. 

“But…”

He glanced at you when you tapered off. “But?”

Your silence annoyed him, now that he was interested. Before he could hound you to continue, you sputtered out your proposal:

“Do you want me to do something about it?”

He looked at you, an eyebrow raised, as if demanding clarification. But you had a resolute feeling that he was toying with you by choosing silence. 

“You know what I mean,” you asserted. 

The blank, cold stare you received in kind made you wonder if he actually did know what you meant. Maybe he didn’t understand—

“No,” he then said. 

The defeat you felt was utterly uncalled for, you knew. But you felt it anyways: a wash of humiliation plummeting down your body and swelling up again in frustration. 

But you let it be, knowing anything more you had to say would probably earn you tenfold embarrassment. 

Twenty minutes must have passed—though he wasn’t counting, and he wasn’t so sure that the affliction in his body wasn’t twisting his sense of time—each entailing another dredge of painful heat in his groin that worsened the longer his arousal went unattended to.

All the fail safes he’d practiced in his adolescence to ward off unwanted arousals were utterly useless now. He might as well have been on cloud nine when he filled his head with repulsive concepts: the smell of antiseptic, the smell of fish—fucking disgusting fish—even images of roadkill and dead bodies, putrefying and blackened. 

The thoughts themselves were off-putting, as promised, but it wasn’t thoughts at all that fueled his libido: it was a completely physical and natural arousal. 

Even shuffling his legs around, as meager of friction as it gave, made his hips inch forward in search of more when the fabric of his jeans teased his hard cock. It was fucking humiliating. 

He looked at you. You were too occupied searching the floor for an answer to your anxieties to notice the way he studied you.

You weren’t bad looking, he decided. Not that he’d ever really thought of you that way before. Not thoroughly, anyways. In this little group of delinquents he’d surrounded himself with—a grand mistake on his part, he thought, especially during times like these—you were the only fuel he had for his imagination on nights he needed to let off some steam. 

There was no intimacy behind it, no real passion for you that extended beyond the time from when he shoved a hand into his jeans, to when he was cleaning thick ropes of cum from his knuckles afterwards. 

You were only ever given credence in his brain then, when he was giving his cock hard and angry tugs to the thought of you on your knees for him, or against a wall with his hand curled around your throat, and sometimes bent over his knee while he spanked your ass raw (a more recent daydream now, ever since that time a few weeks ago when you’d bent down in front of him to pick something up off the floor).

Suddenly aware of an alarming change in his body, he paused his thoughts to immerse himself back into his too-hot skin again. 

He felt a wetness against his swollen cock, and after squirming covertly, frowned, realizing with loathing that the stickiness chafing his briefs was pre-cum. 

He stubbornly decided that it was just an inevitable response to his body’s raging war with arousal, and not—not at all—because he’d been thinking of you. 

Letting his body endure until his pants were dampened with pre-cum was an unwanted solution. Or even worse, until the sensitivity in his cock went haywire and even the tiniest of movements might make him cream his pants. 

A frustrated breath whistled out from his nose and he grit his teeth. Goddamnit. This was fucking stupid. 

“Fuck,” he said aloud, shaking his head as if to condemn the words he was about to say, knowing how they would haunt his ego later, “Fine. Come here.”

You glanced up, and, unable to fulfill the request with your mind suddenly racing, simply stared. 

That insipid look of failed registry on your face irritated him, and he scowled. “Are you deaf?”

“You want me to—” A sweep of your eyes down to his crotch elucidated what you were too hesitant to say. 

“You offered,” he reminded you, and decided that in order to make this even a fraction less humiliating, he’d need to emphasize your culpability. “Kinda been thinking it’s your fault, anyways. If you hadn’t been such a dumbass back there I would’ve finished the guy off like I wanted to. But you were too busy spouting your nitpicky bullshit.”

There was a guilty look on your face now, like you’d been considering the accusation in your own time. Now having it confirmed, you were more susceptible to the reasoning, and even more willing to rectify yourself. 

Still, you struggled to swallow down hesitation. “You’re sure that you want me to—”

“You’re gonna start pissin’ me off if you get all shy,” he said, trying as hard as his dancing nerves would allow to keep the desperation out of his voice. 

Since yielding to the ludicrous idea, his body had apparently taken up a premature celebration at the thought of your hands on him. His balls were tight and his dick was throbbing hard enough to make his legs tense with each pulse. 

“I just want to make sure,” you insisted. “I mean, if you really–”

“I’ll make it easy for you then. Either get over here, or piss off.”

He was relieved, pleased, and somewhat amused when the hesitation left you and you obeyed. When you came to stand idly in front of him, he glanced up, watching your confusion. 

Your eyes flicked from his face to his crotch, where the dim light of the room caught the curve of his hard dick pressing against his jeans. 

“You gonna stare at it all day?” he asked. 

You looked at him. “What do you want me to do?”

“When you offered to do something about it I assumed you already had some ideas. You need me to give you an instruction manual?” 

Your silence frustrated him again, and he tsked, glancing away from you as the reality of what you two were doing finally set in. 

“Take it out,” he muttered. 

So you did, reaching numbly down and carefully undoing his pants. The bulge that awaited underneath his jeans gave you pause. You stared at it, and a shot of adrenaline pumped through you when it twitched in his briefs, as if feeling your eyes ogling it and begging you to give it attention.

You tried to clear your conscience. This was Dabi, Dabi who treated you with such disregard that you sometimes wondered if he even knew your name; Dabi, who was letting you even breathe next to him without trying to scorch you.

A trickling, somewhat fatally comedic thought entered your mind: was he going to light you ablaze the second you touched him? Or maybe after, once you’d relieved him, as a way to permanently silence you against ever speaking a word of this to anyone?

Shivering at the morbidity of your own creation, you reached for his briefs and pulled them down carefully until his cockhead showed itself, pink-hued and shiny with an excess amount of pre-cum. 

You worked a hand underneath the briefs instead of exposing him completely, thinking he might want some semblance of modesty during this. Your convictions were rattled from their mounts when your fingers wrapped gently around the tip of his cock and gave a firm squeeze. 

In response: silence. 

You’d thought with how viciously his arousal had seemed to harangue him that he might give a stronger reaction: a moan, a sigh, a grunt, maybe even an audible breath. 

He just stared at you, looking as utterly bored as he usually did.

Then your fingers decided to retreat, and the sound you’d been displeased to be robbed of came finally as a frustrated grunt when your grip left him. 

“Seriously?” he huffed, staring at you. The irritation left its first but considerable split in his composure. The rest was quickly chipping away. He couldn’t pretend to be aloof about this for much longer. “You got cold feet now?”

“That’s not it.”

“What then? Never seen one before?”

“I don't know… how you want it,” you explained. 

“The hell does that mean?”

“Do you want me to use my hands?” you clarified hesitantly. “Or…” 

The little huff of derisive laughter that fell from his open lips made an eerie picture of his otherwise blank face. 

“Or what?” he taunted. “You got something else in mind? You been dyin’ for a taste of it or something–”

“No,” you finished, and that flustered look of anger on your face was pissing him off again, instead of amusing him like it might have under another context.

“So then cut the shit and do whatever.”

With a frown you went to your knees, unwilling to get further embroiled. 

When you started to stroke him, more pre-cum squeezed from the tip in generous pumps. You didn’t bother asking him how hard or fast he wanted it—you started hastily, hand gliding quickly over his cock, urgently enough that pre-cum eased the motion and made wet, sharp sounds with every stroke. 

His knee twitched like he’d been checked for reflex, which you took as encouragement to keep going despite his loyalty to silence. 

The veins along his dick pulsed needily and you swore you could feel the throb under your palm. The throb became more palpable as time went on. You thought you were doing well. But apparently not. 

“Harder,” he muttered, not a minute after you’d started. 

You glanced up at him. He wasn’t looking at you, but instead had shut his eyes in concentration. It looked to you as though he was trying to find the pleasure in your pace—which was apparently too soft for his likings. 

You did as instructed, nevertheless: you tightened your grip a fraction, fingers curling and making your strokes face slightly more resistance as they worked more pre-cum from the red tip. 

Another twitch in his leg, then a deep exhale that ended in a shiver; you saw his toned stomach shudder with the motion beneath his clothes, and fleetingly considered inching his shirt up a bit more out curiosity: how far did the burnt skin go down his body?

But then he was grunting, and breathing more stiffly than before. You thought that was another sign of a job well done, when his eyes peeled open and looked down upon you with such emphasized frustration that you realized you were not, in fact, meeting his standards. 

“Harder,” he demanded again, more rigidly this time. Despite the command, your hand slowed. For that, he frowned at you. “Can barely feel that shit. You gotta do better than that. I like it rough.”

A flush of humiliation put purpose back into your rigid fingers, and you were moving your hand again, albeit slowly as you tested the new grip, this time with such purposeful pressure that you were tugging his dick now more than stroking it. 

“I thought it might hurt,” you started meekly.

“It doesn’t. Keep going.” 

You did, picking up speed again. The adrenaline put some more initiative into you, and you made a purposeful attempt to drag your thumb down hard on his swollen cock with every jerk of your hand. 

A croaky hum from his throat brought your attention to his face; his eyes watched your hand stroking him with fuzzy scrutiny. 

“Yeah,” he breathed thinly, his eyes fluttering closed again, finally satisfied. “Just like that.” 

That made your chest tight with excitement and your legs fidget beneath you. Your own arousal was wetting the inside of your thighs by now, but you were able to ignore it momentarily in favor of serving his.

At some point his hips stuttered up to start meeting your hand, but in a much slower rhythm than you were stroking; lazy pumps up into your grip. Every synchronic motion when you jerked up and his hips rolled down, there was an amazing tightness on the head of his cock that made his breath catch every time. 

You decided on using both hands (he was big, unexpectedly big, so much so that it was staggering and you decided you would think about that later when he wasn’t filling your palms so generously) and started twisting your grip in time with your strokes. It was then he finally loosed a low and breathy groan. 

Then his hips were pumping into your hands roughly, fucking himself in slow but hard thrusts—so hard that you had to steel yourself and tighten your grip to keep from getting bucked off. 

Another low moan from his throat. “Shit…” Then, when a surge of confidence urged you to quickly run your tongue along the head of his dick, his breath caught in a hard grunt.

“Shit,” he hissed out, and spread his thighs wider, pushing them up eagerly in demand that you give him more. 

To the best of your ability you tried, spreading your tongue underneath the head and rapidly swiping it back and forth. That got his hips stuttering, and his body jolting in its confines. 

“Fuck,” he bit out. “Yes, fuck.... Just like that.”

Without prompting your lips came into the fold, closing tightly around the tip and sucking in time with the hands that fisted his cock until you were lavishing every inch of him in some way. 

The feeling alone was ridiculously good, but watching you made his jaw go slack and mouth open as he panted. Maybe it was just the stupid quirk making him delirious, but you looked a hell of a lot hotter doing this than what his fantasies had led him to believe. Fuck. You weren’t half bad. 

A particularly hard thrust into your mouth had one of your hands slipping loose, and his next thrust, unimpeded by the length of one your fists around him, shoved his dick to the tight heat at the back of your throat.

He grunted hard, “Fucking shit—” Then arched up quickly, jumping at the opportunity to sink his cock deeper. 

Without a pause to steady yourself you had little choice but to oblige, and his cockhead shoved in, cramming itself against your hot tongue, pumping farther back inch by inch. 

The hand still jerking him off covered what your throat was too inexperienced to swallow down, and the rhythm of your tight mouth and vice-like hand made him moan deeply. 

But it might have been too much, and a strength lent to him by the quirk’s desperation made his hips lift off the chair forcibly, driving his cockhead to the very back of your throat until you were sputtering and choking. 

“Fuck.” It made him dizzy with pleasure, and he shut his eyes to keep them from rolling as he frantically pumped his hips upwards to get you gagging on him again. “Yeah, fuck, fuck, fuck–”

But then you were pulling off completely with a gasping breath.

His eyes opened, wild with exasperation. “The hell–”

You coughed wetly and started to plead, “Don’t choke me–” 

“Fine—fine. Hurry the hell up.” His hips jutted up impatiently in search of your mouth again, his swelling cock bouncing and twitching urgently. “Put that fuckin’ mouth back on it right now—” 

You obeyed, and his hips shuddered down into the chair, following the motion of your lips as they tightened over his length—only to start thrusting up into the hot and wet cavern again once his cockhead hit the roof of your mouth. 

It was like a fire had been kindled underneath him and was rapidly boiling all his thoughts to a vapor. It was stupidly good, so damn hot and tight and wet he couldn’t remember a mouth on his cock ever feeling this amazing. He wished his hands were free so he could fist them into your hair, so he could push you down more, get you gagging and sputtering on his cock. 

His eyes squeezed shut, face flexing with occasional twitches. His lips pulled back into a desperate grimace and long, shaky breaths whistled out through his clenched teeth. 

With his vision released of the sight of you on your knees, his mind was free to give the hot wetness on his cock another name, and he instead imagined that it was your pussy he was shoving into, gripping him nice and tight. 

He felt his quirk stirring underneath the pleasure; every vein in his body warmed at the mere thought of shoving into you raw, and until that very moment he hadn’t itched to break through his constraints like he did now, hadn’t wanted to be free of them so he could wrestle you to the floor and fuck you like he needed to. 

You were doing something particularly creative with your tongue on the underside of his cock, and a full body shudder brought him back to present. He watched you in your task: your eyes were shut tight in concentration, your brows furrowed as you struggled to accept his dick while it rammed against the back of your throat. Even your hand’s grip on his cock was a little tighter, he noticed appreciatively. 

It would have been fucking fantastic: a real goddamn sight to see that he might have honestly applauded you for later—if he wasn’t suddenly so absurdly enraptured with his fantasies. 

Dabi wanted more. Something deeper and hotter, something to bury his cock into and relish the velvety grip, something he could ravage and fuck away the ache in his body—

The thought of pounding his dick inside of you suddenly encompassed all other thought; it wasn’t a notion his frenzied mind would let remain as a fantasy. He wanted nothing else. Your mouth on his cock, your throat curdling around him, choking on him in a way that made his legs shake...

It was all insufficient now. He needed to be inside of you. As soon as fucking possible. 

“Shit,” he spat out. It was a curse different from the others, not breathed on arousal, but frustration. 

You looked up at him, and read him to be just as disgruntled as he sounded. 

“This ain’t doin’ it,” he said, and slowed his thrusting hips, which was a more hard-fought task to complete than he imagined; he may have been getting greedy with his fantasies, but his cock was still more than happy to use your mouth as a warm sleeve.

When you slipped off, you must have been giving him one of those dumb looks he hated, because he frowned. 

“You hear me?”

You nodded, licking the wetness from your lips as you caught your breath. You were lightheaded. The taste of him lingered on your tongue, and you swore you would smell the smoky salt of his skin on you for days. But now there was more? 

The heat pooling in your thighs demanded your attention again, and you fidgeted on your sore knees. “Well... what do you want me to do–”

“Sit on it.”

You gawked at him. “Sit on it?” 

That got him smirking just a little, his tongue peeking out to wet dried lips as he slowly panted. He cocked his head. 

“Worried it won’t fit?”

Your body surged with wild ambition. “That’s not it, but—”

“Bet you’re nice and tight, but you can work it in. I’d offer to stretch you open a little, but my hands are tied.” He flexed his fingers and arms in his binds for show, then grinned to see how flustered his words made you. “Besides, looked like you were enjoyin’ yourself. I’m sure you’re wet enough.”

God why couldn’t he shut up and let you think for a second? The teasing was horribly nauseating; his voice even worse, spoken with his smirk seeped into it. You realized the very sound of it would probably make you shiver now in all the wrong ways after this, even in casual conversation. 

“I… don’t have condoms,” you said by way of reply. 

He shrugged, the gesture lacking his usual languor now that he’d been worked up without release. “Me neither. They’re annoying.” 

He noticed you were frowning at him, and scoffed. “What, not on the pill?” He didn’t wait for a response; maybe that was the heat making him forgo on better judgment. “Well, guess it’s a good thing they got me pinned down, then. You’re free to pull off when I’m about to bust.”

The way in which he spoke it made your stomach queasy, and the first true lick of doubt ruined your mood as you stood up. “Fine. Just… tell me before you’re about to.”

He grunted in response, inwardly absorbed with impatience. 

You took off your bottoms and pushed your panties—yes, very wet, you confirmed—down, then hiked a leg over and climbed somewhat clumsily onto the chair.  

Only when you’d awkwardly positioned yourself over him did you notice that his eyes were fixated down below, where your hands steadily worked his dick against you. A raspy sigh passed his lips, and it was then you noticed his body teeming with eager spasms. 

Awkwardly, you sank down onto him, staring between you two the whole time and watching his thick length press tightly inside. 

The binds on his feet jabbed sharply against his ankles as they shuffled for leverage, desperate to rut up into the tight heat that welcomed him—but your legs resting on his thighs kept the movement to nothing but shallow thrusts. 

Whatever this fucking quirk was had a ridiculous effect on his sensitivity. You felt good—fucking amazing, even—though he couldn’t decide if that was just the quirk deluding him into thinking your cunt was the best he’d ever had, or if it really was: if you really were just that fucking incredible. 

Normally he would have managed that with stilled hips and practiced control; just sat back and enjoyed the ride. But shit it took a monumental effort not to fuck up into you, especially with how damn... slow you were going. 

Your pussy was gripping him so nicely, and that tight look on your face as you seated yourself onto his lap, accepting him fully and staggering from the size of him, was thrilling. But when you finally started to move your hips, you were going about it so cautiously, so boringly, that his patience all but thinned in a matter of seconds. 

“Could you go any slower?” he muttered. 

The words guilted you. “I thought it might… hurt?” you explained.

“How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not in pain, dumbass. I need to cum. Which ain’t gonna happen if you keep this up.” He shuffled his legs, widening them so he could better press up into you. The pressure made him grunt, and you shiver. “C’mon, you were putting on a real good show before. Ride me like you mean it. I know you can.”

And there it was again, the words and the voice that threw repose out the window and made you all the more eager to see this through. 

With arms linked around his neck you started to roll your hips. He didn’t seem to mind the contact, helpful as it was in balancing yourself on his lap. 

You weren’t entirely surprised when the first sighs and grunts came from your own lips. Every time you thought a new angle of your hips or a quick thrust of his own had finally hit that one pleasurable spot inside, you would sink down harder on his cock and gasp when his thickness dragged over another. 

It made you go faster, turned the fluid rolling of your hips into quick grinding, then finally when you’d adjusted to his size, a steady bouncing on his cock. 

“Fuck yes...” he muttered, then moaned low, licking his lips; that was what he needed, feeling you sink down over and over, lifting yourself a little higher each time then dropping so hastily that his hips started jutting up to meet you. 

“Shit.” Lolling his head back he breathed heavily, deeply. “Ah shit...”

It encouraged you to circle your hips with every motion, which garnered a throaty growl in response. A string of curses under his breath accompanied it, and you pressed your face into his shoulder, keeping careful of his staples, and moaned along with him. 

Only when you started getting noisier did you think of anything except what you two were doing: what if Shigaraki or Kurogiri were to come back now? What if any of the others decided to waltz in? 

You bit your lip to keep your next few moans low, but you swore Dabi must have had a sixth sense for your timidity, and didn’t at all appreciate the way you were holding back. 

He shifted his hips on the chair in a precise motion, and suddenly his cockhead shoved against the right spot over and over again as you bounced on top of him. All your logical thoughts were fucked into the back burner immediately.

All you could hear was your own panting and the slap of your thighs against his. He would give his heedy approval in an occasional growl or moan, rasping it against your ear. It made you shiver uncontrollably. 

You lost rhythm soon enough and took to grinding again, the chair scraping along the floor beneath you. His thick cock drove you crazy, until you were panting and moaning and whining. If that wasn’t enough to signal an orgasm, he could feel it, could feel your pussy gripping him in a desperate flutter. 

“Oi,” he got your attention, turning his head, his breath thin at your cheek, “You serious? Are you actually gonna–”

And you did, legs stretching and contracting, tightening around his thighs as you came hard. He cursed and dipped his head low when you squeezed around him, panting through the ridiculously good pressure on his cock. 

Your body jerked and shivered in any way it could, anything to expel the white-hot pleasure that shot up your spine and then back down again. You couldn’t breathe, shaking on top of him so violently he was sure you were going to keel over at any second and start convulsing on the floor. 

“Hey shithead,” he snapped after he’d let your shivers die down. Using what little leverage his tied legs allowed him, he pushed his shoes off the floor, bouncing you impatiently in his lap and jarring you back to awareness. You gasped in hypersensitivity, his cock digging against you.

“I’m flattered you like my dick that much,” he went on, your body languid and slouched against him. The heat was nearing again; his cock twitched miserably inside of you, desperate for release and so damn close to getting it. “But you’re not the one in need of attention here, in case you forgot. Keep it up. I’m close.” 

With a moan you pushed yourself up, sucking in breaths of renewal through parted lips. Legs tensing and aching, you tried your best to grind on him again, but the task left you oversensitive. 

He needed to finish, you reminded yourself. He needed to cum, like he’d said. You were sure, so blissfully sure you might be rewarded with more of his unhinged reactions that you forced your muscles to be ignorant to their ache, and started to ride him in earnest.

That was when you noticed it: the heat wracking you wasn’t just your own, it was his. His skin too hot, too hot to be normal, furnace-warm to the touch. 

You lifted your head from his shoulder and peered over at him. His eyes were screwed shut, his lips pulled back into a tense snarl. Perspiration dewed on the portions of his untainted skin, dampened his brows and fell in droplets along his temple. 

You felt his body heating rapidly against yours—the clothes keeping your skin apart might as well have been paper-thin. His chest, rising desperately with heavy pants, was concerningly feverish. He felt it too. 

Fuck, he thought. Not fucking now. 

“Damn it—” he sputtered out, body going suddenly rigid, craning his neck away from you. “Move,” he warned you.

“What—”

“Move your damn head—”

Just as you did, your eyes stretched in shock as flames broke out from his jawline. Their angry blue reflected threateningly in your eyes, made you come to a shivering slow on his cock as the dry heat blistered out over your skin. 

The fire was out in a second, forcefully extinguished with his frustrated grunt; smoke puttered out from beneath his staples instead. He breathed out an angry sigh from the effort of combating his own quirk.

You hesitated to put your hand out and touch him, hovering over his face. “Dabi, your skin—”

“Shut up it’s fine,” he breathed raggedly, turning his head away from you. When was the last time that had happened? Fuck. He made himself believe it was just the quirk. Just the quirk. And not you. Not because you felt so fucking good. 

His legs jolted up in desperation to make you move on top of him. “Don’t you fuckin’ stop—shit—I’m almost there—”

You didn’t know whether to be frightened or exhilarated by the display of fire, but you were moving again regardless, bouncing on his lap for all you were worth until your legs were begging for mercy and your lungs ached. 

He sucked in tight breaths through his teeth, then exhaled them as gravelly moans. You pressed against him, arms wrapped about his frame, ignoring his sweltering skin and abandoning any fear that his quirk might disobey his control again. You bit your lip and whined excitedly when you felt him bow his head against your shoulder and pant heavily against the clothed skin there. 

The heat was fucking blinding now. And it was loud: a numbing and seductive beat in his chest that made his heart stutter to keep up. Every slam of your hips down onto him, and every one of his thrusts up into you in turn, made the heat louder, ache more, and burn.

“Now,” he grit out against your ear, body seizing in warning. In his enclosed binds, his fingers clenched into fists, so hard that the joints popped in protest.  

A whine in your throat was the response. You were ignorant to much else except the wetness making a mess of your thighs, of his searing skin against you and his belt buckle digging harshly into your legs. 

“Right now,” he sputtered hurriedly, hips rising from the seat. All he could do was shove up into you once, violent and hard, digging his way as deep as he could as his balls went tight and fiery pleasure raced up his body. “Right fuckin’ now move, I’m gonna—goddamnit… fuck!” 

He wasn’t prepared for the way you slammed your hips down as you came again with a cry. He stiffened hard, body bowing down into yours as much as the restraints allowed, shoving his face into your neck.

“Holy fuck,” he gasped out, “fuck—” You shivered wildly around him and in an instant he was cumming hard, legs jolting in their restraints, shaking under your thighs. 

“Fuck!” he shouted again, the exclamation muffled against your skin. “Motherfucker—fuck—” His voice puttered off into a series of strained, frantic groans. Unthinking and delirious on pleasure, he closed his mouth around the soft flesh of your neck and bit hard. 

You gasped, tried to wriggle free, but his hips were desperately snapping up into you, effectively throwing off your balance. 

Your hips hadn’t stopped their determination either. They had a mind of their own, rutting fast to squeeze him dry. All the while, he growled hotly against your skin, teeth leaving deep marks, sucking blemishes into the flesh despite all restraint that told him otherwise. 

After the last, hard spurts inside of you, he sank back into the chair, utterly wasted. Little spasms harassed his body and made him shiver weakly. Only his mouth persevered, teeth still digging into the soft flesh of your shoulder.

The pleasure ebbed into raw sensation, and you could feel the marks his incisors left in you, the heated metal of his staples singeing you.

“Dabi,” you stuttered out, a shaky hand coming to push at his forehead in protest. 

It shook him back to reality. He brought his dizzy head back to look at you through hooded eyes, then down at the wound he’d left on your neck. 

Shit, he thought fleetingly, but not very regrettably. That was gonna bruise. 

He put his head back against the chair and heaved, shutting his eyes to dispel the lightheadedness. 

“Told you... to get off,” he muttered. 

You knew it was a mistake you would dwell on later, but you could barely move now, let alone think. 

When you shifted your legs, wanting to move and put some blood back into your limbs, it set off a chain reaction of oversensitive-pleasure; dwindling sparks went off inside you and you shuddered, making him jerk and grunt in tandem. 

“Don’t move,” he chided, his head still bent to the ceiling. “Just gimme a minute... Fuck...” he breathed. “You fuckin’...” He shook his head, in disbelief of the pleasure, even more so that you’d been the one to give it to him.

Then he thought: he wouldn’t need to conjure up fantasies of you anymore when he was getting himself off. He could go by memory now. 

Once he’d regained partial composure, he shifted, glad to find his dick was going limp—fucking finally—inside of you. 

“You got a way to take care of that?” he asked, leaning back and looking down at the wet mess between both your thighs. 

You blinked, hazy. “What?”

“I’m not tryna knock you up just ‘cause you’re too horny to listen,” he said disdainfully. “You on the pill? Gotta get one of those morning-afters otherwise–”

“It’s fine.” You nodded. “Don’t worry.”

It was easier said than done, he thought to himself sourly. But he was having trouble thinking of much else besides how fucking fantastic it was to feel the arousal leaving him in blissful waves.

He took a heavy breath. “Now get off and get me outta this shit.”

“But you might still be…” You wriggled a little on top of him, felt him soft inside of you. It was uncomfortable, but even if you’d wanted to move, your muscles were spent. “What if you’re still… ”

“Still what? Still horny? Bet you’d like that, wouldn't you?”

You wouldn’t let the comment fluster you, and obeyed as a way to prove him wrong, slowly lifting yourself off of him. The ache of your insides as he slipped out was raw and hot and wet, but unmistakably satisfying.

“Let me out,” he demanded again. “Now.”

“I told you I don’t have the key.”

He sighed in frustration, blinking sweat from his eyes. “Then go get Kurogiri. Go get someone. And at least be nice enough to cover me up. Don’t want my dick hanging out.”

It was shiny, wet, and red from stimulation. When you went to tuck it back in his pants, it twitched.

“Oi, clean it first,” he snapped.

You glanced around. “With?”

“Whatever the hell’s lying around. Shirt, rag, your mouth.” He scoffed when you put on a frown. “Don’t give me that look. This is your mess on my dick, ya know.”

With barely contained insolence you went down shakily on your knees, ready to go about the particularly humiliating task, when he laughed dryly under his breath. 

“You’re a real slut,” he muttered, looking down on you with a cheeky smirk, “aren’t you?”

That guaranteed your spite, and you stood up just as quickly as you’d gone down, then nudged his still-messy dick into his pants and zipped them closed. 

“Oi, oi—” The wetness squished uncomfortably underneath the fabric and he shifted awkwardly, glaring at you. “You fuckin’ serious?”

“You’ll be fine,” you muttered, turning away from him in search of your clothes, hiding an indulgent smile. 

As you redressed, he sneered and pulled at his bindings. “Don’t get smart with me.”

“Or what?” 

You were too exhausted to wrangle with his temper, or your own self-preservation; you knew it was a dangerous game to tease him. But you couldn’t help it. Your mind was foggy, your body teeming with giddy pleasure. Not to mention, you were free. He wasn’t. And that was remarkably funny. 

Now he was scowling. “You little shit. Letting it all go to your head now, huh?” When you didn’t answer, when he caught a flash of your teasing smile, his frustration started to run rampant. “Not gonna be so funny when I’m out of this shit—”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

In response, he just glowered, and despite the front you were trying to put up, it threw an excited shiver down your spine. You were perilously tempted to egg him on, but decided against it.

You pulled your shoes back on and breathed, looking at him with something that resembled soft smugness. “I’ll go find Kurogiri.”

“Yeah, you fuckin’ better,” he muttered under his breath, keeping his critical eye-contact with you up until the very moment you disappeared out of his line of vision. 

When he heard your footsteps finally dwindle down an adjacent hall, he let out a long-suffering sigh and tilted his head back. “Fuck.”

The quirk had gone, the heat and arousal with it. 

But what hadn’t gone were the thoughts of you. 

Angry thoughts, confusing thoughts, and most of all, intriguing thoughts.

[noblechaton]

Well I for one would love to hear that story!

okay! um. I'm gonna try not to get too personal or w/e but I've also never really............talked about this before so uh here it goes! also sorry this is gonna be long lmao

I've sorta always known that I was........well. queer! and I mean that seriously too - I still remember feeling weird and different as far back as kindergarten in a way that lasted thru my entire school career despite obviously not really understanding any of it way back when with that sorta being how things were as I kept going thru school. like I knew I wasn't like everyone else around me but of course I didn't know like why or how or what it meant that I thought both sides of the room were cute or why I'd had feelings towards friends of the same gender and it was something I just sorta sat on for the bulk of my life up till into high school where I started learning more about LGBTQ stuff on my own time and finding it represented in places (like funny enough in Doctor Who) that helped further my curiosity and with more knowledge I sorta started understanding myself more as a result and like I think I realized I was (or at least identified most with being) bisexual* around sophomore year? and honestly it was really liberating to embrace how I'd always felt with like an understanding to it and I definitely wasn't shy about it lmao. it came up a few times actually and I was proud to tell ppl I wasn't straight and it felt really good to know that instead of just feeling it which ik might sound weird but it’s the best way I can put it and it was like I’d put an element of my life that I didn’t understand for the longest time to rest thinking that was it

that said.......................there was more to it - more to myself - that I've been sitting on and admittedly have been intentionally ignoring and denying for just as long

and I mean it's been something I've kinda been aware for as long as I can remember now with some distinct memories of believing I was "born in the wrong body" (which is a thing I remember saying to and thinking about myself a lot) as far back as kindergarten too and there were times where I aggressively denied this and a few times where I've even gotten mad at myself for thinking such a thing with the most recent instance of this being um. y'know. a few days ago. which is kinda where that anxiety stuff comes in and how like I guess I just feel bad for thinking like this despite not....looking the part or feeling ashamed for....thinking that way mostly out of my own sense of self depreciation. I’ve dealt with an immense self hatred for the majority of my life now and this sort of thing has been used to just kinda throw more fuel on that fire

but despite that I’ve also gotten better about self depreciation over the recent years too! it’s been a long work in progress but I think I’ve made a lot of strides in at least not feeling so down on myself and embracing the more positive aspects of the things I do and say and my personality and existence and all that. it’s definitely a healthier way to live actually finding things to enjoy about urself and accepting the way u are

and like another big aspect of this is that well.....no one’s ever really asked?? what my pronouns are or which gender I am and with that in mind over the last ~10 years I sorta slipped into feeling more comfortable being seen as more nonbinary since I've never felt too much like a boy or a girl for various reasons and I've kinda been fine like that for a while and I'm even still p comfortable there as is! I love ppl perceiving me as they want to perceive me and I want folks to continue doing that! 

but lately it's been on my mind again and I've been thinking about it and kinda passively watching others as they talk to and about me and I've kinda gradually been realizing that as far as self designation I definitely agree more with one gender than the other and even have been sorta subtly dressing more in the style of someone of the opposite gender than the one I was born with and even sometimes refer to myself with those pronouns and like when ppl refer to me like that too it usually just like feels better to me mentally and like despite my own reservations and fears and uncertainties at this point that it’s felt hard to deny that I might actually be that way

it’s all kind of confusing and I’m very nervous about....embracing it like this not bc of the reaction or responses I might get from certain uh sects of ppl online or other ppl in general (which again has been great so far honestly) but bc I guess I’m kinda subject to that fear of like not believing my own feelings on the matter are real or valid - that I’m not actually this way even tho a lot of signs and my own beliefs tell me I am that way. y’know? but especially lately I’ve been embracing it more as a fact and feeling better mentally as a result despite my own reservations

all of this to say that I'm still sorta figuring myself out and that while I might not have had all the answers right away I’ve still be gradually piecing things together over my years and while it’s been....scary honestly to even sorta consider it’s also all sorta been getting clearer the more time I spend actually embracing those thoughts and feelings rather than shoving them away or otherwise ignoring them so. uh. I guess u could consider this me coming out in my own way

I’m trans! 

and I'm proud to be who I am! 

and hey hopefully in saying all of this and talking about it further if ppl wanna know more or w/e maybe I can help someone else feel more comfortable in their own identity too!