#feel better anon!!

[minustwofingers]

omg don't have pressure because of me! I'm mentally destroyed but I don't want you to hurry because of me take your time love !!!

I'll be waiting, I can't wait to read it🥹🤍

no no dw!! i’m not feeling pressured at all! i appreciate the extra motivation to get it done tho, and i’m at the point where i just need an extra push to finish out the last few scenes :) i can’t wait to share it with you!!

[hinamie]

mentor

[xxplastic-cubexx]

your movie charles art gives me cuteness aggression

obsessed with getting these asks back to back and yet they both hold some truth i think ...... thank you very much everyone ....

[bixels]

Be honest, what are your thoughts on appledash? Do you hate it or its more of not a big deal

Not a big deal to me. I like it, I see all the appeals, I just personally like Rarijack more.

[inkskinned]

oh you know it's all latestage capitalism but the thing is. how are you supposed to be a person inside of this. a person trying to be a better version of yourself.

oh, you started working young, which was kind of hard, but it's just the way stuff works sometimes. and it was 2008 and your family couldn't afford heat. but it's fine, you grow a spine and get used to the professional world and besides it was the suburbs we're talking about here, like, your life could have been actually hard, so what if your father lost his job and you can't afford to move or turn the lights back on. and once you start making money, it's good. you keep doing that. because now they're relying on you. so you have to do that.

oh you were in thousands of dollars of debt at 17 years old so that you could go to school, because you have to go to school if you want to get a "real" job. you even did it "right", you worked parttime and attended community college before you transferred to a public school. you were under so many merit scholarships.

which is fine. you pick yourself up and you say like, okay. i graduated college. i'm holding down a job. i'm doing the Adult Thing, which looks and acts like this, according to all the books i've read. you start with the shitty job and then you climb that corporate ladder.

but the shitty job doesn't cover rent and you stretch yourself too-thin so you get sick. good luck with that. the shitty job no longer pays for your meals. everyone asks why you don't just move, but there's nowhere to move to. and with what money are you going to be moving? and then the loans come back, because they were never going to forgive them, because you were 17 and trying to do the right thing, which was stupid. people are now saying you shouldn't have even gone to school.

which is fine. but because you have no other option, so you do the shitty job, and you apply every day for like 5 new ones, and despite the fact everyone says "there's no one who wants to work!" it's actually just that nobody is fucking hiring so you can either work for 13 dollars an hour in the shitty place you know (where at least you have a passingly friendly relationship with the manager) or you can start from scratch again with a different 13 dollars an hour without knowing how much abuse from the new job you'll be taking.

and if you quit you lose your insurance. if you quit you lose your housing. if you quit, you'll be another burnout kid. the lazy ones. these assholes, look at them!

and you come home to a family dinner and you hear from your father the same old thing. how he worked hard at his job and yes it sucked for a while but he was able to provide for the family and then the house and the dog and the rest of barbie's dream vacation. how the insurance did cover some of it. how you just really need to start speaking up more in manager conversations so they know you're a go-getter. you want to tell him - did you know we're actually doing more now hourly than any previous generation? - but you can't remember where you heard that statistic, and you're far too tired for the fucking argument. and then he starts in on his usual bit. where's the house? where's your kids? where's your ambition.

the same job the same money the same hours doesn't do it anymore. the same nose-to-the-grindstone now just shreds your face off. there's no such thing as upwards mobility, not really. and as far as you're aware, the money certainly is not trickling. you do the soulless stupid shit you signed up for because you fucking have to or else you literally risk your life (food, the apartment, the insurance), but it's not getting you anything. you download the stupid "save more" app and you budget and you do every right thing and then the price of eggs is 7 dollars and you say - oh great! another thing i have to fucking worry about now!

and you go to your stupid job and everyone in your father's generation just tells you to be better about being an adult. they have their homes and their savings account and their bailout and they say. well have you tried not drinking starbucks. well your generation just spends too much on clothing. well you might just be too addicted to travelling. and you - because you need the job - you bite your tongue and don't say i am being held prisoner and you're suggesting i stop pacing my cell if i don't like the scenery and you don't say what the fuck do you think i've been doing with my money and you don't say i haven't spent a cent on something nice in literally forever much less coffee you arrogant asshole. you open and close your bank app and check your loans and check your credit score and check fucking zillow and ziprecruiter and apartments.com just one time more. and still they give you that demeaning little grin and say - see, what you need is -

what you need is for your meds to stop being so fucking expensive. what you need is for the housing bubble to explode into dust. what you need is for billionaires to choke on their wealth. what you need is actual help. what you will get is more economic advice from people who are older-and-wiser.

and above you, almost in a glimmer, you can see the wedged smile of your debt getting toothier, wider.

[miwtual]

im so fucking tired of the disrespect gifmakers get on the gifmaker website

[ahappydnp]

this might be too much of a deep lore question but i figured who would know better thank you if anyone: did they say somewhere or is it established that Phil was meant to join Dans tour in Australia but then randomly couldn’t because he had health issues/migraines?? And if so where did they say that bc i’ve read this in like 3 fics and would love to know the backstory hahaha <3 thank u

hiii they did talk about phil planning to tag along to the australian leg/some of europe "for a free holiday" (18:25) in october 2022. phil also joked tweeting about going to a canada show as well so it definitely seems like they were planning on phil attending more than just the one show

in january 2023 (right before the aus leg of the tour) he mentioned that his dizziness/vestibular migraines issue had gotten worse and he had been seeing specialists/taking new meds (1:34) and that he couldn't fly

the worst part is the last show of the AUS/NZ leg was on january 28th (two days before phil's birthday) so they definitely planned on staying and having a little holiday before the EU leg started (especially as they both really love it there and had a special holiday in australia previously during ii). dan ended up immediately flying home to london after the show for phil's birthday on the 30th

[m1d-45]

bloodletting

summary: a budding god needs a place to test their new powers, and childe was always a little too eager to lose a fight... a match made in heaven!

word count: 1.7k

-> warnings : minor AQ spoilers ? just like, general gi plot.. fairly graphic depiction of blood + other injuries (might be classed as body horror???). generally obsessive tendencies (childe <--> you). i cannot stress this enough, reader is 110% a sadist.

-> gn reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @ryuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

power was not something that came easy. it was fought over, stolen, defended with teeth and claw, tides of blood shed just so one could have power over another. social, physical, financial; no matter the leverage it provided, power was hard won. to give someone power was to admit defeat, a certain death that tartaglia had learned and taught more than his fair share of times. nobody undeserving of power ever held onto it for long; it was an acknowledgement that you were better, that you deserved it, that you’d won. power was a fickle resource that childe would kill to keep, only ever laying down his blade for a precious few.

the tsaritsa, of course. his fellow harbingers, skilled both on and off-field, who themselves could rival the archons. his family, for whom he’d happily give the world.

and naturally, who would be more worthy to hold power than you?

you, not just a god but the, the highest authority across all of teyvat. you bore a hundred names and a thousand monikers, your worship the one thing the world could agree on. granted, nobody could quite agree on how, but that was fine. childe did not need external powers to tell him what to do. he knew, in his deepest heart, that he had gotten it right.

he knew—and, on occasion, flaunted—that he was your favorite. of all the vessels you had chosen, you returned to him time and time again, wishing on his stars until his vision gleamed. his bow shone with power, even his weakest weapon more than enough to push his strength to new heights. part of him wondered what he could do if you’d granted him swords, or a claymore… but that was speculation for another time. didn’t it say something that you had still chosen him at his weakest?

the thought always made him smile. thick in the heat of puppeteered battle, before the sun to after dark, your presence was a constant in his life. at every altar, with every offering, when his hands stung from the rash of leather and his blade was covered in rust, your name a prayer behind blood-soaked teeth. he could not remember a time when his pocket was not weighted with a charm.

his devotion was no secret. he wore your bow with pride, entirely phasing out his other weapons. it didn’t matter that he was technically more controlled with them, for you had chosen this path for him. your word was his guide, a polar star through bitter nights.

he did not doubt when your presence ebbed or flowed. who was he to dictate when or where you spent your attention? no, his faith did not waver. it had no reason to. he waited patiently, going about his regular duties, lingering in snezhnaya for no other reason that he just felt like he had to.

who was he to question to buzzing in the back of his head? who was he to decline when he felt an instinct to leave, to go for a trip far past the city gates? who was he to think himself better than the guiding light that had never led him astray?

for you, he was whatever you needed. and so he went, armed with a thick coat and snowboots, hands shoved deep in the pockets to hide the slight shake. down the main road, an arbitrary turn into an alley and down an abandoned path, into a part of the city he’d never traveled. but a golden thread had tied itself around his heart, pulling without hesitation. he easily hopped over the fence gate, not bothering with hauling it open through the snow. the path beyond was covered in a thick layer of powder, his foot crunching through a foot of it before hitting solid ground. still, he continued.

snezhnayan winters were not warm. they bit and dug into every gap in your clothes, stealing away the precious warmth within. and yet, with his half-done coat and incomplete guard, he was not cold. or, rather, he couldn’t feel it. his hands were pink with frost, stiff at the knuckles, but he couldn’t feel the resistance. his body was not important, not now.

the snow began to thin. it fell from his knees to his shins to his ankles to his toes, until he was face to face with a thick wall of bramble, impossibly overgrown. he was beginning to overheat in his jacket. twin blades made quick work of the wall, and the sight behind it easily dispelled any breath left in his lungs.

the air that washed out of the bubble was thick and heavy, like a humid spring instead of snezhnayan woods. his breath came in short gasps, a shameful wheeze that he hoped was missed beneath the howling snow. he didn’t want you to see him as weak, as someone so easily tired by a short trip to a falling star; he didn’t want you to think of him as anything other than his best.

but you didn’t push him away. you helped him up—his head was buzzing with delusion, he could hardly see, when had he fallen to his knees?—and brushed the snow off his hair, not pushing him away when he leaned into your touch. he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could barely collect himself enough to recognize that he needed to get you inside, away from the wilds.

that was power. to so effortlessly take over every thought in his head, to hold his mind in your hands and pull it into your liking, that was the power he adored you for. gods were figureheads of power, a physical incarnation of their dominion. a god of the entire world would only naturally have power to manipulate that world to their liking. how blessed was he, that he could be the first you made yours.

he was with you when you first stepped into zapolyarny palace, looking around at the chandeliers and fine tile. he opened the door for you to her majesty’s throne room, sucking in a sharp breath as you brushed by. he was by your side when the tsaritsa swore you her fealty, delicately placing the gnoses in your hands.

and oh, how he’d fallen to the floor right then and there, dizzy from the wash of power that rolled off you in waves, an ocean that he willingly dove into. the floor was cool beneath his forehead, his hair sticking to his skin as sweat quickly began to bead. he didn’t bother pushing himself up on his hands, teeth sinking deep into his lip again to control his panting breath. copper bloomed over his tongue, filling his mouth and clogging what remained of his senses.

dimly, he was aware that he was being pathetic, that this would surely change your mind about him. he heard your voice, faint through the fog of his mind, your wisdom lost to his own inadequacy. and yet, despite his weakness, every part of him was tuned into you. he knew it was your hand whispering across his shoulders, he knew it was your influence that stole the breath from his lungs. he knew it was you, because it was always you. you were all he could think of, and now you were finally able to leverage your full power over his self.

he’d woken up in a hospital bed. saline dripped into his arm and the lights pierced his eyes, his head full of snow and iced over. and yet, the moment he was cleared for release, he found himself desperate to be back to your side, racing through the tiled halls of the palace and following the urgent burn in his chest. you would have been right to turn him away, to deem him too weak to stay by your side, but you didn’t. you smiled when he lost his breath and laughed when he wavered, brushing off his concern. you invited him with you—his lungs burned with the need for oxygen—as you twirled the gnoses between your fingers, as if they were toys or paperweights rather than objects of divine power.

divine to him. child’s play to you. a courtyard of snow was cleared in an instant, ripples of pyro melting permafrost while keeping the flora beneath intact, a lazy show of power that pulled little more than a slight hum from you in response.

he wasn’t so much a fool as to think he could teach you everything, or even something, about being divine. and yet he clung to your side like a sailor in a storm, watching as you grew familiar with the elements. he watched, stubborn and weak, as you stopped hesitating.

flowers bloomed as you walked by, crumbling to ash with the slightest look. electro jumped from your skin to his, a painful spark that drew his mind from his head, finally seeing your amused eyes instead of just mindlessly staring. you could—should—have just left him behind, but you didn’t. you instead asked for his help, taking his hand in yours and leading him to a quieter hallway of the palace. you didn’t comment on his thundering pulse despite the fact that you could certainly feel it, tracing a finger along the crease of his palm.

“i wonder…”

a claw of geo cut across his skin, a sharp sting that quickly welled with blood. he barely felt it, watching with detached awe as it filled up his hand, sliding over the edge and dripping to the floor. you didn’t show any emotion, just… watching. his heart beat in his hands, a pool collecting on the floor, and still, you just watched. your other hand moved over the surface, barely an inch away, the blood collecting in a bubble beneath it. with a hum, your fist tightened, pain lighting up his arm. a strained grunt slipped between his teeth, hand flinching closed, brushing against the ball of his blood you had pulled from his veins. his hand was stained red, shaking in your grasp, minutes stretched into hours.

all at once, it dropped, forced back into his body as forcefully as it was removed. with a snap, the skin stitched itself shut, and you were again dragging him along like a child did their favorite toy.

you did that a lot. pull him aside and experiment with whatever new reaction you had discovered that month, week, day, hour, watching his reactions with unabashed delight. and he let you. every time, without fail, he eagerly followed, knowing full well he’d end up rigid with lightning or with ice crystals studding his throat. it was worth it, though. you always fixed him up, squeezing his hand with a whispered ‘good job’ that never failed to make him dizzy.

it didn’t matter what you did to him. it never did. even when his mind was hazy with pain and he couldn’t quite stand on his own, he never regretted it. unconsciousness licked at the edges of his vision, burning black stains that lingered even after you stopped, but he never once hesitated.

if you asked him to jump, he’d ask how high. if you felt like holding him underwater, he’d cherish every bruise. to be kept as a toy was still to be kept.

[varpusvaras]

None of the Queens are devoted tea drinkers, not in a way that they would have strong opinions on how to drink their tea, aside from what to not put in it (Roy still gives tea with milk a very long stare even if he doesn't say anything).

It's about more than just liking tea as a drink, though. It's about the process of making it, the practised routine of it, the feeling of simple, grounding safety it brings.

It's also about the company.

It's just past five in the morning. Dinah is still up, sitting at the kitchen isle. The house is quiet.

She must've dosed off a little, because she notices Jason in the kitchen only when he is already in there, putting water in the kettle. He has Roy's hoodie thrown over his shoulders, and he says nothing as he puts the kettle on and starts to silently go through the drinks cabinet. Most of the tea in there is his, so he picks through the variety with ease.

Dinah comtemplates telling him to go back to sleep. They've all gotten back home just a couple of hours earlier, after running back to back missions, first on their own and then together. Jason has a rather nasty looking bruise stretching over his brow and temple, and Dinah knows that he hoodie is hiding a wrist brace beneath it.

She doesn't say anything. Everyone has a hard time falling asleep after being up and running for so long from time to time. Today, it's her and Jason. It's nice to have someone with you when dealing with that.

The kettle clicks. Jason takes out two mugs and pours water over the teabags. Dinah watches as he mixes in a good spoonful of honey to the other mug, the spoon clicking softly as he stirs.

He then takes both of the mugs and brings them over, setting the one with honey in front of her. He then sits down, a couple of chairs away from her, and looks at his own tea.

"I heard from Barbie that you were with the birds earlier", he whispers, his voice a little rough with sleep that will not yet come. "It's chamomile with honey. Helps with a sore throat."

Dinah takes her mug. It's warm against her hands. The morning is not cold, but the warmth is comforting, anyway.

She takes a sip. It's soft and sweet, and the taste of the honey stays for a bit after she swallows.

"It's good", she whispers back to him. "Thank you."

Jason hums, just as soft and sweet as the tea. From the corner of her eye, Dinah can see his lips turn up ever so slightly, before he hides behind his own tea. Dinah smiles as well, before taking another sip.

[hurlingdown]

God damn am I hungry, I want to fuck and suck on kuzan's pussy lol, like this man would taste like spearmint(lol joking ofc), he'd love to be fuck hard deep and slowly, choking him slightly so he can barely breathe will make him cum, bound him by sea cuffs, and watch him melt, he could go for hours, he'd want to get fuck until his cunt is ruined and he's pregnant.

Then he'd ask the next day for the same thing, so you decide to fuck him in an alley way him bent over a crate while he's crying and drooling his cunt still dripping leftover cum, fill his pussy to the brim with cum again and make him babble about how he wants your baby, he'd also being cockwarming you while you work, or at a meeting, everyone knows what you two are doing but rather not say anything because they you'd beat the shit out of them.

He'd also be into somnophilia, him sleeping while you fuck him, or him riding you while you're asleep, your both such deep sleepers that neither of you know what happened unless one of you tell the other, but neither of you guys care enough to do anything, or fuck him while he's in early pregnancy softly, even if he asks for harder, just shut him up with a kiss, and he'll shut up and wrap his arms (and legs) around you

-🍬

this is such a coincidence because i just received a kuzan thirst earlier... making a baby with kuzan. hmm. sweet thought.

kuzan getting baby fever is a natural disaster. grabbing you during work breaks (or in the middle of work) and the moment the both of you are out of sight, he's yanked down both of your pants, exposing his leaking cunt and wanting to be bred again. he's gotten used to bringing a piece of seastone with him wherever because he's learnt his lesson after repeatedly freezing your cock in his cunt whenever he gets too excited, though the idea of you being permanently stuck inside him isn't a bad one.

you've got him pressed up the wall of the bathroom, balls deep inside him and bucking up into his sweet cunt, pumping him full of your warm seed and he's muttering something about how you were the perfect temperature, that he wanted to get pregnant again and again if your cum was always gonna feel this nice inside him.

[teachyouhowtodothesponge]

Sick rn 💔, can i request a sick Eddie so he can suffer with me

Oh no! I hope you feel better! Being sick is the worst, but these sick Eddies should help a little! :) Frank is there too!

[ourflagmeansgayrights]

ngl the "im white so i dont talk abt any characters' race ever bc im afraid of accidentally saying something racist" approach to fandom is like. very weak. imo.

like first of all: i get that "i dont incorporate race into my media analysis because i'm afraid of messing up" comes from a different place than "i don't incorporate race into my media analysis because I Don't See Race 😊 there is only The Human Race." but it has the same functional effect, right? that effect being that your analysis of [INSERT MEDIA HERE] ignores the very real way that race impacts people.

second of all: it feels kinda lazy! like ur saying "i dont know enough abt race to feel comfortable commenting on how race affects this show and i dont care enough to learn." the only way to become more comfortable discussing race is to actually practice discussing race. but when i see people saying this it feels like they're saying "i'm white, which means i don't know how to talk about race, and i don't have to know how to talk about race, and i don't ever have to know how to talk about race, so i'm choosing to never learn how to talk about race."

third of all: just because you don't openly talk about race doesn't mean you're any less likely to accidentally say or do something racist. implicit biases run deep, y'all. it's probably already there in your interpretation of the show. but the "i don't want to accidentally say something racist" implies that you are positive that your interpretation of the show isn't racist. and i'm not saying you're wrong. but i'm saying that if a person of color tells you that something you said about [INSERT MEDIA HERE] was racist, you better be prepared to actually listen and not just brush them off because "i can't be racist! i purposefully never talk about race just to make sure i'm not racist!"

which brings me to my final point: if you do accidentally say something racist... literally just apologize. if someone says you've been doing something racist, apologize and stop doing that thing. it's literally not that hard. i've done it. i've seen other people do it. "i'm scared of being called racist!" is such a weak excuse im tired of it. getting called racist is not the end of the fucking world. calm the fuck down and grow a spine. jesus.

[booksooks]

hihiii what do u think tomura x civilian reader would look like 👀👀👀

𝑯𝑬 𝑳𝑰𝑲𝑬𝑺 𝒀𝑶𝑼

Author's Note: HELLo! ty for the ask, i hope this was what u were looking for!

Content: Like... one? Death threat. You'll be fine. Lots of dialogue.

Word Count: 1430

Summary: Shigaraki decides he likes you.

The first time you ever met Shigaraki Tomura was at your local bookstore slash game shop. You were, as per usual for this store, weighed down with an armful of books, and you were about to make your way around a shelf to head to the checkout, when you stopped, intending to look at an interesting looking book. Instead, your foot collided with someone else’s, and you watched in horror as the person attached to the foot lost their balance and fell back on their ass. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” You cried, immediately plopping your stack of books on a nearby shelf. You picked up the person, no, the man’s game cartridge, and put that on another shelf before you reached out your hand to help him up. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was putting my feet.” 

The man only glared at your outstretched hand, a black medical mask covering the lower half of his face. It did nothing, however, to hide the downright murderous scowl that contorted his forehead. His eyes flicked up to yours, red and full of hate. 

“It’s fine,” he spat out, but you could tell he was not happy with you, or the situation. He completely ignored your hand and stood up by himself, brushing himself off and snatching the game cartridge from the shelf you had put it on. 

“Are you sure?” You asked, trying to catch his eyes again, but he stubbornly kept his face ducked, which caused his hair to blur any noticeable features. “I’m really so sorry.” 

“I said it’s fine.” 

You bit your lip, hesitant, before you blurted, “look, I know we’re not supposed to use our quirks in public, but if you’re hurt I can take care of it for you. It’s the least I can do.”

That gave the man pause. His scowl dropped, and although he still didn’t look at you, he wasn’t actively trying to run away from you. “You can?” 

“Yeah!” You chirped, a bit too loudly, and you winced. “I-I mean, yeah, I can. Where does it hurt, I’ll help.” 

You saw him swallow, reach a hand up to scratch at the base of his neck, and then he stopped. He held that hand out to you, shaking ever so slightly, and turned it palm up. His wrist had the ittiest, bittiest bit of rug burn on the inside, it was nothing really. It would heal by tomorrow. But you had told him that you could help, so you activated your quirk and raised two fingers to wave above the wound. You didn’t even touch him, but he still flinched back, as if you were burning him.

Something in the back of your mind snorted at the idea of calling the tiny patch of raw skin, barely red, a wound, but you were nothing if not someone who followed through. Either way, it was gone in a moment, fading to pink, and then his wrist looked like it had never been injured. 

“Better?” You asked, looking around to see if anyone had noticed. Unauthorized quirk use could get you in major trouble. 

The man made a face underneath the mask; the only reason you even noticed was because the mask itself wiggled slightly. “It itches,” he whined, using two fingers to scritch at the spot, 

“Yeah, that’ll go away in a sec.” You took a step back and grabbed your stack of books. “I’m really sorry again. Have a nice day!”

The only response you got was the feeling of his eyes trailing after you as you made your way to the front of the store. 

Over the next few months, you saw the man with red eyes again. And again. And again. And again. And one day, you figured he was trying to get your attention. You hadn’t known he was Shigaraki Tomura at first, not until your third or fourth encounter, when the features lined up just-so with the man you had seen on the news a few days earlier. 

Which spurred you on to do the stupidest thing you could possibly have, which was corner him. 

“Holy shit,” you hissed, shoving him into a back corner, behind several shelves and where no one ever really looked. “What the fuck, what the fuck, you’re that villain guy, Shigaraki Tomura, what the fuck! What the hell are you doing here?” 

Shigaraki, for the villain that he was, didn’t put up any fight as you practically bullied him backwards, his mask still over his nose and mouth. “Kind of surprised you didn’t recognize me earlier.” 

You furrowed your brows and looked at him incredulously. “You’re a little hard to recognize without that whole,” you paused, and made a general “covered” motion over your face, implying the hand that usually sat on his face. “You know?” 

Shigaraki shrugged. “The video games here are good.”

You dropped your hands and blinked at him. “This is… too weird. I should- I should be dead.” 

“I can still kill you if you want.” 

“N-No, it’s okay,” you insisted quickly, backing up. “I just… What? ”

“What ‘what’?”

You rubbed at your face. “I mean, what, why am I not dead, what, what do you mean the video games here are good, what on god’s green earth?” 

Shigaraki scratched at his neck, a habit you had noticed in a previous “innocent” meet up. “I mean I like the video games here. And you’re useful.” 

You nodded, pretending to understand. When it was clear that Shigaraki wasn’t going to elaborate, you shook your head in defeat. “How? ”

“Your quirk.” 

Oh. He had prodded you a bit more about it the second time you had met, and you had elaborated, thinking, ‘What the hell? What’s the worst that could happen?’ 

Well.  

“I see. Well um. Great meeting you, I guess.” 

“Wait.” Shigaraki shoved his hands in his pockets, awkward. You stopped backing away, knowing that your only chance of escape was dissolving like sugar in warm water. 

“Yes?”

“Join us,” Shigaraki said, looking directly at you. “We could use someone like you.”

You sighed and blinked at him, confused. “I-I have no reason to.” 

Shigaraki snorted and you were very suddenly reminded of the danger that was simply his hands. 

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” 

Shigaraki shook his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled beneath his mask. It wasn’t the most comforting look. “No.”

Which was how you found yourself joining the league. Actually, join was a strong word, it was more like you were on retainer when needed, or when not needed. It was really up to Shigaraki’s discretion. He popped in whenever someone was in need of healing, or when he was bored. Which, as the months passed, seemed to grow more and more often. 

And… well, you weren’t really afraid of him. Yeah, he threatened you often enough. But he never really seemed into it, nor did he ever follow through. So you entertained him, learned how to play his favorite video games with him, and even, on days when he was angry or frightened or just plain upset, he would let you read your favorite books to him. He would huff and pout, crossing his arms and kicking his feet up onto your coffee table, but he’d let you read without interrupting until you got to the end of the chapter, and then the flood of questions would pour out. 

He cared. You knew he cared, you could tell in the way he listened and took notes, remembering everything you said. He’d bitch about you bitching, but he wouldn’t let a problem linger around you for long, and you were never left wanting for anything for long. 

He never spoke up either, never admitted it was him leaving little gifts around your apartment for you to find. That was, unless, you went too long without mentioning it offhandedly. 

“How are you finding that new pan?” He would ask, not looking up from his Switch. 

“It’s fine,” you would reply, swallowing back any hint of a smile. “Food doesn’t stick to it like my old one.” 

“Good to hear.”

“Mmm.” 

And then you would move on. 

It was simple. It was quiet. Maybe society wouldn’t consider you a good person anymore, but you didn’t care. You lived a peaceful life, with people who relied on you, and made you feel needed. And the world’s scariest villain, Shigaraki Tomura, liked you. 

So yeah, you were doing pretty damn good, if you did say so yourself.

End Notes: i'm not sure how to feel about this one. anon, i hope you enjoy <3 feedback is always appreciated.

AO3 Link

ABSOLUTELY NO ONE HAS MY PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WORK TO ANY SITE.

[tobethemselves]

As a queer person, I’m appalled by the flags at Louis’ shows. No, I wouldn’t care if someone, for some reason, brought a flag just for them because it was, for some reason, one of the only places they felt safe to do so. But when there is a sea of tiny pride flags at every single show, that’s not the case. That’s not the case for all those fans. Those flags are being brought “for him,” to “show support for him.” “Support” he hasn’t asked for. “Support” he’s not showing any sign of appreciating or accepting on a personal level. And “support” that implies that whole sea of people reject his child and girlfriend’s existence. It makes me sad for him. And it makes me embarrassed for the queer “fans” that use him to project their fantasies, instead of actually appreciating him as an artist. And it enrages me to see these so-called fans bragging about it online. Bragging about denying Louis’ right to tell us his own identity. Bragging about thinking his entire existence is a lie. Bragging about blatantly disrespecting him every chance they get. The flags do not make me, a queer person, feel more comfortable and accepted at his shows. They make me feel like I’m in a room full of people that do NOT respect peoples’ rights to claim their own identities without judgment.

As a queer person, I have a very different opinion than you.

[lovlidollie]

https://youtu.be/QI6D1Mekwbc?si=9D-ySHn9nHiwapbS

idek if you’ve watched euphoria but this scene makes me think of toxic!rafe like he does crazy shit on impulse for no reason and reader will still take him back at the end of the day 😵

(link)

i have watched euphoria ! but omg this is literally toxic!rafe, especially coked up season one rafe. he’s almost always high, beyond unstable and completely volatile. he gets mad easily, is impulsive to a new degree, and doesn’t understand that you’re not the thing he should be getting mad at. more often than not you find yourself in front of the gun, barrel pressed up against your forehead or under your chin or between your ribs. he’d be snarling such mean words, threatening n gaslighting you. you’d be sobbing — like actually ugly sobbing, scared for your life sobbing. you’d be telling him how much you loved him, how much you cared for him, hoping that it would get him to stop. he was so scary when he got like this.

but he was so sweet after. he was so nice. he’d apologise, beg for forgiveness over n over. get you so many presents, expensive jewellery, new clothes, name it and it was yours. he’d tell you he’d change, that he’d be better, that he’d get help. you love him so much that you believe him. n for a while it’s true. it’s good between you two, he’s being the best boyfriend he can be. rafe takes care of you, makes you feel special n safe.

until of course he relapses.

[uhohdad]

Drabble requests?? If you would be so kind to humor me then-

Could there be like... soft and kind könig? Maybe just really gentle and domestic cause a while back i saw someone make headcanons of him being like a really mean guy and like all to them for sure!

But I was having a bit of a bad delusional day and könig is one of my attachments and seeing it made me so so sad and a bit paranoid cause like! Thats my partner! He wouldn't be like that!

So uh. Maybe just really soft comforting könig? If thats ok? Cause despite it being a few days now I still can't shake it and I feel bad over it :( hes such a silly but really good comfort for me. Big Austrian man ♡

Anyway if its no trouble then thank you! If not then its alright! Take care ok? ♡♡♡

for you my sweet beautiful anon? anything. i know könig would treat you like his liege ♡

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ ˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ ˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ ˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ ˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

Köni💕: ‘How s work?’

Liebling: ‘:(‘

Köni💕: ‘o no, what happenbed?’

Liebling: ‘nothing. just nervous and weird. per usual lmao. 🙃’

Köni💕: ‘ill make u feel better when u get home’

Liebling: ‘:’)’

The aroma hits like a wave as you push the front door open, your mouth watering and tummy grumbling at the smell alone.

“Meine Prinzessin,” König calls as you set your bags down with a heavy thunk, “Did your day get better?”

“Just now,” You say, palm flush with the wall to support yourself as you kick off your shoes, “Whatever you’re doing in there, it’s art.”

“Your favorite,” he says proudly, a bit of a tune in his tone.

A giddy, mischievous giggle leaves you.

“Comfy clothes on the bed,” He adds.

You give a soft little whine, because it’s just too sickeningly sweet how he dotes on you.

After changed and settled, he’ll serve you your plate, listening intently as you vent about all the little things that have been bothering you lately.

“And, I don’t know. I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but I can’t-”

You sigh before continuing, “Sometimes I have this stupid voice in my brain, and it just tells me that you don’t actually like me, and I’m just not good enough for you. I know it’s not true, but it still gets to me, sometimes. Y’know?”

You look at him, faced pinched and a hand rubbing the back of your neck.

“I have the same stupid voice,” He says, those hooded blue eyes trained carefully in you, “But know little one, I love you more than anything.”

You pinch your nose at him, but you still have to fold your smile, cheeks warm and bunched.

“I love you more than anything, too,” You say sheepishly to your plate, tone soft as your fork absentmindedly plays with your food.

Once tummies are full and plates cleared away, König herds you to the couch, draping you with a cozy blanket. He fixes you a tea before joining you, happily letting you rest your head on his thigh. He’ll tolerate your silly little comfort movie without complaint, stroking your hair, playing with the soft locks. He doesn’t dare move after you ensnare him by falling asleep, snoring softly into his leg long after your half-drunk tea has gone cold. ♡

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ ˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ ˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ ˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ ˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

♡gentle!könig