#it's my first year being able to share pictures of myself properly

[overlite-wings]

Happy Trans Day of Visibility

[wachtelspinat]

hi! i found your blog like an hour ago (though i've been familiar with your art for a /long/ time; when i read that ask you got earlier about you being THE tf2 artist, i thought to myself, "wow, really? the only tf2 art i can think of that's deserving of that description is [vividly pictures YOUR fanart]" -- so when i checked your art tag it was genuinely like encountering a celebrity, heh. all this to say, you really ARE The TF2 Artist. it's an honor to finally properly follow your blog :]). i've been reading your posts about your personal journeys (both physical and emotional/self-conceptual) and i've just been... really really moved by it all? your openness with feeling disconnected with your art, and then how you've slowly come to reconnect with it in a new way and restructure it back into your life... it just fills me with so much catharsis and hope. because life is hectic and things change so much and the way that one creates art as an adult is going to be different than how one created art as a teenager... so to see you acknowledge that fact and then share your own journey? ahh god like i said... it's really profound. i'm a lot younger than you (i turn 20 next month, actually!), so you've experienced so much more to life than me, and hearing how you've struggled with and then gotten out of so many of the fears that i have is just... deeply, deeply inspiring to me. especially your latest posts about your time in australia, and how it's always been something you've wanted to do but spent so many years stuck/anxious/stagnant... and how now you've finally actually *done it* and it's *real* and that you had the most amazing incredible time that exceeded all your expectations?!?! and not only that, but how finally achieving this thing you've always wanted changes the narrative of how you previously defined yourself... that now maybe you ARE the sort of person who can do the things you love and have the things that make you happy... maybe i'm projecting too much here heh god but my point is. it just made me very emotional and so VERY very utterly elated for you :'] and just augh. i am so glad you've had this incredible experience. and like i've said half a dozen times by now (because it's just so true) it is just. so inspiring to me. everything you've shared with such honesty and humanity has been just so profoundly moving to see and it fills me with so much hope. thank you for sharing your journey with us, and thank you as always, past and present and future, for your art. i hope this message isn't too terribly parasocial, and if it is, i apologize ;_; and i hope you're having a lovely day!!!

hey there !

this kind of hit me like a truck but in the most positive way, and i am not exaggerating when i say what you wrote also brought me to tears.

first of all thanks for your generous words regarding my art and sdkjfhkjas i still cannot wrap my head around the idea that you (and at least one other person) thinks about me as THE tf2 artist because... i like my art just fine, it's just there are other folks out there, with their almost god-like tf2 art, meanwhile i just spammed y'all with my sniperxspy art and some random silly stuff over the years... but i love it, so thank you so so much, the thought that you guys dig my art this much will always knock me right off my feet in the most positive way 🧡🧡🧡

ok so, the next part took me a while to formulate because how do i respond to such a heartfelt message in a way that shows my gratitude just right? like i want to thank you again for reaching out and writing all this, but also for taking your time and reading through my blog. i know that everything i post here is open to the internet and a lot of ppl, so sharing personal information (in form of updates in life) is not always the best idea. but i always admired ppl on here that were able to reflect on their lives and share what they've learned. even if it's just somethig as simple as "and after each day comes another and it will be different, for the worse or the better, but different at least", which, falling on the right ears at a specific time, can change perspective (it did for me on multiple occasions, this and other takes, because hearing from ppl who go through similar things is a sad reality, but also such a connecting experience). so in a way, sharing is caring, and so talking about life experiences, especially when they are kind of abstract, like art blocks, depressions, can really open some unexpected doors.

so what also happened after being open about vulnerable situations in life was ppl reaching out. and this was really something that left me so speechless. i had several ppl who took their time and wrote to me about their experiences and ways of coping strategies and other helpful actions. and sometimes they just acknowledged what i wrote which was such a warm gesture that made me feel seen. and i cannot put into words how much that meant to me when i felt at my lowest a few years back. let's be honest for a second, on here we hardly know each other, even if we are mutuals, but that doesn't stop us from reaching out to one another because that is such a big part of the human experience.

sorry for rambling but it is hard, at least for me, just trying to fully grasp it all. it makes me so happy to read that catching up on the things i wrote about my life resonated with you on a deeper level and that it gave you something back in exchange - catharsis and hope. i am deeply touched by your words and your ability to grasp the essence of what i tried to convey, it feels almost surreal to have it summarized and reflected so clearly when my original thoughts were scattered all over my blog over a span of multiple months, years even. like, really, thank you so much for all of this, the time and thoughts you put into your message, your genuine expression of your feelings and joy on my behalf, it means a lot and i fail to put my thanks into words, idk... i feel seen again. and no worries, i don't think this is too parasocial, after all i put my thoughts out there, and you just happened to read them 🧡

so again and again, thank you so much, and i also hope you have a lovely day <3

[the-lincyclopedia]

41, 58, 69!

41. last person you texted?

My partner's mom, actually! Yesterday I texted her a picture of a Frida Kahlo notebook I got recently, since she's a Frida Kahlo fan, and she wrote me back today and I just responded. This is the first time in my life I've felt anywhere close to having in-laws, and I feel like I'm getting a good grade in being her kid's partner, something that is normal to want and possible to achieve.

58. four talents you’re proud of having?

Ooh, you're gonna make me be proud of myself? Okay, here we go.

1) To paraphrase something one of my coworkers said about me yesterday, I am the Chicago Manual of Style incarnate. I know all the grammar and punctuation rules you could possibly want to know. I am a damn good copy editor, and I'm also pretty fast at it.

2) I'm really good at what I call "abstracting properly"--that is, I'm good at figuring out what the relevant principles at play in a situation are, and from there how to ask questions that get at the different things to consider when trying to figure out right and wrong in a particular circumstance.

To take a recent example, I responded to a post about the US Supreme Court and wrote about how "there's a fundamental tension--competing goods, I'd say--between being able to articulate, point to, share, and agree on the details of a specific set of principles, on the one hand, and adapting to the times, on the other hand." I am good at looking at problems that way, basically in real time.

3) I'm really good at being organized. It just comes naturally to me. I love sorting things (it's the autism), and I love knowing where things are and being able to find them quickly. I tag so consistently that I can find almost any post from my blog from the past few years in a matter of minutes. My Google Drive is an intricate system with layers upon layers of sub-folders. In physical space I'm a little bit messier, but I still know where almost all my stuff is.

4) I'm pretty good at language learning. I think I overstate this talent to myself sometimes, and then I run into an unfamiliar language and get frustrated when I'm not immediately fluent, but I am significantly better at language learning than average. At [location redacted], I was the only kid anyone in my cohort could remember who was placed in the highest Swedish class their first year in the program.

Meanwhile, in school, I took Spanish one in seventh grade, Spanish two in eighth grade, Spanish three freshman year, skipped Spanish four, took Spanish five sophomore year, and was one of three kids in the whole (2000+ student) school taking Spanish six my junior year. I got a five out of five on the AP Spanish test my sophomore year of high school, and my senior year of high school I got a seven out of seven on the IB Spanish B Higher Level exam and a six out of seven on the IB Swedish B Standard Level exam. Like, I know people who are better at languages than I am, and you're probably one of them, but my results are definitely better than average.

69. a fun fact that you don’t know how you learned?

This is such a good question, but I'm completely blanking! I feel like I try to keep track of where I get my information, even if sometimes it's as fuzzy as just knowing that I heard the thing on Tumblr. Occasionally I meet people who can cite the exact sources of their knowledge (like, full name of the author of the book or article they read something in), and I can't usually do that, but I try to avoid thinking I know things when I have no source.

When I was in school, I definitely enjoyed citing sources from outside the syllabus in my papers--usually books I'd read for previous classes or articles I'd run across on my own. Which was definitely made easier by the fact that I tend to remember where I learned things.

Get in on the ask game!

[henry-w-albert]

This is an analysis of Lockwood and cos swords

I am a big weapons freak and carry myself a wide variety of swords including one rapier, so I thought it might be interesting to share my ADHD hyper analysis of how Goerges, Lucy's and Lockwood's choice of weaponry depicts their fighting abilities. (I will mostly refer to episode 3: doubt thou the stars as that is the first episode where we see all members use their swords, specially in enclosed spaces)

Apart from the obvious which is that all three Lucy, George and Lockwood carry leather guarded open rapiers we have a few more informations from pictures than from the show. (I am aware that they have a basket filled with all sorts of rapiers but I will use the ones from the official posters as that gives me the most accurate description)

Lockwood has a one handed rapier with a round pommel and a swept hilt with guard and S shaped quillons. This is probably the most common hilt type for a rapier and originated in the early 1600s. It is both of elegance and functionality as this hilt protects the user's hand whilst still giving full range for movement. Lockwood using this specific kind of hilt is absolutely glorious. The viewer knows from the first episode on that Lockwood is very good with the rapier and this sword shows just that. To use a hilt with guard you have to be well trained and aware of your movements. A rapier other than the weapons that were before is not a blunt killing force but a two sided weapon, used for thrusting and cutting. To be able to do both you have to have a few years of training. This sword is perfect to show off and be arrogant with as well as to actually fight.

Lucy a one handed rapier with a round pommel and dish hilt with swept knuckle guard and fingerguard. This hilt combination originated in the mid 1600s. It is most useful with thrusting maneuvers instead of cutting as the dish protects the hand only from the front but not the sides as you would see on the earlier build rapiers. The dish hilt also offered for even more intricate beauty. A sword made for the girl who hasn't even passed her fourth year of training. Different than Lockwood's weapon Lucy's rapier is made for blunt movements and unexpirienced fighters. It's primary protection being for thrusting motions corresponds with the level of skill that Lucy possesses. The fingerguard being a further point to tighten the grip and harden the movements makes it of even better use for starters. (To ad the knuckle guard could be for the purpose of actual protection ore just ease of use, sadly I could not figure that out from what I had seen in the show.)

George has a one handed rapier with a round pommel and S shaped quillons with fingerguard. this very easy hilt was Introduced in the time of change from the classic cross guard to the first variation of a rapier at the end of 1400. It got famous with the upcoming military as it was the first of its kind to be easy of use whilst bringing the protection the late rapiers perfected. This hilt is especially interesting as it allows you to not just use the handle but also the ricasso. We don't really see George use his rapier in the show which I think was intentionally as this sword is not a weapon to be used for fun ore sports. Other than the rapier Lucy and Lockwood use, Georges rapier comes from a time where this was not used for show ore fun but primarily and usually only for killing.

This obviously is not a comment on the actors fighting skill as they all are verry able to use these weapons as they have shown on many occasions throughout the series. This is about the weapons there common use and skillset you need to wield them properly.

[torchstelechos]

i realize how nothingish this question is regards to like answerability but like how do you get.... ideas...? or. i dont really ever have any kind of bigger things i want to draw its always like small stuff.... or... idk.... i want to make things that are like.. more... i want to make stuff that like... means something makes you think something... most of my stuff is just tiny little things with nothing behind it just something to get it down but i like want to make things that are interesting to look at.... idk..... okay wait ill share a self portrait i did.

^ im really hapoy with this stuff theres color theres studf going on! an eclipse! right like its. its neat theres things theres associations being made theres questions theres something there this is the only thing ive made where i actually feel like ive expressed something that was in me and i just dont know how to do that again i want to make more things like that i want to get more out of my art than just putting stuff down thatll be forgotten the second its down i want what i make to be meaningful to me and idk how... uhhhh anyway thanks for reading thisif you do i just needed to get thoughts out or smth frustrated with this. doing this for six years and its just. ive managed like a handful of things id want to show people everything else is just things made because i just have to do this urghhh sorry about all this

Howdy! I had to take a bit to think of an answer for this question. I didn’t want to fall back on the statement everyone gets when they ask about art (practice), especially since you specified ideas rather than art appearance/style. So! Lets get into that! (gonna be kind of long oops)

First I want to say that I enjoy your self portrait, its very colourful and I LOVE colour. The choices in colour also complement each other very well, as yellow, orange, and blues go well together. Not only that, but the saturation of each colour help bounce off each other and bring it all together. Now, I assume the materials are a blue pen, and crayons? It might be markers, but the way the orange moves across the yellow makes me think of crayons. I adore it! I love crayons and haven’t been able to use them in a while, so it’s nice to see them being used. 

Now, your question, I feel needs some context from my side of things before I can properly answer it. I have been doing art for about 15 years now, and I have done multiple mediums including painting (water colour, oil, and acrylic), drawing (crayons, pens, markers, pencils, etc.), fiber arts (knitting, sewing, crocheting), baking/cooking (i think the presentation counts and how its a medium that takes combing lots of things to make a singular outcome), and a few I wont share right now. I’ve had official art classes that made me do things very specifically, one that taught me art history and how different genres of art were introduced, another on creativity and how to help flourish ideas, and some others on how to use different mediums and styles. I also watch speedpaints, animatics, and animation progress videos to learn some quick shortcuts in digital art since I was never taught officially on digital art. Including all of these, I also have done LOTS of practice in art. Having said this, lets get into some of my own thought processes. 

When I make art, the first things I tend to ask myself is “what do I want” and “what do I think would be interesting”? These aren't mutually exclusive, but they can be answered very differently depending on how I want to do something. For the Siffrin during the Mal du Pays fight piece, I actually started it by seeing a cat picture and thinking, “I want a discord reaction with Siffrin face down on the floor” which went into drawing Siffrin as the cat and then asking myself, “Wait, why is Siffrin face down?” which went into Oh! It’d be funny if it was Mal du Pays! So, doing that I decided to make it in the king's room which meant I had to draw a background. Eventually that transformed into “Okay but it doesnt look right, why?” the answer was that it didnt look like the game so I had to add some texture details and ta-da! Siffrin face down! 

But this also comes from years of practice in knowing what I want and knowing how to draw it, some of my art pieces were, “I think it would be cool if I drew a character looking down at me in front of a skyscraper” but um,, I didnt know how to draw that ;-; so I had to just let my hands kind of try and finish the piece even if I didnt like it. At that point, I realized I needed to practice the character and my style more until I COULD draw what I wanted. Which led into my drawing, a LOT of things I couldn’t and didnt like. 

As for symbolism in art, and how I got ideas for it, a lot of it comes down to knowing the character and how you want to translate your thoughts of the character into art. One of the ways I started doing this was adding flowers to the characters art, or learning what flower I considered “theirs” that way I could add hints to  it in the drawings. Some of it also came from animals, others came from art genres and their historical significance, and some come down to theories (such as colour theory in art). 

Finally, it really does come down to practice. As much as I hate to say it, a lot of the art pieces I do and share tend to lean towards “practice” or concept doodles so that I can better understand HOW I want to add it to a bigger piece. Most of my Siffrin and Loop drawings tend more to that as I need to better understand how their shapes and lines communicate to an art piece (Loop being a fucking star gets me so much) before i can add symbolism and make a bigger art piece. Even then, sometimes it doesnt work and the bigger art piece needs to be put to a back burner before i can communicate my thoughts on the characters as I wish to. 

(Here’s also a neat little trick I do, write out what you want to draw and then draw thumbnails so you can figure out the composition of the piece you want. It helps you know where something goes and how you want it to appear without keeping it in our brain for a long period of time. Some of the things I share are concept doodles but I’ve shared pictures of me doing this before! It can be annoying but trust me, it helps when you can’t figure out the draft at all.) 

Also, heres some of my REAL old art for reference when I say I’ve practiced a lot and didn’t always know how to do big art pieces ;;;;

Hope that helped answer some of my thought process on ideas and how that translates to art? I could go into more detail if you need me to discuss something further

[gotbent]

I see all the ways you care and show me that you love me. All the little ways that you are sweet to me. It's hard for me not to see it, it seems so obvious that it is hard for me to belive you when you try and tell me you don't love me. Or that you don't love or care about anything. I could write such a long list on all the ways I see you show you care about people and things but this is my selfish list just for me. I'll add to it as I think of more things. There are so many little things. I see it every day. Even when you're tired and don't have the energy it still peaks through the cracks.

After giving me crap for how loud I was being eating my favorite chips and I'd stopped and put them away, hours later you said "you can eat your chips if you want, it's okay"

The way you worry about me every time I go out by myself.

And how you tell me to be safe when I drive.

Even when you tried to leave, you said we weren't going to talk anymore. You said you were gone forever. You sent me flowers on valentines day.

In fact every time you've tried to leave you haven't been able to do it. Even when I told you it was okay and that I'd let you and I wouldn't harass you. You properly cried for the first time in years. You asked me to sing runaway by Aurora. But you were crying and couldn't talk so you had to text it. And then you realized you didn't want to go and couldn't do it.

When you opened the package I sent and saw the pictures you immediately jumped up to put one in your wallet. I've never had anyone do that. I almost cried.

When my legs were all bruised from work you'd tell me you wanted to kiss them and seeing them made you sad.

You had a dream where I was 3-5 months pregnant with our child...

When you were drunk with your friend watching a football game you told him you were falling for someone and that you were in love with me. Then you drunk called me and told me how much you loved me multiple times. You said you told him what you did and when I asked what he said you said you didn't care and that you just needed to tell someone how you felt.

You drew me a heart with your tip...

You shaved your asshole for me... it's... so cute...

You've told me things you haven't told anyone else.

You tell me all of your dreams. That's always my favorite part of our days together, when we share our dreams.

When your laptop broke and you were so sad, one of the things you said was "with my laptop I could see all of you"

Mhm. Mhm.

When I got fired I think you were more angry than I was. And you told me it would be okay and that we would get through it together.

In February when you were again trying to leave I sent you a snapchat singing sia's Mr snowman Christmas song, this part "I want you to know that I'm never leaving 'Cause I'm Mrs. Snow, 'til death we'll be freezing Yeah, you are my home, my home for all seasons So come on, let's go Let's go below zero and hide from the sun I love you forever where we'll have some fun Yes, let's hit the North Pole and live happily Please, don't cry no tears now, it's Christmas, baby" and right at the "I love you forever" I looked right at the camera. Before blocking me for what I thought was going to be forever you saved that video.

"I don't know why but I want to smell you" you said something like that several times

The way you kind of care about my brothers. I know it's not me but for you I think all the things you say trying to give them advice and stuff. You care about them because you care about me. Even if it's only a little bit.

One time I said something like I want to do things with you because I love you and it made your cock twitch

When you said I couldn't disappoint you sexually, and that you feared you wouldn't fuck me good at times.

All the times you talked about how badly you wanted to get me pregnant...

Even if it's to tease me, the "shut it Kathleen" gif you made

🖕

When you tease me just to try and get me to call you a jerk

[felidacy]

Because I have been sucked back into my figure skating a.k.a. Yuzuru Hanyu like every couple of weeks by now I will share a random idea I've had in my head for a while now. Secretly hoping that maybe someone writes something like that. (I could write it myself but it wouldn't feel the same.) The man has a chokehold on me for real. It doesn't help that I genuinely have been picturing Tim more than once in Yuzuru Hanyu's stead. It would even work together with his grace and because they both seem small and very lean, while having the appropriate muscles for the needed work.

Idea begins down below!

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I wanna share my random little thought of Tim after getting Bruce back from the timestream debacle he comes to a well needed realisation. After two more near death experiences, one lost organ and a struggling morales complex, Tim makes the discovery that maybe he doesn't want to live a life that is barely going forward any longer. And though he acknowledges that he deserves to be happy and have a good family and friends, he does not know how to set boundaries and what changes are needed so he doesn't feel so tired anymore.

Tam Fox, his still fake fiancée that both forgot, then comes to the rescue to talk some sense into him. She is her fathers daughter and not one to mess with. This is why she manages it that Tim actually listens to her. First of all he finishes high school, moves in with Tam (Tam was not amused when she saw how he lived. Tim has never been so terrified.) and tries to keep a healthier work-life balance.

But Tim loaths the work as CEO, because it's so monoton he has too much time to overthink and it is what Jack and Janet Drake had always wanted for him. Tim did learn by now that he was never treated like he should have been. Not by the Drakes or the Wayne's. And so the decision is made that Tim needs to get out of Gotham - far, far away to heal.

Tim is smart, but he can also be so incredibly dumb sometimes. Which is why instead of being honest with family and friends, he fakes his death while in his Red Robin disguise and after that is secured he runs away before anyone can even properly mourn him. Tim would like to clap himself on the back, the death was a 10/10 in his mind with all the dramatic flair that his family naturally possess. Tam knows the truth immediately after all she didn't find the boy all across the world for nothing and so he instead gets nagged for hours on end after some hits.

(Tam later on does apologise. She had been worried sick as she once again went after him without knowing for sure that he lived and now they were in Malaysia.)

Tam refuses to leave and after a long talk with her father she decides on staying with Tim. Tim could have left again to shake off Tam, however he had always wanted to come to his mothers hometown and he was not willing to give that up now. They take up new identities, still engaged because its easier to explain and have a new life. The regular normie life does not work out for Tim that much. In winter Tim rescues a young child that's trapped on a frozen lake where locals were ice skating and is in danger of sinking. Unable to let a innocent person die, Tim takes one of the skates and relying on his training he is able to get the child back on safe land.

He was a bit too impressive as a figure skating coach saw him and Tim promptly gets scouted by the woman. At first he doesn't want to, but she is stubborn and Tam wants him to have a great future if that is what he wants as well. In the end he gives in and the coach is delighted because she wishes to come very far with Tim so her beloved, old company can see it's glory days again.

Cut to three years later, newly 21-year-old Tim comes on on the TV in the Manor while holding a gold medal. After the ceremony a young woman runs towards Tim and only when he spins her around do the people in the living room recognise them as Tam and Tim. Who were apparently newly married as a reporter states? Tim was secretly alive in another country and became a championship winner in figure skating?

Mayhem ensues.

[lady-jane-asher]

Sweet Jane photographed during her role in out of this world, July 14th, 1962. Picture was shared by Thames Tv Archive on instagram a couple of years ago, I believe! 🤍✨

I would like to properly wish this lady a happy beloved birthday, since it is already the 5th on the uk! on her 77th milestone she has advocated for a long life, surrounded by love, challenges, experiences, pain, endure hard times while broadcasting her independence and strength above anything else— defying all the possible odds from the label the media has granted her since she was a teenager and in her 20’s of being ‘plain Jane’ or ‘Paul’s girlfriend’ when she was more than that. I want to personally, even if I know she won’t be able to see this, thank her for her work and the massive inspiration she crafted upon me when I first found out about her in 2012 when I was only 16 years old, and now at 27 I continue to love her dearly, respect her and admire her with every ounce in my body. She made me feel less alone, the way we were nurtured was similar and how I seemed to see life which made me feel comprehended in this journey as I got to find myself, the one I am today and the version of myself that I love dearly and I’m proud of to be. Hope I can get to meet her one day. 🤍✨

May this world continue to see the light upon your presence dear Jane.

[mostspecialgirl]

the doctor has ordered more OC rambling

feeling guilty for giving Kane so much trauma that I keep making more people immortal so he doesn’t have to suffer so much and in turn realizing I left behind my only character who was initially supposed to survive in the first draft (so sorry, stitches) so now I have to go write about that whole mess

pictured: ancient first drawing of stitches and more recent mspaint redesign

i think itd be really fun to do a little doodle of everyone in island isolation to pair up with a 300* years later version where there’s only 5 of them left

*(unofficial timeframe)

How the fuck does time even work in the relicverse like obviously ive vaguely worked it out but the demiurge just being able to pluck people from the stream of time as he pleases and characters who persist through multiple series due to immortality really fucks with everything in a way where i have to sit down sometime and properly hash out an ultimately meaningless timeline because i’m not sure any of the relicverse is ever going to get released (bar i am gary. bar alejandro. bar in shadows. bar the insiders youtube shorts. Okay. Maybe some of it will)

i just kind of feel like my cute little universe has turned into something so monstrous it’s impossible to think about anyone else wrangling it so i just keep feeding it more and more to be self indulgent because literally no one is hearing about these stories or characters aside from myself. tell me why the fuck mona and abraxas are working for ninestrike as planewalkers after in shadows with cronus as a provisionary shade attending the savant’s grove ball racing to steal the same relic qiyama and alejandro are after. Isn’t in shadows about some weird kid and a death god. isn’t alejandro a shitpost webtoon about trying to draw funny faces. you aren’t even supposed to know planeswalkers exist until the end of devil’s manner with Father. Until the last act of alejandro’s qiyama arc with Voxel. and why do i have the time to write about Father and his role within hundred nights who aren’t even relevant to any massive story i’ve planned out unless you want to count insiders and heavenless circulation in which they’re pretty much still just glorified set dressing

pictured: old material of father and voxel, and the latest one i have of them together

eventually at some point I’m sure I’ll be able to meet the right person to infodump about the relicverse to over the series of multiple nights and pray they will be so invested in it that we may share in its beauty eternal. that somehow sounds more feasible than actually getting all of this released in a timely manner. i’m only one girl and i’ve somehow made something fit for an entire platoon of staff

trying to focus back up on specifics here i’ve been focusing more on hundred nights lately, which i’m glad about because despite the fact I always come back around to getting super fixated on something i promised myself i eventually would, each time i’m always a little afraid i’ll never get super invested in it and have to force myself to work it out. but thankfully i’ve written enough super interesting (to me) characters into the top positions (bogdana, judge, father, prawn, chacha, etc) and their relation to their opposition who i’m invested in as well who are also fun (agenor and the 6 monsters)

however, i feel like now in contrast the planeswalker association (their main opponent) have started to seem much less exciting and i haven’t gotten around to fleshing them out as much as id like. i really have to tuck in sometime and give one or two of them really traumatic backstories or make their powers cooler. as much as i love characters like ging, metal and indus, i feel like together as a unit they haven’t truly come together enough as i would like. i’ve been thinking about throwing a member of the berezaiti clan in with them or focusing on guan liang and the greater planeswalker society to try and stir up my interest but i’m not ready to try when i’ve got my current opportunity to work on the hundred nights guild.

pictured: the time i tried to doodle chacha and judge and got so wrapped up in trying to manifest a great design for chacha i ended up forgetting the fact i was doodling, and the planeswalker association heads from the Relationship Chart

It’s kind of funny how little i’ve been drawing the insiders despite my undying passion and love for them, but i’ve become really satisfied with where they are right now and can just rotate them in my mind doing their daily shenanigans forever now. but in general, i’ve just been writing so so so so much shit instead of drawing lately. sorry about that. i’m a drawing account, aren’t i? thank you to the one person who reads this shitty indecipherable ramble to the end. i’m sorry you chose to read all of this!!!

pictured: the famous Ist Floating Head i should finish and my favorite doodle of mona and cronus

[bunnifur-spitz]

I honestly never post pictures like this. I haven't ever felt it necessary for my self esteem, I generally have a ton of that. Almost an excess at times, however...

I left prison on January 25th, at a DD and a size 8 underwear. This was my third time in prison in the last 2 years. The third time I had put my body through the ringer due to drug abuse and street walking prostitution. The first time 06/21/21(initial weight 108) Second time 05/08/22 (initial weight 112) and the Third 10/14/22 (initial weight 102).

I was in the hospital on 04/02/23 and weighed 115.

I entered a detox on 04/11/23 at 105.

It is an exhausting process to heal the scabs from scabies, then heal the pink spots left behind to try to prevent scarring. Gaining the weight back, then exercising and eating properly to take some of it off, shape it. To start being able to look at myself without crying when I'm taking a shower. To be able to stand in the mirror for longer periods of time each day. To build my smile wider one centimeter at a time. It's even more exhausting to have to do it all over again 4 times over.

This time, I also have to heal my scalp and try to help my hair grow back due to an abscess I had there (that's a long story for a later date).

It just keeps getting worse each time I begin using again. I have overdosed a total of 9 times, I have been to treatment twice, and I have been to detox 14 times.

I left a treatment facility on 05/10/23 and am now living in a sober house.

I have been clean for 33 days, which is the longest I have EVER been clean without being incarcerated. And I look DAMN GOOD.

I'm sharing this because we can't keep what we have unless we give it away.

[finchie-finch]

Heyo!!! X3

I suppose you could call this my personal blog, so salutations are in order!

You can call me Finch, but I also go by Ollie!! I'm a self-taught artist with no set style, I just like creating art for the joy n whimsy of it :3

Incase you're wondering about specifics; I'm a 13 year old FTM enby, living on Earth, using she/he/they pronouns ((mainly they/them))

Possible questions y'all may have::

Why did you make this account ?

For a long time I've felt that images can express my emotions and passions more than words, especially since I've been mentally disabled my entire life and have never been the best at regulating my emotions physically or verbally, that only a piece of artwork that I've poured hours into will even begin to scratch the surface of the depth of my likes and dislikes and most importantly feelings.

What are you planning on posting on this account ?

Obviously my art first and foremost ((all of which I can guarantee is all by me, including my profile picture! There will be little to no reposts on this blog, an if there is any they'll properly credited art sources such as AI disturbance filters and programs)) but also I want this to be my drawing archive; there's few feelings worse than losing my OGs to time imo ":3

+ a note to people who use human made art to input to an AI to make new art::

I use an AI disturbance filter on all my published art, don't even fuckin' think about it or else I'll bite your goddamn face off

Cats, not much to it, I've just always loved animals but especially cats! I currently have two rescue cats, both male, their names unironically Mario and Luigi >:3

Videogames are another one of my passions, more like a favorite pass time though; it's been my hyper fixation for years, about a decade probably

I like plushies n soft warm blankets fresh from the dryer because that's how I build my forts (I like to refer to myself as having a packrat mindset)

Ever since I was a lil kiddo I've had a passion for LPS, I remember as a child wanting to be one of the many LPS-Tubers and spending my free time writing scripts for my videos (which were never published publicly, only shared with close family, and the little that remain are archived)

I luv soft colors, as they don't tend to strain my eyes as much as bright colors do ((tho I also like bright colors, just in moderation))

Uneven things ((mostly items/furniture)), one abbreviation: OCD

Cliffhangers, I need closure!!

Being noticed in public— zoinks, not my thing lol. I have horrible social anxiety, always have, nothing new ^^"

Last but definitely not least, a list of ppl in need (I myself can't donate but I hope some caring adults may find my account and be able to help in some way, no pressure though it's your money so it's your choice what you do with it), this list is only a very small fraction though; please tell me of more ppl to add:

★ https://www.tumblr.com/m430235341

[ladyazulina]

Birthday(s)

So, after my Birthday's Eve post, I thought I should do one about the birthday per se, as a minimum. But I can't really talk about my twenty-fifth birthday without sharing my perspective—not about birthdays in general, but—about my birthday. So here it comes.

I don't remember ever liking it, but that's not even fair because I don't remember most of them.

I know it was properly celebrated when I was a child, things were different then, and proof of it was in memories shared from my mom and a unsuccessfully erased pink eight-shaped silhouette of the foam sculpture that was atop my cake that year from the wall. I have grown up with that shape still carving my wall. But one thing that has always shaped my day was sadness. From different sources:

I grow up without my dad. My mom kicked him out when I was six because he was still cheating on her, and one of the first things I remember around my birthday is from one year later if I'm not mistaken (and I can be), being in this weird and unknown place with this kid almost one year younger than me that I didn't like and this woman that tried to be nice to me. My half-sister's birthday is, in fact, 28 days earlier than mine. And I've seen my dad in them. What he had left in mine was this awful feeling and a craving for ice cream, which also made me sad because it was the go-to thing to do during the scarce moments of my teen years when he came to spend time with us.

My mom did the best she could, I know that, but I still grew to be a quiet, timid, and reserved kid. It didn't go well socially for me in school, and my birthday has always been on winter break or right away the last day of exams. There was one year, after a circle of friends adopted me and did their best to take me out of my shell, that my classmates allegedly threw the Christmas party in my honor because of my fourteenth birthday. The friends ambushed me on the last day of classes and made me call my mom to have her permission to go to the sleepover in the house of one of them, I didn't want to go but didn't feel brave enough to be honest, so I went against my wishes. They dolled me up, took away my glasses, put on makeup I didn't want, (created me a Facebook account), and we went all together to the party. I didn't like the food and there were two cakes I didn't touch, one with a picture of the gang of the person giving the house, and one with "all the classmates". I hope you assumed I wasn't in either, so it was hard to believe that it was even 1/3 for me. The worst part is that my house was close to the one where the party was held, but I wasn't able to be left out to go to my house, so I had to go through the sleepover anyway. (It was 2012, I believed the world was ending on December 21st, and was mad because my lil sister was sad with me, not being able to give me the gift she chose for me.)

I don't remember when I noticed I didn't like cakes (unless they're homemade), give me ice cream instead. But I think I was adamant after that party about not wanting any birthday party for myself. Brace yourselves: the year after I had a surprise party. Yearly, we have my mother-side family gathering for Christmas, so some particular characters of the family decided to use that gathering to give me a party I vehemently said I didn't want. People not excited or interested in my birthday. Wifi cut out because my sister was mad at me for wanting to chat with my boyfriend. Three rented adult dresses to change into. Makeup to bear. Five to ten centimeters of heels to break my feet with. Lots of photos, with the one using a white dress making me look like a bride with my cousin of life seeming my spouse. Of course I smiled and feigned happiness and let them drag me in whatever, my mom asked. But I took off as soon as I was able, knowing that not even that was for me.

Goddess, that sounds kind of sad.

Two years ago, my dad decided to take me on a trip for my birthday, with all his daughters (my sisters and his other two). A tourist destination. A rented house. Three days, two nights. Walking day and night. Going to beaches. Looking and sightseeing. It wasn't a trip made for me because I don't like any of that, my half-sisters do, the planners of the trip. It was cold, the water was freezing, and we didn't have a lot of sun. I discovered my birthday was only an excuse for them to go there again, and for my dad to unload one night some of the burden eating him from inside. It wasn't nice, but I still hold onto the fact that at least the rented house was nice.

All of that made me reconsider that having a vendetta against my birthday was only making me suffer, so last year I started planning to make me look at it better.

I didn't have a lot of time to do something grand, but I asked friends and some groups I felt comfortable talking to, to do something nice for me on the day (it could have been something as little as just spending some time talking with me), because that was the important part. It wasn't a good day, but thanks to their help, it wasn't totally bad. I decided then to have a date with myself the next year.

This year. Two days ago.

I'm not sure if I said everything I wanted to say about birthdays here, it feels like a rant and some reminiscences, but I'm short of words, so I should do you a favor and just stop. The summary is that I never liked my birthday and the feeling just increased with every attempt, but I'm trying to give it a 180º for myself, and this is the second year trying.

And I'll come back soon to talk about my Birthday Spree, so don't tune off.

[bokuaosubs]

Nice to meet you for the second time and for the first time recently (Yagi Toa 2nd blog)

Thank you for coming to see me.

I am Boku ga Mitakatta Aozora’s Yagi Toa,

16 years old, first-year high school student,

born in Tokyo.

Nice to meet you.

This is the second time we meet on my blog, isn’t it〜‼︎

Surprisingly, I am adding emojis today ♪🙆‍♀️

That aside,

Today on FNS Summer Music Festival, Boku ga Mitakatta Aozora’s debut song,

‘Aozora ni Tsuite Kangaeru’ was revealed for the first time!! ☀️

Until only recently, I have always been a viewer on the other side, in front of the TV; after getting to appear [on TV] it still feels like a dream even now 、、！！

No way… before debuting, I never even thought that I would get to perform our debut song on such a big program…

I wonder if there are perhaps people who watched today’s performance and are now reading this blog 💭

If there are, I am really happy…！

For today’s performance, all 23 of us repeatedly practiced many times over, and I hope that this perseverance and the feelings conveyed in this song will reach as many people as possible, even if they watched only a little bit of it.

I think I will write more about the song properly in the future.

In fact, this being my first live performance,

During the rehearsal the day before, I was really nervous and full of anxiety,,,

Now that it is over, I feel somewhat, just a little, relieved. Just a little bit.

I was thinking of updating my blog yesterday, but my head was so full of thoughts about tomorrow that I couldn’t write well, so I ended up writing it today 💦

I am not good at being in front of people to begin with, but

I was really nervous…

However, when I looked anxious, my members and all the people around me who support me lent me their warm words、、、

Though it was like this during the unveiling too,

Thanks to the warm support of the people around me and members, this time I was also able to come out [and perform].

I am very proud of this, but there are many warm and kind people around me, including people who support me and our members!! ✨

However, so that I do not depend too much on that kindness,

So that someday I can repay that kindness and warmth tenfold and become a person that can support others, I will do my best. 🙇‍♀️

I want to become strong enough to overcome this anxiety and nervousness by myself.

Ah, I forgot !

I will post the pictures taken together with members !

My dear Yua-chan ♡

Impossibly cute Ami-chan ♡

I even received a letter from Ami-chan、、、

That letter cheered me up before our performance.

Also ! !

The first online talk event was held on Sunday last week ! ㊗️

I was nervous and a little anxious and couldn’t calm down a bit right until the start, but once it started, everyone was so kind and warm, I was very relieved 、、‼︎

There were people who watched me since the SHOWROOM screening, and I was really touched that I could actually talk to them now.

The time we spent talking was so fun and it felt so short, it was as though my initial nervousness was a lie 。、、

Truly, thank you very much. 

It was very fun. ☀️

I hope people who came felt happy too, just like this 〜！✨

Also, it seems like our song is being distributed on every music site 、、!

I would be happy if you listened to

our debut song 

“Aozora ni Tsuite Kangaeru” a lot. 💙

And and!

Finally, our music video has been released‼︎

Yaーy👏

↑ This picture was taken when we were shooting with the sunset in the background ☀️✨

Eren also came to see ! 🎵

Boku ga Mitakatta Aozora’s first music video !

This is an important video that was made through everyone’s hard work and the efforts of many many people.

Make sure to watch it lots ！！🎉

Furthermore, there are many highlights and behind-the-scenes stories that I want to share, but it’s going to get too long, so that’s all for today.

Re-reading to this point, this blog is truly full of things I did for the first time !

But that’s what makes it fresh and fun.

Truly, thank you very much for viewing until the end.

That’s all, this was Yagi Toa for today! 🐐

[TL by: K

QC by: yuzuiro]

[wibehavioralhealth]

Eating Disorders Don’t Have a Look

The struggles of having an eating disorder, or a dysfunctional relationship with food is very real. In my therapeutic work with teens and adults, I have been an intimate observer, supporter, challenger, educator, advocate, and firm believer in the ability to regain a positive sense of self and true appreciation for the human body. I never cease to be excited (and relieved) when one of my clients reaches a point in their recovery when they “get and accept” themselves for who they are, as they are. When they embrace the understanding of food as fuel to sustain a healthy body, nourishment becomes an integral part of their everyday life. Certainly, in the beginning stage of recovery, it feels like a fleeting acceptance, but when nurtured, it grows into a lifestyle change.

I have had the privilege of working with a wonderful young woman, Jennifer, for the past several months who wrote a beautiful story of her “Journey to Love My Body”. I have her permission to share some of what she has learned while in recovery.

Recovery isn’t linear. It’s a journey. I still have good days and bad days, but the bad days become few and far between.

Recovery doesn’t have a timeline either. For some people it takes months and for others it takes years. Being patient and doing the work will be rewarding in the end.

Eating disorders don’t have a look. Anyone can have one.

I removed food tracking apps, stopped using a food scale, and stopped measuring/portioning out my food.

When grocery shopping, I don’t look at food labels.

I ate all the foods I once didn’t allow myself to. Now I rarely binge, and I rarely crave sweets. This is something I was known for.

I walked away from the gym. At first, I didn’t believe I had a bad relationship with it, but after some self-reflection, I now know I did. I am still figuring out what exercise looks like for me post eating disorder.

No food is inherently good or bad. Food is food and food is better than no food.

I move my body in ways that feels good to me and when it feels good to me. I used to hate walking because it wouldn’t burn enough calories. I now enjoy walking.

I honor my cravings no matter when or how frequent.

I listen to my body when it is full and recognize when I am hungry.

I removed guilt from eating foods at restaurants and now I enjoy spontaneous ice cream dates.

Accepted that my body needs to be this size to be able to function properly. My mood is more stable, my migraines reduced in frequency, my digestion issues went away, I sleep better, and my brain no longer feels foggy.

I stopped comparing myself to others. I know this is easier said than done. If we all weighed the same, we still would all look different.

I removed/muted anyone on social media that was posting things that were triggering to me or made me feel like shit.

I followed influencers on social media that promote body diversity and body acceptance. I can share a few of my favorites.

I deleted any pictures of myself in a smaller body. This is not including any pictures I had with others. As I did this, I mourned the body I once lived in and that is ok. It served its purpose and now I can move on.

I picked up journaling to process bad days and therapy sessions. I would use my eating disorder to deal with my anxiety and to have control. Journaling allows me to dump my thoughts and feelings out on paper and remove them from my mind. This has been a great coping mechanism and I highly recommend this.

I removed any clothes that didn’t fit me or have a negative memory/experience attached to them regardless of if they fit or not. They served their purpose and now it’s time to move on.

Buy clothes that fit regardless of the size or number on the tag. I have bought from the same store at the same time a shirt in a S, a shirt in a M, and a shirt in a L. Clothing companies gaslight you and I just learned that clothes are meant to fit us not us fit them.

>I recognize my triggers and put boundaries in place to prevent myself from spiraling. I tell medical professionals I don’t want to know the number on the scale because I know this is a HUGE trigger for me.

Celebrate wins no matter the size. From wearing a bikini to not spiraling when the doctor says your weight out loud.

Learning to love your body allows you to take care of it. It allows you to embrace the uniqueness and wonderment of being you. There is not another “you” on the planet. There is no need to try to replicate being someone else. It takes time and effort to learn how to quiet the inner critical voice and the strength and desire to become the best, healthiest version of you. It is worth it because you are worth it!

Click here to visit more blogs.

[the-witty-pen-name]

The Nanny Pt. 1

Lee Bodecker x Nanny!F!Reader

18+ 

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: mentions of alcohol, implied age gap (reader is in her 20s), cursing, Sandy and Carl being bad parents, 18+ content in later chapters 

Summary:

Based on this Request: The reader moves to Meade/Knockemstiff while answering an advertisement for a nanny in the paper. We learn that the ad was posted by Sandy, who has the reader watch her child whenever she and Carl leave to do their secret thing. After one of these trips, Sandy and her husband never return, so the reader is left caring for their baby. With the new investigation into these events, she meets Sandy’s brother Lee, the older, out of shape, alcoholic bachelor, and they are suddenly thrown into each others lives as he begins looking into his sister’s disappearance. Through it all, Lee starts to fall for her, and they slowly become a family.

A/N: Here is the first part of my newest series and I want to thank the anon who reached out to me with this idea! 

If I missed anything I should include as a warning that I missed please let me know!

Taglist Form is in my bio and should be updated to now to include this fic! (If for some reason it isn’t working send me a message and I’ll make sure you’re added!!)

“Damn it, Sandy, can’t you handle that?” Carl yells from his dark room as the baby starts crying again.

“Fuck you, Carl,” Sandy shouts back, hurrying to put out her cigarette before heading to the nursery.

Their little girl was just about a year old, and neither one of them knew what they were doing. Carl was incredibly indifferent and despite her honest attempts at motherhood, Sandy’s maternal instincts never kicked in like she thought it would happen. Carl was annoyed that it cut into their time they would be on trips. They weren’t able to photograph models with the baby on the road, so he’d been itching to get back on the road.

“Is she hungry?” he shouts back, not even bothering to take his eyes off of the most recent photographs he had been developing.

“I just fed her!”

“Then why is she crying?”

“Fuck if I know,” Sandy shouts back exasperated. She scooped up the baby from her crib and started to rock her back and forth in her arms. Sandy also tried burping her, humming a little lullaby she made up on the fly… no luck. She walks around the house with the baby on her hip, trying to rock her back to sleep.

“We haven’t able to get back on the road in a year,” Carl says, clearly frustrated.

“That ain’t purely my fault,” she spits back, “Takes two to make a baby, Carl.”

“Fuck I know,” he groans, “But I need new inspiration. If I take one more picture of nature…”

“If she’s such a hindrance, pay for a damn sitter like I suggested months ago,” she counters.

“We can’t have no stranger walking around the house Sandy,” he points out.

“Just keep your damn room locked, it’s not a huge deal,” Sandy sighs. “Besides, no one is gonna snoop around if you pay ‘em enough. You damn well produce your own incriminating evidence; you should always have that room locked anyways.”

“We only have to worry about your damn brother,” Carl points out, “We hire a fucking sitter that’s two people we need to worry about.”

“You’re just to goddamn cheap to hire somebody,” Sandy states, moving back towards the nursery, the baby now snoring softly.

“You know what? Fine,” Carl says defeated. “But you’re in charge of putting the ad out and hiring somebody.”

“Thank you,” she says in a sing song tone, happy she got her way. But the moment of quiet that follows is short lived as they baby starts crying again.

“Please for the love of God can you just take care of that?” Carl yells, and the argument circles back to the beginning.

You had sat in the small dinner in the corner booth hunched over the newspaper and nursing your now cold cup of coffee. You had just arrived in Knockemstiff and were looking for work. “Any leads?” Julie asked as she topped off your coffee. Julie was your roommate. You had found her the same way you were currently looking for a job. You must have answered at least ten terrible Roommate Wanted ads until you had found Julie. The two of you now share an apartment- the top floor of a three-family owned by a sweet older couple.

“Thank you,” you say without looking up from scanning the ads. “Maybe this one?” You say pointing to one of the ads. She looks to see her manager stepped out for his smoke break before sliding in the booth across from you. You slide the paper over to her and she reads the ad out loud.

NANNY NEEDED Knockemstiff, Ohio

Couple that travels for work in need of a nanny for one-year-old daughter.

Temporary live-in position for several weeks at a time. Pay negotiable.

Call Sandy Henderson at the below number.

“I can sublet the room temporarily while you stay there,” Julie offers. “It’s a pretty vague offer,” she continues. “I wouldn’t commit until you call and speak to that Sandy woman.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll need to be interviewed,” you agree. “What kind of people are comfortable just leaving their baby for weeks at a time with a perfect stranger?”

“Paul is still out back I think,” she chuckles, “I’ll let you use the wall phone.”

You take a seat at one of the stools at the counter, and she dials the number for you and then passes you the receiver. You mouth a thank you and she waves her hand in dismissal as she heads over to take someone’s order.

“Whaddya want?” the woman on the other end answers abruptly.

“Oh, I’m calling about the ad in the paper regarding the nanny position. Is it still available?”

“Oh, shit. I’m so sorry, hun,” the woman says, now in a much nicer tone. “Thought it was my brother calling. Yes, it is, and we need it filled as soon as possible. When are you available?”

“For an interview?” You ask.

“Yeah,” she says mumbled, like she is dangling a cigarette from her mouth. “Can you come today?”

“Oh, wow. Yes, I can,” you reply.

“Great, um, you got a pen? Take down this address.”

About two hours, a change of clothes and a cab ride later, you were standing outside a house towards the end of town. It was a little run down, but what building in this town wasn’t? You were a little nervous of course, but it was also the most unconventional way you have gotten an interview. Part of you was relieved, because the woman on the phone sounded real, not phony, but the circumstances still made you uneasy. Julie had the address and said you’d call when you got back to the taxi dispatch.

“Welcome, welcome,” Sandy smiled, opening up the door for you. She had one hand on the doorknob and one of the cutest babies you’d ever seen in the other. “Come on in, make yourself comfortable.”

“Who is this?” you coo, leaning down to the baby’s eye level. “She’s darling.”

“This little sweetheart is Valerie,” Sandy smiles, passing the baby to you. “She’s so well-behaved. Hardly ever cries.”

“She’s adorable,” you smile, as the baby cuddles up close, resting her head on your shoulder. “I didn’t properly introduce myself on the phone. (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“I’m Sandy,” she introduces herself. “Please take a seat on the couch, get comfortable. I hate things that are so formal. Bleh.”

You take a seat on the couch, and readjust the little girl in your arms so she’s sitting on your lap and her back is resting against you so she is supported.

“So, my husband and I are on the road a lot, usually,” she begins, “We took some time off when we had Valerie, but we really need to start working again, you understand.”

“Of course, what do you both do?” you ask politely.

“We’re photographers,” she beams, “Mostly nature and landmarks- which reminds me! We have a darkroom in the house, but that door will be locked when you’re staying here. We don’t want any damage to any of the negatives we have stored in there you understand. Everywhere else in the house is yours to explore! And of course we gotta spare bedroom you can call your own.”

“Fair enough,” you joke.

“So, tell me about yourself, honey,” she smiles, crossing her legs in the armchair where she sat.

“Well, I just moved here a few weeks ago actually,” you begin, “I just recently finished school, and now I’m looking for work. I just got my degree in early childcare from the state college.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” she says with a clap of her hands. “So, you’re local?”

“Yes, I live in town.”

“Excellent! We’d also love for this to be like an on-call thing as well, you know for date nights and things like that for times when we’re home. Like for a few hours here and there. And of course, we’ll always live money for groceries or whatever you need on top of your pay for emergencies incase Valerie needs formula or diapers or anything.”

“Perfect,” you smile, surprised how well the conversation was going. Sandy was easy-going and nice to talk to. The two of you sat and talked for a little under an hour, her asking all the standard questions you anticipated. You also were able to ask her some more of your own questions as well. It was the most effortless interview you had been on easily.

“I’m sorry you weren’t able to meet Carl today,” she says when she is showing you out. “But hun, I feel confident to offer you the job. We haven’t had many applicants and you’re the most qualified one I’ve spoken to. The job is yours if you want it?”

“When can I start?” you smile, making her laugh.

“Your number is on the resume, right?” she says, scooping up the baby. You nod, waving goodbye to the baby and then saying goodbye to Sandy.

“I’ll call you when I speak to Carl, but I think once he knows he’ll want to head out as soon as we can. Plan for Sunday,” she says as you get into the cab.

Just like she had promised, you get a call from Sandy on Saturday afternoon asking you to show up the next morning at 9. You spend the day packing up your clothes and anything else you’d need for a few weeks. Sandy said they’d be back in two weeks but you pack for three just in case. Julie was also nice enough to help you. You didn’t need to do much. Ever since you had settled in Knockemstiff, you had been pretty lazy with unpacking and for once procrastination played out in your favor.

Julie insisted on taking you out to celebrate that night before starting your job tomorrow. There was a small little bar, a little shack of a place just on the outside of town you went to. Julie had a car and you drove, anticipating she’d have a lot more to drink than you. It was a hotter summer night, so you drove with the windows down and the radio playing a little louder than you normally would.

The outside was decorated with string lights of primary colors and the wooden awning looked like it was one more storm away from collapsing. But the atmosphere inside was to die for. The jukebox was playing loud dance music, and the place was crowded. Empty recycled glasses lined the walls on a high shelf as decoration along with weathered posters of anything Americana. A row of motorcycles and trucks were parked outside the little place and it looked like a pileup from how crowded the lot was. People lingered outside as well, and you both hoped you’d find seats inside.

The two of you found a high-top table and Julie made her way up to the bar, skillfully maneuvering through the crowd to grab you both some drinks. You let your eyes wandering, surveying the room and just people watching. Couples were dancing closely to the music that was rattling the jukebox, and a group of people were sitting at the bar huddles in to watch the little black and white portable television. You also noticed a group of men in uniform several tables down, local police. They weren’t paying any attention to anyone but their own conversation, except one.

He just so happened to have looked up just as your eyes landed on their table. Steel blue eyes cutting across everything and just staring right back into yours. It was a fraction of a second and his gaze was broken by Julie taking her seat across from you. You cleared your throat, and finally allowed yourself to exhale. You felt her raise an eyebrow at you but she didn’t press, just gave you a knowing smirk you brushed off. You still felt his gaze on you even if your view was now obstructed.

Sandy and Carl were in a rush when you arrived in the morning. Sandy ran you through the details of where everything was kept and told you that she would call to check in when she could when they made stopped. She helped you carry your bags in from the trunk of the taxi while Carl packed their bags in their car. He was polite enough, but you felt in your gut to just keep your distance. Sandy led you upstairs to the guest room she told you she worked to clean out for you. It was simple, a bed and a dresser with a small closet. She said it mostly had been storage and her weekend project had been clearing it out for you. It was simple, but good enough for you for sure. You thanked her and she dismissed it saying you were the one doing her a favor, making you laugh.

The whole ordeal was very hurried. Carl was rushing to get on the road as soon as possible and you could tell he was clearly irritated at how long Sandy was taking showing you around and explaining things about Valerie. Carrying the baby in your arms, you finally were settled in to your new role and Sandy gave one more big hug and a kiss on Valerie’s head before rushing down to the car. You waved to the pair of them from the small front porch, Sandy looking back and waving to the baby from the passenger seat until they were out of your line of vision.

The first day was a little daunting. New space, living in a house that isn’t yours and a baby babbling in your arms. She was a sweet thing, and she already had taken a liking to you. Heading over to her nursery, you saw that she had a little play pen folded up in the corner of the nursery and you quickly set it up in your room so you could unpack while keeping an eye on her. She babbled just happy utter nonsense to you while you navigated around the space and her big eyes just followed you, just watching you was entertaining for her for now. You were a new face and she was entertained just by that for now.

A few hours later, Valerie had settled down for a nap in the early afternoon. She was sleeping soundly in her crib and you were getting formula ready for when she woke up. It was quiet, the only noise in the house was the small sounds of your own rustling in the kitchen. You wondered when you would hear from Sandy, if it would be later tonight or in a couple of days. You just were lost in your own thoughts when you were startled by a loud knocking on the door. Instantly, Valerie began to cry. You wiped your hands quickly on the skirt of your dress before grabbing her. You rested her on your hip and rocked her gently, shushing her to calm down while you went to grab the door.

The first thing your eyes saw were the same blue eyes who was looking at you at the bar last night. The man’s eyebrows furrowed and he looked really confused. He had one hand rested on his hip and the other against the doorframe, but he stood up straight when he saw it wasn’t who he expected. Your eyes then went down to the shiny Sheriff’s Badge fixed in place on his uniform.

“Who are you?” he asks abruptly. “Where’s Sandy?”

“Sandy and Carl left this morning,” you explain, not sure if he recognizes you. “I’m their nanny.”

He laughs and shakes his head as he looks down, almost like he doesn’t believe you, or he just doesn’t believe the situation. “Carl? Carl Henderson hired a nanny?” he scoffs and you nod, holding Valerie a little closer. The little girl rubs her eyes and yawns, when her eyes flutter open, she looks at the stranger in the doorway and immediately reaches out to signal she wants to be held by him. You ignore her resistance to wanting to be in your arms until you get more information about why the Sheriff is at their doorstep, though she obviously knows him.

“I’m Sandy’s brother,” he explains, “Did she say when they were coming back?” He doesn’t try to hold the baby yet, just holds out one of his fingers and her little hand holds onto it tightly.

“Two weeks.”

“They hire a complete stranger to watch my niece and live in their house unsupervised while they drive around?” he scoffs, shaking his head again in disbelief.

“I’m more than qualified…”

“It’s not a jab at you, sweetheart,” the man tries to explain, “More so a reflection on my sister and her husband is all. They are… fairly selfish people and I wished this situation surprises me more than it does.”

“Should I tell her you came by when she calls?” you ask.

“If she calls,” the man chuckles, “Sure, let her know Lee stopped by to visit.”

“You don’t think she will?” you ask, tilting your head.

“We’ll see,” Lee shrugs, “Do I know you from somewhere?” He rests his arm back up on the doorframe and looks down to the baby again, extending out his free hand to her again and scrunching her cheeks.

“I don’t know,” you shrug, not wanting to admit you remembered seeing him last night. He purses his lips together and nods, not pressing further. He pushes off from the doorframe and puts his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket.

“Must’ve been in a dream then,” he smirks, and you feel your cheeks flush. He walks down the steps and back towards his cop car. “What did you say your name was?” he asks, turning back around.

“I didn’t,” you chuckle.

“Hmm,” he nods, and raises his eyebrows, waiting for you to fill in the blank. You tell him your name and he repeats it back to you like he’s thinking about it, trying it out to see how it sounds.

“Well,” he says, standing behind the open driver’s door, “Good luck, and I hope Sandy proves me wrong. Let me know if she calls.”

Taglist: 

@adelaide-walker @thedepressolit @samanthadegaro​ 

[inkykeiji]

bright light city gonna set my soul on fire

ace anon said: wanna suggest dabi taking you to a poker game as a good luck charm then betting you on a game and losing...or winning and bragging about it by fucking you on the table

genre: smut + implied crooked secret agent/spy AU set in the late 1950s???

notes: AH ace i loved this idea SO MUCH it ended up sparking an entire fic!! heavily inspired by ian fleming’s 1953 novel casino royale + martin campbell’s 2006 film casino royale. it is set in clari’s version of the 1950s and in no way historically accurate!! think of it as an AU of the 1950s, if that makes sense ehehe | title credit: viva las vegas by elvis | songs mentioned in the fic itself: don’t and i beg of you by elvis, rockin’ robin by bobby day

warnings: 18+, period typical use of the word Daddy (not with dabi), inappropriate use of the word Mister, slight degradation, mentioned somnophilia, slight dacryphilia, minimal prep, night terrors, blood, murder, generally toxic codependant relationship, one implied mention of drug use (morphine), mentions of tense family dynamics

words: 8.5k

synopsis:

Yes, as much as he’d like to deny it, it’s true; Dabi fell in love with you the moment he laid eyes on you.

Because Dabi saw more than just a pretty little thing when your gazes first met.

He saw the perfect weapon, a diamond in the rough just waiting—begging—to be cleaned and cut and formed into the most brilliant gem, into the most ideal accomplice for him—because, really, what’s more dangerous than a beautiful woman? Especially when she looks like innocence personified?

Sticky pink candy, translucent and gleaming with saliva, clacks against teeth as you roll the heart-shaped lollipop around in your mouth, twirling the stick between your index finger and your thumb.

Legs kick idly as you lean back on your other hand, seated on the edge of Tomura’s massive, pristine mahogany desk, watching as his personal tailor helps Dabi shrug on a navy tuxedo jacket, stitched and sown perfectly to his measurements.

“I dunno,” he’s saying as he pivots his body a little, making a face at himself in the mirror. “I still think the black looks better,”

Ruby eyes roll up towards the ceiling, a frustrated groan spilling from between Tomura’s lips.

“You always think the black looks better. We’re going with the navy, it brings out your eyes,” he gives the back of Dabi’s head a sharp look before strolling towards you, features softening as he observes—the perfect picture of innocence, legs swinging slowly in cute little motions, strawberry lollipop sucked against the roof of your mouth, sparkling eyes floating from your boyfriend’s broad shoulders to his—your—boss’s face as he advances.

“Gimme some,” he demands, large hands finding your knees and halting your movement, using his hipbones to push them wider, making a space for himself between them and sticking his tongue out. With a giggle, you place the now misshapen candy on his tongue, gasping loudly as he snatches the candy from you, movements too quick for you to catch, and jumps away with the grace of a cat.

“Daddy!”

Tomura snickers around the lollipop in his mouth, sucking it into his cheek as he speaks around it. “Aw, come now, don’t pout,” his bottom lip pushes out to mimic your expression, tilting his head in false sympathy. “I’m sure your Mister will buy you another,”

“He better,” you mumble through your pout, eyebrows knitting together as arms cross tightly over your chest, eyes flitting to Dabi.

“I will, dollface, I will,” he vows distractedly, gaze not straying from his fingers reflected in the mirror as they fiddle with his bowtie.

“Promise, Mister?”

“Promise, baby, promise,”

Dabi’s already been briefed on the specifics of this mission—something to do with playing a poker game with a bunch of other crooked hotshots at the Sahara hotel in Las Vegas, but that’s all you know. That’s all you’re authorized to know.

Despite being Dabi’s accomplice and working for Tomura’s underground organization, you’re rarely allowed to be in Tomura’s office while the briefing happens. It’s sensitive information, dollface, and the less you know the better, and don’t misbehave now, sit pretty and quiet like a good little girl until the big boys are finished, and then Daddy and Mister will give you a pretty reward.

But! you had protested with a bottom lip involuntarily jutted out. But maybe, if I know more, I can be of better help—

But Tomura had shut that idea down before it had even finished leaving your lips.

No. Absolutely not. It’s for your own good—your own safety, you little brat—why can’t you understand that? 

You do understand that, you’ve been told a thousand times—your specialty is distractions, used to keep enemies occupied before Dabi splatters their brains on marble floors, or to pry information out of men weak to the smile of a pretty girl.

And, to be fair, Tomura does reward you pretty generously, with glittering evening gowns and designer pumps and all the handbags a gal could ever want.

You turn back to face him, red lips spread into a cunning, mischievous smile, a smile he knows all too well, a smile Dabi loves—because he taught it to you—and Tomura hates—because it means you’re about to get what you want. “So. How much money are you giving me to play with this time, Daddy?”

Tomura’s face screws up, nose scrunching. “None,” he spits, removing the lollipop from his mouth. Tiny hands grab at the air, reaching for it like a child, Tomura swiping it just out of grasp as he continues his scolding. “Last time, you nearly bought the entire shopping complex,”

“Ah, c’mon, boss,” Dabi says around a cigar, still standing in front of the full-length mirror and smoothing down his clothing. “Give the lil lady a lil somethin’, will ya?”

“Yeah, boss, c’mon,” you plead, mimicking your boyfriend, adorning your face with your signature pout and award-winning puppy-dog eyes.

“Absolutely not.” His voice is stern as he speaks, facial features hard in finality and resolution, but his eyes—irises a crimson so brilliant, so beautiful it’s terrifying, almost looks as if it’s glowing—are beginning to waver.

“You know, if you don’t, then I’m sure I’ll get bored in that big city all by myself while Dabi’s working,” you begin in a singsong voice, eyebrows raising. “And you know what happens when I get bored, Daddy,”

“She gets int’a trouble,” Dabi grumbles, eyes catching yours through the mirror, though there’s a smirk forming around the cigar, held between sharp gleaming ivory teeth.

“S’true,” you nod simply, eyelashes fluttering as you gaze at Tomura. “Please, Daddy? Pretty please? I swear I won’t spend too much this time,”

“Jus’ give ‘er your credit card r’somethin’,” Dabi waves a hand in nonchalance before patting down his pockets. “I’ll keep a’eye on ‘er, promise,”

“Take that damn cigar out of your mouth and speak properly,” Tomura spits, and you and Dabi share another look, another smirk, through the mirror. “Fine, alright? Fine,” nimble fingers pull out a sleek leather wallet, flipping it open and searching through the card slots, grumbling to himself. “Christ, the two of you are insufferable, I swear to God,”

“Thank you, Daddy,” you giggle, soft and gentle and innocent, all of the things you weren’t mere moments ago. Platinum plastic gleams in your fingers as you tilt the card in the light, gaze captivated by the way it sparkles and glitters as you speak again. “Promise I’ll bring you back something neat,”

     ✰          ✰          ✰

It’s been a few years now since the two of you met, since the two of you became partners, and Dabi swears to high heaven and back that he had tried his hardest not to fall in love with you, cross his heart, hope to die.

At least, that’s what he likes to tell himself. In actuality, he fell for you the moment he laid eyes on you—it’s as cliché and cheesy as one of those Jimmy Dean flicks, but goddamn it, it’s true all the same.

Doesn’t help that that’s one of the first things you said to him, though.

You look like Jimmy Dean, Mister, you had giggled dainty behind your hand, batting those long, thick eyelashes as you gazed up at him, gracious and polite and all the things a good little girl like you should be. Is supposed to be.

It made him want to fucking ruin you. It sparked a white-hot fire deep in the pit of his stomach, a blaze that grew, and grew, and grew with each of your cute mannerisms. It procured an inferno full of pure desire, heady and intoxicating, that nearly engulfed him in an instant.

“Oh, yeah?” he had asked with a smirk, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest, tongue running along his front teeth as he steadily held your eyes. “‘N why’s that, little miss?”

Those eyes, the sparkling ones that had been so bold only a moment ago, bashfully flitted down to the teal typewriter sitting in front of you on a large oak desk, fiddling a little with your nails against the worn keys.

Baby pink. Cute.

“Oh I—I—” your gaze flashed up to his for a moment, intense cobalt burning into your very skull, before you averted your stare again. “Well, I-I don’t mean to be rude, Mister, it’s just that—your hair,”

Sapphire eyes flicked up, as if to gaze at his forehead, as if he were able to see his own hair from just that motion, eyebrows raising with the action.

“S’all messy like the way he wears his. You know, when he’s not doing a picture and all that,”

And you noticed your mistake immediately, eyes widening, tongue tripping over your words in your haste to correct yourself, to speak properly, like a lady. “I-It’s all messy, s-sorry, excuse me, it’s all messy like the way he wears his,”

A smirk, slow and dangerous, spread across his face as he observed you, tilting his head a little as his eyes travelled down your neck, to your shoulders and the sweetheart neckline of that pretty, pretty dress, and then back up again, narrowing slightly as they did so. It’s in that moment that Dabi first wondered what you’d sound like underneath him while sharp hipbones bruise his name into the tender flesh of your inner thighs, how you’d slur your words together then.

His voice was a touch huskier when he spoke again. “You like Jimmy, miss?”

“I sure do,” you nodded, painted lips morphing into a little melancholic smile as you looked down at the typewriter again. “It’s a real shame he passed,”

“Sure is,” Dabi mimicked your movement, giving a simple nod in agreement. “But thank you for the compliment, doll, I’ll take it,”

Your head snapped back up. “Oh, c’mon, m’not stupid y’know,” you huffed with a roll of your eyes and a light laugh.

“No?”

The traces of amusement that played in his azure eyes had your own narrowing a little in response, sitting up straighter as you rolled your shoulders back.

“No,” you shook your head. “I know who you are,”

“Yeah? And who’s that?”

“Touya.”

And it’s the way you said his birthname, the way your lips curled into a devious little smile around the word, the way one of your perfectly arched eyebrows raised in question, in challenge, that had confirmed it for him, right then and there, in that stupidly luxurious office.  

“Touya Todoroki.”

He was sure he had to have you. He was positive he had to make you his—forever.

“You’ve been compared to Jimmy since he debuted—”

“And you know this because—”

“—because I read Time and Vogue and all those other stupid magazines, just like all the other women in this country. And I’ve seen you,” you paused to point a manicured nail at him. “On or in every single one,”

Oh, and he was sure you had, sure you knew that he was notorious for stealing several of his father’s girlfriends when he was in his early twenties, infamous for fucking them and then selling the Polaroid’s and information to vying tabloids and the like. He always did like to spice up those stories a little, to fluff them and make them a hint more scandalous, glamorous—those ones always sold for more.

Not that he needed the money.

“It’s rude to point, baby,” he winked before he straightened up, pushed himself off the wall and stalked towards your desk, stopping in front of it as large hands splayed out on the wood, and leaned close to your face.

“And I don’t go by that name anymore, sweetheart,” he had told you, voice smooth as scotch over ice, though something dangerous glinted in his eyes as they carefully searched your face, something omnious etched into the sharp smile on his face

A shiver crawled up your spine, frosty and slow, fingers tiptoeing up each vertebra as you nodded your understanding. “Y-Yes, sir,”

The door to your boss’s office had swung open then, Dabi straightening up and spreading his arms out in a grand sweeping movement.

“David!” he greeted as if the two were old friends, large smile stretched too tight across his face as he walked forward and clapped a large hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “How are you doing?”

He murdered your boss that day. You didn’t know, of course, didn’t have a goddamn clue until over a month later, Dabi had made sure of that. But by the time you found out, you were already in too deep; too enamoured by him, wholly captivated by him in every sense of the word, too dependant on him, to care at all.

He had made it quick—quiet and painless and looking as if it was an accident, strolling out of the office only a few moments later and asking you out on a date like nothing had happened, words flowing smoothly from his lips in that drawl that is so distinctly him, almost lazy in a way, glittering lidded sapphire scalding your skin with its intensity.

Yes, as much as he’d like to deny it, it’s true; Dabi fell in love with you the moment he laid eyes on you.

Because Dabi saw more than just a pretty little thing when your gazes first met.

He saw the perfect weapon, a diamond in the rough just waiting—begging—to be cleaned and cut and formed into the most brilliant gem, into the most ideal accomplice for him—because, really, what’s more dangerous than a beautiful woman? Especially when she looks like innocence personified?

Nothing, that’s what.

Honestly, he did you a favour—he swears he could see it in your eyes, sparkling as they gazed at him like he sculpted the moon himself, pleading for someone—for him—to come along and take care of you, to put you in your place, to keep you in line, absolutely desperate for someone to mold you, shape you, construct and arrange you into his most perfect creation.

Perfect, perfect, perfect, that’s what you are; so good for him, so obedient and compliant, always hanging on his every word and eagerly awaiting his next command, enthusiastic to submit to him, to please him, to receive the praise you crave so badly.

And Tomura had agreed, too, after only fifteen minutes of meeting you, of observing you, of assessing you, that you’d be a flawless addition to their operation.

So Dabi did what he does best.

He started slow, of course, enchanted you with strings of pearls and gorgeous dresses and expensive dinners, fed you tidbits about his mysterious lifestyle, about his family and his job and his past, just enough to keep you coming back for more, until you were practically begging him to let you in, to permit you to join his vocation, to accompany him on the wild ride that is his life.

And that was the best part of all—you didn’t care, you wanted it just as badly as he did; wanted to help him, to serve him, to be his, without ever requiring the full story. You readily gave everything up for him, accepted his orders, his wants and his needs without as much as a single question, never faltering in your honesty, in your pure devotion to your creator.

It’s love in its truest form, you’re both sure of it—possessed by one another, infatuated with one another, dedicated to one another—both consumed by the most potent drug, this love, a force to be reckoned with, the strongest pull either of you have ever felt before.

And, really, what more could you ask for?

     ✰          ✰          ✰

He took you under his wing, crafted you into a master of manipulation, pairing it perfectly with that innocent kitten demeanour you wear so well, and taught you everything he knew: all of the infiltration techniques and self-defence he had learned before he was ostracized from his father’s company—a privatized intelligence agency that works closely with the federal government—the very organization he’s been working so tirelessly to burn to the ground.

You still don’t exactly know what happened. He doesn’t like to talk about it, about where those scars decorating his body came from, about why he’s thrown away his old identity and constructed a new one, trading ivory hair and a high-fashion wardrobe for inky black and weathered Levi jeans with big black motorcycle boots.

But you do know a little.

He had been the favourite son, the chosen son, the one set to inherit the empire his father had built. That was, until he got himself into an accident—one that he still isn’t ready to disclose the full details of, and you never push. But you know it had involved a twelve year old Touya—always devious, crafty, and ever-so intelligent, even as a child—sneaking along on a mission he absolutely shouldn’t have. The silvery burns that adorn his skin, puckered and soft and shimmering like moonlight when they catch in the sun, scars tinged with the slightest hint of baby pink, are from this incident. Whatever had happened after had scarred his soul forever.

Because you’ve never encountered such intense hatred, burning bright blue flames that rage and roar inside of him, the words that are spit from between clenched teeth when he talks about his father, about his baby brother, positively scalding.

But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that you don’t know the full story, that you aren’t entirely aware of why this vendetta against his family exists. It doesn’t matter that his one goal in life, his only true desire aside from you, is to take down his father. It doesn’t matter that he’s willing to do anything and use everyone to achieve his objective.

Because he is letting you in; slowly, bit by bit and piece by piece, the most fascinating and tragically beautiful jigsaw you’ve ever put together. He may never be ready to tell the full story, and that’s alright with you, because as you’ve reassured him countless times in the dead of night, you’ll always love him anyway—you’ll always be by his side.

That’s when he’s most vulnerable, it seems—in the middle of the night, at two and three and four in the morning, when he wakes trembling and whimpering and soaked with his own sweat.

He never tells you what they’re about, the nightmares. Sometimes, they’re so violent that they wake you first. He doesn’t fuck you immediately on those days, doesn’t say a word as he finds solace in your warm bosom, little fingers pushing back sweaty strands of inky hair from his temples as your other arm wraps around him, holding him close to you as his shaky breathing calms, as his muscles stop quivering. On those nights, he says nothing as he spreads your legs and climbs on top of you, railing you into the mattress like it’s his last day on this earth.

That’s how he likes to be comforted; that’s what calms him down best. It’s standard procedure at this point—not that you mind waking up to his soft sniffles and him shoving himself into your barely prepped cunt, or rousing to feel the tip of his naked cock rubbing against your clit through thin cotton undies as he tells you in that wavering voice to stay sleeping and let your Mister take what he needs. You’re there to serve him—and you do, so perfectly. You just want to help, after all. You’ve always ever just wanted to help. You never know which nights he’ll gift you another little piece of himself, of his soul, for you to try and fit in somewhere in the puzzle that is DABI. You don’t know the triggers—as far as you’re concerned, they don’t seem to exist anywhere outside of the padlocked barricade of his own head, no rhyme or reason to them, more random than anything else. But you’ll readily accept anything and everything he’s willing to give, the very instant he’s willing to give it.

     ✰          ✰          ✰

Sprawled out on the hotel bed with his white t-shirt riding up and exposing your lacy panties, you watch, in an almost trancelike state, as Dabi does his hair in preparation for the game set to begin in an hour or so. He leaves it messy and ungreased when he isn’t working, all tousled and fluffy, a sea of half formed curls that flow into each other, akin to tremulous waves hours before a storm like an inky ocean atop his head. But he cleans up well, when it comes time to get down to business.

“Every little swallow, every chickadee, every little bird in the tall oak tree,”

Standing in front of the mirror clad in a white undershirt and his suit pants, he sings along to Bobby Day’s staticky voice as it flows through the small radio set on the bathroom counter, nimble fingers dipping into a tin of greasy pomade and gathering a generous glob, a responding giggle bubbling up in your chest.

“The wise old owl, the big black crow,” he catches your eye through the mirror, a devilish smile materializing on his face as he continues, lathering his hands together. “Flap-a their wings singin’ ‘go bird go’,”

“Should’a been a singer, I’m telling ya,” you say as you roll onto your stomach, chin resting in your palms and head propped up, eyes glittering. “Could’a rivalled Elvis,”

Huffing out a laugh accompanied by a roll of his eyes, his hands begin to rake through his hair, slathering it with the substance and slicking most of it back from his face, sure to leave a few curls at the start of his hairline untouched. “So sweet you’re gonna rot my teeth, baby,”

“M’serious!” you insist, blinking at him as your eyebrows raise, watching the teeth of the black comb run through the slicked-up strands, his palm following close behind as he smooths it over; crisscross, crisscross, crisscross, fluff, pat, crisscross.

 “Uh-huh, uh-huh,” he shakes his head in disbelief, though there’s the faintest pink tinting his stubbled cheeks. “I think I’m better at this job,”

What? Playing poker with a bunch of criminals and making deals with mafiosos and murdering those who wrong you? you swallow the words, letters stinging and scraping your throat as you force them back down, schooling your face into a neutral expression. “I respectfully disagree,”

“‘Course you do,” he mumbles to himself distractedly, leaning closer to the mirror to complete the look. “Elvis, you say?”

He begins belting out lyrics in an exaggerated deep voice as he adds the finishing touch—your favourite part—slender fingers shining with residual pomade as they twirl and coat the few stray curls left neglected, allowing them to hang artfully in the middle of his forehead. 

“When I feel like this and I want to kiss youuu,” pivoting on his heel, he gazes at you with that shit-eating grin and continues. “Baby, don’t say doooon’t,”

“Oh, God, no, not Don’t!” you groan, flopping onto your back dramatically, face screwed up as if you had just tasted something sour.

“Alright, alright, alright,” he’s chuckling as he advances towards you, a small towel in his hands as he cleans them. “How ‘bout…” trailing off, he hums a little as he thinks.

“Hold my hand and promise,” he begins in a low voice, smooth and sweet like the finest melted chocolate, depositing of the towel and crawling onto the bed.

“That you’ll always love me too,”

Large hands gently pry your legs part, signature crooked smirk spreading across his face when he’s met with zero resistance, rough palms caressing silky skin as they slide up, fingers gripping and grabbing and kneading.

“Make me know you love me,”

The words taper off into a whine, beginning to sound more like begging than singing, as his body settles between your thighs, hipbones digging into the soft flesh while he hovers above you, supporting his weight on his forearms.

“The same way I love you, little girl,”

Lips trail along your jaw, leaving tender kisses in their wake—unhurried, careful, and full of purpose—as he mumbles against your skin.

“You got me at your mercy, now that I'm in love with you,”

Calloused hands begin to ruck up his t-shirt, digits dipping into the lacy waistband of your panties, his voice starting to tremble ever so slightly.

“So please don't take advantage, cause you know my love is true,”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, sapphire eyes gleaming in the golden sunlight and he pauses, blistering gaze searching your face for something, muscles relaxing and head dipping a moment later to finally press his lips against yours, whispering into the kiss. “Darling please, please love me too, I beg of you,”

And despite all the glitz and glamour, all the extravagance and exhilaration, that comes with each mission, this will always be your favourite part—when it’s only you and him, lounging around in some luxurious five star hotel or some dingy roadside motel, exchanging lazy, messy kisses full of stringy shining saliva, goofing around and whispering stupid Elvis lyrics to each other, words that hold more weight than either of you care to admit.

     ✰          ✰          ✰

It was supposed to be a fairly simple operation—minimal violence, Tomura had instructed. No guns or casualties, if it can be avoided, if Dabi can keep his temper in check. It was supposed to be easy, straightforward, safe.

It was supposed to be. But Dabi gets bored easily, likes a little spike of adrenaline with his missions, rolling his broad shoulders and cracking his neck as he joins the rest of the men around the poker table, a sly smirk on his face as they name the bets and the prizes.

“And my little doll,”

It’s hard to resist rolling your eyes as those four words slip from between his lips, slow and smooth in that deep, lazy drawl, trademark smirk painted across his lips as his lidded eyes scan the faces sitting around the table, an eyebrow raised, daring any of them to protest. Several hungry eyes dart towards you for a moment, standing like the reward you are a few feet behind Dabi and leaning on a railing, a shy little smile briefly gracing your lips in greeting, elegant evening gown shimmering under the crystal lights.

This isn’t new—Dabi usually bets you when he plays. Keeps him sharp, he claims. Keeps him on his toes, keeps it fun when there’s something important at stake, something valuable to lose, he says. He plays better that way, he promises.

Except he’s always craved that thrill of danger, has always liked to push further and further simply to see how far he can go before he topples over the edge. It’s a rush, a blast, a high akin to the morphine that so often flows through his veins, and he fucking lives for it.

It’s been over an hour now, since those words were murmured in that velvet voice, floating across the table and cloaking the thoughts of the other men like a lethal haze, most of whom can’t seem to keep their eyes from wandering back to you every so often, leering gazes coating your skin with grime you itch to scrub off.

But that’s the point—or it’s supposed to be, anyway. That’s the whole reason you’re here in the first place. To act as a distraction, Tomura’s words drift through your mind, just whisps of his voice that tickle the walls of your skull.

And what a perfect distraction you are, in a Dior dress that looks like it was made only for you, tapered perfectly to every curve and edge of your body, silk flowing gracefully with every miniscule movement, with every rise and fall of your chest.

But it bores you to tears, this poker game, eyes dry and sticky, sick of staring at the back of your boyfriend’s immaculate, intricate hair as his nimble fingers play with the mountain of chips accumulating in front of him, plastic clacking together as he shuffles through them.

You had begged him to let you go shopping—just for the first half of the game, you swear!—but he refused. I need my good luck charm there with me the entire time, babydoll, he told you, brushing calloused fingers down your cheek then tracing along the line of your jaw, gazing at you with brilliant sapphire that glitters in the late afternoon sun, streaming in through the hotel’s floor-length windows. We can go shopping after the game is finished, he promised.

You regarded him with skepticism.

“And dancing?”

“Of course,” he responded with a playful scoff. “We can dance until our feet are bleeding, pinky promise,”

Keigo comes to join you just before the game passes the two-hour mark, large hands finding purchase on your hips and pulling you back against his chest as his head dips down, soft full lips against your skin.

“Lovely dress you’ve got on,” he murmurs, breath hot against your ear, tickling the shell. “You look stunning—breathtaking—I mean, gosh, look at me, I can barely breathe,” he gasps dramatically, chest heaving against your back as he does so, chuckling when you roll your eyes and giggle at him to shut up, Kei, the vibrations from his laugh a comforting sensation, a familiar sensation, a welcomed sensation, sending warmth spreading through your body. “I’m so happy you’re here,” you whine, leaning further into him and head tilting against his collarbone to gaze up at him. “I’m so bored,”

“Yeah, I bet,” he says, something unusual—unreadable—settling in his topaz eyes as he glances up at the table. “You aren’t used to games lasting this long, are you, baby,”

A little pout settles on your lips and you nod, playing right into his condescending cooing as you snuggle into him, eyes following his stare. Truthfully, you haven’t a clue what’s going on, and, really, you couldn’t care less. You aren’t entirely sure what the significance of this poker game is, or who most of these men are, and you aren’t allowed to. Just sit pretty and perfect like you always do; it’s the thing you do best.

Except tonight—tonight something is different, unsettling, off. It’s no big deal, though, of course—you can almost hear that deep, dark voice drawling the words out in your mind, phantom breath tickling your skin.

Because Dabi’s always been startlingly good at what he does. Because Dabi’s always been able to worm his way out of a difficult situation. Because there’s never really been a reason to worry about it before, anyway. But tonight—well, tonight you’re watching as his Balenciaga clad shoulders are getting tenser, and tenser, as his jaw is clenching tighter, and tighter, as his grip on that singular sparkly chip resting in his palm is becoming stronger, and stronger, thin skin stretching painfully over sharp bony knuckles.

Keigo’s breath is bated, his fingers digging into your hips as he observes the game unfolding in front of the both of you, pulling you closer to him, hushed curses falling from his lips every so often. And Keigo knows what’s happening, of course, but he refuses to tell you, promising you that you wouldn’t understand even if he tried to explain it. Creases form on your forehead as your eyebrows knit, eyes drifting back to the table. Whatever it is, it’s clear that it isn’t good, Keigo’s body tensing against yours as he sucks in a breath and holds it for a moment before blowing it out from his mouth, exasperated.   “Well, I’m positive it’s fine,” you say, trying to wave it off lightly, to whisk away the acrimonious dread that roots deep in the pit of your stomach and begins to spread, thick and dense as it slithers into your surrounding organs, to brush off the impending sense of foreboding that seems to lurk over you, getting heavier and heavier, darker and darker with each second that ticks by—though your voice sounds high to your ears, tinny and false. “Dabi’s never lost a game before, that’s why they send him to these things,” But Keigo doesn’t sound so sure, responding with a nervous breath of a laugh, lithe fingers flexing on your hips, rubbing little lopsided circles into the flesh. “First time for everything, songbird,”

The words send ice piercing through your veins, but you persevere, rolling your shoulders and standing up a little straighter, swallowing past the painful lump that’s lodged itself in your throat. It’s fine. It’s always fine. He’s always found a way to get out of messy, tight situations before. Why should tonight be any different?

It won’t be, it isn’t—you can already see Dabi collapsing on the cream sofa upstairs in your luxurious hotel room, tugging at his bowtie with a sigh as his head falls back, nimble fingers popping the first few buttons on his crisp white dress shirt, and had you scared for a moment there, didn’t I, kitten?

And you’ll playfully slap his shoulder as you crawl into his lap, roll your eyes as you straddle his hips and allow him to tilt the champagne flute to your lips, laugh it off as his hands begin to wander, rucking up your dress and kneading your ass, cock tenting his expensive trousers. Like always. You’re sure of it

It’s just past the three-hour mark when Keigo speaks again, all traces of teasing, of that easygoing lilt that is so distinctly him, gone from his voice. Golden locks stand in all directions, his hair having fallen out of its usual ducktail style, a curtesy of fingers raking through it nervously. His smile is tight as he looks down at you, front teeth nibbling at his cuticles as he speaks, muffled a little by his fingers. “Maybe we should get you out of here, sweetheart—”

“No,” you respond instantly with a firm shake of your head. “I’m not going anywhere,”

“Sunshine, listen—”

“I said, no, Kei,” you pull back a little to look at him, resolution sown into your voice, chest puffing out just a touch. “I won’t leave him,”

Honey eyes hold yours for a moment, and you can almost hear Keigo’s molars as they grind together. He exhales a deep sigh a moment later, shaking his head and tugging his fingers through golden strands again. “Alright, alright,” It finally comes to an end, a few minutes past the four-hour mark. Heavy lids start to lift as commotion begins to stir—soft murmurs among the men and chairs scraping against the floor, plastic chips clacking together and the sharp whisp that travels through the air as cards are shuffled—whining a little as you lean further into Keigo, who is now supporting most of your weight.

“Kei, feet hurt,”

“Shh, I know, songbird,” he hushes you, a large palm stroking your head. “But I need you to wake up, sweetheart,”

Rough, unfamiliar hands are wrapping around your arms only a moment later, yanking you from the warm sanctuary that is Keigo and hauling you against stiff muscle.

“I believe you’re mine now, darling,”

The words are gravelly, uttered in a low voice against the crown of your head. A vicious shiver crawls along your skin, whole body trembling with the force of it, as your lids snap open.

“Wait, what?” frantic eyes search the gaudy room for familiar cobalt, breath beginning to accelerate as you struggle a little in the grasp of a burly man with one eye. His grip tightens in retaliation and a pained yelp hitches in your throat, Dabi’s eye twitching at the sound. “Dabi? D-Dabi!”

Sapphire blazes into your skull, steadily holding your watery gaze as his jaw clenches, swallowing thickly at the sound of your pitiful little whimpers of his name, at the way you squirm and wiggle in your abductor's grasp, desperate to escape, to get back to him.

“H-Hold on, now,” Keigo begins, holding his hands up in surrender, a motion meant to signify peace, to signify that he isn’t a threat—even though you know he’s got the cold metal of his favourite pistol tucked into the waistband of his trousers and pressed against his warm skin. “Let’s talk this through, yeah? Just wait a minute—”

“Nope,” the man cuts Keigo off mid-sentence with a loud, harsh laugh, and you wince at the sound. “No way, a deal’s a deal, friend. I won her fair and square—she’s mine,”

A light chuckle, laced with irritation and dubiety, escapes Keigo’s lips as he shakes his head a little. “Come on, Dabi jokes around like that all the time,” and while his voice seems amicable on the surface, its ridden with cold undertones, phantom threats that are felt, not said. “And this little lady—as pretty as she is—is a person, not a prize. Taking her against her will is, in fact, kidnapping, and I’ll be forced to—”

“Let him go,”

“What?” the word falls from your lips and Keigo’s simultaneously—one incredulous and pitched high with distress, the other breathed out in disbelief, both equally as concerned—gazes snapping to Dabi, who sits quiet and brooding, dim lights casting shadows on the sharp planes of his face.

Azure drifts between your faces, features ridden with terror and alarm—furrowed brows and deep frowns tugging at the corners of lips, one pair of eyes wide with scepticism, the other pair glistening with tears. Dabi’s silent for another moment before he pushes on his knees and stands, squaring his shoulders and clearing his throat, voice ringing out loud and clear, dripping with admonition. “Let him go. He’s right; he won her, fair and square,”

He speaks slowly, annunciating each word with careful precision, sapphire glinting in the dim light has he holds the muscular man’s gaze. It holds something threatening, something menacing, something terrifying deep within the depths of his eyes, and you feel your captor pause for a second, tense, and then shiver.

“Uh, r-right,” he says, voice wavering a little as he nods to himself. “Fair and square,”

Dabi stalks towards you, shiny oxfords echoing against the pristine, freshly waxed marble floor, tutting his tongue and shaking his head, casual and relaxed as ever.

“Don’t struggle, you hear me?” he says, voice softer, gentler, as a calloused thumb swipes across your cheekbone, catching a stray tear. “Be a good girl for him,”

And I’ll see you soon.

The promise doesn’t need to be vocalized—you can see it, shining bright and true in his sapphire eyes, can sense it, in the air surrounding him, can feel it, at the very core of your soul.

A sudden sense of relief floods your body, pathetic little sobs getting caught in your chest as you exhale shakily and deflate in the burly man’s arms, tears finally spilling over your lashline and streaming down your cheeks.

“Okay,” you breathe.

Dabi gives you a simple nod, lips quirking up into a ghost of his signature lopsided smirk. Okay.

And just like that, all of the fear and trepidation and panic vanishes from your body, a serene calm chased by a sense of giddiness replacing it, scorching through your veins.

Because before the door to the man’s hotel room has even swung fully shut, Dabi’s barreling through, crystal handle smashing against the wall and cracking as skilled fingers tangle in short hair, yanking the man’s head back with a sickening crack and dragging the razor-sharp edge of his favourite switchblade across the man’s exposed throat.

He moves like a flash of light, a spark igniting a fire, so fast he’s merely a blur of black and navy and blazing sapphire. Thick crimson begins pouring from the wound immediately, a large splice spanning from one earlobe all the way to the other.

The man hits the shiny hardwood floor with a distinct thump, but you aren’t paying attention to him or the way he’s writhing as he tries to claw at his neck, coughing and gagging as he begins to choke on his own blood.

No, you’re captivated by sapphire, bright and burning as it surges towards you, calloused hands seizing your face roughly as chapped lips find yours, unforgiving and ferocious, bloody knife still in one hand, cool metal pressed against your cheek, smearing streaks of scarlet across your skin as you try to get closer to him, to get more, the stench of copper stinging your nose.

It’s eradicated in an instant though, Dabi’s heady scent—campfire and hickory wood and expensive cologne—filling your lungs, your mind, your entire being as it curls around you in the most intoxicating embrace, familiar and comforting and him, him, him. Stumbling backwards, you just about trip over your own feet as Dabi shoves forward, strong hands wrapped around your biceps keeping you steady. The sharp edge of the small rosewood dining table digs into your lower back, Dabi swallowing your resounding yelp as he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth and tugs, large hands finding your waist and squeezing before he hoists you onto its surface, using his hipbones to force your thighs open.

You nearly topple over from the power, from the urgency, hands flying out behind you and grappling against the table’s surface to keep you sitting upright as he heaves and pushes and leans against you, motions knocking sparkling crystal glasses and fine porcelain plates off the top.

The sound of shattering glass and cracking china mingles with the gurgling and garbling of the man who lay a few feet away on the floor, suffocating on his own blood. It creates such a beautiful symphony, intertwined with Dabi’s ragged breaths and your broken moans, with the ruffling of clothing and the screech of the table legs against the gleaming hardwood floor. And it’s desperate, and needy, and messy, teeth clashing and clacking together violently, saliva dripping down chins as tongues rub and glide and lick, hands pawing and gripping and tugging and ripping, the delicate material of your silk Dior dress practically turning to ash as his fingers materialize through it, tearing it to shreds.

“Off, off, off, I need this off,” he’s growling against your lips as his hands work, a low whine getting caught in your throat as you nod frenetically.

Yes, yes, yes, you’re whimpering, your own little fingers helping him destroy the silvery fabric, eager and anxious to rid your body of the bothersome garment.

A guttural groan, deep and dark and inducing a fluttering in your tummy rumbles in his chest as his eyes roam over your body, clad in the daintiest white lace.

“You’re fucking gorgeous, y’know that,” he’s mumbling between sharp bites to the flesh of your neck, fingers snapping the clasp of your bra, breaking it in one simple motion. “A fuckin’ angel, that’s what you are, baby. My very own angel,”

Rough palms slide down your torso, slow and purposeful as they trace, feel, knead the dips and curves, planes and contours of your body, slender fingers pausing to play with the elastic of the garter belt adorning your waist, holding up your lace-trimmed thigh-highs which have begun to tear, then hooking in the waistband of your thong.

His cock grinds against your inner thigh, hot and hard and throbbing as it strains against his trousers, digits toying with the lacy elastic, twirling it between his fingers before he lets it snap back against your skin, the harsh slap! echoing throughout the hotel room. 

“Oh, Mister, I want it,” the plead falls from your lips in a shameless moan, high and whiny as your hips press forward in an attempt to grind against him. Slender fingers untangle themselves from the lacy fabric in an instant, gripping your hips to still them, fingertips digging into your flesh. “I need it,”

“Need what, dollface?” his lips brush against your skin as he speaks, teeth sinking into your collarbone a moment later, hard enough to break the skin, a loud cry getting caught in your chest. He sucks on the wound, hard, tongue laving over it in soothing little circles, slowly dragging over the bite.

And it’s a compulsion, a sickness, a fucking disease surging through your veins, infecting your mind with thoughts of him and only him, entire body buzzing with the desperate, pathetic, urgent need for him, for his cock, for his cum.

“Need you, need you,” you’re whimpering out, squirming and struggling a little in his grasp, a warning hiss spit through his teeth as blunt nails nip your skin. “Please, Dabi, please, lemme have it,”

“Have what, baby?” lips curling up into a coy smirk, he pulls back just enough to look at you, finally pushing his hips into yours, a patronizing laugh spilling from his throat as you instantly grind against his cock, impatient and impetuous. “Use your words, Mister wants to hear you say it,”

Scalding heat seeps into your cheeks as you squeeze your eyes shut tightly, a broken whine of complaint sounding in the back of your throat as you shake your head. “Y-You know,” you mumble. “You know,”

“Oh, come on, baby,” he tuts with a disappointed shake of his head, voice overflowing with condescension. “You act like such a little slut, but as soon as I want you to say what you apparently need oh-so-badly, you can’t? You get all shy and bashful like you’re innocent, or something?”

An arrogant chuckle bubbles up in his chest, a rough palm colliding with the flesh of your ass a moment later. Scarred lips graze your ear as he leans back in, speaking low and smooth, words leaving his mouth in a huff of warm, sweet breath. “You’re being bad, y’know that?”

The huskiness in his tone sends chills pebbling across your skin, a delicate shiver dancing up your spine.

“Please,” you whisper, bottom lip beginning to tremble. “Please, Mister, please,”

“Tell me,” he rasps, taking the lobe of your ear between his teeth and sucking, bruising his name into the sensitive skin. “I know you can do it, doll. What is it that you want? Tell me,”

And, God, it’s so embarrassing, vision blurring with the sting of tears, entire body beginning to tremble from the combined humiliation and lust surging through your veins, his clothed cock still rutting against your core, poking and prodding and so close, you’re so close, two tiny words, just say them. “Your—Your cock,” you almost yelp, blinking back the tears in your eyes as you try to gaze levelly at him, teeth digging into your bottom lip to quell its pathetic quivering. “W-Want your cock, please, Mister, I-I need it,”

“Yeah?” he breathes while he rests his forehead against yours, butting forward a little as his glazed eyes rapidly search your face, pupils blown to hell and lips bitten red, shining with spit. “Where, huh? Down here?”

A finger tugs the flimsy soaked lace to the side, another dark chuckle slipping from his lips as he drags a knuckle up your dripping slit.

“Here?” it presses into your cute little hole, your hips eagerly bucking forward in response.

“Yes, yes, there, Mister, there, please,” you keen, head nodding in almost frantic movements, skull knocking against his. “Please, n-no fingers, want your cock, need your cock, stretch me out, fill me up, I need it,”

And it’s your senseless babbling that does it, bratty and needy and incessant in high broken whines, that snaps the final thread of patience holding him back, and a growl rips from his chest, so violent it vibrates through your own.

The heavy buckle of his belt clinks as hasty fingers fiddle with it, shoving his trousers down his thighs just enough to free his cock.

You can’t help the mortifying moan that escapes your throat the moment you see it, velvety and pink and oh-so-pretty, flushed tip glistening with precum and two thick veins snaking around the shaft like vines.

“Christ,” he groans as he pushes into your cunt, burying himself inside of you in one swift thrust, your nails biting into the hard muscles of his shoulder through the thin material of his shirt as your hole stretches around him, both of you exhaling simultaneous sighs of relief.

It burns and it stings and God, you need more, eyes rolling back in your skull as the sharp heels of your stilettos dig into his lower back, little fingers tangling in white cotton as you try to pull him closer, closer, closer.

“Greedy little brat,” he snarls out as his hips begin snapping, the movement sudden, unexpected, welcomed, a choked cry of his name catching in your throat.

And it’s brutal and relentless, primal and desperate, lacking most of his usual finesse as he pounds into you, cockhead slamming against your cervix with every harsh thrust of his hips, hard enough to move the entire table itself, legs scraping against the floor a little more with each pump.

Inky curls cling to his forehead and temples, the white cotton of his dress shirt becoming translucent as it sticks to his damp skin, highlighting the hard planes of defined muscle that flex with each ragged inhale.

Surging forward, his tongue runs along the inside of your teeth before it drags against yours, slow and heavy, depositing his taste and staining it with the flavour of him, fiery cinnamon gum and smoky Marlboros. Gorgeous, needy little whines break in his throat in time with each strong piston of his hips, muffled by your mouth, and you greedily swallow whatever he’ll afford you.

It’s total sensory overload—he’s all you can see, all you can hear, all you can taste, touch, breathe, hijacking all of your receptors and overwhelming you with him.

It’s building inside of you, deep in the pit of your stomach, scorching flames that glow as blue as his eyes as they rage, climbing higher and higher, licking at your insides and expanding further and further until they finally engulf you, consume you, with their blaze, and everything shatters, body convulsing almost violently around his cock as you cum with a strained cry of his name.

“Fill me, Mister,” you’re babbling, begging, swearing you’ll die if he doesn’t, the flames will burn you to ash if you don’t get his cum soon, voice absolutely wrecked. “Fill me, fill me,”

And he obeys, filling your cute little cunt to the brim with thick, hot cum as his cock pulses, a cracked whimper of f-fuck, slipping past his lips.

His chest heaves as he collapses against you, the two of you falling back against the table’s surface with a thump, his cock still buried inside of you. A soft whine sounds in the back of your throat as you carefully unlock your legs from around him, wincing a little at the stiffness in your thighs.

I love you.

The three words are murmured into your shoulder, so soft you barely hear them, so quiet you’re sure you’d have imagined them had you not felt his lips move against your flesh, not felt his hot breath on your skin, not felt the gentle vibrations in his chest as he spoke.

“I love you,” you respond, voice tender as tiny fingers comb through his dishevelled hair. “I love you,”

He’s silent for a moment, your combined pants the only sounds ringing out among the hotel room, and then he nods—once at first; just a quick, sharp motion, and then again a moment later, with more vigour, more purpose, more acceptance.

Little hands smooth down the damp cotton hugging his back and your head lolls to the side, cheek pressed against the cool wood of the table. A certain type of giddiness—a type that’s sick, that’s twisted, that’s stuffed full of love—floods your body as your eyes connect with those of a dead man, laying in a pool sticky crimson, and God, yes, you love him, you love him, you love him—more than anyone else ever could, more than you could ever love anything else.