#like the bag was labeled dead dove do not eat

[starrynyx]

theres people on this website typing sermons against the moral impurity of characters in a show that is literally a dark comedy about demons in hell. satire isnt dead but its fighting for its life

[romana-after-dark]

Dead Dove December 2024

Hello everyone! This December I’m hosting a multi-fandom event that I’m calling, Dead Dove December! From 12/01/2024 - 12/31/2024 I’m encouraging others to create something that expresses their deepest and (most importantly) darkest desires. I will be reblogging all pieces of art or fanfiction, and will post a masterlist in January. or whenever i get around to it. i have not even done the pride masterlist bc I'm a disaster! But most importantly this will be for funsies.

I hosted this last year with just oscar/pedro Characters but Logan is my special guy so he's here now too <3

Details below the cut…

What is Dead Dove Do Not Eat?

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, or DDDNE has its origins in one of my comfort shows!

The phrase comes from a meme referencing the 2003 Arrested Development episode "Top Banana", in which Michael Bluth opens a paper bag labeled "DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT" and, upon discovering that there is a dead dove inside the bag, says, deadpan, "I don't know what I expected." - fanlore.org

In short, what you see in the tags is what you should expect to see in the fic. This can apply for any type of fic, including the fluffy ones, but it’s usually associated with darker themes. That being said, this is your warning that this is a DARK THEMED EVENT. If you aren’t comfortable with darker topics like non-con, excessive violence, blood/gore, death, toxic relationships, 18+ age gaps, and more, then I encourage you not to participate in this event.

How to Participate

For the month of December, post your Dead Dove fanfiction or fan art on your blog. Use the tag #deaddovedecemeber2024 and tag me. You can also send a link via ask or DM if you like! I will not be posting anything for you, just reblogging and linking. At the end of December I will post a masterlist with links to everyone’s works! Side Note - Since Tumblr doesn’t really allow for NSFW art, you can post your work on Twitter or any other site that allows it and just send me that link so I can add it to the masterlist.

Rules

You MUST be 18+ to participate. I will be checking your blog/social media to be sure. Please make sure your age is easy to find. If I find that you’re a minor or if your age isn’t readily present I will be blocking you and you will be unable to participate. You can just add that you are over 18 if you don’t want your age out on the internet. As the creator and promotor of this event, I need to know I’m not interacting with minors given the nature of this event.

The work MUST be dark in some way. There’s no limit to how dark your work needs to be or can be, but it needs to contain some sort of dark theme in order to qualify. If non con isn’t your thing, dub con via stockholm syndrome or brainwash can let you write a more comfortable scene while still remaining dark. Fics and art do not necessarily need to be NSFW. last year a friend even did cnc, where it was seemingly dark but then ended with it was Marc and reader ding a scene. Dark reader or oc is an absolute yes.

Your work MUST have an Oscar Isaac, Hugh Jackman, or Pedro Pascal Character. It can be x reader, x oc,xcanon character, crosoversec. If you want Joel Miller fucking the ghoul from Fallout (or both of them fucking a reader)you can even though Eddie doesn't exist in any Oscar Pedro Hugh content. If you want Marc and Logan to fuck, go nuts. Got a series you're already writing, and wanna submit a dark chapter or a dark Au to it? That's fine too! We're pretty open here. No rpf.

Do NOT post anything before 12/01/2024. I will not count submissions prior to that date or after 12/31/2024. Masterlsit will be posted in January.

Your work MUST contain the proper tags. I won’t police how detailed your tags should be, but, for instance, if your work contains non-con, and you didn’t tag non-con then your work will not qualify. Please be inclusive in your writing where you can, but aware of POC queer and disabled people.

You may submit no more than two (2) pieces. This can include a fanfic and fanart, two fanfics or two fanarts. This is to allow someone to write a piece and make a work of art to accompany it. You can also work with another creator together.

I’m not going to yuck someone’s yum, but there are some things I’m just personally not comfortable with and since I’ll be reading/viewing/promoting all of these, I have a few things not allowed in the event. The list of what’s NOT allowed is shorter than the list of what IS allowed so here’s a list of the things that will NOT be tolerated in this event:

No underage/aged up minor content - To clarify, this includes things popular ships like - TLOU 1 or "Show Ellie" x Joel or Miguel O’Hara X Gwen Stacy. No "ageing up" minors for the purpose of a fic.

No Bestiality - To clarify, monsterfucking does NOT count as bestiality (at least to me). For example, werewolves, venom, Khonshu, e.t.c. are all allowed.

No Real person fanfiction. Can’t include Oscar, Pedro, or Hugh. This is not a moral judgement or me looking down just not in my comfort zone

No incest - To clarify, step-sibling/step-parent relationships are permitted as long as everyone is 18+. Different age of consent in your state or country does not apply here, and frankly I'd prefer 21+ but I know there are younger people than me who write so I'm not gonna say you gotta write like that. Selfcest relationships are also allowed (like Moon Knight or Miguel with his alternate self, e.t.c.).

No necro/snuff. Plain and simple.

I have final say in what I want to promote. Is TLOU 2 Ellie an adult and not technically Joel's ctual kid? Yes. technically it fits all the rules but it gives me the ick so I'm not gonna accept it. I cannot possibly prepare for all scenarios, and i want to just be able to have fun here with yall.

If you’re unsure if something is allowed or not, you can send me a DM or an ask for clarification prior to posting.

You can use any prompts you want or none, you aren’t tied to any one idea but here are some to get the ideas flowing if you need them!

Also, you can absolutely use a fic to inspire your art, or art to inspire a fic! Your inspiration piece, whether yours or someone else’s does not have to be from December, but you MUST obtain permission from the original creator before I promote your work. Most creators are happy when their work inspires others, and all my fics are open to being used for inspiration, but please reach out to the creator first.

I’m very excited! This is my second year hosting this an I've hosted other events by myself or with friends so I'm happy to keep going, this time with Hugh Jackman bc i can't get Logan out of my head.

Dividers and header made by the amazing @melodygatesauthor

Please consider reblogging to spread the word!

I don't reall know many people in the logan/hugh jackman fandom so I'd love if this was an oppritunity to get to know yall too!

Dark prompt list to come, also check out #deaddovedecember2023 to see what last year had!

[5ummit]

So there's this post with a troubling number of notes going around insisting that "dead dove" is not a genre, it doesn't inherently have anything to do with darkfic, and that the tag could be applied to fics that are "100% fluffy where everyone's having a good time" if they happen to contain some abnormal (though entirely non-problematic) content like an unusual kink. The claim is that "dead dove: do not eat" is simply a "courtesy tag" that means "this is a very specific niche, mind the tags." And that's just... wrong.

I wrote up a whole rebuttal to this post since I can't stand misinformation and frankly OP was being kinda rude and judgey on top of their wrongness. But right after I posted my reply, OP turned off reblogs because, and I quote, “some fuckwad added some dumb shit onto this post and it is no longer educational” (the “fuckwad” being me and the “dumb shit” being proof that they were wrong). A couple people have asked me to make a rebloggable version of my response, which I've decided to do because this isn't the first time I've heard similar claims and I want to help set the record straight. However, I'm not linking the original post on the off chance this gains traction because OP did the right thing by turning off reblogs, preventing it from circulating further, and I don't want them to get hate for being unfortunately misinformed.

For those who don't know the history, "dead dove: do not eat" was originally proposed as a catchall "hydra trash party" alternative label for any fandom to warn that the content of a fic may be considered problematic or potentially upsetting and to read the tags carefully so you know what you're getting into and won't complain later. Specifically, DD:DNE was intended to convey that the Bad Things in the fic would likely be reveled in and not explicitly condemned by the narrative, which some people tend to get up in arms about, hence the need for the extra warning in addition to the tags. Don't believe me? Here's the original proposal (note DD:DNE can be found on a handful of fics dated before 2015 but this is when it really took off and became a Thing).

There are currently around 50,000 fics tagged as "dead dove: do not eat" on AO3 and close to 50% of those also include the rape/noncon warning (which of course is not the only type of "dead dove" but is one of the most popular and most consistently tagged). The normal percentage of noncon fics in any given fandom? Around 1-3%. That's a HUGE disparity. So don't tell me that dead dove is just a general "courtesy tag" and doesn't or shouldn't have dark connotations. Even the context of the original joke on Arrested Development has a dark undertone. Micheal Bluth casually finds an animal carcass in a bag in his refrigerator with the label "do not eat", as if eating it would be any sane person's first thought. The whole situation is kinda fucked up. And this fucked up vibe very much carries over into fandom usage too, as was intended.

The claim that dead dove has nothing to do with the content's genre and could just as easily be used to describe a 100% fluffy fic in which everyone's having a good time is straight up Wrong, or at the very least, severely warping the original meaning. Also, when someone these days says that they like/dislike "dead dove" most people in fandom automatically understand what that means because of the consistency of its usage over the years and the way language evolves. Whether you like it or not, "dead dove" IS a genre now and the term does carry a specific connotation. I do agree that DD:DNE should definitely still be used in conjunction with other tags, when applicable, to be explicit about the exact type of fucked up content you may find, but to say that the term is meaningless on its own is patently false and I'm tired of people who don't know what they're talking about pushing this narrative and causing even more confusion.

You want a generic term that also means "mind the tags" and doesn't have any inherently dark connotations? Just use good ol' "what it says on the tin" instead of trying to force dead dove to be something it's not.

[gingerkunoichii]

FANART 1 2 3 (i love you) After leaving your old university under a cloud of scandal, you arrive at Konoha University, ready for a fresh start.

Once queen of the party scene, your killer smile and sharp edge left a trail of broken hearts. The drug fuelled nights, bad decisions, and neon-lit chaos follows you. Alpha Kappa Blossom, a sorority with varying characters welcomes you and you feel like you've known these people for a lifetime very quickly—but nothing comes without strings.

Your past still lingers. No matter how loud the music and whatever you take to sedate yourself from reality, you can’t outrun the fallout.

// WARNINGS // Recreational Drug Use, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Alcohol, Drinking to Cope, Partying, Greek Life, Fraternities & Sororities, Modern AU, Drunk Sex, Bad Decisions, Fratboy Akatsuki, Fratboy Konoha 11, Most Men Being Fuckboys, Sisterhood, Casual Sex, Drug-Induced Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Toxic, Abusive Relationships, Blackmail, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Huge General Trigger Warning

PLEASE READ TAGS ON AO3 FOR MORE INFO

Chapter 1 You had anticipated your first day at Konoha University would be awkward, but reality surpassed expectation in the worst way. The air outside the dorms was thick with the stale scent of overcooked cafeteria food, cigarette smoke, and restless energy. Faded banners proclaiming "Welcome New Students!" hung askew from upper windows, their colours washed out by time and indifference. You adjusted the strap of your worn duffel bag, its weight biting into your shoulder, and wondered—for the hundredth time—if transferring there had been a mistake. This was supposed to be a fresh start, but now it felt like stepping into a world you were never meant to enter.

The dormitory loomed ahead, stark and institutional, its white paint peeling in long strips and identical windows staring blankly into the distance. Swallowing the knot of unease tightening in your chest, you forced yourself through the entrance. The lobby was bedlam—students wandering aimlessly, parents arguing with stressed-out staff, and someone half-heartedly strumming an acoustic guitar in the corner like they were auditioning for a coming-of-age film. You suppressed the urge to roll your eyes.

Your dorm assignment paper read: Room 314B - Nara Hall. You climbed a narrow, groaning staircase, your heart pounding for no good reason except that everything about this place felt like it was closing in on you. The third-floor hallway smelled faintly of musty carpet and a failing attempt at floral air freshener. After passing a series of identical, chipped doors, you found your room at the very end of the hall.

Taking a steadying breath, you pushed the door open.

The room was... cramped. Two twin beds flanked opposite walls, accompanied by mismatched furniture that looked like it had been salvaged from a thrift-store clearance bin. A single window offered a grim view of the cracked, sun-bleached dorm parking lot. One side of the room was starkly empty—but the other side assaulted the senses.

Posters of conspiracy theories and what you assumed to be arcane symbols smothered the walls, tangled with string lights and Polaroid photos of abandoned playgrounds and distorted forest landscapes. A life-sized cardboard cut out of a low-budget sci-fi character stood vigil by the window, holding a sign that read “WELCOME TO THE VOID.”

And there she was—your roommate.

She sat cross-legged on her bed, clad in striped knee-high socks and a worn T-shirt reading “I Talk to Ghosts” in dripping, horror-themed font. Her choppy, dark hair was pinned back with mismatched coffin-shaped clips. As she meticulously painted her nails with toxic-black polish, she hummed an off-key tune.

Her heavily lined eyes snapped up as you entered, widening theatrically.

“Oh my god!” she gasped, dropping the nail polish onto a precariously stacked pile of books labeled Paranormal Phenomena: Volumes 1-6. “You must be the new girl, I was told by the TA that you’d transferred here into second year! I knew you’d show up.”

You blinked. “Uh… yeah. I’m Y/N.”

She leapt from her bed with unsettling enthusiasm. “I’m Izumi! But my coven calls me ‘Nightshade.’ Well, it’s not officially a coven… yet. But it will be. Eventually.”

You just… stared.

“I manifested you,” she continued proudly, gesturing toward a battered Ouija board displayed prominently on her desk. “I did a summoning ritual for a ‘kindred spirit,’ and—” she pointed emphatically at you—“here you are!” Her grin was disturbingly earnest.

For a moment, you seriously considered turning around, walking out, and requesting a new room assignment. But something in the way her expression softened—like she was genuinely hoping you’d stay—gave you pause.

Against all better judgment, you stepped further into the room, dropping your bag onto the empty bed.

“Cool,” you said flatly, masking uncertainty with indifference. “Just… no goat sacrifices or anything.”

Izumi clapped her hands together, practically vibrating with excitement. “This is going to be so much fun! ”

You already regretted everything.

Before you could even unzip your duffel bag, Izumi— or Nightshade—sprang from her bed like a coiled spring, crossing the room in three long, almost theatrical strides. Her combat boots thudded softly against the scuffed linoleum floor as her long, striped socks scrunched with each step.

“So! What’s your major?” she asked eagerly, tilting her head like a curious raven inspecting something shiny.

“Uh...” you replied cautiously, still adjusting to her overwhelming energy. “I’m majoring in arts.”

Her eyes widened, practically glowing with excitement. “Arts! That’s perfect. You’re probably one of those tortured-artist types who creates things that make people feel uncomfortable... or haunted.” She gestured wildly as if envisioning some dark, twisted masterpiece. “I knew the universe wouldn’t stick me with some boring business major.”

You let out a faint, exasperated sigh and turned back to unzip your duffel bag, already dreading the rest of this bizarre conversation.

“What’s your zodiac sign?” she pressed, undeterred.

“Scorpio,” you answered flatly, figuring it was easier to cooperate than resist.

She let out a delighted, almost sinister laugh, spinning on her heel as if energized by your answer. “ Of course you’re a Scorpio. I could feel the dark, brooding energy when you walked in.” She nodded to herself as though confirming a long-held suspicion.

You sighed inwardly. “What’s yours?” you asked without looking up, folding a well-worn hoodie and stuffing it into the tiny dresser.

“Capricorn sun, Pisces moon, Scorpio rising,” she declared proudly, her hand placed reverently over her chest. “I’m basically a cosmic enigma.”

You paused, glancing at her from the corner of your eye, you had no idea whatever the fuck those words meant. Her expression was deadly serious, as though she truly believed she was some otherworldly being.

Not knowing how to respond, you continued methodically unpacking your clothes, your fingers brushing against a familiar worn book tucked among your things— The Collected Works of Sylvia Plath . You hesitated, then shoved it deeper into the drawer.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” she continued, her voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper.

“Not really,” you admitted, still bent over the drawer.

“Oh, you will, ” she said with a knowing smirk, leaning in slightly like she was sharing a forbidden secret.

You shot her a wary glance. “Right.”

Izumi dramatically leaned against her bedpost, crossing one leg over the other as her combat boot bounced rhythmically against the frame. Her eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement, practically devouring every word you spoke.

“Any exes I need to know about? Stalkers? Cursed objects you brought with you?” she asked, her voice equal parts nosy and fascinated.

“Just... normal stuff,” you muttered not wanting to let her know a single thing about you, shutting the drawer a little harder than necessary and wondering how long this interrogation would last.

“Normal is boring, ” she sighed dramatically, tossing her hair over her shoulder with practiced flair. “But don’t worry— I’ll fix that.”

Her eyes lingered on you for a moment too long, glittering with something between amusement and intent.

You couldn’t tell if she was joking—or making a promise.

Suddenly, Izumi clapped her hands together with a sharp smack . “Oh! There’s going to be a university fair tomorrow for all the new students. They’ll have sororities— bleh .” She stuck her finger dramatically to her mouth and made an exaggerated gagging sound, rolling her eyes with theatrical disdain.

You bit back a smirk despite yourself.

“Clubs... and my club.” Her expression lit up like she had just revealed the meaning of life.

You raised an eyebrow. “Your club?”

“The Supernatural Society!” she declared proudly, throwing her arms wide like she was summoning the spirits themselves. Her combat boots scuffed the linoleum as she took a commanding stance, practically glowing with excitement. “I’m the president, obviously. ”

Of course she fucking is, you thought dryly, fighting the urge to roll your eyes.

“It’s only the most important club on campus,” she continued, pacing dramatically as though delivering a speech to an unseen audience. “We investigate the unknown, explore the unexplained, and seek truths that others are too afraid to uncover.”

She stopped abruptly and jabbed a finger toward you, her gaze piercing. “You should definitely come. Even if you’re technically a second-year, you’re basically new here.”

Izumi leaned in slightly, lowering her voice into something almost conspiratorial. “We could use someone like you.”

Her eyes gleamed with intent, and for a second, you couldn’t tell if she was inviting you—or recruiting you.

You hesitated, trying to suppress a wave of unease. She’s... real fucking intense.

Before you could answer, she launched back into her pitch. “We meet in the old art studio in East Hall. They say it’s haunted—which is perfect for our sessions.” Her fingers flexed like she was already imagining the next eerie ritual. “Candles, chanting... sometimes the lights flicker, but that just adds to the vibe, you know?”

You crossed your arms, studying her carefully. “Do... other people actually join this club?”

Her face lit up with genuine pride. “We have seven members right now. Quality over quantity!” she said quickly, then added, “But honestly, you seem... different. ” Her eyes narrowed slightly, appraising you like she was looking through your skin, searching for something only she could see.

You simply stared into her dark eyes, giving her absolutely nothing to work with. Of course you'd be roomed with an absolute fucking weirdo. Sure you were weird in your own way, but there were such things called boundaries.

“I’ll... think about it,” you said cautiously, already wondering if avoiding this so-called Supernatural Society would be impossible.

Izumi grinned, satisfied. “Good.”

You weren’t entirely sure what you had just agreed to—or what you might’ve gotten yourself into.

After stuffing the last of your clothes into the dresser’s creaky drawers, you let out a weary sigh. Unpacking felt like peeling off a layer of tension, though the strange energy radiating from your roommate, Izumi, never wavered.

Before you could even react, she leapt from her bed. “Alright, enough stalling—we’re going to the university fair.”

“I just unpacked—”

She seized your wrist like an impatient spectre. “No excuses. You’re new. We must stake our claim.” The university quad buzzed with chaotic energy. Booths stretched endlessly in uneven rows, each fighting for attention with blaring music, glittering decorations, and too-loud voices. Flyers fluttered in the breeze, sticking to shoes and swirling like confetti from hell.

A sorority girl with a blinding white smile and neon-pink crop top waved pompoms aggressively from atop a decorated table. “ Join Delta Zeta! ” she screamed, voice sharp enough to pierce metal.

Absolutely fucking not, you thought.

“They reek of fake tan and desperation,” Izumi muttered, sneering.

Students in Greek-letter hoodies patrolled like predators on the hunt. A blonde guy with long hair and a wild grin leaned lazily against a booth marked Sigma Omega Omicron . His sharp blue eyes sparkled with something both inviting and dangerous.

Next to him, a tall, muscular white-haired guy with tattoos covering his arms barked crudely at passers-by. “Oi, you scared of fun or just allergic to living?!” he roared, throwing his arms wide.

The blonde snickered. “Bet you couldn’t handle one party, princess. ”

You halted mid-step, spinning on your heel with a snarky smile. “You’d be surprised.”

His smirk faltered for a split second before returning with twice the arrogance. “ Feisty. I like that.”

Izumi yanked your arm. “Don’t engage with the delinquents.”

“Typical SOO trash,” she hissed, her chopped hair moving briskly as she shook her head. “Don’t even look at them.” Hidan hissed back at her, earning him a quick middle finger. The Sigma Omega Omicron booth radiated chaotic energy, surrounded by a growing crowd of curious onlookers and reluctant recruits. More members emerged like predators circling prey: a tall, muscular guy with piercings and a stitched-together leather jacket—Kisame (Events Coordinator)—stood intimidatingly close to the table, cracking his knuckles for emphasis causing you to roll your eyes.

Behind the table, a lean, pale-skinned man with sharp features and onyx eyes meticulously shuffled through forms like he was managing a hostile takeover rather than a booth for a frat. His nametag read Itachi (Secretary).

The silver-haired man that had been shouting at freshmen plopped himself down, flicking a lighter repeatedly while balancing precariously on a folding chair. His shirt read “Repent Later.” His nametag: Hidan (Social Chair).

Deidara’s name was written dramatically with the role underneath it being smudged to the point you couldn’t read it, the long-haired blonde who had made an ugly pass at you, gestured grandly toward the banner with spray-paint streaks declaring “JOIN SIGMA OMEGA – WE MAKE HISTORY” in bold, messy letters. “Come on, cowards! Live a little!”

“Or don’t,” Hidan added with a wicked grin. “We’re still better than you.”

Izumi muttered darkly, pulling you further away. “They’re like feral dogs in overpriced boots.” Her gaze lingering a little too long on the dark-haired man whose name tag proclaimed him as Itachi.

You couldn’t help but glance back as the crowd erupted into another round of laughter and taunts. What the actual fuck kind of university is this?

Nearby, other booths clamoured for attention: the Literature Society displayed old typewriters under a poetic sign reading “Write Your Own Destiny.” The Astronomy Club had a telescope pointed skyward, even though it was broad daylight. Someone dressed as a medieval knight swung a foam sword near the Historical Reenactment Society booth.

As you wove through the crowd, the atmosphere shifted. Loud music and hooting laughter blasted ahead. A massive banner with electric-blue letters read “DELTA OMEGA STORM - TONIGHT’S ONLY DESTINATION!”

A makeshift DJ booth blared a pounding beat while the group of men at the Delta Omega Storm booth worked the crowd like seasoned pros. Their energy was magnetic, chaotic, and absolutely ridiculous.

A broad-shouldered guy with wild brown hair barked out, “Free drinks for the hot girls, no one else need apply ! ” His sharp-toothed grin gleamed like a warning. His name tag, slapped crookedly across his chest, read: Kiba (Social Chair).

Next to him, a tall guy with long, dark hair and piercing eyes surveyed the crowd with detached coolness, his lean build and folded arms making him seem untouchable.

Another with a varsity jacket and messy blonde hair clapped an unsuspecting freshman on the back. “Delta party tonight ! ” he shouted with cocky ease. “Best night of your life, guaranteed! ” His name tag was peeling at the edges though you could make out his name was Naruto.

Near the booth’s edge, a stoic redhead in a dark hoodie stood like a silent sentinel, his intense gaze sweeping the crowd as though assessing threats—or targets.

A sharp-dressed man with cold, pale eyes stood off to the side, arms crossed as though enduring the chaos for some calculated reason. His posture radiated authority though he looked like he’d rather be running an investment portfolio rather than standing next to a neon party banner.

A quiet figure with round, dark glasses adjusted a flyer display with surgical precision, every motion deliberate and efficient. His intense focus suggested he took his recruitment duties far more seriously than his companions. 

Finally, a lanky, bored-looking guy with a perpetual slouch fiddled with a pen, twirling it in fluid, lazy motions. His eyes were half-lidded, giving the impression that existence itself was exhausting. His name tag, stuck on upside down, was impossible to read from the distance you were at.

“Don’t come if you’re gonna be boring ,” he added flatly, drawing easy laughter from nearby girls.

You snorted. The sheer absurdity of their roles being listed so formally on these cheap paper name tags was almost comical. This wasn’t a university fare—it was an overly elaborate invitation to debauchery.

“Want to check it out?” you asked Izumi, half-joking.

She snorted. “ Them? They’re not as bad as SOO... but still... reckless. ”

You smiled faintly. Reckless sounded exactly like what you needed or else you’d bore yourself doing art alone in your room all year– a nightmare in itself, especially seeing your roommate.

Without another word, you shrugged off Izumi’s warning. What the hell . Your so-called fresh start was already spiralling into chaos; you might as well lean into it, just like you did before at your old university, for better or worse.

Izumi sighed in clear disappointment, folding her arms. “I’ll see you later, then. If you have time, you should check out the Supernatural Society booth.”

You barely held back a scoff. “Sure.” Like fuck you were spending another second with her and her cursed objects collection. You’d rather eat glass.

She shot you a long, knowing look before disappearing into the crowd, her dark hair swinging sharply with each step.

You strode confidently toward the Delta Omega Storm booth, shoulders back, chin high. Caution was something you’d never had when making shit decisions.

As you approached, the wild-haired guy—Kiba, according to his name tag—locked onto you with the sharp intensity of a predator sizing up potential prey. His posture shifted, straightening just enough to exude aggressive confidence.

He tilted his head, brazenly dragging his eyes over you like he was inspecting goods at a dodgy market. “You here to actually party, or just look pretty and waste my time?”

The audacity hit you like a slap. Before you could stop yourself, you fired back, “Depends. Are the drinks cold, or are you serving frat-boy delusions on tap?”

His mouth twisted into something between amusement and challenge. “Alright. We could definitely use more of that tonight.”

Behind him, the tall, dark-haired guy—Sasuke, his name tag read—let out a quiet, derisive snort. His sharp, unreadable gaze met yours for a fleeting second before shifting back to the crowd. His lean frame radiated disdain, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his dark eyes.

“Name?” Kiba asked, already snatching up a flyer from the cluttered stack on the table.

“Y/N.”

His grin widened into something feral. “Y/N, you just earned VIP. Don’t disappoint.” He thrust a glossy, neon-bright invitation into your hand.

You smirked despite yourself. Being reckless was in your nature.

“Hey! You over there!”

Startled, you glanced up to see a sleekly decorated sorority booth positioned directly opposite Delta Omega Storm’s chaotic display. A large pastel-pink banner read Alpha Kappa Blossom (AKB) in elegant cursive. The whole setup was polished, sophisticated, and surprisingly modern—no neon-orange spray-tan disasters in sight.

Finally, some fucking normalcy, much more to my taste.

A tall, striking blonde with piercing blue eyes waved you over, her bright smile practically sparkling under the afternoon sun. Her nametag read “ Ino - Vice President. ” She rested a manicured hand on her hip, her sleek ponytail gleaming like something out of a haircare commercial.

“You look like you belong over here! ” Ino called enthusiastically, gesturing toward the booth’s carefully arranged display of glossy sorority brochures and immaculate floral arrangements.

You hesitated but found yourself walking toward her anyway. After surviving the testosterone-fuelled circus of Delta Omega Storm, this felt... refreshingly normal - she reminded you of your old friends, when things were good between you all at least.

“Welcome to Alpha Kappa Blossom!” Ino beamed, extending a perfectly manicured hand. “I’m Ino, Recruitment Chair. You’ve got great energy—I can tell already.”

Her confidence was magnetic but not overbearing. The women stationed around the booth radiated similar charisma—polished, stylish, but undeniably sharp.

You caught glimpses of other girls chatting with prospective members: a dark-haired woman with striking lavender eyes organizing pamphlets with precise care, a tall, athletic brunette adjusting a trophy display, and a petite, pink-haired woman enthusiastically leading a group of freshmen on a booth tour.

You shook Ino’s hand firmly. “Y/N.”

Her smile widened. “Y/N. Love that. Ever considered going Greek?” She tilted her head, studying your expression like she could read between the lines.

You shrugged casually, knowing not to say much. “I was in a sorority at my last university.”

Her eyes sparkled with interest, her fingers tapping thoughtfully against the edge of the booth’s sign.  “Then you already know how it works! We’re throwing a welcome event tonight—you should definitely come.”

You glanced back toward Delta Omega Storm’s loud, chaotic booth where Kiba was now howling towards a freshman girl something about “body shots.” The contrast was almost laughable.

God, anything’s better than getting stuck with that creepy roommate. You’d sooner dive headfirst into Delta’s questionable pool than spend another evening hearing about manifestation.

“Alright,” you said, flashing a faint smirk. “I’m in.”

“By the way,” you asked smoothly, “do you guys plan to hit the Delta Omega party later?”

Ino’s grin widened knowingly, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Totally. After the welcome event, of course. They’re our brother fraternity.” She rested a hand on her hip, radiating effortless confidence.

The dark-haired woman with lavender eyes—whose name tag read Hinata - New Member Educator —approached with a warm, genuine smile that softened her otherwise regal demeanor. “You should come. The parties are... energetic.” Her soft voice carried a hint of amusement, as though she knew far more than she let on. You found it incredibly useful that everyone on these booths were wearing name tags.

Before you could respond, the athletic brunette— Tenten - Event Planner —laughed as she tossed a stack of brochures onto the table, her toned arms flexing slightly. “Delta Omega’s parties are legendary. Just... watch out for Kiba. He thinks he’s charming.” She rolled her eyes affectionately, clearly accustomed to his antics.

You smirked, shifting your weight casually. “Yeah, I met him. Total salesman.”

The pink-haired girl— Sakura - President —returned, practically buzzing with excitement, her energy palpable even in the chaotic fair setting. “You’re definitely coming, right?” Her green eyes sparkled with genuine enthusiasm as she handed you a neatly folded invite printed with shimmering gold letters.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you said smoothly, already feeling more at home.

Ino clapped her hands together with satisfaction. "Perfect. You’ll fit in here just fine." Her tone was confident, almost like she’d already claimed you for the sorority.

Her eyes sparkled with curiosity as she tilted her head. "So you said something about an old university... are you a freshman?"

"Second-year," you replied casually. "Art major. Transfer student."

Ino’s interest visibly deepened. She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like she was about to uncover the juiciest piece of gossip. "Ooh, transfer? Why’d you switch schools?"

You smirked, savoring the slight tension hanging in the air. "Maybe after a few shots, I’ll tell you."

Ino gasped playfully, pressing a hand to her chest like you’d just issued the ultimate challenge. "I’m holding you to that, if I remember to ask."

As the conversation continued, the sorority girls began filling you in on the night’s itinerary. “We’re hosting a pre-party mixer at our house first,” Tenten explained while rearranging some event flyers with efficient precision. “It’s less... chaotic than Delta’s. But after? We’ll head over together.”

“Think of it as... maintaining balance,” Sakura added with a wry smirk. “A little elegance before absolute madness.”

Hinata nodded, her expression thoughtful. “And it’s tradition to arrive together. It keeps things... coordinated. We do everything with our brother fraternity.”

Coordinated, you thought, amused. They operated like a well-oiled machine, blending genuine friendship with the sharp calculation of practiced social navigators.

Ino leaned in conspiratorially. “Also... word of advice? Don’t let Naruto talk you into any drinking contests.” Her smile turned wicked. “He’s undefeated, and you will regret it.”

Sakura snorted. “He lives for that dumb King of Shots title.”

Tenten chimed in with mock seriousness. “And if you hear someone yelling about ‘legendary feats’—just walk away.”

Your eyebrow twitched upwards in wonderment of whatever the fuck that could even mean. You laughed, imagining the chaos already. “Good to know.”

As you lingered by the booth, you couldn’t help but notice how seamlessly they interacted—not just with you, but with each other. They weren’t playing a role or putting on an act. This was their world: stylish, commanding, and irresistibly magnetic.

“See you tonight,” Ino said with a playful wink, waving as she moved on to greet another curious student.

You slipped the invitation into your bag, feeling the spark of anticipation ignite in your chest.

Maybe this year wouldn’t be so bad after all.

AO3 LINK so you don't have to scroll :)

[archesnalleyways]

you should really expand on the thought of having to suck rick’s cock at gun point like I’m salivating thinking about it

Teehee 🤭

requests are open, we are so back

Warning: contains guns, other weaponry, non-con/dub-con

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

You’ve moved away from your basecamp alone, in desperate need for some cans of food. The supermarket looks pretty bolted up but you spotted a inconspicuous window high up on a wall and decided to try your luck. Some shelves were tipped over, some broken, but as you worked your way through you found a storage room.

Your eyes spotted a cardboard box and in your hungry, desperate state you just dropped your gear and started to rummage through it. In the damp box there was a load of tin-cans, some leaking but multiple intact. Beside you on the floor you started to pile up the useful ones, trying to read some of the drooping labels.

But then you hear a gun click behind you. The blood freezes in your veins and one hundred scenarios flash before your eyes,

“Drop the cans” a husky voice states.

Your hands instinctively let go of the food, brain jumping from the fear of being shot, to your weapons being three feet behind you, to the hunger residing in your gut. Lifting your arms up in the air the show that you’re unarmed.

“Now turn around, slowly.”

You start to rise up but you hear the man behind you tut.

“Stay down.”

The pang of humiliation is faint in contrast to the fear, but it’s still there. But you listen and spin around, still on your knees, and turn to see a tall man pointing a gun straight at you. There’s a shotgun slung over his back, multiple knives strapped to his body and his blue eyes trained at your every movement.

“Aren’t you a pretty lil thing?” He says with a southern drawl, looking you over once before focusing on the box slightly behind you.

An old, ragged tote is thrown to your knees as he uses the mouth of the gun to point at you and then the food.

“Pack everything edible in that bag, now.”

Your hands made quick work of piling the cans, sorting out the already opened ones onto the side. Your eyes leave the food for a second to look over at the man again. He lifts an eyebrow at you, taking half a stride closer to examine your work. As the last can is placed into the bag you twist your body to place it by his feet.

“Put your arms behind your back.”

You move instantly as he glances into the tote and nods approvingly.

“You take orders so well, darlin” the man says, with something dark glittering in his eyes.

He walks up the few steps toward you, gun still aimed at you, as he grips your chin. His calloused thumb drags against your bottom lip before grabbing your cheeks, forcing your face into a ridiculous pout. As he let go slowly your tongue darted out to wet your lips, completely involuntarily.

He groans and moves his hand to his groin, massaging the bulge there. Your eyes widen as you started to put together what was gonna happen. The mans salt-and-pepper beard moved as he smirked popping open the button on his jeans.

“It would be such a waste to let you go now, doll-face” he says as his hand returns to his dick that is hardening in a rapid speed, “especially since you are so good at taking orders, right darlin’?”

His whole face darkens and his eyes bore into your own, as he leans down slightly.

“If I even feel a hint of your teeth I’ll empty the fuckin’ clip” the man hisses at you, pushing the barrel of the gun firmly against your head.

You nodded softly with your heart beating out of your chest, and lifted your hands to pull down his jeans. The cock that springs out is undeniably pretty and perfectly red over the tip. Paired with the rugged good looks of its owner this experience might’ve been enjoyable for you. But then you’re reminded of the weapon and ushered to get to work.

Your tongue darted out to lick at the underside, lips wrapping around his tip. You taste the hint of precum before taking half of his length into your mouth, tentatively bobbing over the first couple of inches.

“Good, that’s good” he grunts, dick twitching as he sees tears starting to roll down your cheeks from the strain.

Hollowing out your cheeks you decide to take in some more of him, desperately trying to make this the best blowjob of your life. Saliva starts to gather at corners of your mouth as you dare to look up at him for the first time, but not before stealing a glance of the gun in his hand first.

“Pull your top down, wanna see your drool over those tits”

With a quick yank your boobs spill out, nipples already pert from the cool air and, despite the circumstances, arousal. The man groans in appreciation.

A big hand splays over the back of your head and you have time to anxiously dart your eyes up to his before he starts to thrust into your mouth, and subsequently down your throat.

The sounds of his pleasure and your gags blend as they ring out into the store, one of your hands resting at the base of his cock and the other landing to cup your clothed pussy.

“Ah, fuck it!”

The curly-haired man seemed to get lost in his pleasure since he decides to fasten his gun into his holster to free up his hands. Grabbing a chunk of your hair to maneuver you over his massive cock, pushing you down until your nose was pressed into the patch of hair at his base. You gargle around his member, more drool bubbling from the edge of your lips.

“That’s it, doll” he moans, “choke on it.”

He lifts his hips slightly to get the very last of his dick stuffed into your mouth, your eyes rolling into the back of your skull. When he pulls you off a string of saliva lands on your chin before it drips down onto your exposed chest. He places his dick over your face, pre-cum and your spit leaving sticky trails onto your nose and forehead.

“Aren’t you perfect stress relief?” He asks rhetorically, lifting his cock to slap it over your face a couple of times, “found me food and takes cock like a slut.”

Despite everything you feel your face flush from his words and humiliating actions. He chuckles at you, almost cooing softly before pushing you down onto his cock.

“Too bad I don’t have time to test your other holes, I’m sure they’re lovely” he groans out, thrusting deeper and deeper.

His grunts starts to increase in both volume and frequency, warning you that he’s about to cum, and you begin to mentally prepare yourself for swallowing when he pulls his cock out.

“Stay still, darlin’” he murmurs, eyebrows knitted together, as the hand not jacking himself off with pulls at your hair to put your face in the perfect angle, “I’m gonna paint a pretty picture.”

The last syllable morphed into a groan as he came, hot load landing in ropes over your face. His eyes glittered darkly as he covered you and the utter filthiness of it all made his dick twitch one last time. A few spurts landed on your tits and you keep your eyes trained onto his, mouth slightly agape. He tapped the last drops of cum onto your lips before pulling his pants up again.

He picks up the bag of food you packed and stopped for a second to take in the state of you. Tits out, eyes irritated from tears and face covered in cum. Truly a sight for sore eyes.

“Bye-bye sweetheart, I hope I’ll run into you again” he says with a wink and leaves.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

The Hand That Feeds

Pairing: Ettore (High Life) x f!reader (physical attributes such as large breasts and alternative appearance described) Warnings: DEAD DOVE; DO NOT EAT. Mentions of child neglect, prostitution, substance abuse, death, murder. Dark and obsessive behaviour, attempted sexual assault, sub/dom dynamics, male masturbation, smut. Word count: ~3.7k

Summary: Ettore is used to having to take women by force - it's how he ended up on death row, and now a suicide mission in outer space. However, when a fellow crew member catches his eye and becomes the object of his twisted fantasies, he soon learns that the touch of a woman feels more satisfying when he's made to work for it. Based on this request.

Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

Ettore screws his eyes shut. Strapped into the seat of the spaceship as it hurtles upwards, plunged suddenly into darkness when the lights fail, he feels trapped. It must have been twenty years, at least, since he has felt so vulnerable.

His earliest memory is sobbing as he is shut in the cupboard, the pitch blackness terrifying and too much to bear, but the sight of what he sees when he bursts out is so much worse.

The man on top of his mother, the noises they’re making, he feels strange, a combination of wanting to watch but also a churning in his tummy that makes him feel unwell. He retreats back into the dark, closing the door and hugs his knees to his chest until it all goes quiet again. 

Ettore soon learns it is better to enter a room head first - if he is able to see exactly what is happening then he knows quickly whether it’s safe to come out, or whether he needs to retreat. Not placing his entire body in the way reduces the likelihood of being grabbed, hit, shouted at.

There’s a different man each time, and every time they leave there’s always money on the bedside table of the small studio flat, and his mother is asleep. It’s then that he crawls into bed beside her, cuddling into her warmth, tracing his fingers over the marks that litter her inner elbow creases.

He doesn’t recall his mother ever having hugged him, when she is still like this is the only time he is able to get close to her, and he wraps his arms around her until the rumbling in his stomach gets too much to bear. He is always hungry.

His bare feet crunch against spilled Rice Krispies on the dirty kitchenette floor. Sometimes there is bread to eat, if he picks around the mold, sometimes there isn’t. He sees through the window that there is a place across the road that his mother goes to every few days. She always comes back with glass bottles that clink against each other in the plastic bag, but sometimes there is bread, and less often there are Rice Krispies. He likes those, though he often spills them.

The hunger pangs in his stomach grow so bad he begins to cry. His mother no longer feels warm when he cuddles against her. He is not sure when she last woke up, why she won’t wake up now. Maybe she is just really tired.

He can see the place where she goes to get food from the window, it is not very far, perhaps she’ll wake up by the time he gets back, and so he wanders out of the flat, not closing the door behind him, and walks across the road.

Ettore’s eyes light up the moment he sees the familiar blue box of Rice Krispies, clutching it tightly in both hands. It’s only then that he looks up into the horrified face of the woman standing over him, unable to comprehend why she’s looking at him like that, as she takes in the sight of the malnourished, barefoot child before her, wearing only a t-shirt and a dirty nappy.

There are a flurry of adults around him after that, and he’s taken to live somewhere else. He never sees his mother again. He hears the phrase “non verbal” used a lot, and learns that someone of his age should be able to speak. He doesn’t know how to, and so slowly he is taught how to communicate with words.

Even when Ettore has mastered the power of speech, he prefers not to use it. He finds watching people is far better than talking to them. Most people tend to talk a lot even when they have nothing to say. He prefers the quiet.

There are lots of other children his age at the facility he’s placed in, but slowly they leave, one by one, when adults come to look around. He never leaves though, he supposes it has something to do with the way he has overheard the staff describe his eyes as “haunted” and how strange it is that he has no interest in playing. Grown ups don’t want to share their homes with children that aren’t happy. Ettore doesn’t feel he has much at all to be happy about, when he curls his lips into a smile it feels strange against his face.

As Ettore grows older, he learns of what actually happened to him. His mother had been a heroin addict, she had prostituted herself to fund her habit, and he had been a victim of her extreme neglect. She had died of an overdose and he had laid beside her body for days, until his own hunger had gotten the better of him and he’d wandered into the local corner shop in search of food. He feels nothing upon finding this out, if anything he yearns for the simpler time of huddling against the warmth of his mother as she’d slept off her fix. No one will touch him now, he craves physical contact but doesn’t know how to ask for it.

He’s placed into a foster home when he’s a teenager, though it is a placement that’s short lived. The woman has a daughter, she’s a similar age to Ettore and he longs for her touch. He knows all too well from the way that she squirms under the intensity of his gaze and leaves the room whenever they are alone together that the feeling is not reciprocated.

To Ettore it does not matter. He always waited until his mother was asleep before cuddling her, he reasons that he can simply do the same here. And he does just that; waiting until night falls and the house is quiet, he sneaks into her room, laying down upon the bed beside her.

He breathes in deeply, a delicate floral scent filling his nostrils as he runs the tip of his nose over the softness of her hair. His fingertips creep beneath her pyjama top, and he exhales a shaky breath at how silky smooth her skin feels to touch.

It’s then that she wakes up and lets out a loud scream, he topples from the bed, startled by her outburst and her mother rushes into the room. That is Ettore’s first and only foster care placement, another term is now used to describe him; “maladaptive”.

But he takes away a valuable lesson from the situation - if he wishes to touch a woman then he needs to ensure she stays asleep.

He watches couples with resentment, knowing that no woman will ever kiss or caress him with any semblance of love, not willingly anyway. Women don’t want men that are haunted and maladaptive, but that’s fine with Ettore. If it’s not freely given then he knows precisely how to take it.

Ettore preys upon those that are fumbling with their keys in the lock as they try to return home, women under the influence who spend just a little too long on their phones while trying to get a cab, and the ones that walk hurriedly towards their cars in empty, darkened parking garages.

He moves slowly, carefully, his body only moving in sync with where his head is looking once he’s certain of the target he’s selected. He is unhurried in his movements, and so he goes utterly undetected until it’s too late.

It starts as simply knocking them out and then using their bodies however he sees fit, but it  rapidly escalates when he accidentally kills one of them, it happens twice more before he’s finally apprehended.

He doesn’t try to fight it, pleads guilty in court and is sent to prison. Even with good behaviour, his sentence is such that he’ll be elderly before he’s ever free. But any opportunity for eventual freedom is snuffed out when he gets into a scuffle with another prisoner.

Threats of solitary confinement hang heavily over him as he’s dragged away, and something inside of him snaps. He won’t go back to being locked away in the dark, he can’t. So he lashes out, and as he’s stomping upon the guard’s head he is reminded of the crunching of Rice Krispies beneath his feet from when he was a child.

The death penalty doesn’t exist within the United Kingdom’s judicial system, but he knows he’s being served a death sentence when he is given the news that he has been assigned to board a spaceship with other prisoners on a mission to extract alternative energy from a black hole. There is no coming back from that, he’s not foolish enough to believe otherwise, yet he readily accepts it. There is no other alternative for him, truthfully, there never has been.

When the lights eventually flicker back on and they are alerted they can unfasten their seatbelts, Ettore finally opens his eyes, looking at the prisoners that are seated around him. He’s surprised and intrigued to find there are women as well as men on board. He hasn’t encountered a woman since being sent to prison.

The scrubs they are given to wear are baggy and conceal much of their bodies, so to his disappointment he is unable to admire the feminine curves of the women on board - except one. She is shorter than he is, the remnants of a long since faded colour adorns the ends of her hair. Both her arms are full sleeved with tattoos. He wants to tear away her uniform and see what other artwork decorates her flesh. If he were a normal person, he’d strike up a conversation and ask, but Ettore is not one for words, so he simply stares, watching her every movement as a silent storm builds inside of him.

Though she is slenderly built, he can clearly see the way the baggy top half of her clothing curves over the ample swell of her breasts. His eyes linger there whenever he passes her in the corridor, picturing what it would be like to run his hands over them and squeeze their softness.

It’s these thoughts that are the cause of his every visit to The Box, the ship’s masturbatory aid. It’s used gratuitously by all crew mates, as sexual conduct between prisoners is prohibited on board, so he spills over his knuckles every chance he gets, imagining it’s inside of her. Would she claw at his shoulders and slap at him to get away, or simply lay still and take it?

Occasionally he deposits a sample into a plastic cup, taken away by Dibs, a supposed doctor on board who seems to be the main authority figure. She never fully explains what is to be done with his specimens, but once he has taken the reward he’s provided afterwards - usually a sedative - he cannot find it in himself to care.

He has heard whispers that she is conducting fertility experiments on the ship, attempting to artificially inseminate the female inmates. If that’s the case, he is thankful that his involvement is far less invasive than theirs must be, but ultimately it’s not his problem. He keeps to himself, ever watchful of those around him.

At least there is structure and routine; he goes to sleep and wakes up at the same time each day, participates in mandatory exercise regimes, eats regular meals and is assigned maintenance work duty.

Getting to know his own schedule means becoming familiar with other people’s, and that includes her’s. There is a sense of both excitement and comfort in knowing exactly where she is and exactly what she’s doing at all times.

The first time he encounters her coming out of the Box, he’s struck by how beautiful she is, pupils dilated, skin glowing with a light sheen of perspiration, her lips slightly parted as she attempts to calm her breathing. The heady aroma of her arousal lingers faintly as he goes in after her and he has never come harder in his life than he does on that day. He makes a point to go in after her every day after that.

If she were any other woman and these were any other circumstances, he’d have forced himself upon her by now, but they are in a confined space together and there’s no way for him to act upon his urges without there being almost immediate consequences for it. Every day it feels as though a coil inside of him is wound tighter, and every day he is left wondering if that will be the day when it finally snaps and he brings everything crashing down for both of them.

Despite his internalised conflict, she seems utterly unperplexed by him, which is confusing for Ettore. He is used to women regarding him with unease and disgust, so for her to be completely unphased by his presence is disarming. She is a criminal too though, he reasons, and for her to have been served what is effectively a death sentence she must have done something terrible. The thought makes her all the more alluring to him.

He is on cleaning duty today, tasked with scrubbing down the shower tiles. He enters the showers slowly, deliberately, unable to hear water running, so assumes that there’s no one in there.

But then he spots her, her hair wet and sticking to her bare shoulders, the tops of her breasts just about visible. She hasn’t seen him, yet. His eyes roam slowly over the greyscale body art that adorns her arms and thighs, wondering if there's more hidden beneath the towel that clings to her svelte figure. 

Absent-mindedly his fingers move over the triangular motif that's tattooed on his right forearm; though the scar is no longer visible he still feels the indentations of teeth. If he closes his eyes he still remembers the way that girl had fought, biting into his flesh as he'd wrapped his arm around her throat. He can never recall their faces, but he remembers the marks they left upon him - each one now covered by the same tattoo - a target so that he never forgets - a slash of a broken bottle against his bicep, acrylic nails gouging into his neck. They're never quite strong enough, though they fight to the end. He wonders if her ink serves the purpose of covering or reminding, what sinister deeds have led her down a path of such finality. He intends to find out.

Her head snaps up to look at him and he sucks in a harsh breath as she makes eye contact with him. She doesn’t scream or shy away, simply returns his unblinking stare and his fingers flex at his sides, mouth running dry as he considers whether he’ll need to silence her or not.

“Like what you see?” She whispers, letting the towel fall slowly away.

Ettore remains unblinking, though he feels shaken to his core on the inside. He drinks in the sight of her bare flesh, her full rounded breasts, the dip of her waist, her curvaceous hips, feeling his cock twitch in his scrubs.

What the fuck is she playing at?

“Fuckin’ cock tease,” he spits out, before turning and walking away to the Box.

He reaches his peak embarrassingly quickly, brow furrowed and jaw slack as sweat rolls down his temples.

Once the feeling of euphoria has worn off it is replaced by anger and confusion. Had she been trying to get him into trouble? Did she actually want him? Was she making a mockery of him?

His mood darkens at the thought and as his mind races after lights out that night, unable to find sleep. He slips out of his bunk and walks slowly, silently, along the corridor towards her cell.

He can see the outline of her body beneath the covers, and is suddenly unsure of what he came here to do. Torn between wanting to lunge for her, grab her by the throat and make her pay for her earlier indiscretion, or simply slip beneath the covers beside her and allow his hands to roam freely, he stands and does nothing, watching her.

“Come inside, if you want,” she calls out quietly to him in the darkness, making him startle, “bunkmates are all sleeping.”

Ettore hesitates, remaining rooted to the spot, unable to believe that a woman is actually inviting him into her space, that she wants to be near him.

“You gonna pussy out again like you did earlier?” She questions playfully.

He feels embarrassment flush his cheeks and allows it to propel him forward, over the threshold, into her space. He won’t let a woman get the better of him.

She shuffles back against the wall, lifting the blanket and patting the space beside her.

He hasn’t laid beside a woman since the night he was kicked out of his foster placement for getting into bed with the host’s teenage daughter, the only other times before that were when he huddled beside his passed out mother.

Ettore swallows thickly, not wanting to show weakness and quickly slips in beside her.

She smells of the ship’s standard issue soap, yet somehow on her flesh it has an utterly different scent, it’s sweet and intoxicating and has him longing to bury his face in the crook of her neck. He inhales deeply, feeling himself grow hard from her proximity and the warmth of her soft skin against his bare torso.

Apparently she feels it too, as she eagerly snakes a hand between them, palming at him through his shorts. 

A woman has never touched him like that before, not willingly. Usually he’s the one in control. It feels too much, too fast, bile rises in his throat and he jerks away from her, stalking silently back to his own cell, shame blooming hot and heavy in his chest as he feels tears burn beneath his eyelids.

What the fuck was that?

For the first time in Ettore’s life a woman had wanted to touch him, and he’d freaked out and run away. Does she not realise what he could do to her, what he’s capable of? He is supposed to inspire fear, not lust.

He wants to storm back to her cell and smash her head against the wall. She’s made him feel weak, inferior, yet despite that he can’t shake the feeling of her hand between his legs.

Unable to help himself, he waits for her as she exits the Box the next day, the telltale signs of her having just climaxed etched all over her features as she steps out. Her expression hardens when she sees him, rolling her eyes and side stepping him, until he grabs her wrist, stopping her from going anywhere.

“Let go of me, Ettore,” she says threateningly.

“How d’you know my name?” He asks, pulling her close so he can stare down into her eyes.

She smirks. “You’re not the only one that can skulk around the ship finding things out. Dibs left your file out the last time she had me up on the table, so I snooped. I know your name, your blood type, your sperm count–”

“Do you know what I’m serving time for?” He narrows his eyes as he asks this.

“No, I figure if we’re gonna explore whatever this is,” she gestures between them, “it’s better we don’t know that about each other.”

Ettore scoffs, quirking his lips as he eyes her carefully. “And what is this?”

She shrugs. “I dunno. Clearly you’re not comfortable letting me touch you…yet. So how about you touch me instead?”

He keeps a neutral expression, despite the surprise he feels once again that a woman would willingly let him touch her. “How would that work?”

“You’re about to use the Box, right? Take me in. Touch me while you touch yourself.”

Her words send an aching pulse straight to his balls and he nods, walking into the Box, not checking to see if she’s following. He knows she will be.

“Take it off, take it all off,” he orders quietly, gesturing to her clothes.

She pulls off her top and slips off her bottoms and his gaze rakes appreciatively over her form, only this time his hand slides into his trousers as he does so, his hand wrapping around his steadily hardening length.

Her lips are parted, eyes wide as she stares up at him, her breathing almost matching the intensity of his. Tentatively he leans down, inhaling her scent. The sweetness fills his nostrils and something inside of him snaps.

Pulling his erection free, he moves his fist over it in quick, aggressive strokes, biting at her pulsepoint, before moving his lips downwards towards her tits, pressing his face into their soft warmth, mouthing at them without restraint.

True to her word, she doesn’t touch him, keeping her hands balled into tight fists at her sides, though he can tell she is desperate to reach for him, her breaths erratic as she arches into his touch.

His stomach muscles contract, pressure building at the base of his spine as droplets of pre-cum help to guide his rapid, successive jerks of his cock.

Reaching between her legs, he groans at feeling how wet she is, a combination of her previous orgasm and how aroused she is from what’s currently happening between them.

He buries his face in her chest, sinking two fingers inside of her. There is no scratching, no slapping, no disassociating. She is soft and pliant against him, willing, and as often as he has fantasised about taking her by force, this feels better than anything he has ever experienced previously, better than anything he could have imagined.

As the pressure reaches its apex and he finally climaxes with a groan and a shudder, releasing white hot ropes of his seed across her lower belly, she reaches up with shaky, tentative hands to gently run her fingers through his hair.

“Good boy,” she coos, “did so well for me.”

He sighs, leaning over her, resting his head against the wall behind her. Next time he wants to sink inside of her, to feel what it’s like to be touched, wanted, needed. Because as haunted and maladapted as he is, as he opens his eyes and stares into hers he sees that she is too. Her darkness plays well with his, and in a cold and sterile environment Ettore has finally found the warmth he’s always craved.

Chapter two || Series masterlist

[pro-sipper]

"Dead Dove: Do Not Eat"

About the tag, the origin, and why I think no one on either side of the fandom divide knows how to use it

First of all, I'm crosstagging because I think it's a general issue, not just something for pro or anti shippers. I see the tag get misused on both sides and I just wanted to throw my two cents in

So, where did the term originate? Like all culturally significant things online, it started as a meme. More specifically, a meme from the television show Arrested Development. Character A has put a dead dove into a brown paper bag to store in the family's fridge. On the bag, he has taped a sign that reads, in big bold letters, "DEAD DOVE. Do Not Eat!"

Character B comes across the bag, reads the warning, and opens it anyway. When he's met with, you guessed it, a dead dove, he proclaims "I don't know what I expected".

This is an example of (and has since basically become the spiritual successor to) the "Exactly What It Says On The Tin" trope.

If you want to check out the full history and countless examples of the trope, please check out the page on tvtropes. But for a slightly shorter history - it originated in a British commercial for Ronseal's Quick Drying Woodstain, which the tin claimed "dried quickly". And in the commercial they told you "It does exactly what it says on the tin!" So, the tin says what the product does, then the product does it. You get the idea.

In fandom spaces, the trope just means that the title of Thing (be it movie, show, fanfic, etc) tells you exactly what happens IN Thing. If a show is called "Buffy The Vampire Slayer", you already know it's about a girl named Buffy who slays vampires. If the movie is called "Cocaine Bear", you can bet a bear will get into some cocaine at some point. If there's a fanfic called "Fluttershy Has Tea With Jesus"... you get the idea.

While both tags started out with the same intentions and meaning, I don't think it's any wonder that "dead dove do not eat" has been so easy to misinterpret. For one, "exactly what it says on the tin" sounds more straightforward. You don't have to understand the specific reference to infer it means to check the label (in this case, tags) before purchasing (opening) the product (fanfic)

But dead dove is harder to understand if you don't know the reference. And at a glance, it sounds much darker. Doves have symbolism in multiple religions, and are seen as a symbol of peace. A dead dove evokes images of gore, violence, general unpleasantness. It must only apply to something sinister, right?

The thing about "exactly what it says on the tin" is that the tin needs to say something. You can't point at a blank label and say "here's what you can expect". People would be much less likely to engage with your product if that were the case

In the same vein, slapping "dead dove do not eat" on a fic with no other tags can lead to confusion. In this tag's case, it's a warning. But what are you warning about if you don't also put it in the tags? It leaves people's minds to conjure up only grim and upsetting images of what might be in your fic. Especially when, as it's also common to do, the tag gets shortened to simply "dead dove".

And while, yes, the tag is most likely to get slapped onto fics with dark or upsetting subject matter, that means something different for everyone who comes across it.

Most people seem to think it only applies to inappropriate relationships (age gap, incest, etc). But I've seen it applied to a variety of things, from potentially triggering material (like suicide) to things that simply may not be everyone's cup of tea (like excessive gross-out toilet humor).

In the end, "dead dove do not eat" is a tag that, in my opinion, should not be used as a descriptor as to what type of content your story contains. But rather, a gentle warning to say "hey, I'm specifically telling you what you're about to encounter, so whatever happens next is up to you".

After all, if you read the warning and still open the bag to find something you don't like...

I don't know what you were expecting.

[blindmagdalena]

What is dead dove? I think I saw it tagged on the fic where homie eats his lover (absolutely loved that one btw, I've tried giving cannibalism fics a try a few times but it never hit for me until that one, I was frothing) but is it just like a term for cannibalism

ahaha well first of all, thank you!

dead dove can be about cannibalism. what it really means is "hey please pay attention to these tags because i REALLY mean them. all of these things are very much in here!"

it comes from a scene in Arrested Development where a character sees a bag in the fridge that's labeled "dead dove: do not eat." he looks in the bag, which contains exactly what was written, and says, "Huh. Don't know what else I expected."

it's unfortunately turning into a catch-all phrase for 'dark content,' but that's really not the purpose of it. it's more of a sauce than a standalone dish.

[vulturevanity]

hate to break it to you but dead dove: do not eat doesn't have to mean Other Tags / underlined 3 times. I mean yeah that's a possible use cade but Dead Dove means fuckery inexplicable by the tags. Or in some cases people don't want to tell you the contents of the story so you explore it organically. On par with Creator chose not to use content warnings.

I'm not saying people aren't absolutely idiots about tagging, but the tag on its own stands. The tag means Fuckery abounds, in its original form.

No it doesn't. People might be using it like that now, but it definitely doesn't mean "Fuckery Abounds". You know why? Because it comes from this meme:

There is something written on a label in a bag. You see it and, curious, open the bag, only to find exactly what was written on the label. You say: "I don't know what I expected."

That's the function of the dead dove tag: it's a "don't say I didn't warn you".

[lilnasxvevo]

Okay, I just encountered someone misusing the fandom slang “dead dove” so now I believe all the people who’ve said it’s becoming a problem, so I just want to let people know what the phrase “dead dove” comes from. It’s this scene from Arrested Development:

[Image ID: Michael Bluth pulls a bag out of the refrigerator labeled “Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.” He peeks inside out of curiosity and, presumably finding a dead dove inside, he says flatly, “I don’t know what I expected.” End ID.]

So the right way to use it is not to just tag something “dead dove” without elaborating on that just because the fic has content that is likely to be upsetting. The right way would be something like this:

Tags: Violence, Gore, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Because sometimes people look at the tags and say “Oh, it’s tagged with gore, and I don’t really like gore, but if it’s just a little bit of gore I can probably handle it.”

The “Dead Dove: Do Not Eat” tag is there to tell you, “When I mean this fic contains [stuff the tags just warned you about], I mean that it’s a MAJOR THEME in the fic or basically that there’s a LOT of it. If you are sensitive to that kind of thing or you’re just not into it then you’re not going to like this fic!”

Basically: “I clearly labeled the bag with ‘Dead Dove,’ so if you open the bag and see a dead dove and you’re upset because you saw a dead dove, THAT IS NOT MY FAULT. I tagged responsibly, you clicked irresponsibly.”

But when you use the dead dove tag, you absolutely have to specify WHAT you’re warning about. Otherwise it’s…not really a warning. Do you get that?

[boolger]

Hey I'm new to your blog

In your tags it's has "not dead dove but dying" or "dead doves don't eat" I was just wondering what it meant

Hi there 👋

Let me try my best to explain it! I am not a master of explaining stuff like this in English but I will try my best - otherwise I suggest googling it or watching a YouTube video!

It’s a tag used across fandoms on the different fanworks that people make - in particular the fanfic world.

The term references a scene from the show arrested development, where there is a bag labelled “dead dove do not eat” and when the character looks inside the bag, that’s what is inside: a dead dove

Here is the clip :

In many ways, the tag is a warning, in the way that it’s telling you that if there is a tag saying “non-consensual elements” then you’re gonna get those. It’s used in the fanfic community (as far as I’ve experienced) to say that a story is dark. To day it less nicely: It’s often the fucked up. For example it could be violence, torture, rape, mind control etc etc. dark kinks, death - it’s what it says on the tin.

That means, if a story is tagged with “dub con” (dubious consent) and “dead dove dont eat” it means that when you read the story, you cannot and should not be surprised to see dubious content - if it is tagged with “rape”, then you cannot be surprised or complain when rape happens in the story.

Just like the dead dove in the bag, with the words dead dove do not eat: there is indeed a dead dove inside.

When something is tagged “the dove is not dead but it’s dying”, is to say that a story is dark or intense - but it could be worse.

I hope this makes sense!! I tried my best !

[obsessedtomone]

Unravel Yourself Before Me ⛓️ Chapter 13 - New Itinerary▸Shigaraki x femReader

Chapter Summary:

◤ And nothing would make you happier than to wipe his smug ass grin off his fucking face, but alas.

For no other reason than to be a brat, you pick a seat that leaves exactly one empty spot between the two of you and slam your bag against your desk. It works and his arrogant face momentarily drops into one of annoyance. But to your utter dismay, he recovers.

“Move your ass next to me or you’ll regret it.”

“Oh, yeah? Fucking try me,” you say with a ragged voice and drop on your seat, completely done with the world. ◢ Setting: University AU - No quirks (unless degenerate personalities count) Tags: Slow burn, Eventual Smut, Very Unhealthy/Toxic Relationships, Humiliation, Mentally Ill Reader, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to ??? Warning: Dead Dove – Do Not Eat | Mind the tags TW: Implied Su/Self H, Dubcon, Past Child Abuse, Bullying, Reader has a super shitty past like actually, Shigaraki Tomura is his own warning.

AO3 Crosspost | Chain Divider by firefly-graphics

Chapters: One • Two • Three • Four • Five • Six • Seven • Eight • Nine • Ten(ko) • Eleven • Twelve • Thirteen • Fourteen

Chapter 13 - New Itinerary

Everything seems to bother you nowadays.

No matter how hard you try to take some of the heavy load off of your shoulders, things only seem to stack up for you.

They stack and stack, continuously falling on top of each other, until there’s a whole tower of them, reaching well into the sky, beyond anyone’s reach, and thus rendering it impossible for you to manage.

Days are getting cold.

The air pollution is really hurting your nose.

The traffic on the main street is too loud and obnoxious.

Parents are screaming at their kids and blocking the sidewalk.

Your sneakers are squeaking against the wintry dry pavement.

Shigaraki is fucking holding you in a hostage relationship.

Assignments are piling up and you’re falling behind.

The hangover is causing waves of nausea.

Your body is feeling heavy.

But you’re used to it. You’re used to it, knowing full well this won’t be the last time shit goes wrong in your life.

The remainder of last night was spent by puking your guts into the toilet and crying until thin blood vessels formed on the surface of your sclera, creating webbings that are now burning your eyelids every single time they closed.

You’re used to it but fuck if you weren’t tired. Really tired.

Yet you somehow keep walking ahead, surviving ten seconds at a time and letting the late morning air wash over you.

So how long will you be able to keep this up?

You blow your warm breath over your cold fingers, thinking about ordering a new pair of cheap winter gloves soon. Ten seconds at a time. Ten seconds at a time.

There are only a few weeks left until the holiday season and—surprise, surprise—you really hate the holidays.

Taylor, whom you haven’t texted since you got home from the party, would eventually be gone to visit their family. You wish you had the courage to ask them to invite you too, but you don’t wanna be rejected—or labeled as that one clingy orphan friend.

You’re fucking pathetic and your life really fucking sucks right now. But hey, it could be worse for you, right? Right?

In your front pocket, your phone vibrates, making a weird noise.

Ah.

It’s the sound of Omen’s voiceline saying ‘Die’, the one you set up somewhere between you warming up to Shigaraki who was trying to redeem himself, and the time he thought his confession would magically make you fall in his arms with hearts in your eyes, or something.

You didn’t realize how fucking annoying it would sound when he’d actually text you, though. You didn’t realize it, because at this time you didn’t expect him to force you into another weird slave-owner relationship you’d rather die than be part of. 

What’s that saying? Life's a bitch and then you die?

The deep dark rings around your eyes tell the world that you’d love being literally anywhere else but on the way to class right now, especially after the party last night and the rough aftermath of feeling like your life is actively falling apart. Again.

But you’ll recover, you always do.

You’ll recover and save whatever’s left of yourself over and over until you’ll fully break, the perfect little victim that you are.

Get Run Over By A Fucking Car Please — ur late where r u [Sent 9:26 AM]

Yeah, you really are half an hour late. Getting out of bed is kind of a bitch when you’d love nothing more than to shop for a gun and blow your—

Get Run Over By A Fucking Car Please — hello?? [Sent Now]

Get Run Over By A Fucking Car Please — i know u can fucking read this and ur not that fucking stupid to ignore me barely a night after [Sent Now]

Get Run Over By A Fucking Car Please — if u dont reply in the next 10 seconds i swear to GOD [Sent Now]

Who would come to your funeral, you wonder. Taylor and friends? Maybe even your manager if you’re lucky?

You — leave me alone, I overslept. Im omw dick [Sent Now]

Get Run Over By A Fucking Car Please — bitch [Sent Now]

Get Run Over By A Fucking Car Please — hurry tf up before i get mad [Sent Now]

You huff. He’s so disgusting and insecure.

You — wouldn’t miss spending time with you for the world <3333 [Sent Now]

Get Run Over By A Fucking Car Please — fucking gross just hurry [Sent Now]

You — asshole [Sent Now]

Get Run Over By A Fucking Car Please — whore [Sent Now]

“Tsk.” You roll your eyes and stomp the rest of your walk to the college of your nightmares.

Despite your best efforts, the trip doesn’t take you long and unfortunately, you do make it to your dreaded computer science class in one piece—if walking a little slower just to spite him.

From the back, Shigaraki turns his head to you the moment you enter the lecture hall, watching the professor call you out in front of everyone for being late. You shrug the nosy teacher off, because you’d be damned if you could find it in you to care about disrupting his class right now.

You probably should, because your flimsy fucking scholarship depends on it, but maybe a life outside of college didn’t sound so bad anymore. You think you’d rather mop piss-dirty fucking bathroom floors of dingy corner bars for less than minimum wage, than spend another second breathing the same air as this crazy cancer-inducing shit-stain of a human being.

And nothing would make you happier than to wipe his smug ass grin off his fucking face, but alas.

For no other reason than to be a brat, you pick a seat that leaves exactly one empty spot between the two of you and slam your bag against your desk. It works and his arrogant face momentarily drops into one of annoyance. But to your utter dismay, he recovers.

“Move your ass next to me or you’ll regret it.”

“Oh, yeah? Fucking try me,” you say with a ragged voice and drop on your seat, completely done with the world.

Throwing your head back, you screw your eyes shut, not feeling like working on any assignments right now. When you open them again, you see the back of the room swirling upside-down in your vision.

Then the asshole speaks again, his grit-laden voice taking on the tone of a radio broadcaster.

“Hey, did’ya know? Word on the street is that your friend’s mom is covering their whole ass tuition. Ain’t that something?” Shigaraki grabs the back of the empty chair between you and preemptively pulls it backwards for you, the way a dollar store gentleman would.

You scrunch your nose and wince at his words.

Of course he’d stoop so low. Didn’t he say so? He’ll pull just about anything to get you to listen.

“Now, I also happened to hear that their mom is… quite the conservative businesswoman. So let’s assume for instance, that one of their NSFW social media pics from their private account gets unexpectedly… leaked. Mailed, perhaps, to your friend’s bigoted parents, express postage stamp and all. What do you think will happen when their mom finds out that they’re—” 

Shigaraki doesn’t get to finish his cheap villainous threat because you stand up, kick your chair angrily and drop on the one next to him, some of the students in the row before you scoffing audibly.

You want nothing more but to fucking strangle him to death, but that would ruin a few things for you.

He flashes you a crooked smile. “There we go. Wasn’t that fucking hard now, was it?”

Maybe you should take your chances and do it anyway.

But instead, you roll your eyes and take out your laptop, planning to do what you do best. Distract yourself with the mountain of piling assignments that you’ll have to plow through (despite how miserable you fucking feel), and ignore him completely. Ten seconds at a time.

It doesn’t really work, because not two minutes after you start, Shigaraki places a hand on the edge of your seat and startles you, causing you to glance at him with visible disgust. He notices it and takes that as an invitation to reach his fingertips over your thigh, digits splaying apart as he slowly slides his hand up your thigh. A shiver runs through your spine and you immediately tense up.

“Don’t.” You glare at him sharply, slapping his hand away.

He clicks his tongue disapprovingly, like you’re the one annoying him and fucking does it again, gripping your thigh so hard this time, the blunt fingernails that are pressing into the fabric of your pants will definitely be leaving purple bruised half-moons.

“That really, really fucking hurts. So stop that,” you growl at him quietly, jaw clenching and foot pressing hard against the surface of the floor to keep yourself grounded. Ten seconds—

“Nah. You don’t like me being nice, so I won’t be.”

“Nice?! You’re fucking insufferable!” you spit at him in an angry whisper, “Was last night not enough for you, sick fuck?” Shigaraki squeezes your thigh once, eyes narrowing and grin widening in response. “I’m fucking black and blue all over from—”

You try closing your mouth quickly, catching yourself but he smiles knowingly, the scar on his mouth stretching.

“Yeah? My bad then. Lemme see what I’ve done, I’ll be more mindful,” he lies, softening his grip, thumb brushing your leg in small soothing circles, knowing he wants nothing more but to paint your skin with reminders of him, wherever he touches you. “On that note, maybe you should start wearing skirts again.”

“What?” You frown at him. “I never wear skirts, you delusional creep.”

“You did, for that scumbag.” Shigaraki drops another piece of information, like it’s not creepy as hell to pay people to find out things about you. He then shrugs, toying with the fabric of your pants between his thumb and his pointer finger. “It was good though. You looked hot.”

“What the fuck? How would you know that?!” you shout at him pretty loudly, earning you a few glares from the row in front of you.

He couldn’t fucking know that, because you stopped wearing them long before you even met your ex. 

An unexpected giggle claws itself out of his throat. “Maybe I guessed. Or maybe I’ll tell you if you stop being a bitch one day.” 

So fucking never, you figure, clicking your tongue and turning your attention back to your screen. His hand immediately resumes sliding up your thigh.

“Fucking stop that or I’ll seriously fucking scream,” you threaten, but he’s calling your bluff and takes it as a challenge.

Your mouth opens and his smug expression is egging you on to go ahead and fucking do it, see what happens when you do. But you close it again, feeling defeated.

The anger and shame make your cheeks burn as students occasionally look back at the two of you, whispering and making faces, completely ignoring how uncomfortable you are. No one wanted to lift a fucking finger.

Tomura notices too. On any other occasion, he’d tell them to fuck off. But sitting back and drinking in your frustration, outweighs the need to monopolize your attention at the moment. He’d have time for that later.

By the amount of times you two have been seen together, half the fucking college must assume you have an exhibitionism kink. You don’t—at least not like this, but your train of thought is interrupted by his free hand appearing in your field of view, two fingers casually tapping at the side of your laptop and signaling you to get your work done.

Like you could fucking focus, with him brazenly sexually harassing you in broad daylight.

Nonetheless, you roll your shoulders and once again take your chances, swatting his hand off of you and scooting away from him.

He narrows his eyes, demeanor quickly turning cold. 

“If you don’t cut that shit out, I’ll take these,” Shigaraki pinches at the fabric of your pants, “off of you and force you to walk half-naked ‘round campus, mid fucking december,” he says in a low monotone voice, signaling he’s reached the ends of his patience with you, then pulls your chair closer to him than it was before.

“Maybe you’re into that, freak.” He snarls, wrinkling his nose. “I’d suggest you go on and finish your fucking assignment, miss honors student.” Shigaraki leans in, nuzzling into your ear and making you physically cringe.

You have no choice but to let him.

And once you give up, once your shoulders really slump this time, and you’re halfway through biting the first layer of skin off of your lips, Shigaraki smiles triumphantly, burying his nose into the junction of your sensitive neck and deeply breathing you in.

You watch as the students keep glancing at you and you feel your insides decay a little more.

“You’re the worst.”

Shigaraki snorts.

─────────

Perhaps the most surprising part was that Shigaraki didn’t take it far even days after that awful night at the party. Not really.

He does however keep feeling you up whenever he has the chance to. But he never pushes it beyond critical points. Enough to piss you off, to let your college know you’re his plaything now, but not enough for you to actually freak out—well, freak out more than you already do.

He’d ghost his pale slender fingers everywhere on your frame and you’d notice his hands twitching every time they passed by your curves, leaving them completely unexplored.

He’d inch closer to your neck sometimes, hooking a finger around your winter scarf and pulling it down to examine—admire—the fading bruises that he’d left that night.

He’d sniff your hair like a degenerate whenever he was in a particularly bad mood or someone pissed him off, then he’d tell you to keep buying that brand of shampoo, that he’d even fund it for you if you ever ran out of money. 

Like you’d ever go seek him for financial troubles.

And you couldn’t help but wonder just what stops him from taking you somewhere dark and secluded, to bend you over and fuck his sick fantasies into you. It’s not like you could ask, lest you give him bright ideas or imply you’re even thinking about anything of the sort.

So you deal with his weird fucking obsession of being as close to you as humanly possible, and not leaving inches apart when he’s anywhere around you throughout the day.

You’ve become his human stress-relief toy, you realize. A fucking Shigaraki branded fidget spinner. Taylor would laugh at that joke, but you still haven’t opened any of their messages, or seen them on campus lately.

Shigaraki also makes you—no, he forces you—to take the same fucking breaks as him, eating together at the cafeteria whenever he fucking feels like it, making you miss most of your own lecture blocks just because they don’t match his. Something for which you’d have to draw a harsh line very soon. Blackmail or not, and as depraved and unhinged as you know him to be, you doubt he wants you to fail and drop out. 

But then again, you’ve been wrong about him before.

There are eyes on you wherever you go. You suppose being the campus’ villain’s toy would do that to a person. 

He however seems to only let them linger for half the time nowadays, easily losing his temper (what fucking temper), glaring back and scaring them off wheneve he’s had enough. After which he proceeds to tell you shit like ‘don’t worry, you’re mine’, as if that was somehow reassuring to you.

You’d finished your classes for the day, but he eventually gets the great fucking idea to make you attend his own as well, his professors either not giving a fuck or too scared of his family crest to mention a literal stranger sitting in their smaller group lectures.

It’s only by chance that you’d found out what he was apparently majoring in, glancing at his laptop when he wasn’t looking. It’s a very pretentious masters in Data Science.

Not that you really care to learn about that asshole, but you did notice his schedule being packed. You had half a mind to ask him why he had double the amount of your classes, but you bit back. You weren’t that curious.

A (barely) positive side to this whole arrangement, was that being in class from morning until late afternoon somehow gave you a buff on your ability to study, the same way studying in a library would. You were less likely to procrastinate on your assignments as you often did at home, and actually ended up getting a lot of work done whenever Shigaraki was too busy with his own material to actively make your life a living hell.

His hand would still be placed somewhere on your body, whenever he didn’t need to write or research for his projects, as if he would crumble into dust if he didn’t feel the blood pumping from under your skin.

Thankfully, his last break of the day finally rolls around and the two of you sit together in one of the wing’s common rooms.

He hasn’t laid a finger on you while you were typing away at your laptop, choosing to play some game on his handheld instead. You’re not only thankful for that, but also wonder if he’ll maybe get tired of you quicker than you thought he would.

And if he does, what then?

Would he just leave you be?

You press your lips in a tight line.

“What.” He raises a brow, his signature rasp making you realize you’ve stopped typing away at your projects for a while now and ended up watching the way his fingers clicked on every button with the precision of a professional gamer.

You wince, snapping your head back to your own screen.

“Nothing,” you mumble, “Just surprised you stopped acting like a damn monkey for a second.”

His eyes widen and he grins, hooking one elbow around your neck and pulling you in close enough for you to smell a hint of his expensive cedarwood cologne. 

“Just say you miss me next time,” Shigaraki coos, ruffling your hair up and making you scoff.

“Pass. I’d rather offer my psycho ex to blow him for a pack of weed again.” 

It’s been a while but you finally said the wrong thing again, so he gives you an unimpressed look, shoves you away from him and goes back to playing on his handheld, unpausing his game and now mashing the buttons.

“You’re so fucking stupid sometimes, I swear,” he scoffs, brows pulling together. “Piss me off again and see what happens. I’m nice because I choose to,” Shigaraki says quietly.

You make a disapproving noise, feeling a weird twinge of hurt for—disappointing him…? Seriously?

What the fuck?

He curses under his breath. ”Never say shit like that again. You belong to me now. Fucking get used to it.”

You considered disobeying him again for a second, make him angrier, but all you could do was shrink in your seat and turn away from him defensively.

The rest of the days were more of the same, with you following him around like a pet and letting him do whatever he wanted to. 

Whenever you zoned out or pushed his buttons too hard, he’d either get pissy and threaten you, or dare to sneakily slide his hand over the curve of your ass and squeeze it to get your attention.

And boy did it get your attention.

─────────

Friday finally comes around—you thank the fucking lord—meaning you won’t have to see him for another two and a half days.

You think you’ve spent enough time together to last you three fucking lifetimes—so much so that you started enjoying going to your part-time job. At least that fucking paid.

Your dreams of easing in into a quiet weekend are cut short when Shigaraki opens his mouth on your way out of the building and fucking goes, “Are you free later?”

You stop dead in your tracks and turn around to face him, completely mortified.

He just stands there, solemn expression while staring back at you through half-lidded eyes, hands in the pockets of his overworn jacket. His white hair is tousled and the strap of his ancient college bag threatens to snap and fall off his shoulder any day now.

Shigaraki frowns as he waits for you to answer, one hand reaching to scratch at his neck—something you haven’t seen him do in a while now.

By the way, since when did he start asking for permission to waste your fucking time?

“No. I’m busy,” you deadpan, spinning on your heel and avoiding his eyes.

“No you’re not. You don’t work today.”

“I have plans. Why the fuck do you care?”

“Change your plans then,” he grunts and you want to pull the hairs out of your head.

“No.”

He gives you an exasperated sigh, walks up to you with a clench jaw and forcefully wraps his hand against the nape of your neck before pushing you to walk with him. You just cross your arms and let him walk you like a fucking dog.

“Why ask if you’re not going to fucking listen anyway?” you question, feeling deeply frustrated. 

He considers ignoring you, giving you side-eye from behind his messy bangs, but mumbles quietly anyway.

“To be considerate.”

“Ha! You? Considerate?”

Shigaraki tightens his grip and shoves you forward, making you stumble and almost eat shit on the floor. You luckily catch yourself before you do.

“Yeah, you're right. What the hell was I thinking?” He rolls his eyes and walks away sulkily, leaving you behind. “Follow me. My car is parked off campus.”

“Your car?”

His car.

You struggled to keep up with his stupidly fast pace, but you managed to get there—if a little out of breath.

“Get in.” He opens the door to the driver's side of the car and slams it closed.

What did you expect? Of course Shigaraki Tomura owns a red fucking sports car. Why wouldn’t he?

The passenger door opens for you and you suddenly feel very uncomfortable being in the presence of such a luxurious fucking object. You simply stare at him and nervously fidget with the hem of your shirt.

“What the fuck are you doing? Get in, it’s cold.” He drums his fingers against the leather-covered wheel.

You look unsure of what to do and seeing you being uncomfortable makes him snort, but he doesn't say anything otherwise.

Reluctantly taking the bag off your shoulder, you get inside and place it on your lap. Then you look at the raised door like you’re trying to figure out rocket science.

“H-How do you close it?”

“With your hands, moron. You pull on the handle like any other normal car, now hurry.”

You make a face, leaning in to grab the handle with your sweaty fingers and pulling it down. It really doesn’t take a lot of force and the door slides down in a smooth motion, closing easily with a satisfying thud.

Relief washes over you, glad that he didn’t trick you into slamming or damaging anything, because if you did ruin his car, you could only imagine the amount of debt you’d have to spend your entire life paying. Or have another fucking thing he could hold over your head.

He’s unusually patient with you, letting you settle in and observing you getting flustered over his car of all things. His dry lips slightly twitch upwards.

“A-A McLaren, really?” your voice wavers when you don’t want it to, mentally cursing yourself for sounding like such a pussy.

“Yeah, it’s my errands car.” Shigaraki seems like he wants to say something, but reconsiders.

“This is your errand car? A fucking sports car?!” 

Your gasp makes him fucking chuckle and you’re visibly taken aback by the easy-going reaction. Luckily he only chalks it up as further astonishment. 

“It’s a supercar, not a sports car, idiot. Maybe I’ll show you the others someday soon.”

“Others?!” Your nose crinkles and it makes him snort. Then he presses one fucking button on the dashboard between the two of you and starts his car ‘supercar’ up, engine purring like an expensive metallic kitten.

Fucking rich people.

Frankly speaking, you semi-anticipated for him to pull up to his scary criminal friends, a hotel or worse—his own house. But instead, he parked in the expensive underground garage of your city’s largest mall and then opened the door for you.

He opened the fucking door for you.

You watch him skeptically as he reaches out a hand for you to grab, like you’re Cinderella and he’s going to help you out of the half a million dollar carriage. But you smack it away, making him roll his eyes and mumble an ‘always so fucking difficult’, getting out of the car on your own.

Unlike how he usually acts on campus, Shigaraki is considerably tamer in the unfamiliar public. Maybe even a bit more fidgety than usual. 

He doesn’t grab or grope you and the only contact you’re forced to endure while the two of you walk side-by-side, is the brush of his arm against your own, with the occasional nudge to steer you in whichever direction he wants you to go. 

While he’s distracted, you observe his side profile in secret, glancing at the mole on his mouth, his dark circles and his cracked skin, noticing how the scar on his eye matches that on his lips. You wonder what went wrong to him to become like this. 

It really feels like the moment you ran your fingers through his hair after he came back from the store happened ages ago. It feels like ages ago, but the memory, the sensation itself, is deeply burned in the ridges of your fingertips. Weaved into strands of your DNA. 

Maybe that’s the reason you can feel it, still.

You frown, turning your head away.

If only he’d been nicer. If only he wasn’t a crazy lunatic. If only—

Then what?

You let out a deep exhale while a shudder runs through your body.

“Quit bitching. We just got here,” he grunts, taking your sigh as a form of protest against him dragging you around instead of letting you go home. You’re thankful for that.

“Shut up.” 

You aim to kick him in the shin but he dodges, softly shoving you to the side and you could swear you saw the ghost of a smile on his face.

Oh, the things he made you do.

First, he fucking managed to pull you into the biggest arcade in the city, cashing in gross amounts of money on his play-card for the two of you to literally waste.

Most of the machines he made you play with him were either competitive co-ops or versus games, and despite all of your efforts, you had around 20/80 odds of winning against Shigaraki. Even though you’re familiar with these games. Even though you probably could smoke this entire arcade, you really are no match for Shigaraki himself. 

The rich basement-dwelling redditor is good. Good enough to be an esports player, you think. His reflexes are second to fucking none, his prediction skill is inhumane and then to top it off, the game awareness he has for every game is incredible. 

You know for sure he hasn’t played some of the games you picked (and that’s the only reason you’d even won 20 percent of the time), but he learns fast, never failing to shove it in your fucking face when he bests you and takes the win.

It annoys you. It annoys you so much that during one of your heated matches, you make a mistake.

“Ahhh, I missed the fucking boost,” you say, focusing on the racing game. He lets out an amused breath. “Say, do you play shooters?”

“So random. Yeah I do. Why? Trying to distract me?” Shigaraki’s character bumps into you as he’s on his final lap. “Or did you wanna play the new shooter in the back? It’s single player though, but we can take turns.”

“What?” You use a power-up similar to the blue shell in Mario Kart and you hear him grunt ‘bitch’ in response. “No, just curious.”

“Yeah? Do you play then?”

You nod but you’re not sure he saw it. 

“I play Val. Lemme guess, you’re a CS:GO player. Or a COD one. Gross.”

Shigaraki barks out a laugh that startles you. He continues laughing, closing his eyes and becoming unable to focus on the game while he does, your character easily passing by and reclaiming first place. 

There’s warmth spreading inside your chest and you do your best to smother it.

“You little bitch!” he yells at you with a wide grin.

You just click your tongue. “Eyes on the game, chief.”

“I play Valorant with Spinner sometimes. Need me to boost you? I don’t do it for free, tho’.” He jabs his elbow in your side and you swerve too hard, falling off the map.

“HEY!” 

“Eyes on the game, idiot.”

Your eyes widen and he grins at the screen cheekily, finally crossing that finish lane.

“That’s unfair! I almost had that!”

“No you didn’t. You just distracted me with your stupid questions.”

“Fuck you.” You cross your arms, turning away.

“Later. What’s your rank?”

“Huh?”

He looks at you as if you’re dumb. “Val. What’s your rank? So we can play?”

Oh. Oh shit. Oh no. You’d fucked up. Why were you acting so chummy with Shigaraki? You don’t wanna play fucking Valorant with him. Or anything else. You’re not friends. He wants to hurt the people close to you. You’re definitely not friends.

“W-What’s yours?” you ask, and if your hunch is correct, he should be above Immortal.

“Higher than you for sure. I’ll buy a smurf account anyway, then we can play.”

You grit your teeth, blood draining from your face. He frowns, leaning in to inspect your face. 

It’s dark in this arcade, so you hope he doesn’t see much.

“You look off.”

“I’m fine. Let’s uhh—let’s play something else.”

“You sure? We can chill,” he says, getting off the chair and offering you his hand to stand up. You pretend you don’t see it, getting up yourself and walking past him.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I do actually wanna play that new FPS in the back.” 

Shigaraki doesn’t say anything, using the hand he offered you to scratch at his neck while following you silently.

It’s really weird seeing such a different side of you. One that he never got to see at school.

You’re bouncy and talkative and holy shit were you a big fucking nerd. Tomura has probably never heard you string as many sentences together as he did when you began telling him about the extensive lore of some obscure fucking game from the 90s.

As for playing with him, he’d been right from the start. He couldn’t take it easy with you. You were such a sweat, trying to beat him at every game there was, always asking for a rematch. But… it didn’t bother him.

He commits everything about you to his memory. Your face when you focus. The way you strain your voice when you’re about to win. Engaging in discussions with him…

Forgetting you dislike him.

He’s not stupid. He sees when you catch yourself and realize it’s him you were talking to. You still don’t want to let him in. Still think you’re in control of your fucking life. 

You’re not. You belong to him now and there was nothing you could do about it.

His idea to take you here was good. He likes playing with you. IRL friends who were into gaming are hard to come by, and all of his friends were casuals at best anyway. Which meant his only two options were you and… Spinner.

Spinner.

Fucking Spinner.

Tomura has been sulking behind you for a while now, but thinking about his friend really made him seethe. 

His mood sours in record time, so he promptly decides to pull you away from the crane game that you spent the last twenty minutes on, interrupting yet another unsuccessful run. 

“Hey! I almost had that!” You pout, but he’s already dragging you out.

“They’re all rigged anyway. You wouldn’t have gotten it.”

“Yeah, but they still drop the prize after a certain amount of times,” you whine.

“Don’t care. Come.”

“Ugh! You impatient asshole!” You smack his shoulder with your free hand.

“Yeah, yeah. Can it, loser.”

After he’d robbed you of your prize, the two of you still had time left before the mall closed, so you decided to go to a few stores and look at merch and games you know you’d never actually buy. The figure in the crane game was a total exception. You definitely wouldn’t build a shrine of cute little collectibles with that character. Definitely didn’t already have a few things that were a waste of space, should you need to move right away. Definitely.

Now you’re looking around, listening to him talk about games he played as a child. By the amount of titles he’s dropped, you’re pretty sure he’s had all the fucking consoles growing up and that makes you jealous.

The biggest surprise of the day was probably hearing Shigaraki ask for your opinion on not one, but several games you told him you’d played before. Like he was actually interested to hear what you thought.

He’d even offered to buy you games you had in your backlog, the ones you’d wanted to eventually get for yourself. So after he scoffed at you saying you don’t collect physical ones, Shigaraki asked—no, insisted—to get your Steam ID.

When you figured that he wouldn’t drop it is when you started getting really annoyed.

“Like I’d wanna owe you shit now, too,” you spit, beginning to ruin his mood as you usually do.

“I’ll do what I want. Deal with it,” he mumbles, grabbing the game you wanted.

“Wanna see me do a speedrun and throw it in the closest trash can? Then go ahead and buy it.” You smile at him angrily with a twitching eyebrow.

“Why—” Shigaraki grunts, closing his eyes and running his hand through his hair, then proceeds to chuck the expensive deluxe case at you, hitting you square in the shoulder. “You’re so fucking annoying.” 

“Hey! That fucking hurts, you asshole!” you shout at his back, but he only flips you off and goes ahead to exit the store without you.

After his temper tantrum, the two of you walk over to the food place he told you about before. It’s his favorite in the mall, apparently. Neither of you talk much to each other on the way, but once you receive your plates, he breaks the ice.

You wish he’d stayed silent though, because after what was your tenth extremely dumb gaming argument with him—this time over whether or not they should nerf Solid Snake’s dump-truck because it’s distracting the player too hard when he’s crawling—you find yourself yawning and getting bored. You’re now like ninety-eight percent convinced he’s the owner of half of reddit’s weirdest gaming-related posts.

So you roll your eyes when you notice he won’t drop it, and finally finish eating the last bite.

A shudder goes through your entire body while you’re mid-bite.

“You okay?” Red irises look at you from the other side of the table.

You blink, thinking there must be something wrong with you. Well, you know there is, but this is on another level.

“Y-Yeah, I guess I’m just… cold.”

You must be insane. No, you are insane.

You’re insane for thinking that spending time with him isn’t the worst. That going out with him today, as forced as it was and only because he has you at gun-point, wasn’t that bad. That you two get along well if you wipe your brain of your entire history with him and boil it down to the two measly days he acted decent with you. And while that is true, you’d probably vomit your entire meal back on your plate than to ever admit it to anyone.

God, does that mean you’d actually let this asshole become someone close to you if he keeps acting like this? Are you that fucking damaged?

Shigaraki looks at you intently, making you feel nervous.

He hasn’t been the worst to you lately, but you still hope he doesn’t somehow skew this day to be some weird date. However soon enough you’ll have other things to worry about.

Because as if on cue, Shigaraki opens his mouth and proceeds to ruin your entire fucking day:

“Grab your shit. We’re going back to my place.”

[romana-after-dark]

Dead Dove December

Hello everyone! This December I’m hosting an event for the Oscar Isaac and Pedro Pascal fandom that I’m calling, Dead Dove December! From 12/01/2023 - 12/31/2023 I’m encouraging others to create something that expresses their deepest and (most importantly) darkest desires. I will be reblogging all pieces of art or fanfiction, and will post a masterlist in January. 

Details below the cut…

What is Dead Dove Do Not Eat?

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, or DDDNE has its origins in one of my comfort shows!

The phrase comes from a meme referencing the 2003 Arrested Development episode "Top Banana", in which Michael Bluth opens a paper bag labeled "DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT" and, upon discovering that there is a dead dove inside the bag, says, deadpan, "I don't know what I expected." - fanlore.org

In short, what you see in the tags is what you should expect to see in the fic. This can apply for any type of fic, including the fluffy ones, but it’s usually associated with darker themes. That being said, this is your warning that this is a DARK THEMED EVENT. If you aren’t comfortable with darker topics like non-con, excessive violence, blood/gore, death, toxic relationships, 18+ age gaps, and more, then I encourage you not to participate in this event.

How to Participate

For the month of December, post your Dead Dove fanfiction or fan art on your blog. Use the tag #deaddovedecemeber2023 and tag me. You can also send a link via ask or DM if you like! I will not be posting anything for you, just reblogging and linking. At the end of December I will post a masterlist with links to everyone’s works! Side Note - Since Tumblr doesn’t really allow for NSFW art, you can post your work on Twitter or any other site that allows it and just send me that link so I can add it to the masterlist.

Rules

You MUST be 18+ to participate. I will be checking your blog/social media to be sure. Please make sure your age is easy to find. If I find that you’re a minor or if your age isn’t readily present I will be blocking you and you will be unable to participate. You can just add that you are over 18 if you don’t want your age out on the internet. As the creator and promotor of this event, I need to know I’m not interacting with minors given the nature of this event.

The work MUST be dark in some way. There’s no limit to how dark your work needs to be or can be, but it needs to contain some sort of dark theme in order to qualify. If non con isn’t your thing, dub con via stockholm syndrome or brainwash can let you write a more comfortable scene while still remaining dark. Fics and art do not necessarily need to be NSFW.

Do NOT post anything before 12/01/2023. I will not count submissions prior to that date or after 12/31/2023. Masterlsit will be posted in January.

Your work MUST contain the proper tags. I won’t police how detailed your tags should be, but, for instance, if your work contains non-con, and you didn’t tag non-con then your work will not qualify. Please be inclusive in your writing where you can.

You may submit no more than two (2) pieces. This can include a fanfic and fanart, two fanfics or two fanarts. This is to allow someone to write a piece and make a work of art to accompany it.

I’m not going to yuck someone’s yum, but there are some things I’m just personally not comfortable with and since I’ll be reading/viewing all of these, I have a few things not allowed in the event. The list of what’s NOT allowed is shorter than the list of what IS allowed so here’s a list of the things that will NOT be tolerated in this event:

No underage/aged up minor content - To clarify, this includes things popular ships like - TLOU 1 or Show Ellie x Joel or Miguel O’Hara X Gwen Stacy. No "ageing up" minors for the purpose of a fic.

No Bestiality - To clarify, monsterfucking does NOT count as bestiality (at least to me). For example, werewolves, venom, Khonshu, e.t.c. are all allowed.

No incest - To clarify, step-sibling/step-parent relationships are permitted as long as everyone is 18+. Selfcest relationships are also allowed (like Moon Knight or Miguel with his alternate self, e.t.c.).

If you’re unsure if something is allowed or not, you can send me a DM or an ask for clarification prior to posting.

You can use any prompts you want or none, you aren’t tied to any one idea but here are some to get the ideas flowing if you need them!

Also, you can absolutely use a fic to inspire your art, or art to inspire a fic! Your inspiration piece, whether yours or someone else’s does not have to be from December, but you MUST obtain permission from the original creator before I promote your work. Most creators are happy when their work inspires others, and all my fics are open to being used for inspiration, but please reach out to the creator first.

I’m very excited! I’ve never done anything like this before so things may be updated as I go so bear with me! Looking forward to seeing what you all come up with!

Dividers and header made by the amazing @melodygatesauthor

Please consider reblogging to spread the word!

[hneycmb]

This is probably gonna be unpopular amongst fanfic folks on this site bc they really like upholding "dead dove do not eat" as the be-all-end-all of sensitive content tagging but i really don't think it's actually a useful label unless it's coupled with specifics. The whole premise of "dead dove do not eat" is that what you see is what you get, implying there is some kind of other clear-cut warning about what this fic contains. Using "dead dove do not eat" with literally no other warnings about what the fic contains is like putting a bag in the fridge and labeling it "there's stuff in here". "Dead dove do not eat" is not a useful label on its own because each fic writer has their own tolerance for distressing shit and therefore it could mean anything from regular violence to graphic descriptions of sexual assault. If you tag nothing except "dead dove do not eat" i don't really think you get the right to be upset that some people are shocked or distressed by the content of your fic because you literally gave them no way to figure it out beforehand.

[bananonbinary]

just saw someone complaining about people "watering down" Dead Dove when it should only refer to REALLY dark fic.

no one is watering it down dumbass you just dont understand what the tag means. it isn't "here is something disgusting and awful, like a dead dove would be," it's a reference to that one gifset from arrested development where the guy opens a bag labelled "dead dove, do not eat" and says "i dont know what i expected."

it doesnt really mean anything in and of itself, it just means "look if you open this fic that is clearly labelled and act shocked idk what to tell you." ime its mostly used to reinforce that a certain tag isn't just for a small reference but a major part of the fic, and if you dont like that, maybe you should go elsewhere.

i dont really care if you use it as shorthand for darkfic, there's enough overlap that i dont think it causes any problems, but i DO have an issue when you start complaining about how the ORIGINAL MEANING is wrong.

[explorevenus]

Hello, im dumb so what does dead dove do not eat actually mean? Like i know it means dark content but like does it actually stand for something specific?🤣

funny enough it's actually a term that originated from an episode of arrested development in which a character stores a dead dove in a bag in the fridge with a note on it that says "DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT" only for another character to get upset upon opening the bag to find a dead dove in there,, like yeah it was labeled and you still opened it so you can't really be mad 😭

anyway, that being said, it took off as a relatively commonly used phrase in fandom spaces for dark content, essentially as an extra/final warning that like HEY. THIS PIECE IS TAGGED AS DARK CONTENT SO IF YOU CHOOSE TO READ IT AND STILL GET UPSET BY IT, THAT'S ON YOU

i hope that makes sense 😭 also u are NOT DUMB