#sorry for blurry resolution

[sketchsprite]

making my official tumblr return (and art return i kind of havent done art in over a year)

welcome to my psych fixation

[pieisgay]

so i tried to draw the drain- talk abt process in cut

okay so. have to stress just how much of this is kin shit. one- thespius is there because my thesp friend actually remembers going to the drain once while still being a human. the person beside him is unnamed, they weren't intended to represent anyone specific, maybe just someone leading him through. but uh.. yeah.

lots of water. like- inescapable. lots of crumbling infrastructure, buildings built on top of one another, not a lot of natural light- if any at all, the further down the drain you go. electricity going out all the time. resources being scarce- clothing, food, just basic needs for survival. using a lot of the flora that grows in wet, cold environments like this- mushrooms, algaes, etc, and cooking with that. communities coming together and being pretty tight knit, making sure everyone has what they need. and that was something that hector was particularly skilled at doing- organizing people, getting resources to those who need them most, etc. helping rewire downed power cables. finding and rescuing a beloved item swept away in the current and further down the drain. being a community leader and beloved team member. and upon finally leaving the drain, it's these skills that the gods see and decide to grant him godhood for

[whereispearlescentmoon]

Pearl is in a froglight!

Pearlescentmoon is in the pearlescent froglight!

[autistickaitovocaloid]

kaitostim

[tilting-pluto]

Mate the series episode 5 on YouTube Zense more (gifs made by me)

[the-insanity-of-mojiru]

みんな大きくなっていく。

[edgepunk]

I'm going through ME concept art and honestly? I don't hate this dress. this could've been a better alternative to that vacuum plastic bag N7 dress that femShep got in ME3

[leclsrc]

wanna be nearer ✴︎ mv1

genre: 18+, fuck buddies ahhhaha, smut, porn w/o plot basically...

word count: 3.6k  

It seems every time you tell yourself to stop, Max comes back into your life and all sense of resolve crumbles. title from this

auds here… hiii :) req'd by SO MANY PEOPLE i can't even start compiling all the asks hahah but if u asked for this here it is! writing's been tuff for me lately but this was the one thing i could continue daily (weird) also there is a case to be made re: max's hottest pictures being like 1 pixel in resolution... hope u all like it!!!

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... sexual tension, penetrative sex, some vague sexting/a sex tape being watched, praise/dirty talk central, size kink, unprotected sex, handjob (f receiving), max being a meanie

It’s busy today. You haven’t seen him all day. 

To be fair, you weren’t necessarily looking—not at first, anyways. How many days had it been since the last time, now? The one in your hotel room? Almost two weeks, you think. The real answer’s blurry in your head, especially when you count the close calls, but this should be a record for you two at this point. Neither of you acknowledge that the only reason you’ve been so good at staying away from each other is because when you’re not roped into the same media junket, you avoid each other at all costs.

The media pen is full; everybody’s shoulder-to-shoulder because a few other networks bought their way into the space for the Singapore race. Right when your mind settles back into the focus of work, though—

“Here,” he says, his voice rough and tickling your ear. You nearly stumble forward, shocked at how his voice almost vibrates through you, a low trill that ripples top to bottom.

His hand settles at the small of your back, like his verbal confirmation wasn’t enough on its own; it’s big and his thumb rubs softly at the smooth strip of skin in-between your low skirt and your top. “Passing through.”

“Sure,” you say, dry. “Sorry.” You clear your throat and cant backwards into his touch—briefly, before you step forward and allow him to pass fully. Across you, Lissie looks up from her phone and you sense her trying to gauge why you’re so close to Max.

You blink and wait for him to disappear, wondering what you’ll tell her—how, more like. How the conversation even opens. How you’d phrase the truth, which in itself is a horribly grey area. Well, Lis, if you must know, Max and I have casual sex. A lot. It’s actually not very casual. We stopped now, but—yes, Max. That Max, yes. 

“What about Max?”

Your eyes snap upward and then to your left, where you can see Max’s figure disappearing into a crowd of engineers. They return to Lissie and you feign confusion to mask panic. “What?”

“You were spacing out and then suddenly said his name.” She presses the tip of her pen onto her chin, humming. She doesn’t look at you and you thank God for it—eye contact would’ve rattled the truth out of you in seconds.

“I…” You shake your head. “I was irritated with—I’ve been irritated with him all morning. It’s. Yeah.”

“Oh,” she says, nodding, looking away for a second but not pausing. “Oh, okay. D’you wanna go over this edit again?”

—

The stale air of his hotel room, alleviated only by the vaguely fragrant linen spray they use when he’s out, is what greets Max when he arrives in the afternoon.The first thing he does—the only task he’d even thought of en route here—after the door clicks shut is pull up his Messages app and type.

Just got to hotel. He tosses his phone onto the bed while he waits, tugs his cap off and rakes reckless fingers through his hair. His new stylist’s got him onto jeans that don’t “look painted on” (you once said, verbatim), but he’d rather die than lounge in denim, so he swaps them out for just his Calvins.

His mind’s lethargic, but even his version of lethargic is high-drive for others—his brain has the silly tendency to work in absolute overdrive. He itches for a drink and orders a Scotch on the telephone. He checks his phone, which is lying facedown still, and as soon as he picks it up it chimes with your reply.

OK, nice. Did u need something?

No, just wanted to let you know. He hits send, then adds another. You’re off @ 8?

Ended early, I’m in the car. He’s in the middle of drafting a response when you send a follow-up.

I thought we agreed no contact unless business

He scoffs out a dry laugh. Despite himself, he reads the text in your voice, his brain completing the image of the bossy tone with crossed arms and a wickedly arched brow. In response he types: Can’t even update a friend nowadays? I am very tired you know.

Rules are rules, he reads. Then, Get some rest.

Yeah. Got a drink.

I said rest, not drink. Even then he can hear the exasperation in your voice.

How was work? I hurt a muscle doing training. That’s why I’m at the hotel early.

Feel better soon, you send. Had some press stuff today. Boring shit

Yeah? I missed you today.

Really?

A lot. He hums and leans backward, lets his head settle into the pillow, the smell of the linen spray consuming his nostrils. He waits for his phone to buzz, vibrate softly on the hard surface of his chest. It does, after a few minutes, after he’s let his eyes shut and let himself rest them for a bit, after the room service comes knocking and gives him the Scotch he’d requested while ago.

He’s back sitting on his bed when it vibrates. He picks it up and reads: How much?

You’re awfully easy to rile up. He smiles around the rim of his glass—he knows exactly where this is heading. 

So much I think I’ll watch some videos of us.

The only caveat of casual sex as two people who essentially dislike each other is the fact that it’s all under wraps—which means if you two try to sneak off together, or are even caught in the same vicinity, people raise suspicions. And that means there are weeks where you barely get to fuck.

And that means you both grow antsy for it. He makes fun of you for being needy, when you’re tipsy and palming at the denim of his jeans or when you bend over when you know he’s looking. But the truth is he grows needy for it, too, craves you like you’re all that matters—he gets extra handsy, drops another innuendo when he knows you’re listening. There is a case to be made that he’s worse, in fact, because fans sometimes skirt around his words and wonder why he sounds so flirty when you’re the reporter in the room.

It was difficult but eventually he found a minor workaround: sometimes he films the two of you. There’s none of those propping his phone up kind of stuff, he just fishes for it in the middle of fucking you so he can store it for himself. It’s locked on his phone and he only has a few (the few has grown in number lately), but God it gives him release when he needs it and you’re not there.

I’ll call you when I’m at the lobby, comes the response. It’s always futile, the attempts to stay away from each other.

He pulls up the folder and lets his eyes skate over the thumbnails, squeezes himself through his boxers. Fuck. He can’t seem to decide what he wants to watch—the ones of you sucking him off, the ones of his fingers stretching you out. He recalls the whine in your voice in each of them, the pleads that escaped you for him to fuck you harder.

So Max, for the life of him, can’t even count how many times these videos have made him cum. But there’s one he hasn’t seen yet—the one he took the night before you two parted. You’d become extra needy on this night, preceding the season, he supposes, the separation. You already were anticipating the deprivation, starved for him more than usual. He’d have kissed you pretty, given you one orgasm after another and still you’d want more. And on this night it was you who asked him to film, you who wanted all of them on tape, so you’d both have something to tide you over until he got to fuck you again.

He pulls his cock out and strokes over it. And with his other hand, he presses his thumb on that video.

In it he’s fucking you in the dark, keeping the phone’s flashlight on your pussy as he sinks his cock into you. When he pulls back out the light reflects on the slick coating his dick, makes it glisten. It looks so wet, sounds so wet, with each thrust into you. He remembers just how it feels; he imagines that he’s back in your bed, fucking you again; that his fist is your pussy, and the spit lubricating it is the wetness that’s drooling out of you on camera.

He can see how tight you are—the way your pussy grips the shaft each time he pulls his cock out, greedy for him. Just like you.

The two of you were supposed to be quiet, too. You were at a hotel, your room beside another driver’s; you were supposed to be careful not to stir anyone. But your moans are louder than he remembers; so is the way you say, breathily, between gasps, Right there, Maxie, m’so close. Max inhales through his teeth, his cock throbbing at that—that Maxie, the cute little whimper out your mouth.

He strokes himself faster, watches the way your fingers slip into frame to rub at your clit, his thrusts getting sloppier and sloppier. He can see, hear—feel how wet you are, the sound of your cunt growing wetter with every thrust. He hears his own voice again, mutter out So good for me, yeah? And your babbled affirmation in response.

You cum hard, your slick getting everything wet and shiny and Max watches himself cum next. His dick’s already spurting when he pulls out and lets himself release on your lower stomach, some of it shooting onto your tits. He blinks, anchors himself back, quickens his wrist and digs his heels into the bed to keep himself from coming. Just a second longer. He knows what comes next and he needs to see it.

Like clockwork, he watches two of your fingers swipe through his cum, bringing them up to your lips. You blink up at the camera and smile. Quit it, your lips mouth, pink and cum-slick. Put it down, Maxie… fill me up again. He releases in weak spurts over his fist, a damp, flushed grunt escaping him as he does. He feels like the air’s been knocked out of him.

His phone rings and he presses it to his ear. “Hey, angel. Come on up.”

One week later

“Vodka,” you say to the bellboy when you get to the elevator. “To my hotel room. Very cold. Please. And thank you.”

The guy scurries off to fetch it for you, and five minutes and one elevator ride later, you're wrestling himself into your room, flexing your sore foot. Japan does hotel rooms well. The leather of your Manolo digs into your foot the way it does after you’ve walked the entire day and you can feel a blister forming on the back of your right heel but it doesn’t really matter, you guess, if you’re already home. Hotel-home, anyway.

You expect to find solace lounging on your bed, waiting out the hours to your morning briefing for the race and throw back a glass or two of vodka. 

Instead, you find Max on your couch. He’s sipping ice-cold vodka—your ice-cold vodka.

“Hey, pretty,” he says. “Good vodka. I got staff to wire my FIFA on the TV.”

You just stare. “My TV. What,” you say, your eyes spotting the bottle of frosty vodka by his glass, “are you doing here?”

“I hadn’t seen you all day and I wanted to,” he explains simply. “Do you want food or something?”

“Food? I—nevermind,” you shrug. You’re frozen by the door, only just warmed now from the cold air that bit at your bare legs. “Max, how long have you been here?”

“Since Will Buxton started the post-FP debrief,” he huffs. He fiddles with the remote in his grip and extends it to the TV, where FIFA comes to life. “Aw, come on, angel. I know, I know. No sex and all that. I just like your company, you know?”

“Please. Go fuck yourself,” you scoff, toeing off your shoes and wiping your hands on the fabric of your skirt. He says one thing but you expect another—it’s only natural, given all the other times one of you had failed to keep a similar promise. But still you walk yourself beside him, fix the strap of your short dress, and allow him to pour you a drink.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about lately?” He asks absently. “About how you’re always having these talks with me about… about not having sex anymore, but you never even last two days.” He raises you the glass. “What is it, relapsing?”

“Fuck you,” you mutter. “It’s only because you keep trying to get me all hot and bothered.” You recall each time: in Monaco, in Madrid, in France. “Maybe if you got off my back once in a while, we’d be back to normal.”

He shrugs. “You just don’t have strong resolve.”

“Excuse me?” You scoff, irritation scratching at your throat.

“Wanna test that out? Come play.”

Your eyes flit over to the bright screen, all exhaustion cleared from your system. An animated Kylian Mbappe kicks a football in a loop. “Fine. One round and you’re out of my room.” He throws his hands up in surrender and you make a move to sit next to him. Max puts his hands out towards you then, nodding. You mistake it for some handshake, accept them, and then he’s wrangle you onto his lap facing outward. You feel your pulse at your throat as he pulls you tight against him.

“This is cheating,” you say, your voice dry.

“You got it wrong. Teaching.”

He moves his fingers atop yours, explaining what to press, what goes where, what to do for this or that. He can smell your perfume, hear your stilted breaths, and when he peeks over your shoulder he can see where your dress falls loose, showing the lace of your bra and your tits underneath them.

If he had it his way, he’d hike your dress up and have you ride him. But he’s given you a challenge.

You play a practice round and end up scoring a few goals, fingers making quick work of the buttons. Behind you, Max watches, content, answering your questions when you ask them hurriedly—how do I do this? That? Did I just score?

You score once, then twice, then three times, and before you know it you’re scoring in quick succession. The game is fun—it’s easy. If Max was trying to give you a hard time, he failed. You grow determined, competitive within seconds (something he really should’ve anticipated), and you’re scoring goals with skill that you’d confidently say rivals Max’s.

Max. You almost—almost forget he’s there, and then you sit up straighter and you’re hit with the sensation of his dick pressing into your ass. You inhale sharply and the controller clatters to the floor.

“You okay, pretty?” His hand comes up to rest on your knee, inching closer and closer with every hitch of your breath. Your hand, now free of the controller, seizes his, stopping it right at the middle of your thigh. 

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah? You look stressed.” He doesn’t move. “You were so close, too, weren’t you?” The score stares you right in the face: 4-5. “Maybe you just need to get your mind off it.” It’s so bullshit, so extremely obvious, but he’s right in your ear and his hand is so near where you’ve missed its presence.

You’re usually competitive. You can usually hold your ground. But with this and him—

“Maybe,” you breathe, loosening your grip. He spreads his legs, spreading yours in the process, and brings his hand closer, running slender fingers over the lace material of your underwear until you’re squirming. It grows damper the more he touches, your mouth hanging open with stunted whimpers.

“You always come back to me, schatz, don’t you,” he says, whispers against your ear. You wrench a moan out. “Remember the first time? You interviewed me in Abu Dhabi… you teased me the whole day and begged to come thrice in my room. The time in Monaco you touched yourself to me when I was in the next room. The time we almost hooked up in Miami…” He groans, to himself more than you. “You’re a dirty girl.” He’s curling two fingers inside of you now, grazing against the sweet spot pulls the most delicious moans out of your innocent mouth.

“Every time… you go, that was the last time.” While your mind recaps the memories he’s busy spelling into your ear, Max’s fingers are curling inside of you against that sweet spot just right, and your moans are getting louder and louder.

“Fuck,” he huffs, watching your flushed face get more and more euphoric.

“Aw, pretty, look at that,” Max laughs. He’s looking at your thighs, watching the way they tense and shake as his fingers stroke your g spot. Each pump and curl into your twitching pussy feels better and better, and your dripping walls are starting to clench around his fingers.

“Wait, I—I can’t,” you pant, lolling your head onto his shoulder and involuntarily bucking your hips upward. 

“Yeah you can,” he orders. “It’s so easy to get you to cum, isn’t it? Or is that just for me? The driver you hate the most?” He laughs. “Get all wet for the guy you couldn’t care less about. Say you hate me and get my dick nice and wet the next day.” You’re grinding onto his three fingers now, shameless with it.

“Are you gonna cum?” He asks.

“Oh,” you whine. “Yeah, fuck—yes.”

“Tell me what you’re gonna do,” he says wickedly. You can hear him smile.

“I’m gonna—please—I’m gonna cum,” you pant, tension coming to a halt and then bursting all at once out of you. His other arm holds your hips down against him, and you spend a minute and another twitching, your skin sticky with sweat and slick.

It’s not long before you’re whirled back to face him, your hands making quick work of his jeans. It’s a skill you’ve both mastered, the art of the quickie—in closets, hotel rooms, with sweaty, open-mouthed kisses pressed along the column of your throat, moans swallowed. 

He hikes your dress up and your panties to the side, immediately bullies his cock into you—the glide is slow, but easy. You’re so fucking wet.

“Fucking big,” you gasp out. “Jesus, Jesus—fuck.” Your head drops and presses against his; he uses the opportunity to kiss you. You moan into it, feeling the stretch, your slick wetness dragging down the length of him as he thrusts up, up, further. “Been a while.”

“Feel good, though, yeah?” Your toes curl and you nod; you’re flushed all over and you need him to hurry up. You grind downward, onto him. He does, then, fucks you hard and fast, like he’s thirsted for this for way longer than he did. You’re squirming, all wet, and it tempts him to go harder. Your face is shiny with sweat, lips drawn in between your teeth.

“Slo—slow down,” you manage, babbling; he doesn’t, speeding up his thrusts until you’re moaning his name. “Max—wait—fuck, you’re so mean,” you whine, wrapping your arms around him and letting him take control. 

“You’re fine,” he grunts, pulling out almost all the way. “You take my dick so well, schatz, every fucking time. Don’t you?”

“I do,” you gasp out, and he’s slamming into you gain. You cry out loudly, sniffling from the overstimulation—you’d barely recovered from your initial orgasm and already you’re hurtling into what feels like three at the same time. 

“For someone who doesn’t like me,” he sneers, “you sure do moan like a slut, huh?”

His words get you more turned on than you’re willing to admit, but you shake your head.

“No?” He laughs, breathy from the effort. “Maybe I should film you now. Send it to your boss, let him see his stellar reporter’s getting Verstappen’s dick wet.” 

Finally, the tension building inside of you reaches a head, and your pussy starts to twitch around his dick. He notices, grunts sharply and leans forward, shuddering as he releases into you. Your moans are choked and tapering into whimpers as you release slick all over him, and you attempt to catch your breath, collapsing onto his still-clothed, now-sticky chest. You scratch at the dri-fit material and inhale him, the smell of his cologne, his sweat. You bite at his earlobe, laugh when he flinches.

“That,” you say into his skin, “was the last time.” It’s both seriously and as a joke, playing off of what he’d remarked earlier.

“Jesus, princess. I’m still inside you.” 

You giggle and drum lightly along the plane of his chest. In a few minutes he’ll pick you up to shower, but now you’re content to inhale him in. Quietly you wonder why you just can’t get enough of him—if you were in better senses, you’d have realized he was thinking the same thing about you.

[pennyserenade]

devil in his heart | jackson rippner x reader

summary | after finding out your long-time boyfriend's real occupation, you have to grapple with who he really is. rating | (explicit) tags/warnings | 18+, dark, dubcon (bordering on noncon), smut, explicit smut, fingering, degradation, violence word count | 1.9k+ a/n | i honest to god don't know what possessed me, but we are all grown ups here. read with caution! enjoy! love ya! also: i wrote this to devil in his heart by the donays and he's got the power by the exciters, if you're interested in a soundtrack. not beta'd

Truth be told, this is the best game of cat and mouse he's had in years, and he doesn't like that it's ending so soon.

As he gets on your level, crouching near your slumped form, Jackson almost feels a little sorry that you couldn't win. It's not that you weren't witty enough--you were. It's just that, well, he's better. This reminds him of when he was ten and had wanted to go to space only to figure out when he was twelve that he was too scared of the vastness of the galaxy. Some things are just out of reach, too good to be true. He mourns it all the same.

His fingers tenderly push back sweat soaked strands of hair from your face. You look up at him, blurry-eyed, but still so resolute--lips thinned, smoldering with anger. God. He swipes a finger across your lip just to know what it feels like, and likes it better for the fact that you jerk away so aggressively that you knock your head back into the wall.

His tongue clicks. "You should've known, after following me all those weeks, that I'm good at this."

Jackson wraps his fingers tightly around your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. You give in, mostly because you have so little energy to protest. His eyes look ominously glacial, lit up only by the moonlight cascading in from the window.

You look down at his lips; the flesh there is still swollen, broken from the harsh swing of your elbow earlier in the night. His tongue spears out to feel at the area. "You're a sloppy assassin, baby. My blood's all over this goddamn place. All over you--" he gestures down to your simple white tee shirt, which has been made dirty with dirt, sweat, blood. You don't care. You feel dizzy and half-scared to pass out, to even think of it, because you've never seen him look quite like this.

You think back to that first time you met him, how he had seemed so polite. He was traveling by train to visit his folks back home for Christmas (he said things like 'folks' in a crisp Midwestern accent, for God's sake). He had said he worked in life insurance policy, which made you laugh and caused him to say, "I know, I know--ironic, Jack Rippner dealing out life insurance." You had thought it was ironic. It is: ironically cruel.

He buys his ties from GAP, his dress shirts from Macy's, likes EggNog and celebrates the fourth of July with as much enthusiasm as any plain, good-hearted American man can.

He’s met your mother; he loves her breadsticks.

You spit on him. It takes the very last of your strength, but it's worth it to see the way his eyes ignite. His hand wipes it off, thumb running through the saliva on his fingers as his lips purse. "You know," he begins, voice eerily calm, "I always thought we'd make good parents. God knows we've come close to it enough times. You just can't help but beg for my cum in you, the slut you are." He chuckles darkly. "I always imagined that you'd be the good cop and I'd be the bad one."

Jackson pushes your head back into the wall, propping you there, almost choking you, but not quite. You let out a deep, wavering breath. He smirks. "But I see that's not the case now, is it? You don't seem to like very much when I play with my food before I eat it, do you?" His fingers press against your lips again, saliva coated. You let him. "Here I thought, all along, 'my baby's a goddamn pacifist. She didn't even like fishing!' It kept me up at night, the idea of you finding out what I did. But look at you!" His thumb tenderly strokes your neck, moving around a mysterious fluid--could be your blood, his blood, spit, water, anything. "I think if I reached between your legs now, you'd be soaked."

You choke out a sound of protest, wiggling beneath his gasp. He tuts, his fingers digging more tightly into your throat. For a brief moment, you can’t breathe. You find enough strength to claw at his hand, to widen your eyes and plead.

“C’mon, you’ll like this. You always do.” He loosens his grip on your neck.

As you gasp for air, Jackson knocks your legs apart. It doesn’t take much effort to get your cunt—you’d foolishly made the mistake of wearing a dress today—and he hums in delight when his fingers reach past your cotton underwear, confirming what he suspected to be true. His lips form into a mocking pout as your eyes begin to well with tears. It's not fear—you’re beyond that. It’s anger. The betrayal of this curdles inside you, eating you alive. Your eyes fill with ire.

“Don’t be that way,” he shakes his head, softening a degree. He holds your chin between his fingers again, the other hand rubbing wide circles over your clit. “I’m not going to kill you. How could I? I’m not sure what I’m going to do with you, truth be told, but it’s not that.”

Your hips jerk involuntarily, causing him to growl. “That’s the spirit, kitten. When you hit me earlier, I thought—after, of course, 'God she’s a bitch!’—that you might be a good asset. I know you’ve got a lot of morals holding you back right now, so I figure I’ll let you do the easy work at first. Let you think you’re doing some good in the world.” He presses down on your clit, his touch more intent, more focused. You squirm, hating the way he knows that you like it like this.

His fingers slip down into your cunt, wetting them. “Fuck, you’re soaking. If this is how you get when we do this, you might just reform me. I’m not opposed. We—“ he reattaches his fingers to your cunt. You whine, arching into his touch.“—could do good work. I freelance, if you couldn’t tell already. Though I’m sure you can. You’re a thorough investigator when you want to be. That’ll be helpful, too.”

Jackson picks up his pace, swallowing as he stares down at your lap. He can’t see anything, his hand hidden beneath the fabric of the dress and your underwear, but it seems to thrill him all the same. You too, admittedly.

“I—I couldn’t,” you retort, biting at your lip. “You—you kill!”

“Don’t be such a prude,” he deadpans. “It’s political assassinations and occasionally, though very rarely, an innocent bystander. And I do my best to make sure those cases are few and far between. I do.” He presses down more intently, watching with delight as you squirm, trying not to cum. “Oh, go on. It’s just you and me here. No one’s gonna know except me, and I won’t tell anyone. I’m good with secrets. You know that now.”

He’s near exultant, talking to you about this. The pitch of his voice is higher, and he’s looking at you like he’s won a prize of the highest degree. You’d spit on him again if he wasn’t making you feel so goddamn good.

“I won’t do it,” you shake your head firmly. Jackson takes the opportunity to slip a finger in your cunt, to press in and show you how much he has always—will always—know you.

“Okay, okay, I’ll bite,” he soothes, entering another. It’s a squeeze, but a welcome one, especially when he begins to thrust them against the spongy surface of your walls. Your toes curl, and you hate him, hate him violently. “If you want me to be rough, you really only have to ask, but since you like this game so much we’ll play it.”

As he fingers you, he begins to palm your clit. The sensation is overwhelming. Tears cascade down your face and he leans forward, licking them from your lips. The warmth of the orgasm rises in you alarmingly quick, his fingers deftly touching the inside of you, his palm lining with your clit each time you rut involuntarily. Your body knows him. It trusts him. He knows it.

The orgasm licks through you like a goddamn flame, igniting everything and leaving it all worse for it. When you cry out, Jackson smirks, so fucking pleased. But he doesn’t stop. He goes on, rubbing down harder, thrusting in quicker, until you’re wiggling beneath him.

“Please!” you say, trying to move his hand away.

He’s resolute. “No can do, honey. You’ve been a naughty girl, indulgent in the worst way. Gluttony is a sin, and I've been good–I’ve never punished you for it before–but you’ve hurt my feelings now.”

He slides in a third finger, his crystal eyes dark in the shadows. You feel impossibly full, and on the brink of another orgasm. You whine out. He knocks your head back into the wall with force. It doesn’t take your breath away, but it stuns you to silence. “That’ll be enough of that. This is for me now, got it? Getting you all wet so my cock will fit in that tight cunt of yours. Want you to hear it, your pussy taking me.”

As if to prove a point, he thrusts in again, and you do hear it—the way your body allows him in. An obscene squelch. You bite your lip, feel more tears fall down your cheeks.

“Jackson—“ you plead. You’re tired, achy, terribly confused. He works you open so well. You can smell the sour sweet smell of his body odor. You love it. You cannot help it. Your body trusted this man for so long. Still does.

You fool, you tell yourself, before your body gives way to his will again—you collapse into him, screaming out a silent whimper as the orgasm makes you convulse.

“That’s it,” he encourages, not stopping. “Be good for me. If you’re good, we’ll make this enterprise into a family business. If you’re bad—well, we’ll just have to make this our life, won’t we? You all weak, me with all the power. I don’t think you’ll like it, but you understand, it’s how it must be done if you don’t obey.”

He sighs, as if it’s putting him out too.

You know he’s serious. What’s worse is you know he’s right: that you won’t like it, that he’ll get his way eventually.

When you give in, he knows immediately, lips quirking up into a smirk.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, pressing his lips to your temple. “I always knew you had it in you a little. You were always such a whore for me. I’m happy it worked out so well for us both. Now–” He pushes your legs further apart, moving in with his own hips. “Let’s play your most favorite game. It’s longer, requires more patience, but I like it just as much as you do.”

The jingle of his belt buckle makes a shot of fear, mixed with arousal, shoot up your spine. You think: God, no.

He laughs darkly. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ve been making sure you’ve been taking your birth control. I’m not really ready for that, either. It’s just the idea that thrills you, isn’t it anyway? And that smallest, tiniest chance that it could happen.” He smirks, loosening his belt. His fingers exit you, leaving you empty, feeling scandalized and ruined. Jackson rubs them on the cloth of your dress, uncaring.

“I hate you,” you spit out, venom lacing your words.

He looks thoroughly amused as he releases his weeping cock from his underwear. “No you don’t. You’re just ashamed of yourself. But fear not–” he wipes a tear off your face, “--when we’re done here, you’ll be glad for this. Just remember, baby, that I’m on your side.”

[becasart]

She's beautiful, ethereal, stunning, dazzling, magnificent, jaw dropping... She's everything 😩💕💕💕

*EDITTTTTTTT: oh goshhh, it was bothering me how BLURRY the image turned out the first time I posted this. I never make comics and am unsure of resolution stuff when it comes to posting online, so sorry about that. Hope this is better!

[lonelysheepling]

Tall and skinny

Drawing Hornet everyday until Silksong comes out - Day 384

Idk how well this will work but here’s goes nothing lol

“Draw your Hornet!” aka draw your version/style of hornet somewhere on the bench! I was thinking maybe this can be done through reblogs?

Not a competition/contest or anything like that, it’s just for fun! This will be open indefinitely so do this whenever! :)

[ijuststoleaprius]

My scene queen drama fein ~

Sorry again that it’s blurry till you click on it !! I keep forgetting to change the resolution !! D:

[yunaversalluv]

⋆.˚ ★— Focus Pull

ᴀ ɪɴᴅɪᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄɪᴀɴ!ᴇʟʟɪᴇ x ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴᴛ ᴘʜᴏᴛᴏɢʀᴀᴘʜᴇʀ!ꜰᴇᴍ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⋆.˚ ★— Focus Pull m.list

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ `౨ৎ~

In the hush of a too-quiet apartment, Ellie stumbles across a photo that stops her cold — not a performance shot, but something quieter, rawer, real. Sent without words, it says more than she’s ready to hear.

Nothing is said. But everything shifts.

cw for this chapter// emotional vulnerability / introspection, themes of loneliness and isolation, mental health undertones, unspoken romantic tension, ambiguous consent in emotional exposure

note - sorry for the late posting this was supposed to posted yesterday & earlier today, but a lot has happened. this chapter was not proofread so i apologize for any mistakes!

taglist - @miajooz @talyaisvalslutsoldier @lesoulew @elliespotion @valeisaslut @mariesmagix @eriiwaiii2 @liztreez @re1daway @wrappedinvines @eleanorsghost @fangirlinc @wwefan2002

CHAPTER SEVEN: UNCAPTIONED

The hum of the mini fridge is the only sound in the apartment.

It’s a low, steady whirr, broken only by the occasional click when the compressor shifts. The kind of sound you stop noticing until silence would be louder. Ellie sits on the floor in front of the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, knees bent up like she’s trying to fold in on herself. The place is dim, all the overhead lights off, just a single lamp in the corner casting soft gold against the wall, and the blue glow of her phone screen washing her face in pulses.

Her eyes flick back and forth, scrolling, scrolling. Headlines. Dumb memes. Half-filtered images of brunch plates and mirror selfies and tour flyers she forgot to answer emails about. Snippets of strangers’ lives she doesn’t care about—too pretty, too loud, too curated, like someone turned the saturation up on everything and expected her to care.

Her thumb pauses. She’s been scrolling for so long her eyes sting.

A tagged photo stops her cold.

It’s her. Mid-performance. Sweat gleaming along her jaw, hair clinging to her cheek, lips parted in some word she doesn’t remember singing. The light catches just behind her, haloing the blur of her guitar strap. The caption says, god-tier angst lesbian energy. It’s followed by three heart emojis, a crying face, and a gif of a girl fainting.

Ellie scoffs under her breath, nose scrunching faintly. She scrolls past without thinking.

Then scrolls back.

Looks at it again.

Double-taps it. Immediately feels weird about it.

She exhales, jaw shifting. The last show was fine. Packed. Hot. Loud in a way that scraped the inside of her skull. She doesn’t remember much besides the lights in her eyes and the ache in her jaw from clenching too tight during the encore. It’s all a blur. Flashes of color and sound and faces she didn’t really see.

Her thumb hovers over her texts.

Nothing from Jesse. Not since yesterday. Dina sent a blurry photo of her cat asleep on a pile of laundry three hours ago. It’s stupid. Dumb cat, floppy and useless. Still, Ellie taps it open. Smiles faintly when she sees the cat’s tongue sticking out. She starts to type a response—

Then her screen lights up.

A name.

Your name.

Her whole body freezes like something inside her just short-circuited. Her thumb stops mid-word. Her breath catches in her throat.

A message.

No words.

Just an image.

Ellie swipes to open it, slow like she’s bracing for a hit. The preview loads — high resolution, sharp focus. She can already tell it’s one of yours.

Of course it is.

It’s her hands.

Just her hands — resting on her thighs, palms down, after the show. Her jeans look stiff with sweat. Gaffer tape’s still stuck to one knuckle, half peeling. There’s a raw spot near the edge of her nailbed. One of her rings has slipped a little. The light is dusky, somewhere between stage-blue and shadow-purple. She’s not posed. Not framed for attention. It’s quiet. Still. A moment she didn’t even know she gave you.

There’s tension in her fingers — like she was still coming down from it all — but also softness. A curl in the way her hand rests, slack now, drained. Like she was finally just existing.

Not performing.

Not bracing.

Just… her.

Ellie stares.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink for a second.

It feels like falling through the floor.

The air shifts, tightens. Her pulse kicks up behind her ribs.

No caption.

No message.

Which means she has to interpret it.

Has to fill in the silence with something that sounds like sense. She doesn’t know how. Doesn’t even know where to begin. Her throat’s dry. The image is so still, and yet it hits her like sound. Like melody. Like something vibrating too deep in her chest to name.

She lowers the phone, blinking fast, like her body’s trying to keep up with whatever just hit her.

She doesn’t know what to do with it.

She doesn’t know what to do with you

You didn’t mean to send it.

Not at first.

You’d been sitting in the quiet too, wrapped in the familiar glow of your editing screen. It wasn’t about deadlines tonight. Wasn’t about deliverables or tagging the right account or archiving everything before your memory of it faded.

You just felt… off. Restless. Like something was itching under your skin and you couldn’t figure out where to scratch.

You pulled up the folder again, not because you had to — because you needed to. Something in you kept reaching.

And there it was.

That frame.

The lighting wasn’t perfect, not technically. A little uneven. A little dim. But that made it better somehow. More honest.

Her hands. Relaxed, but not quite. Callused fingertips still twitching with the echo of the last chord. There was something about the curve of her fingers, the visible dirt beneath one nail, the line of faded ink near her wrist — all of it threaded with a kind of unspoken ache you couldn’t look away from.

You remembered when you took it. How she’d slumped onto the amp after soundcheck like the air had finally gotten too heavy.

And how she’d looked up.

Not startled. Not annoyed. Just tired. Real.

She saw the camera. Saw you behind it.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t pose.

Just met your gaze, unflinching.

And let you take it.

That stayed with you.

Now, hours later, it’s still open in a separate window. No title. No edits.

You stare at it for a long time.

You don’t write a caption. You don’t attach a message. You just drag the image into the text field, hesitate a second longer than you want to admit…

And hit send.

Then you shut your laptop.

You don’t check if she’s seen it.

You wouldn’t know what to do if she didn’t.

You wouldn’t know what to do if she did.

Ellie’s thumb is still hovering over the photo.

The apartment feels too quiet now. The fridge hum’s not enough to fill it. Her own breath sounds too loud in her ears.

She should say something.

She should type something dumb. Cool shot. Nice angle. Didn’t even know you took that.

Something that buys her time.

But her hands won’t move. Her fingers feel numb.

Her mind’s spinning in slow circles — not panicked, not frozen, just… suspended.

She taps the corner of the screen. Saves the image to her favorites. Stares at the little heart icon that flashes for half a second before disappearing.

Then she opens a note app. Blank screen. Cursor blinking.

She types:

not sure what you see when you look at me like that but i wanna believe it’s real.

She reads it. Feels her face go hot. Too much. Too open.

Deletes it.

Tries again.

i don’t like photos of me. but i keep looking at this one. why?

Deletes that too.

Leans her head back against the couch cushion, eyes closed. Exhales through her nose.

Her phone slips in her lap. She lets it.

She scrolls back to your thread again, opens the photo once more. Fills the screen with it. Just her hands. Just that small, raw moment she didn’t even know someone saw.

Her thumb brushes the edge of the glass. It’s almost a caress.

Like touching it could explain anything.

She doesn’t reply.

She doesn’t know how to say what it made her feel without sounding like something she’s not ready to admit.

But she opens her music app.

Scrolls to the playlist you made her. The one with the lo-fi cover art and the one-word title.

She picks that song.

The one you sent two nights ago. The one with the soft piano and breathless vocals that felt like sleeping in someone else’s bed and trying not to fall apart.

She hits play.

The first notes drift out into the quiet.

Ellie lies back on the floor, the carpet rough against her spine, hoodie pulled up over her chin. Her fingers curl loosely over her chest, like they don’t know where else to go.

Eyes closed.

Song playing.

Heart aching.

And somewhere between verse and chorus, she thinks—

What would I look like if I let someone love me?

She doesn’t have an answer.

But now, she thinks maybe…

You might.

[bentosnackbox]

"Girl, just let me know / We can take it slow."

lyrics: "Break from Toronto" *(2013 -

PARTYNEXTDOOR

part two

MENTIONS : situationship, mentions of sex, gojo, suguru and shoko r also in the same age range, unprotected sex, pussydrunk!megumi, backshots, ghosting, alcohol, blunts, partying, college AU, fratboy megumi kinda..?, sexting, cursing, athlete megumi, pro basketball player megumi.

ALL CHARACTERS APE 18+ IN THIS AU !!

DISCLAIMER : MDNI (im not responsible of what you see on the internet, but still cmon guys let's not Imao)

guys this is my first time writing a fic... like ever!! so don't expect it to be good i'm still working on it lol.

also if u see me make a grammar mistake it's cuz english isn't my first language, so there will be some mistakes sadly

i plan on writing more fics if this blows up or i get comments n likes asking for more... anyways !!

there will be more parts cuz i'm too lazy too put everything in one part Imao sorry

master list : part one, part two, part thee

| answer the goddamn Phone when i call you.

i feel my hands slowly starting to sweat and itch from my nervousness from the message.

“anwser the phone when i call you..?” i repeat under my breath

fuck i’m screwed.

shoko isn’t here, i already opened the message and im getting A CALL FROM HIM.

think quick y/n think fucking quick.

i think back at my new year’s resolution

“focus on yourself and live stress free” that’s it.

i get overwhelmed as i see him typing again.

shit i left him on read for the past 13 minutes and still haven’t written my response back.

i decide to block his number again.

it’s exam season right now anyways so i’m not so worried about him or my dating life.

_____

SPRING PARTY AT THE FRATHOUSE | 7 PM APRIL 7th 2025

after a month of blocking megumi and ghosting him he finally gave up

turns out he got drafted into the nba for the new season of 25/26 and is pretty busy living in his L.A mansion.

according to his instagram posts of course.

not that i’ve been stalking him or anything.

shoko is convincing me to go to this spring break party at the frat boy estate near our campus

the villa me and megumi last spoke to each other.

“cmon girl come onnn” shoko says as she’s searching for her lashes and the glue in her makeup bag.

“shoko i can’t step into that house you literally know why” i say plopping into bed unmotivated asf.

“girl it’s been 1..2..3, 3 fucking months i swear you need to get over him. come onnn you can talk to all the cute boys there !!” she says now fixing her lashes as she already glued them on.

“and it’s not like he’s going to be there y/n i’m pretty sure he’s flown across the country right now”

“you think so?”

“oh trust me i know.”

and with a lot of convincing and girl talk i relentlessly decide to go.

with that i’m sitting at the bar with a piña colada on the counter while playing with the straw out of pure boredom.

i suddenly feel someone wrapping their toned slightly muscular arm around my waist.

i recognize that arm.

it was megumis.

he’s sitting next to me at the bar while ordering a drink and turning to face me afterwards.

i feel his gaze on me and try covering my face with my hair as i continue looking forward ignoring him.

“you know i know you see me right..?”

“um i guess i uh idk sorry” i mumble out.

shit why am i nervous. he did me wrong?

listen to what shoko said y/n-

he tucks my hair behind my ear causing me to look at him.

“i missed you you know?” he mumbles out.

fuck he knows this is where i’m literally weak at.

that bastard.

i look at him sighing.

“m’ sorry for ghosting you gumi.”

“s’ fine but why did you do it?”

i think of an excuse fast because fuck he can’t know the real reason can he?

“i’ve been stressed with schoo-“

“don’t bullshit me y/n”

i go quiet.

fuck he caught on.

“i’ve known you since we were kids, i know when you’re fucking lying. cmon tell me what really happend”

i suddenly feel my vision get blurry.

he immediately notices me starting to cry and caresses my cheek in a soothing manner.

“y/n s’ okay baby let it all out m’ here for u”

and so i do.

and after a drink or two we talk about it and laugh about stupid stuff.

“so let me get this straight,” he says smirking “you thought i freindzoned you eventho i fucked you raw?”

“well yeah it’s not like you meant it right… the fucking part-“

i get cut off by his now serious glare.

“do i need to prove it to you baby?”

i nod.

fuck why did i even nod? why the fuck was that my first instinct? literally what the hell happend..?

and with that nod i got into this position

yup. i’m getting fucked by THE megumi fushiguro again and yup this is his way of apologizing to me.

_____

MEGUMIS HOTEL APARTMENT | 1 AM APRIL 8th 2025

as soon as we enter the room he undresses me and takes off my dress.

he sees my black bra with a little bow in the middle and a matching pantie

“fuck, you wore this f’me?” he asks smirking as he traces the lace of my panties.

i nod.

he lets out a whimper

not even sure why

oh he got hard.

after he pushes me onto the bed and climbs ontop of me he starts to kiss me passionately and deeply.

we’re both moaning into the kiss and grinding against each other.

he moves down inbetween my thigs from my mouth and kisses my inner thighs.

“so wet f’me” he says licking my panties over my sensitive clif as i moan

“just put it in gumi! stop teasing me” i say whimpering

he lets out a laugh “fine mama just cuz you asked nicely tho”

he takes my panties off using his teeth and looking up at me smirking

fuck he’s so hot.

“fuck mama— ur pussy is so fucking perfect”

he murmurs inbetween my folds sticking his tongue up in there.

i let out a muffled moan as he makes out with my clit infront of me.

after making me cum on his face he kisses me deeply making me taste my own juices.

“yeah you taste that baby?” he says smirking against my lips

i nod whimpering and blushing

“gonna take my dick like a good girl? gonna let daddy fill you up mama?”

he says smirking down at me while taking his basketball shorts and boxers down to reveal his already throbbing dick with leaking pre coming out of the flush tip.

i nod again.

“atta girl” he says putting his dick into my wet pussy.

i whine out a moan as his thrusts get harder and harder.

“shit mama— so tight f’me” he says grinning as he feels my gummy walls clench around him

after going at it in missionary for over half an hour he positions me on my belly making me face the the pillow

in which i burry my face in.

the backshots.

i feel my tears staining my plush cheeks and ruining my lashes slightly

i feel him grab a fistful of my hair and suddenly pulling them so hard it causes me to yank my head back and arch my back

my vision was slightly blurry from the crying but i noticed something

a light..?

but it was dark in the room

i put two and two together,

he’s fucking recording.

but megumi fushiguro fucks me so good i don’t even care anymore.

“you gon leave me after this mama?” he asks smirking as his thrusts become more needy

“no gumi!” i scream out whimpering

“you gon block my number? or ghost me again baby?” he says now in a more serious tone

i shake my head and moan “no!”

he lets out a laugh “that’s my good girl”

“cuz if you do im gonna have to remind you of who you belong to” he murmurs in a serious tone under his breath.

he’s continues asking me questions like ‘who owns this pussy?’ or ‘you’re never gonna leave me again are you mama?’ knowing damn well i’m too fucked out to speak

hell, i can’t even fucking think.

oh but megumi knows,

and he loves the way he can tease the shit out of me.

so i just nod

and damn that turns him on.

he thrusts even harder and deeper moaning my name

his dick is milking tf out of my poor g spot.

pretty sure it’s bruised after our fuck.

i let out a pornographic moan as he’s thrusting even harder

after fucking me dumb he comes inside me and moans

“fuck— mama ur pussy was made f’ me”

he says whimpering and stops recording as he collapses ontop of me

bubbly and sticky cum coming out of my hole

dick still inside, still cumming and still twitching

he kisses my temple while saying “i bet shokos gonna fucking love this baby” and smirks.

i turn to him

“gumi?”

“yeah baby?”

“can i get some aftercare pls” i say quietly

i feel him smile against my neck before kissing it

“of course c’mere baby”

and after taking a bath together, changing into our pyjamas and him calling room service at 3AM to change our stained bedsheets

we finally lay in bed together.

just the two of us.

my thoughts get interrupted from a kiss on my forehead

“i love you y/n” he says smiling

i nuzzle closer into his chest

“i love you too gumi”

he smiles against my hair

“so i guess we’re dating now huh?” he asks laughing

i giggle “yupp!!”

_____

MEGUMIS HOTEL APARTMENT | APRIL 8th 11 AM

i wake up from a note on his side of the bed saying

‘coach called me in earlier for practice today so i had to leave sorry sweat cheeks! there’s clothes in my closet that you can use tho’

i feel a soft smile creep onto my face

and hear a sudden text message notification.

SHOKO PUFFS !!

| girl why are you getting layed by megumi?

| we talked about this

| i thought you were over him

| 🤦🏻‍♀️

how did shoko know?-

that’s when i realized.

that bastard sent her the video.

@bentosnackbox original work, do not copy or reposted without credits/ tagging me

[ciels-best-fit]

The people have asked so here are my thoughts of the tournament!! Please enjoy~ 💫

Why a fashion tournament?

Ok so confession time: i actually had the fashion tournament idea for... someone else (ˉ▽ˉ；)........(ㆆxㆆ) hehe

But I like Ciel just as much!! o(≧口≦)o And I always planned to do one for him eventually. In the end, I decided to do his first, because I thought it would be more fun for the fandom. And I didn't want to wait until the manga starts again and worry about new outfits. Turns out my foresight was spot on~ (´∀｀；)

Making the tournament

So as you all can guess, this is my first tournament I've put together! There were a few bumps along the way, but it was fun ride the whole time! I really struggled with the banners at the start. I'm haunted by that first one, it was sooo bad (>ლ). I'm glad I've gotten better at designing them now tho:

I really liked this one I did for the submission form.

But ig my promoting didn't reallly work? (-＿-)... I think at the most, only two people submitted to our form. But I'm really grateful towards them! If it weren't for those submissions I probably would have given up, so everyone say thank you!🎉🎉

Second confession! I know literally nothing about fashion ( ꩜///꩜;). So imagine how much of a struggle it was writing up all the propaganda. Technically, I could have left it alone... but because of the few submissions we received did get propaganda, I felt bad to erase them so I... wrote propaganda for the rest of the 132 outfits... yeah... 🙃

That's also the reason why I didn't hide the propaganda under a read-more link because I wanted yall to read it. I didn't waste nights hunched over my laptop to be ignored!! (also why this isn't under a read more hehe)

Finding all those images were quite hard as well! Most of these outfits I remembered, but locating them? And finding good resolutions? (´□`; 三 ;´□`). I also had to reformat them to fit side by side on the post, which took a lot of editing day-by-day (I sure was glad when we hit final bracket....)

But enough about me, lets talk about the tournament!!

Tournament polls

I had so much fun making them. The outfits were assorted randomly, but I did make some pairings for fun (lion vs cat, turkey vs rooster).

Looking at the final competiors of the brackets, it seems the fandom really likes Ciel's fanciful, gothic outfits, that reflect Kuro's dark regal nature. I hoped more of the fun outfits would win... I'm suprised though, I thought the manga outfits would be more popular, like Ciel's Circus Costume, just based of iconicness, but between the artbooks and the celebration illustrations there was strong competition all around.

However, it was nice to see the fandom vote for outfits Ciel shone in, rather than outfits he hated or felt uncomfortable wearing (ie. the emerald witch dress vs the pink dress). Like attitude is essential in fashion! Compared to outfits where Ciel feels... out of touch or just posing, ones where he shows off his spirit really speaks to us.

⚠️skip ahead if opinions scare you1!!⚠️

I HATED THIS OUTFIT. And its so ridiculous, I developed a special hatred for this outfit that has nothing to do with it's design. I was tasked to find an image of almost every outfit in this tournament and this is the ONLY ONE I could not a higher resolution of. It drives me nuts! I can't stand it winning with all those blurry details! It just reminds me of my failure!!

Now I can totally see why it's so popular. It shows how far Yana has come with her art. Sorry for being mean against everyone's second favorite outfit (~_~;) Technically, it did win best outfit based off the polls! (special illustrations non-withstanding) And I get why!

But... it's just not to my taste. The color scheme is dull, there isn't really a theme, it's just a bunch of emblems placed all over. The details are amazing, but again, it's sooo blurry idc. Great outfit, but it doesn't really scream Ciel's best fit to me, y'know. Like where's his personality? I just... 💤

Same note why I didn't care about the figurine illustration. BOH-ring, ayfkhdsfasdf it looks like every outfit he ever wore combined, in a bad way.

And Kuro's Back Baby isn't even an outfit? You barely see anything?? How did it get that far... (guess we're that happy about his comeback lol).

Ok ok that's enough hating, but I'm going to make a separate post of my favorite outfits so yall can roast me there haha~

Conclusion

I was a little worried about doing this tournament, I mean, I've seen some poll tournaments go bad like BAD bad. But the atmosphere was surpisingly nice? I really liked reading everyone's analysis and comments, and how much they loved each outfit. So grateful to do this with everyone, hope to see you next time as well! ( ´∀`)/~~

I have future plans for this blog, which I'll discuss in a separate post, so stay tuned!

[electricbathsalt]

Hi! Fellow Overhaul enjoyer here! (Thank god I’ve found my people-)

I read about your ideas for a Herohaul! AU and a thought occurred to me-

What do you think would happen if Herohaul found out Shigaraki’s Decay is actually half of HIS Overhaul?

Hello! Sorry I did not get back to you sooner, I was. dead. But I’m back now!

That’s a really interesting idea! I never considered it! I completely forgot that in my Herohaul AU Shigaraki still would’ve gotten half of Chisaki’s quirk if we’re being accurate with the timeline…

So, let me contemplate this!

First things first, Chisaki would have to find out somehow. I imagine this would happen sometime in his hero career while he’s an adult. I’ll also say that Chisaki never knew why he was in Garaki’s orphanage as a kid, and to add some extra spice, it’s always been something that gnaws at the back of his mind. He’s well-familiar with the fact they were experimenting on him for his quirk—but why? What was their goal with it? Clearly, if they had one, they must’ve reached it since they let him escape. But he never could pinpoint it.

That is until he hits the age of, hm, let’s say 20 for now. Let’s speed up when Garaki gets found out and busted, and let’s say this happens due to Chisaki’s previous disclosures of what his time in the “mystery orphanage” was like and whatnot. It gave the police and heroes investigating the whole thing a significant enough lead that Garaki eventually gets got early.

Now, after the investigation is over and done and Garaki is imprisoned, Chisaki ends up giving into his urge to visit him to demand answers after a while.

The mere presence of the man makes Chisaki’s skin crawl. But the main thing about him that makes Chisaki have to suppress his tremors is the man’s voice—the thing he heard every time he was getting experimented on. He barely ever saw Garaki’s face and never in its entirety, but his voice was like running his ears down graters.

He manages to put up an unaffected front, though. Garaki laughs and praises Chisaki’s tenacity and resolution when he starts asking questions.

Garaki only gives unhelpful answers. Such as “Yes, we had a goal”, “Yes, we reached it”, and nothing but silence and a smile when Chisaki asks what the goal was. No matter how Chisaki tries to figure more out, Garaki remains a brick wall. It frustrates Chisaki and he ends up getting up to leave in anger. But, right before he slams the door behind him, Garaki calls out to him.

“Wait,” he says. “One last thing.” Chisaki looks at him over his shoulder. “There was another boy,” he states.

Chisaki presses him for more. Garaki very blatantly finds the whole thing amusing. “You’re toying with me,” Chisaki accuses. Garaki cackles.

It’s after hours of relentless interrogation that Garaki finally decides to let Chisaki catch a break. “We were extracting part of your quirk to copy it and give it to the boy. And…” Chisaki’s face morphs with horror at just that, and then, “You already know him,” Garaki says. Chisaki’s blood runs cold.

“What?”

“You already know him,” Garaki repeats. He wheezes before continuing, “May or may not be one of the kids you sent to that old recovery center you’re so fond of.”

Chisaki has found, rescued, and sent dozens of children to his past recovery center. He even checks up on all of them when he can. He knows every kid in there by heart.

“Who? Which one?” He demands. His heart is pounding in his ears. His vision is going blurry. This is bad. Everything about this is bad.

Garaki grins. “I feel like you already have an idea.”

Chisaki feels sick. Garaki’s right. Chisaki already knows who it is, doesn’t he?

The accidental murder, the urges to destroy, the touch rule, the disintegration, the scratching. The way he would describe the man who took him in.

Chisaki can’t hear what Garaki says over the hammering in his head, but he learned to read lips a long, long time ago.

—

Sorry, anyway. So after Chisaki finds out that their goal was to extract half of his quirk and give it to Shigaraki, which they succeeded with, he spirals slightly. Once he recovers a bit, he ends up adopting Shigaraki as his own. Chisaki personally handles Tomura’s recovery and rehabilitation from that point forward, realizing that he’s able to comprehend Tomura’s struggles in ways that others can’t. Tomura realizes this, as well. He finds a comfort and confidence in Chisaki that was never offered to him by any of his biological family or All For One. He ends up fully adopting the mindset that Chisaki is his one and only true family member, and they become extremely close. Brothers for realsies. Also, they’re both very protective of each-other, but Tomura somehow manages to be even more overprotective despite being the younger sibling.

I was trying to decide on all the merits on how it would all go. So here’s some explanation:

The reveal couldn’t have been the same one that happened in canon because Chisaki becoming a pro affects too much in this timeline for the war to have happened.

I was trying to decide between whether Chisaki finds/discovers Shigaraki after the reveal/by tracking him down or if he already knew him, and I found the “already knows him” route to be more interesting. Plus it’s closer to the original.

Also, Garaki gives up the information to Chisaki for two reasons. One: His and AFO’s operation was already done for. Two: He harbors a weird, almost-parental fondness for Chisaki and Shigaraki both. He wants to see his experiments collide and succeed.

And also, Chisaki has an irrational guilt complex about the whole ordeal. He feels like he’s somehow responsible for all the manipulation and suffering Tomura went through simply because he “provided the quirk that ruined his life”. He tries not to let Tomura become aware of this, but Tomura does and scolds Chisaki every time he can tell he’s feeling bad about it, calling him a “stupid old man who’s letting himself lose to an already-defeated boss”.

Although, that wasn’t always the case. Back in the beginning, Tomura did hold resentment towards Chisaki for exactly that reason. He has an extreme guilt complex about it now, which Chisaki scolds him for, saying “Of course, a thirteen-year-old would resent the person who made ruining their life possible!”.

And it goes without saying that when Eri comes into the picture later down the line, Tomura absolutely adores her. And Chisaki finds it freaky how similar the two are. Tomura finds it freaky how similar Eri and Chisaki are. Eri finds it freaky how similar Tomura and Chisaki are. It’s a real full-circle moment.

Anywayyy, sorry. This got long and lore-heavy lmao. I hope you’re satisfied with my answer, though…? 💀 Feel free to ask me anything else!! 🤧👍