#the walls covered in the posters and graffiti

[the-librarby]

IN THE RING I

- SIMON RILEY (COD)

It’s a sketchy job advert that leads you here, but you have no other choices. Backed into a corner yourself, bartending at an underground fighting ring didn’t seem so bad.

.･:★ Underground fighter au let’s go — apologies in advance I cannot write fight scenes for shit (ironic, but it’s not what we’re really here for right?)

Happy reading!

Part II

You desperately needed this job. You were at your wits end with all these interviews and trial shifts just to be told, we’ll get back to you, or managers blatantly lying about the pay until you forcibly asked them. Which is why when you saw the unassuming bartending gig posted against a public bulletin at your university, you paused, because honestly who even advertised for jobs like that anymore?

You thought it would be a job at some local bar for university students but the address spat you out at some closed down looking storefront. If not for the men walking in and out, and milling around the front with cigarettes, you would have assumed it was closed. But you stilled yourself, taking one last breath and scrunching the flyer in your hands as you stormed in with one last burst of confidence.

Grabbing the front of your leather jacket, you tugged it closer around yourself in some defence against the grimy warehouse environment. The walls are what used to be white painted bricks, but are now old and covered in all sorts of dirt, graffiti, and aged posters. You let the murmuring crowd lead you through the corridor until you reach the mouth of the venue.

It’s bare, is what you first think. No frills, and no attempt of hiding what it is. There’s an old boxing ring in the middle, its rails sagging from the weight of countless fights and its floor scuffed. The bar— a generous description for the wooden bar top which looks scrappy at best, and the three stools which have tears allowing the stuffing beneath to be exposed.

There’s barely any liquor in sight and when you look around you can see all patrons are holding some form of beer, whether it be canned, bottled, or through tap. Cautiously you approach the side where it seems to be empty, the man beside you does a double take as you slip in beside him, but you do your best to ignore him as you rap your knuckles against the grimy bar top surface to get the bartender’s attention.

“Are you Mark?” You ask as he looks over at you.

“What? Speak louder sweetheart,” he calls out.

You clear your throat and lean closer, “Are you Mark? I’m here for a job?”

“Oh, fuck no, I’m not Mark,” he laughs, placing the glass of, again, beer, in front of a customer, “Are you the girl who called about that flyer?”

The way he looks you up and down scrutinisingly makes you nervous but you stand taller, “Yes, I’m here for a trial. Can you point Mark out to me then?”

He looks over your head and does a quick scan of the venue, you try to follow his gaze but you’re lost on the throng of men walking about. The sudden whistle gets your attention though, when you look over at the bartender he’s mid wave and points down at you in gesture.

“Trial!” He calls out, pointing at you again but looking somewhere into the crowd.

When you look back at the crowd you can see an older man ambling through, he’s got a thick stature and a tea towel slung over his shoulder. His hair looks damp with sweat as it slicks back over his forehead, when he gets a closer look at you he places his hands on his hips.

“You the phone call I got?” He asks gruffly.

You smile politely, “Yes sir, are you Mark?”

He scoffs and wipes his fingertips on the towel slung over his shoulder, “Mark s’fine,” he looks down at you again, particularly at the way you tug the leather jacket over your shoulders, “Venue like this is no place for a girl,”

“Mark,” you repeat in acknowledgment, “With all due respect, I can handle myself,”

“Don’t look like it,” he comments, “Where did you even hear about this place?”

You lift the crumpled flyer in your hands, “Saw the advert at my uni,”

“Uni? You a student?” He groans, “Who the fuck is placing these things there, I don’t need no bright eyed student workin’ here, pack up kid. Go do your homework or somethin’,”

You grit your teeth in frustration, clutching the strap of your tote bag harder, “I am an adult who is asking for a chance at a trial shift, not a high school student,”

Mark sighs and lolls his head from side to side, “Listen, you seem like a good kid, but this is not the place for you. End of discussion, get out of here,”

Sensing you’re losing the fight, you lash out like you’re backed into a corner, “Fuck you! Who are you to assume this isn’t the place for me?” You shout, the bartender behind the bar watches curiously as you let loose, “I need this fucking job, and I’m more dedicated than any other half assed man applying here. If you even have anyone else lined up,”

Mark looks stunned at your outburst but quickly recovers, you cut him off before he can tell you leave again, “Let me at least do a trial, see for yourself if I can handle it,” you spit, “I’ll even do it for free just to prove you wrong,”

He looks at you with an assessing gaze for a long pause before letting out an inconvenienced sigh and looking over your shoulder, “Here all that James?”

The bartender doesn’t look over as he continues to serve customers, “Every word Sir, she can start her shift right now,”

He rolls his eyes and looks at you one last time before shaking his head, “Fuckin’ Sir,” he scoffs, “Get your ass behind the bar then, James’ll show you the ropes.”

James is an efficient teacher, although there’s not much to learn. “It’s not a proper bar,” he says, “As you can see, we only serve beer, this crowd isn’t worth anything more and liquor will only get stolen once they get rowdy,”

He elbows your arm like you’re sharing an inside joke, it puts you at ease, “Beer, got it. Can’t be that hard right?”

“That’s the spirit!” He cheers, looking towards the entrance as lots more men begin to file in, “Alright, time to prove yourself. Mark will be watching you like a hawk from wherever the fuck he is, so make a lasting impression.”

The venue was chaotic when in full swing, men were flocking to you at the chance of getting a beer before the fight started. Such a sweet sight too, many tried to start conversations and slide you their number across the bar, but you didn’t have time— nor want— to entertain their advances. So you simply cleared the bar-top and moved onto the next customer before they could cop a feel.

Amongst the busy environment there was one name that kept popping up in everyone’s conversations.

Ghost’s on tonight.

Did you put money down for him? What are you waiting for, Ghost’s gonna smash that bloke.

Finally back that Ghost, was startin’ to lose too much money that the missus is noticin’, I need a sure win tonight.

One of the fighters you assumed—a notorious one— by the way they were all betting on him, you didn’t even catch the name of the other attending fighter by the way his name drowned them out. Curiosity got the better of you when the crowd started to die down, making their way over to the ring. James was busying himself with drying glasses when you slipped beside him to help out.

“Who is Ghost?” You ask.

He barks out a laugh instantly as if he was waiting for this question, “Fucking big lad,” he explains, “One of our main fighters, been here for years,” he adds on but then shakes his head, “Just watch the fight.”

A bell rings to signal the pre-warning of the fight starting. Men gather closer to the stage, eagerly watching the emergence of tonight’s fighters, you along with them. At first you pawn it off as something to watch while you do busy work, what else was there to do at this venue?

The first fighter who comes out confidently bounces on his feet and raises his arms to get the crowd hyped. The men eat it up, cheering and booing alike at his entrance, but the fighter soaks it in all the same. He shouts something at the crowd that you can’t hear over the deafening yells, but it gets a rise out of them as they point objectively at him.

The second fighter’s entrance makes the crowd go silent. He has no flairs for the dramatic and he doesn’t even address the crowd as he chooses to face his opponent instead. Both fighters are hefty, with a thick midsection and tall height, you didn’t think there would be a weight division system in this kind of setting but you suppose it makes sense.

Ghost’s identity is still a mystery to you as unlike the other fighter he wears a mask—it can’t be a fair to have an advantage like that, right? You’re about to ask James about it when he reaches up, roughly grabbing it by the top and tossing it outside the ring.

The crowd roars as the bell signals the start of the fight.

It’s vicious, you can’t help but grit your teeth and wince in sympathy at each devastating blow dealt, but you’re completely captivated by the sight. You’ve given up on pretending you don’t care, opting to lean against the bar top and watch the fight with full attention. James doesn’t comment as he continues to stock the fridge behind you.

Ghost, you learn, is a fucking brute when it comes to his fighting style. He’s black and white with his intentions, opting for attack over defence and deals unforgiving blows to his opponent. And when the other fighter manages to land a kick, there’s barely a wince, just a grimace and a responding swing which is much harder.

The fight is over before you know it. The bell rings out again, signifying the end of it. Ghost remains standing, panting and dripping with sweat and blood. The tape on his knuckles is stained red as he reaches out to help his opponent up, his response is a poor sportsmanship slap as the guy denies his help and gets himself up before storming off the ring.

Ghost merely brushes it off and turns around, someone is already reaching out with his abandoned mask which he takes wordlessly. He shoves it back on his head despite the state of him, and exits the ring, disappearing through the doors his opponent went through.

“Alright, fight’s over,” James announces, “Get ready for the second round of service,”

You snap out of your thoughts and stand back up to your full height, “He’s fucking crazy,”

James chuckles, “Yeah, I’d steer clear of him,” he agrees, “But he keeps to himself, won’t get much out of him.”

You nod, curious but ultimately terrified of him, you can’t dwell much on it though as victorious men gather round for celebration drinks.

It’s well past three o’clock in the morning when the bar begins to wrap up. You’re exhausted and sweaty from the stuffy atmosphere, most men have cleared out by now and James has called the end of service so any other men in the building are finishing off their last drinks.

“Think you can handle the clean up? I need a smoke,” he asks, looking exhausted himself.

You smile tiredly, “Yeah, of course! Thanks for all your help tonight, I appreciate it,”

He smiles back and pats your shoulder, “Nah you did great, Mark will let you on easily,” he leans down closer to whisper, “We’re actually desperate for staff, it’s a miracle you walked in.”

You laugh but nod, it’s a relief to hear and you can only hope James isn’t lying to make you feel better. He takes off the tea towel from his shoulder and drops it on the bar top before exiting through the back entrance to the side of the bar. You sigh softly, alone for the first time all night save for the last couple customers milling around near the edge of the bar.

With rag in hand, you begin wiping down the bar, wringing out any excess alcohol which spilt until it’s all clean. Still slightly sticky in the way all bar tops are, but definitely cleaner than what it was. You drop the rag into the sink and rinse your hands when someone drops down on the stool in front of you. When you look up you’re met with the sight man in a skull printed mask. You blink in double take, trying to take his appearance in, it’s undoubtably the champion fighter of tonight’s match. He’s showered and dressed in an oversized grey hoodie, looking at you intensely.

“Sorry?” You ask politely.

“Didn’t you ‘ere me?” His tone is gruff and muffled, “A beer, bottled one,” he adds, “Please.”

You move about on autopilot to fetch him his drink, utterly mortified by your own staring. In an effort to avoid being caught again, you place his drink down in front of him without looking up. Not waiting for a response either, you turn your back and begin cleaning the glasses behind you.

“Why ‘ere then?”

The question makes you pause, you look over your shoulder with a frown, he hasn’t touched his drink yet, “Why what?”

“Why work ‘ere? No place for a girl like you,” he clarifies.

You roll your eyes and look away, “A job is a job,” you mutter.

“Plenty of other jobs.” he comments.

You turn around, glass in hand as you continue to clean. Ghost has lifted his mask over his mouth but he continues to look at you expectantly. The other men who drunkenly straggle side eye you curiously but don’t dare come any closer.

You look back at him and lean back against the low bench behind you, “This one pays well,” you explain, “Cash on weekends too,”

He nods, “The money then,”

You shrug, placing the dry glass down in favour of picking up another, “It’s why most jobs get filled, no?”

He takes a swig of his drink, it thunks against the wooden bar top on the way down, “S’ppose,” he agrees, “Can’t be pleasant havin’ drunken men pawin’ at you though,”

Is he concerned? Or just making conversation? You can’t be certain but it unnerves you, like you’re not meant to be talking to him, “Can handle myself,”

You watch as his eyes blatantly trail up and down your figure, fingers drumming against the side of his bottle, “Sure you can,” he replies, “Little thing like you, I’m sure you get scrappy in a fight.”

You bite your lip, hard, until a metallic taste tinges your tongue. His motives unclear, you can’t quite figure out his intentions whether it’s flirtatious or if he’s just bluntly calling out his thoughts.

“By whatever means.” You settle on, because it’s true.

Ghost finishes the rest of his drink silently, watching as you go about your side work. You don’t look at him until you hear his stool squeak as he stands up, he readjusts the mask over his mouth and sends you one last look before turning around and exiting the venue. You watch as he walks off through the main entrance, his figure slowly being absorbed by the dark shadows of the corridor.

You stand there for a moment, playing the conversation on repeat in your mind. You blame it on the idea of simply liking the attention, big guy like him, he’s exactly your type, it’s hard not to form a physical attraction to him. But you won’t let it get in the way of you getting this job.

Speaking of, Mark finally makes himself known, entering through the bar exit that James went through moments ago for a smoke. His eyes settle on you, “Still here?”

You smile, “Still in one piece,”

He raises an eyebrow, “For now,” he comments, “See how you go next week,”

“I got the job?” You ask, already grinning.

“For now,” he repeats, “Still think you’re stupid for bein’ here,” he grunts, but slides over an envelope.

You frown, reluctantly accepting the pay packet, “I thought this was a free trial?”

“You worked hard, take it and go home,” he replies, “Be here next week, eight o’clock.”

It’s a good fifteen minute walk home, which feels like torture in this winter season but the promise of a warm apartment is what keeps you going. The thought of Ghost keeps you company on your journey, up until you reach your front door.

[deltastorm101]

some more recent shots i collected from twitter because i will forever love behind the scenes stuff *~*

credit to: james iles, andy robinson, vida starčević, thomas puha, sam lake, danny peña, ilkka villi

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

List of Random Things For Your Dark Academia Settings | For Writers

The Library 📚

Towering mahogany bookshelves filled with ancient leather-bound tomes

Antique globes and faded maps mounted on the walls

Heavy velvet drapes blocking out the sunlight

Ornate brass reading lamps casting a warm glow

The musty smell of old books permeating the air

The Study 🪶

A large oak desk strewn with papers, quills, and ink bottles

Walls lined with pinned insect specimens and anatomical drawings

An antique typewriter, its keys clacking softly

Stacks of well-worn leather journals and notebooks

A cabinet of curiosities filled with skulls, fossils, and scientific oddities

The Classroom 🎓

Rows of old wooden desks, surfaces scratched with generations of graffiti

A blackboard covered in elaborate chalk diagrams and Latin phrases

Dusty shelves holding jars of formaldehyde-preserved specimens

Antique microscopes and brass telescopes waiting to be used

The tick-tock of a grandfather clock counting down the minutes

The Dormitory 🕯️

A four-poster bed heaped with tattered quilts and faded velvet pillows

Parquet wood floors layered with antique persian rugs

Flickering candles in tarnished silver holders casting dancing shadows

A steamer trunk overflowing with vintage tweeds and wool knits

Tea-stained pages of love letters and poetry scattered on the nightstand

The Secret Society Meeting Room 🗝️

An imposing stone fireplace with Latin phrases carved into the mantel

Worn leather armchairs circled around a low table set with tarnished silver

The air thick with pipe smoke and burning incense

Shelves lined with ancient masks, ceremonial daggers, and dusty alchemical tomes

Shadows dancing on the tapestry-covered walls in the candlelight

[jaenessaispas]

Mentally ill party kid Sirius Black my beloved

ID: [a digital drawing of Sirius Black. The entire right side of the illustration is taken up by his back. He has long black hair that goes to his mid back. His back has multiple tattoos. A tramp stamp that reads “Moony”, the Canis Major constellation with the Sirius star emphasized, the Leo constellation with the Regulus star emphasized, and part of the Andromeda constellation with the Andromeda galaxy emphasized. One antler tattoo can be seen wrapped around his rib cage. A moon with dog teeth around it is between the antler and the Canis Major tattoos. On the back of his left arm is a simplified dragon tattoo. On the back of his bicep is a tattoo of moon phases. Above this in his shoulder are two simple stars and the initials R.A.B. He is standing in front a dingy bathroom mirror and only one of his eyes and part of his bicep in visible in the mirror. He is lit from above by a fluorescent light. His iris blue, and his sclera is slightly red, and his eye is partly lidded. He has three red scrapes below his eye, partly hidden by his hair. The front of his bicep shown in the mirror has two tattoos: a slightly shaded dog tooth, and two basic stars. The mirror in front of him also reflect the wall behind him covered in various blurry graffiti. The wall next to the mirror also teases a little bit of graffiti and a torn poster with illegible writing on it. There is a simply shaded sink between Sirius and the mirror.

Details (with descriptions in ALT ID) below the cut

[pittsick]

METALHEAD ART HEADCANONS.

cw: +18. mdni. hair pulling. knife play. blood kink. spitting. face-fucking. choking. unprotected sex. marking. orgasm denial. praise. exhibitionnism. voyeurism. slight impact play. panties fetish. recording with consent. use of toys. body worship. power imbalance via aesthetics. aftercare. unhealthy devotion. art’s fetishization of softness. erotic horror energy.

pairing: metalhead art x soft!afab!girlfriend.

taglist: @blastzachilles @lvve-talks @jordiemeow @strfallz @222col @soulxinxthexsky @diyasgarden @jinxedbambi @lexiiscorect @religionlost @bluestrd @jclolz22 @destinedtobegigi @fwaist @imperishablereverie @lovefaist @shahabaqsa0310 @prismozo @jesuistrestriste @grimsonandclover @nozhdyved

★ ── Underwear sniffing addict. Art steals your panties constantly. You’ll be looking for a pair and find it days later in his guitar case or under his pillow. He jerks off with them stuffed in his fist, moaning your name like a prayer. If you catch him? He doesn’t stop—he looks you dead in the eye and keeps going.

★ ── He worship the contrast. Art’s obsessed with how soft you are; your sweaters, your clean nails, the pastel socks you wear to bed. The way you look curled up on his filthy mattress surrounded by his torn band posters? He stares like it’s the most surreal painting he’s ever seen. “You’re like a fucking angel in a pit of Hell.” He mutters once, kissing your knee.

★ ── Toys with your orgasm like it’s a game. He’ll use vibrators on you and turn them off when you’re seconds from the edge. Laughs low, kissing your trembling lips. “So greedy. I said not yet.” Sometimes makes you earn it with your mouth.

★ ── Sleeps in old band tees, usually stolen or faded beyond recognition. Most of his shirts are threadbare. You can barely read the logos. Some have crusty paint splatters. Grease from his corpse paint that never left. Others are torn at the neckline or re-stitched with dental flows. He refuses to throw a single one away.

★ ── Orgasm denial king. He lives to edge you. Ties you up with his band tees, spreads you on his mattress, and teases you until you’re crying. “Not yet, baby. You haven’t begged right.” He’ll bring you right to the edge five, six, seven times before he lets you come—and when you do, it’s brutal and messy.

★ ── Brings you to shows, but protects you like you’re glass. You don’t even like the music, but you stand in the back, cheering for him anyway. Art makes sure no one bumps you, no one breathes wrong near you. Afterwards, he’ll lift you off your feet and whisper, “Did I look hot, baby?” Corpse paint smudging when he kiss your cheek.

★ ── He’s covered in scratchy, DIY, and occult-inspired ink. His tattoos look like they were done in basements and bathrooms; which most are. Stick-and-poke runes, sigils, knives, snakes, Nordic symbols. He doesn’t care if they are pretty. They are his.

★ ── Voyeurism & exhibitionism combo. Will absolutely finger you under the table at a bar while making eye contact with the bartender. Gets off on the idea of being watched—loves mirrors, windows, risky places. Once made you ride him with the blinds wide open, his hand around your throat and a smirk on his face: “Let ‘em see how good you take it.”

★ ── You trace his tattoos in bed. Sometimes after sex, you just lie there touching his arms, tracing every runes, line and scar. He pretends he doesn’t like it. But he always turns toward you, lets you study him like scripture. “They are not sacred, babe.” He’d tell you and you’d reply, “To me, they are.”

★ ── Doesn’t own a proper bed frame. His mattress is on the floor. There’s graffiti on the wall above it; band logos, sigils, lyrics scrawled in marker. A pocketknife is usually wedged under his pillow just “in case.”

★ ── Blood kink is deeply spiritual. Not just for fun—he reveres it. Whether it’s from knife play, rough scratches, or period sex, Art treats your blood like a sacred offering. He’ll lick it off your skin, smear it on his chest, even kiss you with a stained mouth. He calls you his altar.

★ ── Performer like a man possessed. Onstage, Art is unhinged; black boots stomping the monitors, mic cable wrapped around his throat, eyes rolled back as he screams like he’s trying to tear his vocal cords out. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t break. He just bleeds.

★ ── He thinks it’s cute you don’t know the bands. You mispronounce band names and ask if Gorgoroth is “that one anime-looking guy.” He pretends to groan, but secretly? He melts every time. “God, you’re such a little poser,” he says grinning. “I’m gonna fuck you until you do like blast beats.”

★ ── Public brat tamer. Loves when you tease him in public—but he always makes you pay for it later. You wear a short skirt to a gig? You’re bent over the bathroom sink after the set, panties pushed to the side, mouth full of his rings while he groans, “Mine. Every inch of you.”

★ ── Respected but not necessarily liked. Art doesn’t do fake politeness. He’s blunt, cold, and brutally honest. Most people in the scene respect his work; but a lot are scared of him. He’s not part of the post-show small talk, he’s already vanished by then. He doesn’t need to make friends with anyone.

★ ── Music collection from Hell. He has shelves of cassettes, burned CDs, and secondhand vinyls. He still burns mix CDs just because he likes the ritual. Thinks Spotify is “too sterile”. He alphabetizes his black metal by country of origin and era.

★ ── He loves it when you wear his clothes. Hi shirt hang off your shoulders. His jacket swallow you whole. The first time you wore his torn Mayhem hoodie, he couldn’t stop staring. “Jesus. I’m going to ruin you in that.” And he did. Right there, on the floor, with your thighs still half in denim and his hoodie halfway off your shoulder.

★ ── Doesn’t smile in pictures, ever. Art thinks posing is fake. His photos are all candid or grainy Polaroids where he looks half-possessed. The only exception: blurry backstage selfies with a cigarette between his lips, smudged corpse paint and blood on his knuckles.

★ ── He’ll fight someone in the pit. If he sees someone harassing a woman, throwing elbows too hard or acting like a fascist, he’ll get off stage and personally beat their ass in front of everyone. No hesitation. No apologies. Then, he’ll go back to playing like nothing happened.

★ ── Spits in your mouth, slaps your face, kisses fou after. His favorite combo: spit, slap, praise. He’ll degrade you, ruin you, then whisper “Good girl. You take everything I give you so well.” It’s filthy and tender—like you’re his favorite pet and his religion all at once.

★ ── He thinks your music taste his hilarious. Your playlists are full of soft pop, acoustic love songs, even maybe musical soundtracks. He pretends to mock you. “Is this Taylor Swift? I’m gonna die.” But the moment you fall asleep in his lap to it? He listens to the whole album in silence to understand you. Every. Damn. Track.

★ ── He’s not religious, expect for you. Art doesn’t believe in God, but when he’s buried between your legs, licking blood from a shallow cut he made just for pleasure, when you’re moaning his name, trusting him with everything… you might as well be divine. “You’re my altar,” he tells you once, kissing the spot where his blade left a thin red line. “And I’m never gonna stop worshiping you.”

★ ── Anarchist energy but quiet about it. He hates cops, capitalism, and rules; but he’s not the kind of yell in public. He’ll burn something down when no one’s looking. Writes anti-authoritarian lyrics and slips them into every riff.

★ ── Worships your thighs like a starving man. He’ll spend hours with his head between them—biting, kissing, sucking bruises into the skin. He’ll mutter filthy things while he licks you slow: “This pussy's the reason I can't think straight.” You’re not allowed to close your legs, even when you’re overstimulated.

★ ── His room is a graveyard of gear and grime. Cable snakes across the floor. Pedals and amp are scattered under piles of clothes. There’s always at least one crackled candle, a knife left on the nightstand, and an ashtray he definitely hasn’t emptied in weeks.

★ ── Other guys talk shit until they see him play. There’s always a dude who rolls his eyes at Art’s look; the hair, the rings, the age. That is, until he hears him play. Then he shuts the fuck up. Art never says “I told you so.” His riffs say it for him.

★ ── Keeps a secret photo folder. Filled with Polaroids, nudes, pics of your bruises, your moaning face, the mess he made on your stomach. Sometimes he takes videos of your orgasms just so he can jerk off to the sounds when he’s on tour. His favorite clip? You drooling with his fingers down your throat, eyes glazed over.

★ ── Corpse paint ritual. Art does his corpse paint in silence, alone, with black metal blasting and a cracked mirror lit by candlelight. The white goes on first, then jagged black lines like rot around his eyes and mouth; raw, smudged on purpose. It’s not for looks. It’s armor. Once, you caught him halfway done — chest bare, one eye darkened, and he looked at you and said, “Don’t get scared.” Then smeared a streak of white on your cheek like a blessing. You didn’t wash it off.

★ ── Loves gore art and erotic horror. Has stacks of obscure zines filled with disturbing illustrations. Loves the intersection of pain and beauty. Thinks blood is the sexiest color. Draws anatomical hearts and crucified angels in his sketches.

★ ── Face-Fucking connoisseur. Loves to hold your hair in a fist and gently, slowly fuck your throat until you’re sobbing and drooling. He praises you the whole time. “You’re my perfect little fuckdoll. Look at that mouth, so full.”

★ ── Aftercare god. For all his filth, he’s soft as Hell after. Bathes you. Brushes your hair. Plays some mellow doom metal and lights a candle. Kisses every bruise and cuts. Holds you until you fall asleep in his arms, whispering. “You’re my perfect girl. No one gets me like you do.”

[kenzdolls]

MEETING THE LEAGUE . 4.2k

𖤐 synopsis: after six months of dating, dabi introduces you to the league 𖤐 pairing: dabi (toya todoroki) x gn! reader

𖤐 sent in by: anonymous

𖤐 trigger warnings: mentions of past domestic abuse, threats of violence, implied violence, morally gray themes.

your heart hammered against your ribcage as dabi's warm hand clasped yours, leading you through the dimly lit alleyways of kamino ward. the occasional streetlight cast his scarred face in harsh shadows, the staples along his cheeks and neck glinting with each step. you'd been dating for nearly six months now, keeping your relationship largely private – not just because of his status as a wanted villain, but because dabi himself was intensely protective of his personal life.

"having second thoughts?" he asked, his deep voice cutting through the silence. there was a hint of rare vulnerability beneath his usual detached tone.

you squeezed his hand reassuringly. "not a chance. just nervous."

a small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, the damaged skin around it crinkling slightly. "don't be. they're all idiots, but they won't hurt you. not if they want to keep breathing."

the casual threat should have disturbed you more than it did, but after months of falling for this complicated man, you'd come to understand the duality of dabi. ruthless and calculating with enemies, yet possessing an unexpected gentleness that he revealed only to you in private moments.

"it's not about being hurt," you admitted. "i just… want them to not hate me. they're important to you, whether you admit it or not."

dabi scoffed, but didn't contradict you. "just be yourself. the version that somehow puts up with me." his thumb stroked across your knuckles in a rare display of public affection. "that's more than enough."

the walk continued in comfortable silence until dabi stopped abruptly before what appeared to be an abandoned building. the windows were boarded up, graffiti marking the crumbling exterior walls.

"charming headquarters," you murmured with a nervous laugh.

"it's temporary. we move around a lot," dabi explained, leading you toward a nondescript side door. "shigaraki has been paranoid since our last location was compromised."

he paused before opening the door, turning to face you fully. the blue flames that usually danced in his eyes had softened to embers. "one last chance to back out. once they know about you, there's no going back."

you reached up, gently tracing the edge of a staple along his jaw – a gesture you knew he secretly enjoyed. "i've known that since the night i didn't turn you in when i found you bleeding in my apartment. i made my choice a long time ago, dabi."

something flickered in his expression – perhaps surprise, even after all this time, that you continued to choose him despite knowing exactly who and what he was.

"suit yourself," he said, but the slight curve of his lips betrayed his relief. his hand moved to the small of your back as he pushed open the door. "let's get this over with."

——

the interior of the hideout was surprisingly well-maintained compared to its exterior. you followed dabi through a narrow hallway that opened into what appeared to be a communal living space. a worn couch faced a modest television, and mismatched chairs were scattered around a large table covered in playing cards and empty glasses.

the room fell silent as you entered. five pairs of eyes immediately turned to stare at you – some curious, others suspicious, all surprised.

"well, well," drawled a man lounging on the couch. his face was partially covered by a disembodied hand, but you could see his cracked lips stretching into what might have been a smile. "dabi actually brought his pet home."

blue flames flickered briefly around dabi's free hand. "watch it, shigaraki."

so this was the league's leader. you'd seen him on wanted posters and news reports, but nothing prepared you for the unsettling aura he exuded in person.

a blonde girl who had been sprawled across an armchair suddenly bounded up, her eyes wide with manic excitement. "oh my god, is this why you've been disappearing so much? you've been playing house?" she skipped closer, circling you with undisguised interest. "she's cute! can i cut her just a little? please?"

"toga," dabi warned, his arm shifting slightly to place himself between you and the girl.

you recognized himiko toga from dabi's descriptions – obsessed with blood and dangerously unpredictable. despite his protective stance, you stepped forward with a steady smile.

"it's nice to finally meet you, toga. dabi's told me about you."

the blonde blinked in surprise before breaking into a delighted giggle. "ooooh, i like her! she's not even shaking!" she twirled away, collapsing back into her chair. "keep this one, dabi-kun! your others were so boring they made me sleepy."

"others?" you whispered, raising an eyebrow at dabi.

"ignore her," he muttered. "toga thinks anyone i don't immediately incinerate is someone i'm dating."

from the far corner, a man in a tailored waistcoat approached with elegant strides. his face was hidden behind a metallic mask, but his voice was cultured and smooth. "how uncouth of my colleagues. please excuse their manners." he extended a gloved hand toward you. "mr. compress, at your service."

you took his hand, only to gasp in surprise when he twisted his wrist and produced a small blue rose from thin air, offering it to you with a theatrical bow.

"a small token for the brave soul who has apparently tamed our resident pyromaniac."

"tamed is a strong word," you replied with a small smile, accepting the flower. "more like reached a mutual non-aggression pact."

mr. compress chuckled appreciatively. "witty, too. how refreshing."

dabi rolled his eyes but seemed less tense than moments before. he guided you further into the room, where a massive figure hunched over what appeared to be a gaming console looked up. the mask covering his face resembled that of a killer from a horror film, but his voice was unexpectedly childlike.

"is she going to play with us? we need a fourth for mario kart." the villain you recognized as twice suddenly slapped himself. "no newcomers! she'll steal our stuff!" another self-slap. "sorry about that! i'm jin! welcome to our happy family!"

"maybe later," you offered, earning what seemed to be an enthusiastic nod from the split-personality villain.

the only person who hadn't acknowledged your presence was a reptilian man with green scales covering his body, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed. his eyes, narrowed and calculating, hadn't left you since you entered.

"that's dabi's girlfriend? doesn't look like much," he finally grunted. "what's she doing with our kind anyway? she doesn't have a quirk, does she?"

dabi's posture stiffened. "not everyone needs a quirk to be useful, spinner," he replied coldly. "and her business is her business."

you squeezed dabi's hand to calm him. "i'm a nurse," you stated plainly. "at musutafu general."

this revelation seemed to surprise everyone in the room, including shigaraki, who finally removed the hand from his face to stare at you properly. his red eyes were intense and searching.

"a nurse?" spinner repeated incredulously. "you're dating someone who works in healthcare? you, who's burned down three hospitals in the past year?"

dabi's jaw tightened. "four, actually."

an uncomfortable silence fell over the room until shigaraki broke it with a dry, raspy laugh. "now that's irony. the arsonist and the healer." he leaned forward, fingers drumming against his knee, deliberately keeping his pinky raised. "tell me, nurse, how does it feel knowing your boyfriend has probably created patients for you?"

you met his gaze evenly, despite the chill that ran down your spine. "the same way it feels knowing i've probably treated heroes who've hunted him. life isn't black and white, shigaraki-san. not for any of us."

for a tense moment, no one moved. then shigaraki's lips curled into what might have been genuine amusement. "interesting. very interesting." he stood abruptly. "kurogiri!"

a swirling mass of dark mist materialized from an adjoining room, gradually forming into a humanoid shape with bright yellow eyes. "yes, shigaraki tomura?"

"bring drinks. it seems we're having a welcome party." shigaraki reclined back into the couch, replacing the hand on his face. "after all, it's not every day dabi decides to share his toys."

——

the next hour passed in a blur of introductions and increasingly personal questions, primarily from toga, who had decided you were her new favorite person after learning you had access to blood bags at the hospital. dabi remained close by your side, his body heat more pronounced than usual – a sign of his heightened alertness that you'd learned to recognize.

"so how did you two meet?" mr. compress asked during a lull in conversation, swirling amber liquid in a crystal glass. "i imagine it's quite the tale."

before you could answer, dabi cut in. "it doesn't matter."

"oh come on!" toga whined, bouncing in her seat. "was it romantic? did he save you from something? or—oh! did you save him? that would be so cute!"

you exchanged a glance with dabi, silently asking permission. when he gave an almost imperceptible nod, you turned back to the group.

"i found him bleeding out in my apartment about six months ago," you said simply. "he'd broken in to hide from some pro heroes after a job went sideways."

"and you didn't call the police?" magne asked skeptically.

you shrugged. "i took an oath to help people in need. he qualified."

"she's lying!" twice shouted, before immediately contradicting himself. "so noble! a true angel of mercy!"

"then what?" toga pressed eagerly. "did you fall in love while nursing him back to health? was it like those romance movies where—"

"no," dabi interrupted flatly. "i threatened to burn her apartment down if she told anyone. then i left when i could walk again."

"but he came back a week later," you added with a small smile. "said he needed his stitches checked."

mr. compress chuckled knowingly. "ah, the old 'medical follow-up' excuse. a classic."

"they didn't need checking," you continued, ignoring dabi's warning glance. "i did excellent work the first time. but i let him in anyway."

"and then you fell in love!" toga clasped her hands together dreamily.

"and then we came to an arrangement," dabi corrected. "medical assistance when needed, in exchange for protection."

you bit back a smile at his clinical description of what had actually been a far more complicated evolution from reluctant patient and caregiver to something neither of you had anticipated. those early days had been a delicate dance of mistrust and curiosity, punctuated by late-night conversations that gradually revealed the man beneath the villain's facade.

"protection from what?" kurogiri inquired, his misty form shifting slightly.

you hesitated, and dabi answered for you. "her ex. pro hero in training with a strengthening quirk and anger issues." his tone was casual, but you didn't miss the dangerous edge to it. "not an issue anymore."

shigaraki, who had been quietly observing, leaned forward. "you took care of a hero for her?" there was undisguised interest in his voice now. "how… uncharacteristically chivalrous."

"i didn't kill him," dabi clarified, though his expression suggested he'd considered it. "just made sure he understood some boundaries. permanently."

the look shigaraki gave you now was reassessing, as if seeing you in a new light. "so you're not just tolerating our lifestyle. you've benefited from it."

you met his gaze steadily. "i don't agree with everything the league does, and dabi knows that. but yes, i understand the system isn't as just as it pretends to be." you thought about the numerous patients you'd treated – civilian casualties of hero-villain conflicts, people whose homes and livelihoods had been destroyed in the crossfire of spectacular battles that made headlines and boosted hero rankings. "sometimes, what's legal isn't what's right."

an approving murmur rippled through the room, and even spinner seemed less hostile.

"well said," mr. compress raised his glass in your direction. "to our newest… sympathizer."

"to fresh blood!" toga giggled.

"to infiltrators and spies!" twice declared, before slapping himself again. "to new friends!"

as the impromptu toast continued, dabi's hand found yours beneath the table, his thumb tracing slow circles against your palm – his private way of saying "thank you" without words. the tension that had been coiled in his shoulders since you arrived had finally begun to ease.

——

hours later, the gathering had evolved into something resembling normalcy – if anything involving the league of villains could be called normal. twice and toga were engaged in a heated mario kart battle, with mr. compress offering theatrical commentary. spinner had disappeared to another room, while kurogiri methodically cleaned glasses behind a small bar setup. shigaraki had retreated to a corner with his handheld gaming console, though you occasionally caught him watching you over the screen.

"come on," dabi murmured against your ear. "i'll show you the rest of this dump."

you followed him down a narrow hallway lined with doors. "this is where we crash when we need to lie low," he explained, gesturing vaguely. "nothing fancy."

"which one is yours?" you asked.

he stopped at the end of the corridor, pushing open a door to reveal a spartanly furnished room – just a bed, a desk with a lamp, and a worn armchair by the window. the walls were bare except for what appeared to be newspaper clippings pinned haphazardly near the desk.

"home sweet home," he said sarcastically, but you didn't miss the slight hesitation as he let you enter his private space – a threshold few, if any, had ever crossed.

you stepped inside, immediately drawn to the clippings. most were articles about hero endeavor's accomplishments, with certain phrases aggressively circled in red. a few showed grainy surveillance photos of a white-haired teen with a distinctive red scar.

"todoroki shouto," you said softly, recognizing the ua student from news coverage of the sports festival and subsequent villain attacks. you'd pieced together enough from dabi's rare, cryptic comments about his past to suspect a connection, but he'd never confirmed your theories.

dabi moved to stand beside you, his gaze fixed on the photos. "some mysteries for another time," he said quietly. "not tonight."

you nodded, respecting his boundaries. turning away from the wall, you took in the rest of the sparse room. "it's very… you."

"meaning?"

"minimalist. practical." you smiled. "no unnecessary attachments."

he made a noncommittal sound, watching as you sat on the edge of his bed. the mattress was surprisingly comfortable.

"so," you ventured after a moment, "did i pass the test?"

dabi leaned against the desk, arms crossed. in the dim light of the single lamp, the contrast between his scarred purple skin and the untouched portions was stark yet beautiful in its own haunting way.

"there was no test."

"yes, there was," you countered gently. "you were watching everyone's reactions. measuring their threat levels."

a faint smile tugged at his lips. "perceptive as always." he pushed off from the desk and came to sit beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. "they didn't hate you, if that's what you're asking."

"high praise from the league of villains," you teased, leaning against his shoulder.

"toga's already planning sleepovers, god help us." there was exasperation in his voice, but also something lighter – relief, perhaps, that two separate parts of his complicated existence could coexist without catastrophe.

you turned to face him properly. "thank you. for trusting me enough to bring me here."

his scarred hand came up to cup your cheek, surprisingly gentle for someone who could create infernos with a thought. "don't make me regret it."

"never," you promised, leaning into his touch.

for a long moment, he simply looked at you, as if memorizing your features or perhaps still marveling that you were here at all – in this hidden corner of his dangerous world, unafraid and unwavering. then he closed the distance between you, his lips finding yours in a kiss that started gentle but quickly deepened with an intensity that made your head spin.

when you finally broke apart, slightly breathless, he pressed his forehead against yours. "we should get back before toga comes looking. she has no concept of privacy."

you nodded reluctantly, knowing he was right but unwilling to break the moment just yet. "five more minutes?"

his rare, genuine smile was answer enough as he pulled you closer, his arms encircling you in a warmth that had nothing to do with his quirk. in this stolen moment, in this unlikely sanctuary nestled within a villain hideout, you found yourself thinking that sometimes, the most dangerous choices led to the most unexpected forms of peace.

"five minutes," he agreed, his deep voice rumbling against your ear. "then back to the circus."

you smiled against his chest, knowing that while the path ahead would never be easy, tonight had been a significant step forward. you'd been accepted – cautiously, conditionally perhaps – but accepted nonetheless into this strange, dangerous family that dabi had found for himself.

and that, for now, was enough.

taglist: [open]

mutuals: @https-bakugo @haikyuubby @va-3 @lotusstarr @tulippanes @gh0st-g1rll @luvseraphh

© property of kenzdolls — do not copy, steal, or plagiarize my work.

[miiukkaa]

mokey's subway room

yippee, the artistic and sensitive kiddo of the family, mikey! ended up keeping the room veeeery much similar to the one he had in the sewers.

i split the space into two separate areas: a bedroom and an "art studio". these two spaces are separated by a simple cloth that mikey can pull to the side fully when he wants to. i imagine he'd pull the cloth to cover the other more roomy area of the subway car when he goes to sleep. it is after all very easy to mistake your own large paintings and random clothing for a scary figure in the night (at least that's my personal experience lol). so to avoid seeing scary, ominous shapes, mikey would limit his field of vision for sleepy times.

the art studio side has most of mikey's art supplies. there's a huge paint spill from when he was dragging all his stuff into the car during the move. i believe he would find the spill cool and artsy. for when mikey would want to spray paint, he could easily grab any and all supplies he needs and go outside the subway car (for ventilation's sake). so he would have another specified art corner somewhere in the subway tunnels - further away from the actual space in which everyone hangs out at.

mikey, instead of hanging up a lot of posters, prettied up the subway car's walls by doing his own graffiti. though he would have the same "mad dogs" flag that everyone else has, too.

mikey doesn't strike to me as the kinda person who stays in their own room a lot but instead prefers to hang out in the common areas where other family members are more likely to pop out, too. for this reason, i imagine he has a lot of his own belongings scattered about the entire lair! so, a really messy art kid who keeps forgetting where he put his things.

leo's room

raph's room

[sillylilsquid]

𝕺𝖋𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕽𝖊𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖉

♥︎summary: In the neon lights of a city that never sleeps, you find solace in music–especially in the raw, soul-baring lyrics of rising rapper Thanos. When a chance encounter at one of his underground shows pulls you into his world, you discover the man behind the mic is more than just a voice–he’s a storm of passion, pain, and secrets. What starts as an undeniable connection quickly spirals into something deeper, something dangerous–especially when Thanos begins pushing you away just as fast as he pulls you in. But when his past comes back to haunt him, and you find him at his lowest, the lines blur between artist and muse, between escape and something real. In a world where music tells the truth better than words ever could, can love be enough to save a man who doesn’t believe he deserves it?

♥︎trigger warnings: au, no squid game. gn!reader(plz lmk if there are any mentions that would say otherwise), sexual themes, brief descriptions addiction and attempted suicide, oc thanos. minors dni!! 18+

♥︎a/n: 7.8k words. purple text is thanos, pink text is you.

The city was alive with sound–the hum of traffic, the distant rumble of bass from cars, and the collective heartbeats of people hustling through their day. The streets were lined with tall buildings and neon lights, a testament to a world that never stopped. And in this world, you were just another person trying to find your way, your place in a crowd that seemed too loud, too fast for someone like you.

But there was one thing you had always been certain about. One thing that was always there for you when nothing or no one else was–your love for music.

Music had always been your escape. Metal and rap, your two favorites. You spent hours listening to new tracks, analyzing the lyrics, the flow, the emotion. All the raw emotion the artists put out for everyone to hear. You had really grown to like finding local artists, rising stars in the music scene. And one rapper in particular had caught your attention–Thanos. He wasn’t just any rapper; his lyrics were raw, personal, and carried a weight you hadn’t felt from anyone else. As if he was sharing the same experiences as you. He wasn’t just speaking to his audience; he was speaking to you.

One lonely Saturday night you found yourself in the crowd at one of his shows. The venue was intimate–just a small club with dim lights and graffiti-covered walls. People crammed in like sardines. It was dark, dingy and smelled of alcohol and weed. But places like these were your favorite. They were intimate. Allowed you to experience the music at a more personal level.

You were used to seeing him on social media, but being in the same room as him, feeling the beat of the music vibrate through your chest, was an entirely different experience. Your heart raced as you stood in the front row, your eyes fixed on the stage. His presence demanded people not to tear their eyes away from him. The way he jumped around, never seeming to run out of breath or energy.

Thanos was performing his newest single, his voice smooth and commanding, effortlessly flowing with the beat. The crowd was lost in the rhythm, you almost forgot about the other bodies pressed up against yours. Your eyes never left him. There was something magnetic about the way he commanded the stage, but there was also something in his eyes–a hint of vulnerability that didn’t quite match the tough persona he projected.

As the song ended, the lights dimmed briefly, and the crowd’s roar filled the room. You stayed glued in your spot. The crowd began to die down as people left to use the bathroom or get another drink. You had turned to look around the club, admiring the posters and art amongst the walls. Your body still buzzed from the music, when suddenly, a familiar sounding voice spoke from behind you.

“Yo, you’re one of the few that actually knows every word,” the voice said, low and smooth.

You turned, startled, and there he was–Thanos, kneeling down on the stage in front of you, his intense gaze locked onto yours. He was closer than you had expected, close enough to see the sweat glistening on his forehead and the way his tattoos spread across every inch of his skin. The way his in-ears were dangling around his neck now. The realization that he was speaking to you made your heart skip a beat.

“Uh, yeah,” you stammered, your cheeks flushed. “I…I’ve been listening to your stuff for a while.”

He smiled, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I can tell. You’re not just here for the hype. You really get it.” His voice had a calm, deep quality, but there was a softness to it that you hadn’t expected. It was almost as if he was genuinely interested in what you had to say. But surely not, right?

“I–thank you,” you managed to say, still in awe of how effortlessly he carried himself. “I love your music. It’s…it’s different.”

“Different, huh?” Thanos leaned in slightly, his expression thoughtful. An eyebrow cocked up at your words. “I like that. People usually think I’m all about the hard stuff, you know? But there’s more beneath the surface.” He tilted his head, his gaze never leaving yours. “What’s your name?”

You told him, your voice shaking a little as you tried to compose yourself.

He repeated your name back to you, the word rolling off his tongue. Testing it as if savoring the sound. “Nice to meet you, senorita. You seem like someone who understands what I’m trying to say. Most only hear the words, but you…you feel the rhythm in a way that’s rare.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. His words hit deeper than you expected, and the connection between you two felt instantaneous–almost too real for the moment. Maybe it was because you knew how his newest song spoke of his struggle with addiction, or how one of them mentioned a suicide attempt. Things you knew other people didn’t pick up on, but things you were too familiar with.

“Yeah, I think I get it,” you said quietly, your eyes not leaving his. You didn’t know why, but in that moment, you felt seen, understood in a way that was rare for you. “Your lyrics–they speak to me. It’s like you’re telling my story.”

Thanos’ expression softened for a moment. “That’s what I’m trying to do,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “I rap for people who feel like their voices are too quiet to be heard. I want to make sure no one feels like they’re alone in this world, even if it’s just for a few minutes when the beat drops.”

His words hit you like a wave. It was the kind of thing you had always hoped someone would understand, but you never expected him–someone who was slowly becoming a household name–to be the one who spoke to them.

Before you could say anything more, the club manager approached, signaling that the set was over. “Yo, Thanos, time to wrap it up. Gotta switch the stage over for the next group,” the manager said.

Thanos gave a quick nod and then turned his attention back to you. “You should stick around,” he said casually. “I’m not done for the night. And I think we should talk more.”

Your heart pounded. “Talk more?”

He shrugged, a confident yet almost shy smile playing on his lips. “Yeah. I'm not always on stage, ya know? But I'm still the same guy behind the mic.”

Your mind raced, and you could barely process what was happening. Thanos–the rapper you admired, the one whose lyrics had kept you grounded through your darkest moments–wanted to talk to you. He wasn’t just some up and coming star ignoring his fans. He was genuinely interested in you.

You nodded, trying to steady your breath. “I’d like that.”

He smirked, a playful glint in his eyes. “Good. Let’s see if we can make some magic happen off stage, too.”

As the crowd began to fill back up, you found yourself walking with him towards the back of the venue, where the night was only beginning, the world outside felt distant, as if it didn’t matter anymore. For the first time, you weren’t just a fan looking up at a star–you were someone Thanos, the artist who shaped your world, wanted to connect with.

And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel so alone.

As you followed Thanos through the dimly lit corridors of the venue, the pulsing bass from the next act faded into the background. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, stale beer, and something unspoken–an anticipation that clung to your skin like static.

He led you past a heavy black curtain, stepping into a quieter backstage area. Somewhere you were surprised even existed with how small the club was. The contrast was jarring–the chaotic energy of the club melted into a space that felt almost intimate, despite the occasional crew member rushing past. A single worn-out couch sat against the graffiti-covered wall, and a small table was cluttered with half-empty water bottles, beer cans, and a pack of cigarettes.

Thanos grabbed a towel from a nearby chair, running it over the back of his neck before tossing it aside. Then, with the same lazy confidence, he gestured for you to sit.

“So,” he started, leaning against the wall, his dark eyes studying you with quiet curiosity. “You ever write?”

The question caught you off guard. “What?”

“Lyrics,” he clarified, crossing his arms. “Or poetry. Something.”

You hesitated. It was something you had always kept to yourself–scribbled verses in the margins of notebooks, or hidden in your favorite journal. Thoughts too raw to share with anyone else.

“Maybe,” you admitted, your voice softer now. “But nothing serious.”

Thanos smirked, but there was no teasing in it, just an understanding. “That’s how it starts,” he said, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off a weight only he could feel. “I used to do the same. Thought no one would care what I had to say.” He let out a quiet chuckle. “Turns out, I was wrong.”

The weight of his words settled between you. It was easy to forget, watching him on stage, that there was a person beneath the bravado. Someone who had once been just as unsure, just as lost in the noise of the world.

Before you could respond, a voice interrupted.

“Yo, Thanos,” a man in a hoodie poked his head into the room, his gaze flickering between the two of you. You recognized him from Thanos’ Instagrams posts. His friend, Nam Gyu. “They’re asking for you outside.”

Thanos’ jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but his expression remained unreadable. “Who?”

Nam Gyu hesitated. “Let’s just say…the kind of people you don’t keep waiting.”

For the first time tonight, you saw something shift in Thanos. The ease in his stance hardened into something sharper, more cautious. He exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw before nodding.

“Aight,” he muttered. Then, as if remembering you were still there, he turned back to you. “You good to wait here for a bit?”

There was something unspoken in his tone, a flicker of warning in his eyes. He didn’t want you to follow.

Something about the way Nam Gyu had phrased it– “the kind of people you don’t keep waiting”–sent a shiver down your spine.

You swallowed. “Yeah. Sure.”

Thanos studied you for a second longer, then, with one last nod, pushed past his friend and disappeared down the hallway.

You sat there, the silence creeping back in, but your mind was racing.

Who was waiting for him? And why did it feel like, for all his confidence, Thanos wasn’t entirely in control of whatever was happening outside?

Maybe, just maybe, you were stepping into something much bigger than a backstage conversation.

The minutes stretched on, the distant thump of the bass was the only thing filling the silence. You tried to sit still, but your fingers drummed anxiously against your knee. Something about the way Thanos had left–it wasn’t just a casual meeting. Whoever was waiting for him, they weren’t just fans or industry people. 

You glanced at the doorway, debating whether to stay put like he asked.

Then, a muffled voice. Raised. Firm.

Thanos.

Your heart jumped.

You stood, creeping toward the hallway. The club was a maze of narrow corridors, dimly lit and lined with peeling posters. The voices grew clearer as you approached a side door left slightly ajar, leading to the alley behind the venue.

Thanos was standing with his back to you, his broad shoulders squared. Three men stood in front of him, their expressions unreadable beneath the flickering streetlight. They weren’t dressed like fans, or even label reps. Their clothes were clean but understated–black jackets, dark jeans, the kind of people who blended in but carried an unshakable presence.

One of them, a man with slicked-back hair, spoke first.

“You’re late.”

Thanos exhaled sharply, his head tilting in a way that almost looked amused. “I was busy.”

The man didn’t smile. “That’s not how this works.”

There was a beat of silence, the air between them heavy with tension.

You pressed yourself against the wall, suddenly unsure if you should be witnessing this.

Then the man reached into his pocket.

You didn’t see a weapon–just a small slip of paper, folded neatly. He held it out to Thanos, who stared at it for a long moment before snatching it from his hand.

“You know the deadline,” the man said coolly. “Don’t make us come looking for you again.”

Thanos clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the paper. He didn’t respond.

The three men turned and disappeared into the night, their footsteps echoing down the alley.

For a long moment, Thanos stood there, unmoving.

Then, slowly, he unfolded the slip of paper. Even from where you stood, you could see his body tense. His fingers crumpled the note slightly before he shoved it into his pocket, exhaling sharply.

That’s when he turned–and saw you.

His eyes locked onto yours, unreadable in the dim light.

You froze, unsure if you had just crossed some invisible line.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he said, his voice quieter than before.

You swallowed, your heart hammering. “Who were they?”

He hesitated, as if weighing whether or not to tell you.

Then, in a voice lower than before, he said, “Nobody you need to worry about.”

He started toward you, and for the second time, you noticed the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers still curled slightly like he was trying to shake something off.

But when he reached you, his gaze softened–just a little.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he murmured. “Come on.”

He didn’t say another word as he led you back inside, but something had shifted. Whatever world Thanos lived in outside of his music, you had just gotten a glimpse of it.

And somehow, you knew this wouldn’t be the last time.

It had been two weeks since that night behind the venue. Two weeks since you saw the note, since those men made it clear that Thanos had someone watching him.

And yet, he hadn’t told you a thing about it.

Not that things between you hadn’t changed. If anything, they’d only gotten closer.

It started with late-night texts. Not just about music, but about everything.

what’s ur take on old-school hip-hop? like 90s nas and biggie type?

timeless. if you disagree, we are fighting

lmafo, alright. i’ll keep my mouth shut 🤐

wait… don’t tell me u don’t like biggie!!??🤨

nah, i do. but i like pac more

okay okay ur forgiven

Then came the studio visits.

It started with an invitation–casual, like it wasn’t a big deal. Pull up to the studio if you want. Bring snacks.

The first time, you were nervous. Watching him rap live was one thing, but watching him work? That was something else.

You didn’t expect him to be so meticulous. He ran the same verse over and over, tweaking every word, every pause, until it felt right. When he finally got it down, he turned to you, expectant.

“Well?”

You had stared at him, wide-eyed. “You want my opinion?”

He smirked. “Why wouldn’t I?

That was the moment you realized–he actually cared what you thought.

And now?

Now you were here again, perched on the studio couch, your legs tucked beneath you as Thanos stood in the booth, headphones over his ears, voice smooth as he ran through a new track.

Something about this song felt different. Darker. More personal. 

Your gaze flickered to the notebook on the table. His handwriting was sharp, fast–almost angry. You could only make out bits and pieces.

“Deadlines feel like nooses” 

“Counting favors, counting days”

“Ain’t no peace when the devil wanna play”

You frowned. That line–it felt too real.

The beat faded, and Nam Gyu, who helped him record, gave him a thumbs-up. Thanos pulled off his headphones, rolling his shoulders before stepping out of the booth.

He flopped onto the couch beside you, exhaling deeply. “What’s the verdict?”

You hesitated. “It’s…heavy.”

He glanced at you, something unreadable in his expression. “That a bad thing?”

“No,” you said quickly. “Just…it sounds personal.”

For a second, he didn’t respond. Then, with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he said, “All my shit’s personal.”

You wanted to push. To ask about the note, about the men in the alley. About what exactly he was counting days for.

But before you could, his phone buzzed.

His jaw tensed as he read the screen. Then, without a word, he stood up, grabbing his hoodie.

“I’ll be back.”

You sat up. “Thanos–”

He looked at you then, something flickering behind his dark eyes. “Stay here.”

And just like that, he was gone. Your chest tightened. This wasn’t just about music. Something was happening. And whether he liked it or not, you weren’t just going to sit and wait forever. 

You waited exactly five minutes before grabbing your jacket and slipping out of the studio. Nam Gyu hadn’t noticed, his face was buried into the screen of his laptop.

Thanos told you to stay. But you weren’t great at following orders.

The streets outside were alive, neon lights flashing against the wet pavement. The night smelled like city smoke and rain, and every shadow felt heavier than it should have. 

You followed instinct–plus the fact that Thanos wasn’t exactly subtle when he was in a hurry. A few blocks down, you spotted him.

He was standing on the sidewalk, hood up, back rigid. Across from him? A familiar figure. Slicked-back hair. The same guy from the alley. Your stomach tightened.

You ducked into a nearby doorway, pressing yourself into the shadows. You couldn’t hear everything over the hum of the rain, but you caught pieces.

“–not enough time.”

“–not my problem.”

“–you owe more than you think.”

Then, something quieter. Lower.

Thanos’ hands clenched into fists. His head dipped for a second, like he was bracing himself.

You took a step forward before you could stop yourself. And that’s when Thanos looked up–right at you. Your breath hitched.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The man he was talking to turned slightly, following Thanos’ gaze, but before he could spot you, Thanos stepped closer to him, blocking his view.

“Don’t.” he said, voice sharp.

It wasn’t clear if he was talking to the guy–or to you.

Your heart pounded. You knew you should leave, that pushing further could make things worse, but something in Thanos’ expression stopped you.

He looked…tired.

Angry, sure. But underneath it, there was something else.

Something scared.

The conversation ended a few seconds later. The man clapped a hand on Thanos’ shoulder–mocking, maybe threatening–and disappeared into the night.

Thanos stood there, staring at the ground. Time seemed to stop in that moment. Then, slowly, he turned and walked toward you. Your pulse raced.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice low.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you shot back.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “You don’t get it.” “Then make me get it.”

His jaw tightened. “It’s not that simple.”

You crossed your arms, refusing to back down. “Is it money? Debt? Are you in trouble?”

The rain pounded down on the two of you, soaking your clothes and making you shiver,

Something flickered in his gaze. Then, so quietly you almost missed it, he said, “It’s always been trouble.”

A gust of wind blew between you, cold against your skin. Finally, Thanos sighed, shaking his head. “Come on. I’m walking you home.”

You wanted to argue. Wanted to push harder. But something told you that, for now, this was all he could give. So you let him walk beside you, the city buzzing around you both, the space between you thick with everything left unsaid.

The tension between you and Thanos hadn’t disappeared. If anything, it had grown. Some nights, he barely spoke. Others, he’d sit beside you in the studio, close enough that his leg brushed against yours, his presence heavy but silent.

And then there were moments like this. You were both sitting on the rooftop of his apartment, staring out at the city skyline. He had been quiet tonight. More than usual.

You nudged his shoulder. “Tell me something real.”

He glanced at you, one brow raised. “What?”

You shrugged. “Something real. Not about music. Not about whatever mess you’re tangled up in. Just…something about you.”

Thanos stared at you for a long time. Then, finally, he said, “I don’t sleep much.”

You blinked. “Because of the music?”

“Because of the past.” His voice was softer now, like he wasn’t sure he should be telling you this.

Your chest tightened. Carefully, you reached out, fingers brushing against his. A test. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he exhaled, tilting his head back against the wall. “Your turn,” he muttered.

You hesitated, then said, “I haven’t felt like I belonged anywhere in a long time.”

His fingers twitched beneath yours. Then, after a beat, he turned his hand over–gripping yours, just for a second. It wasn’t much. But it was something. And somehow it felt like everything.

A few more weeks passed. You weren’t sure what you and Thanos were, but you know what you weren’t. You weren’t just another fan. You weren’t just a friend.

But whatever line existed between you two–it was blurring fast. 

You could feel it in the way he looked at you. In the way he spoke softer when it was just the two of you. In the way his fingers sometimes lingered against yours, like he was testing something, waiting for a sign. And in the way he never let you too close. Not yet.

It was another night you had joined him at the recording studio. He always asked you to tag along, and you never declined.

Thanos was pacing. Frustrated. You were sitting on the couch, watching him.

He had been working on the same verse for over an hour, and something about it wasn’t right. You could see it in his body language–the clenched jaw, the way his shoulders tensed like he was carrying something too heavy.

Finally, he yanked his headphones off and cursed under his breath. You hesitated. “Wanna talk about it?” “No.” His voice was sharp, but not at you. Still, you stood up, stepping closer. “Okay. Then tell me what’s really wrong.” Thanos exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “I told you, it’s nothing.” “Bullshit.”

He stopped. Turned to you, eyes dark and unreadable. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, suddenly, he stepped forward. Too close. Your breath hitched.

“You really wanna know?” he muttered. His voice was low, rough. You swallowed. “Yeah.”

His gaze dropped–to your lips, just for a second. Then, without warning, he laughed. A bitter sound. “You shouldn’t.”

That hurt more than it should have. Your spine straightened. “Why?” you questioned him.

His expression hardened.

“Because if you knew the kind of shit I’m in, you’d run.” Something inside you twisted. 

You could run. You probably should run. But instead, you reached for his wrist. Just enough so he’d know you weren’t afraid. “I’m still here,” you whispered.

Thanos’ breath caught. His eyes searched yours, like he was looking for something–some kind of warning, some kind of reason to push you away. Then slowly, his fingers curled around yours. Not tight. Not possessive. Just holding.

“I don’t know if that’s a good thing,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

You gave him a small, sad smile. “Me neither.” But neither of you let go.

A few days later you hadn’t seen Thanos since that night at the studio. Not in person, anyway. He had sent a few texts–short, vague. You two were supposed to meet up to hang out that evening. But his last message broke your heart.

Got shit to handle. Don’t wait up.

Then silence. For two days. 

The anxiety sat like a stone in your gut. You weren’t sure what scared you more–the fact that he was gone or the fact you felt his absence so strongly.

Then, late one night, your phone buzzed. A location ping. It wasn’t his apartment. It wasn’t the studio. 

It was an abandoned bridge on the edge of the city. Your stomach dropped. You knew this place. You knew why this place mattered. The importance it held.

Thanos had told you once, in the quiet dark of a studio session gone too late, that there had been a night–one long, horrible night–when he had stood on that bridge’s edge, staring into the abyss below, wondering if anyone would miss him.

He hadn’t gone through with it. But that didn't mean he never thought about it. And now, he was there again. Your hands trembled as you grabbed your jacket and ran out the door.

You found him slumped against the rusted railing, hood up, cigarette barely lit between his tattooed fingers. Purple hair stuck to his forehead.

His knuckles were split. A cut ran along his cheekbone, dark and swollen. His lip was busted. And worst of all? His eyes. They were empty. Your heart ached as you stepped forward. “Thanos?”

He didn’t even look at you. Just exhaled smoke and muttered, “You shouldn’t be here.” You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “Then why did you send me your location?”

Silence.

You stepped closer, the cold wind biting at your skin. “You told me once what this bridge meant to you,” you said carefully. “So don’t lie to me and say this is nothing.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I’m not that guy anymore.”

“Then why are you here?”

His fingers curled into a fist. He looked away, towards the drop below. Something inside you snapped.

You grabbed his wrist–not rough, just firm. “Don’t do this,” you whispered, voice raw. “Whatever you’re thinking, whatever happened–I’m right here. Just talk to me.”

For a second, just a second, his eyes softened. Then, just as fast, his expression hardened again. 

He yanked his hand away. “You can’t help,” he muttered. “You don’t belong in this world of mine.” You clenched your jaw. “Then why do you keep pulling me into it?”

His breath hitched, but he forced a cold laugh. “I didn’t ask you to come.” That stung. Your throat tightened, but you refused to let him see how much that hurt you.

You took a shaky step back. “Right. My mistake.”

You turned away before your voice could break, before he could see the way your face crumbled. 

You had given him space. You had tried to understand. But this–this pushing–it hurt. But before you could walk away, a hand shot out, catching your wrist.

Your breath caught. You turned back, finding him looking at you like he regretted every word he just said. “...Don’t go,” he murmured.

Your chest ached. “Then stop pushing me away.” He exhaled sharply, eyes searching yours. Then, slowly–hesitantly–he tugged you down beside him. 

You sat in silence for a moment, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist. As if he let go you would simply vanish into thin air. And then, softer this time, he whispered, “I don’t know how to do this.”

Your heart clenched.  You understood how he felt. You had been in his shoes before, too many times.

You shifted closer, carefully pressing your forehead against his. “Then let me show you.” His breath shuddered. And then, he kissed you. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was desperate. Like he had been holding himself back for too long.

His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, fingers gripping like he was scared you would disappear. Your own hands slid into his hair, tugging, making him groan against your lips. 

The tension that had been simmering for weeks finally boiled over. And in that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the bruises. Not the fights. Just this. Just you and him.

The walk back was quiet. Not awkward. Just heavy. Thanos had barely spoken a word since you left the bridge. But he hadn’t let go of your hand, either.

Not in a romantic way–more like he was grounding himself, making sure you were still there. That you were real.

Now in the dim light of your apartment, you finally saw him clearly.  The dried blood. The bruises darkening his cheek. The tension in his shoulders, like he was waiting for you to tell him to leave. 

You didn’t. Instead, you grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink. He scoffed. “I’m fine.” You have him a look. Bullshit, you thought.

With a sigh, he sat on the couch, letting you kneel in front of him. You dipped a cotton pad in antiseptic and carefully dabbed at his cheek. He barely flinched.

“Wanna tell me who did this?” you asked softly.

He exhaled, eyes flickering away. “Just some unfinished business.”

You frowned. “Thanos–” “I handled it.” His voice was flat. “It’s over.”

You sighed, pressing the pad against a deeper cut on his brow. You were sure it would scar. “You keep saying that. But it never really is, is it?” His jaw clenched.

You knew you were pushing, but you couldn’t not. Not after tonight. Not after that damn bridge.

You set the first aid kit aside, meeting his gaze. “Talk to me,” you murmured. “Tell me the truth. All of it.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. For a second you thought he’d shut down again. But then–his walls cracked. And the words came spilling out.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he admitted, voice rough. “I don’t know how to be anything else. This life–this fighting, this running–it’s all I’ve ever known. And every time I think I’m out, something drags me back in.”

You stayed silent, letting him speak.

He let out a bitter laugh, running a hand down his face. “You wanna know the worst part? I let it happen. I tell myself I don’t have a choice, but maybe I do. Maybe I just don’t know who I am without all this shit.”

Your heart ached for him. You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. His grip was tight–he was afraid to let go.

“You’re not just the things that have happened to you,” you whispered. “And you don’t have to do this alone.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to drag you down with me.” You smiled softly. “Too late.” That startled a laugh out of him. A real one. Low, rough, but real. You squeezed his hand. “I’m not going anywhere, Thanos.”

He looked at you then–really looked at you. And for the first time, there was no cocky smirk, no teasing glint in his eye. Just raw, unfiltered emotion. 

“...You’re the only thing that feels real,” he admitted quietly. “The only thing that doesn’t feel like it’s slipping through my fingers.”

Your breath caught. The weight of his words settled deep in your chest. Slowly, cautiously, you leaned in–pressing your forehead against his. Just being there. His cold, inked fingers ghosted over your cheek, his touch hesitant, unsure.

“Stay,” you whispered. His breath hitched. “...Okay.” And just like that–he let himself fall. Not into chaos. Not into violence.

But into you.

Neither of you moved for a long time. The hum of the city outside your window filled the silence, but in here, it felt like the world had stopped. Just for the two of you.

Thanos hadn’t let go of your hand. Hadn’t pulled away. But he also hadn’t moved closer. Like he was still figuring out what the hell this was.

And you? You weren’t sure what scared you more–that he might leave, or that he might actually stay.

You cleared your throat, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you wanna crash here tonight?”  His fingers twitched against yours.

A war played out in his eyes–some silent battle between wanting it and not trusting himself to have it.  Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, he nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I do.”

Something warm flickered in your chest. You squeezed his hand once before standing. “I’ll grab you some clothes.”

In your bedroom Thanos stood near the window, looking out into the city. You had tossed him a pair of sweatpants and an old hoodie, but he had only changed out of his wet shirt so far, leaving him in just his jeans. The bruises on his torso were darker now, shadowed in the dim light of your room. His tattoos an even darker contrast to his soft skin.

He looked out of place here–like he wasn’t used to being in spaces this…safe.

“You can sit, ya’ know,” you teased lightly. His lips twitched. “Didn’t want to mess up your bed.” You rolled your eyes and tugged his wrist, pulling him towards the mattress. “It’s a bed! That’s literally what it’s for.”

A small chuckle rumbled in his chest, but he let you pull him down. You sat cross-legged beside him, heart hammering in your ribs. The bed dipped under his weight, bringing him so close that you could feel the warmth radiating off him.

Neither of you spoke. Neither of you had to. But the air between you was thick. Charged. His fingers flexed against the sheets, knuckles brushing yours.You glanced up at him–and froze.

Because his eyes were already on you.

Not in that usual, cocky, teasing way. No. This was something else. Something raw. Something that made your breathing stop.

“...Why do you care so much?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart clenched. “Because I see you,” you whispered back. “And I know what it’s like to feel like no one else does.”

His jaw tensed, like your words physically hit him. And then–so slowly, so hesitantly–he reached up. His fingers ghosted over your jaw, trailing so lightly it sent a shiver down your spine. You swallowed. Hard.

“Thanos…” He exhaled, fingers moving to your chin, tilting your face just slightly.

Your breath mingled with his.  Your lips were so close–But he stopped.

Like he wasn’t sure if he had the right. Like he wasn’t sure if he deserved this. Your pulse pounded.

So, you made the choice for him. You closed the distance, pressing your lips to his–soft, hesitant, testing.

His breath hitched. And then, suddenly, it wasn’t hesitant anymore.

His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss, needy, desperate. His other hand gripped your waist, pulling you closer–like he had been holding back for far too long and finally, finally let himself have this.

Your hands pressed against his chest, feeling the heat of his bare skin. His heart was racing–just like yours.

But then–he pulled back. Abruptly. His chest heaved, lips parted, eyes dark. “...I shouldn’t,” he rasped. Your heart plummeted. “What?” His fingers curled into fists. “You don’t deserve this. Me.”

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. “You don’t get to decide that for me.” His eyes flashed–with frustration, with longing, with something he couldn’t put into words.

Then, without another word, he stood. Your stomach dropped. Watching as he pulled on the hoodie you had provided for him.

“Thanos–”  “I need air,” he spat, running a hand through his hair. “I just–” he exhaled, shaking his head. “I’ll be back.”

And then, just like that, he walked out.  Leaving you alone. Leaving your lips still tingling from his kiss. Leaving your chest aching with something you couldn’t name.

Thanos lied. He didn’t come back that night. In fact you hadn’t heard from him at all.

Not a single call. Not a single text. Nothing.

You told yourself you weren’t waiting. That it didn’t matter. That if Thanos wanted to disappear, fine. Let him.

But it was a lie.

Because every time your phone buzzed, your heart jumped. Every time you heard footsteps near your door, your stomach flipped. Every time the city lights flickered outside your window, you wondered if he was out there, in the dark, thinking about you.

And the worst part? You could still feel the ghost of his lips against yours. It was driving you insane.

So you did what you always did when your mind got too loud–you blasted music. Drowned in the bass, let the lyrics be a distraction. But even that wasn’t enough. Because nothing could drown out the memory of him.

Your clock read 12:12am. That’s when you heard it. A sharp knock at your door shattered the silence. You froze. No one came over this late. Never.

Your heart hammered as you stood, feet carrying you toward the door before your brain could catch up. 

Another knock–harder, more desperate.  And then– His voice. “...It’s me.” 

Your breath halted. Hands shaking, you unlocked the door.

And there he was. Thanos. Soaked from the rain. Breathless. Eyes dark, intense–like something inside him had finally snapped.

You swallowed. “You–”  “I couldn't stay away,” he rasped. His voice was wrecked. Like he had been fighting himself for two days straight and lost.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. “You left.” “I know.” He clenched his jaw. “I shouldn’t have.”

You should have been angry. You wanted to be angry. But all you could focus on was the way his chest heaved, the way his fists curled at his sides like he was holding himself back. Like he was seconds away from breaking.

You stepped back, leaving the door open. A silent invitation. And he didn’t hesitate. The second the door shut, Thanos moved. No more hesitation. No more running.  He grabbed you. 

One hand at your waist, the other cradling the back of your neck–desperate, feverish, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough. 

Then his lips crashed onto yours. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant.

It was messy, raw, full of every bottled-up feeling he had tried to ignore. 

You gasped, fingers tangling in his damp shirt, pulling him closer, closer–until there was nothing between you.

A low groan rumbled in his chest as he pressed you against the nearest wall, lips trialing from your mouth to your jaw, to your neck. “I tried to stay away,” he murmured against your skin, voice hoarse. “I swore I wouldn’t do this.”

Your head tilted back, giving him more access. “Then why are you here?” His teeth grazed your pulse point, making you shudder. “Because I can’t fucking help myself.”

Thanos had you trapped against the wall. His breath was hot against your skin.

His hands possessive, gripping your waist, your hip, fingers digging in because he was so scared to let go.

Your name left his lips in a rough whisper before he kissed you again–deeper, slower this time. Less rushed, more intentional. You melted into him.

God, the way he kissed–like he wanted to devour you, like he was starving and you were the only thing that could satisfy him–

And then–The shrill ringing of his phone broke through the room. Blaring in the silence. Thanos froze.

His lips still brushed against yours, his body still pressing you into the wall–but you felt it. The instant shift in his mood.

You barely had time to process before he snapped back, jaw clenched. The phone kept ringing. He pulled it out his pocket, glanced at the name on the screen. His whole body tensed. Your stomach sank.

“Who is it?” Your voice came out too quiet. Thanos exhaled sharply. His thumb hovered over the screen. You saw the hesitation in his eyes–then, with a muttered curse, he declined the call.

Silence. Then, after a beat–“I need to handle something.” It was like getting shoved back into reality.

You stared at him. “You’re leaving again?” Of course he would. You couldn’t be so stupid to think he had changed any in the past couple days of no contact.

“No,” he said quickly. “I just–” he ran a hand over his face. Clearly exhausted and fighting with himself over what to do. “I’ll be back. I just need to deal with some shit.”

Your heart shattered. “That’s what you said last time.”

He flinched. For a second, you thought he might actually stay. That he’d say something real, something honest. For once.

But instead–“I’ll come back,” he promised.And just like that, he was gone.

You didn’t expect him to come back the same night. But two hours later–just as you were about to give up on him yet again–your door slammed open. You had remained in your bed, heart racing as you listened to his heavy footsteps.

And there he was. Thanos. Chest heaving. Panting. Eyes dark, hungry. Like he had been burning for you since the moment he walked away.

You barely had time to react before he was on you. A rough hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back as his lips crashed onto yours–possessive, needy, like he was making up for every second he wasted.

You gasped against his mouth, gripping his jacket, yanking him closer, letting him press you against the mattress.

“You’re mine,” he growled against your lips. Your head spun, “Prove it.” And oh, did he.

His jacket hit the floor. His hands found your waist, sliding under your shirt, fingers skimming hot against your skin. Your body arched into him–desperate, aching.

But he wasn’t in a rush. No, this was punishment. For every second he spent pretending he didn’t want you. For every time he pushed you away when all he wanted was this.

“You think I don’t feel it?” he murmured, lips trailing down your jaw then neck. “The way you look at me? The way I can’t fucking breathe when you’re near me?”

You whimpered as his teeth grazed your pulse, his hands gripping your hips, pinning you against him.

“You ruined me, princesa.” His voice was thick, rough, dripping with something dangerous.

You shivered. “Good.” His control snapped. And then–Heat. Desperation. Mouths colliding, hands everywhere, bodies pressed too close, but still not not close enough.

And thanos? He was ravenous. Every touch, every kiss, every rough grip on your hips was a silent confession.

And tonight? He wasn’t holding back anymore. His hands were everywhere.

Rough palms sliding under your shirt, fingertips tracing fire along your spine. His lips claimed yours with a hunger that left you breathless, gasping against him.

Thanos wasn’t just kissing you. He was consuming you. Like he had been starving for this. For you.

Your fingers tangled in his faded purple hair, and he groaned–low, deep, something shot straight through your core.

“Fuck,” he rasped, dragging his lips back down your throat. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.” Your breath hitched, his teeth nipping at your skin. “Then don’t stop.”

A growl rumbled in his chest. “Wasn’t planning to, princesa.” And then came the sound of ripping fabric.

You gasped as your shirt hit the floor, followed by his–his heat pressing into you, skin to skin, muscles tense beneath your fingertips.

Thanos devoured you with his gaze, his dark eyes trailing over every inch of exposed skin. His breath was ragged, jaw tight–like he was barely holding himself together.

But then he touched you. Fingertips tracing slow, torturous patterns down your sides, his mouth following the path of his tattooed hands. And you melted.

“Look at you,” he whispered against your skin. “So fucking beautiful.”

You whimpered as he pinned you beneath him, his weight pressing you into the mattress, solid, inescapable. His hands gripped your thighs, parting them, his breath hot against your stomach.

Then his lips trailed lower. Lower. Lower.

Your body arched off the bed as heat exploded through your veins, pleasure pooling deep as his mouth worked wonders.

Thanos, well he devoured you. Like you were his last meal.

Every whimper, every shuddering breath, every time your fingers tightened in his hair–he took it like a man starved. Like he wouldn’t stop until you were completely wrecked beneath him.

And when he finally came back up, his lips slick, sinful, his gaze heavy-lidded and dark, he smirked. “Not done with you yet, princesa.” And then? Oh, then he really showed you just how much he’d been holding back.

The city hadn’t changed. The neon lights still flickered, the streets still pulsed with life, and the music still played loud enough to shake the walls. But you had changed. So had Thanos. He hadn’t left again–not like before.

After that night, something shifted between you two. He stopped running. Stopped shutting you out. Instead, he was there. In your bed. In your space. In your life. But it wasn’t perfect.

Some nights, he still got quiet. Still carried the weight of the past like chains around his wrists. Still fought demons he didn’t know how to exorcise.

But now–now, he let you see it. And more than that–he let you stay.

The apartment was quiet, except for the low hum of music playing from the speaker. This weekend was full of shows for Thanos. You were excited to attend every one of them.

You sat on the couch, knees tucked to your chest, watching as Thanos scribbled into a battered notebook. Lyrics.  You could tell from the way his lips moved slightly as he wrote, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Writing about me?” you teased, leaning back against the cushions. His lips quirked. “Maybe.” You raised an eyebrow. “What’s it say?”

He hesitated for a beat, then tore the paper out, folding it in half. He stood, crossing the room, and placed it in your lap. You unfolded it slowly, heart picking up speed.

“You make me feel like I deserve more than just the pain”

Your breath caught. When you looked up, he was watching you, something raw and unguarded in his gaze. “Do you?” you asked softly. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “What?”

“Do you think you deserve more?” Silence stretched between you. Heavy. Thick. 

And then he exhaled sharply, running a large hand down his face. “I don’t know.” His voice was rough. Honest. “But I know I want it. With you.”

Your heart clenched. For the first time, he wasn’t just saying what he thought he should say. He was telling the truth.

You stood slowly, closing the distance between you. His hands twitched at his sides, like he wasn’t sure if he should pull you in or let you go. So you made the choice for him.

You wrapped your arms around him, pressing your cheek against his chest, feeling the steady thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat. And after a brief moment his arms tightened around you, his face pressing into your hair.

“I don’t know how to be good at this,” he murmured into your hair. You smiled softly. “We’ll figure it out.” He sighed, his hold on you unwavering. And in that moment, you knew–he wasn’t going anywhere. No more running. Not this time.

♥︎a/n: hope you enjoyed!! work has been super busy, but i am hoping to write more this weekend to post <3

[carothehotmess]

The way the lyrics of “Can’t Catch Me Now” can also be applied to Lenore Dove and Haymitch and Sunrise on the Reaping in general is breaking me a little.

There’s blood on the side of the mountain

The tributes, especially the Newcomers, who were killed on the volcano by the eruption and the Careers. Or his blood pouring out of him on the cliff.

There’s writing all over the wall

Haymitch finding the orange graffiti on the wall of the alley that says, “No Capitol, No Hanging Tree! No Capitol, No Reaping!” And realizing that the secret Maysilee figured out was that Lenore Dove’s fingertips were orange from painting those rebellious words.

Shadows of us are still dancing

In every room and every hall

Haymitch saying that Lenore Dove never really left him, that she’d been there growing old with him the whole time. Everywhere he goes in 12 reminds him of her, and every room and every hall is still filled with her presence.

There’s snow falling over the city

This one seems kind of obvious, with “snow” referring to President Snow and his influence blanketing the Capitol and the entire country, but I think it can also double as a reference to the “ash” that covered the arena after the eruption.

You thought that it would wash away

The rain washing away the “ash” in the arena. Haymitch’s hope that bursting the water tank would “wash away” the game itself, but realizing after that it wasn’t anywhere near enough to stop the games. The rebels’ hope of “washing away” Snow and his power with their attempts at sabotage, and later with their full on rebellion.

Also, this is more of a personal theory but if what I believe happened, happened, then this could also relate to the rebels’ repeat attempt to flood the arena, by breaking the dam during Annie’s games.

There’s blood on the side of the mountain

Its turning a new shade of red

As already mentioned, the blood on the mountain could relate to the tributes killed on the volcano. But the “new shade of red” could also refer to the red gumdrops that killed Lenore Dove.

Yeah sometimes the fire you founded

Like the fire started by the flint striker aka Haymitch.

Don’t burn the way you’d expect

Instead of immediately catching, that “fire” took 25 years to catch flame, and while Haymitch helped stop the sun from rising on the reaping, it wasn’t accomplished with his plot to sabotage the water tank, or with his death in the arena. That fire eventually burned, not because of one overt rebellious demonstration, but because of 25 years of incremental acts of rebellion from within, and a girl who became a symbol for people to rally around. A girl who made her poster without even intending to, and who made it in such a way that the Capitol couldn’t spin it the way they did with all the others.

Yeah you thought that this was the end

Haymitch thought bursting the water tank would be the end of the games. Haymitch thought his injury and his attempt to blow up the generator were the end. Haymitch thought being one of the tributes would be the end of his life. Haymitch thought losing his family would be the end of the suffering Snow brought on him. Haymitch thought losing Lenore Dove would be the end of it all for him, but then she condemned him to life. Haymitch thought ending the games would be the end for him, but then he survived to live in the world that came after.

I know that the song was written before SotR but the way it can be interpreted and applied to both prequel books is just really fascinating to me.

[obvithe-bestsoph]

No. 19 | "Let’s go do something, just the two of us." LY19

masterlist requests

prompt list (if you request a prompt, please request a player for it as well!) warnings: none.

You’re sitting cross-legged on Lamine’s bedroom floor, his playlist humming softly from the speaker. The walls are covered with posters, Barcelona legends, graffiti art, and a couple of random photos of Keyne looking like he’s already plotting world domination.

It’s one of those evenings where nothing is planned, but somehow it feels like something is about to happen.

Lamine is lying back against his bed, scrolling through his phone, but every now and then, he looks over at you like he’s waiting for a reason to say something.

After a while, he finally sits up and shrugs. “You know what? I’m tired of just sitting here.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So, what? Do we do something?”

“Yeah. Let’s go do something, just the two of us.”

You blink at him like you didn’t expect this to come from him.

“No cars, no rides, just us walking around. No pressure, no plans.”

You think about it for a second. You haven’t done this before, not just going out with Lamine alone without anything on the agenda. It’s weird but kind of perfect.

“Okay,” you say, standing up and grabbing your jacket.

He smirks like he’s won.

The streets are calm as you step outside. The sky is a fading shade of blue with early stars peeking through. You walk side by side, the quiet between you is comfortable rather than awkward.

Neither of you says much at first, but it doesn’t feel forced.

Lamine stops by the corner park, the swings swaying gently in the breeze.

“Want to go?” he asks.

You nod, and soon you’re both sitting on the swings, moving slowly back and forth.

It’s easy here, the way his laughter comes without trying, how he watches you like you’re the only person in the world.

After a while, he swings a little higher, then looks over at you.

“This... this is nice,” he says quietly. “No training, no school stress, no one asking stuff.”

You smile softly. “Yeah. Just us.”

The city noise is distant, almost muted.

You realize you’re holding your breath a little, the kind of calm that sneaks up on you.

Lamine kicks the dirt with his shoe, glancing at the sky. “I wish this could be longer.”

You nod. “Me too.”

When the chill starts creeping in, you both get off the swings and start walking again.

On the way back, he grabs your hand for the first time. It’s tentative, like he’s testing the waters.

Your fingers lace with his without thinking, and you don’t want to let go.

By the time you reach his front door, it’s dark, but everything feels clearer than it did when you first walked out.

He looks down at your hands and then up at your face.

“Thanks for coming out with me.”

You smile. “No, thank you.”

As you turn to leave, he calls softly, “We should do this again.”

You don’t have to say anything. The promise hangs in the air, simple and true.

[the-labyrinth-of-me]

I don't know if that has been discussed in the past, but I wanna talk about a few things that stand out in the apartment of the Wakes, at least for me. First off, it's absolutely weird that the apartment looks nothing like the one from the first game, neither interior nor floor plan wise. Before Alan was trapped in the Dark Place, the apartment looked drastically different. Photos for comparison:

Seems like a regular home of a best-selling crime novelist, right?

The apartment in Alan Wake 2 has, as already mentioned, a different floor plan and weird structure. Like you leave the elevator and there aren't even any further doors, let alone a hallway. As if the Wake apartment was the only one on the whole floor. Then there's the entrance area with the cameras from Alice that set off once Alan leaves the elevator, with a few paintings on the wall (like graffiti) that seem to have replaced the skyline posters.

Then you enter the actual apartment. It holds a layout that doesn't make much sense. There's also no bathroom / toilet and Alice's studio seems to be missing. Some other paintings of graffiti on the wall mix with really old, outdated, simple furniture. Nothing that displays wealth for the cozy feeling of a real home, it's rather minimalist.

If only the furniture would be outdated, though...

A collection of old files, devices (seriously, who has a telephone like that in the 2010 and upwards years?), and old toys. Since the Wakes don't have children and there wasn't any mention that they, at any point, planned to start a family, one can assume these toys weren't bought for children to be born and they seem to be well-used as well. Maybe Alan's toys from his childhood?

The books all seem to be really old as well.

All that old stuff and the composition, how things are placed and displayed, rather give me the feeling I'm walking through a museum rather than an apartment.

(wtf why is there even an accordion??)

And if we take a closer look at the kitchen...

... we see a weird oven and coffee machine. Stuff we'd expect to find in restaurant, maybe. Or a diner. A very specific diner.

Moving on, what catches the attention in the living room isn't only the lack of a television (although the Wakes had one in the first game), despite the TVs can be found practically everywhere in the Dark Place in the most odd spaces. But not in an actual apartment, of all things? Hmmmm. As if someone deliberately choose not to have one. Maybe the one who is imagining that whole stuff?

Which would be my conclusion to the weirdness of the apartment: dream logic mixed with whatever is left of the apartment in Alan's memory mixed with what is necessary for him to move on. TVs is what he might be kind of scared of, since often he sees another version of himself speaking insane rants. Nothing he could use that close to escape. The old furniture and books and toys could really stem from his longterm memory, his childhood home blended in with his actual one, from his subconscious. His mother seems to have a key role because she was the one who gave him the Clicker. And he never got to know his father. There definitely is some pain in his childhood years. Maybe he has a box somewhere in which he keeps some of his toys?

In dreams our brain processes what we experience throughout the day, sometimes memories mix in, or things we suppress / are in denial about bc we're too afraid to confront them. That could be one explanation of the interior of the apartment. His childhood even gets a small section in the musical since we walk through his old bedroom. So, early memories are covered. Brings us the next subject - striking what isn't necessary to move to. Alice's studio apparently isn't necessary (and something he doesn't have a connection to. Makes even more sense considering her work didn't contribute much to their income, as she says in the video. So her office might be kind of invisible to him. His work being the "more important" one.) Bathroom? Not necessary. Interior replaced with old stuff bc its more important to him, maybe? But what about the industrial oven and coffee machine? That really seems to be a nod to the Oh Deer diner, where his journey (and demise) practically started. Where he got the keys for the Bird Leg Cabin and met the Dark Presence for the first time. It seemed to have left a mark. Rose, the superfan waitress who helps him from the real world. Rusty, the first major Taken he had to fight (iirc Stucky came after Rusty). The Old Gods and their stupid jukebox. I'm not gonna link Coconut here don't worry. There's also a pack of the Bright Falls Blend coffee on a shelf.

Summarized, we can say that dream logic blends all kinds of things together whenever Alan visits the apartment in the Dark Place. Not to mention that it even looks different each time he goes there, during each draft. If I find the time I'll try to draw floor plans of each version. I think it's very interesting.

If you made it this far, thanks for coming to my Ted talk.

Edit for additions / stuff from tags (holy shit is this a long post now)

- @taniushka12 yes you're right of course, the bathroom appears later however and not during the first draft. It seems Alan readjusts the apartment due to what he needs to go further, or Alice had a say about this. Idk. The bathroom appears in the next draft I think, with the expedition. He remembers they have a bathrooms yay! But it still looks completely different.

- @omena-perkele thanks for elaborating on that. I was planning to go into more detail about Alan progressively forgetting how his home looks like but only put it in half a sentence lol. It's my interpretation of how empty the apartment actually is, like not much personal belongings, if any. Bedroom is almost empty. There are pieces of furniture he remembers or remembers there should be some at certain walls in the rooms, but many empty spots. The rest is mixed with old stuff and dream logic / dark place fill-ins.

Thanks for each comment on this!

[cassandrarebornanew]

We all know how much Miles loves to make art - but more than anything he loves to make street art. We also know that he starts drawing like crazy between the two films.

I headcannon that Miles needed more than just sketching in his notebooks and finding hidden walls to graffiti in his spare time. He approaches one of his school's art teachers, and asks to open a street art club. It takes a bit of fighting, but eventually he gets it confirmed. He puts posters up, tells people about it - “come over to the art classroom Friday lunch! We can do some art stuff :)”. Friday comes around and… no one shows up. Miles doesn't let it phase him, so he does some art and waits for next week. The same thing happens that week. And the next. And the next. By now the posters have fallen off the walls, and Miles is about to give up. Then, week 5 comes around. He sets up his stuff, lets the teacher (that has to be there) get distracted on his phone, and starts working. But, before he can actually get into it, there’s a knock on the door. He looks up, ready to tell whoever it is that this isn’t where they want to be, but then he stops. The girl standing there looks nervous, but has patches on her rucksack, and paint on her clothes. Miles doesn't want to assume, but she looks like an artist. “Hi.” She starts. “Is this the street art club?” at this point even the teacher is paying attention. “yeah. Come on in.”

Two weeks pass. This girl is a great artist, but she does more traditional work, and wanted to learn something new. They become pretty good friends, and Miles feels like he’s done something pretty good, even if just for one person. But then she brings two friends. Suddenly there’s a group chat and snacks are being coordinated. Miles effectively teaches two people who know nothing about art everything he can. It feels good - feels important.

Some people from his class ask to join. It’s been two and a half months now, and the group has increased to eight. Then word gets around, and other years are joining in too, with little kids dying to try something beginner friendly to introduce them into the school, and older students finally learn in a healthy outlet for stress. More and more people show up each session until Miles has to change it into a fully fledged, two hour afterschool club. They end up filling up two and a bit classrooms with all the people that show. some need to do art. some like to. some are learning. some just show for the vibes and do some doodling to get their mind off stuff. some people go hardcore, no talking, intense focus the entire time. But what gets to Miles the most is that everyone walks in excited and everyone walks out happy. the art teachers take turns supervising - they get involved too. One of them puts forward a proposition where street art is an accepted form of art for AP Art classes. The school administration shows up for one of the club sessions and immediately approve. Miles starts doing street art as his coursework. He’s never loved school more, and starts organising potential activities for the club members. The group chat is easily 50 - 75 people, and that’s just the regulars.

The school needs to renovate some of the buildings, and they look at the massive blank wall and ask Miles if he and his club would like to decorate it. They say yes.

the mural is massive. They needed ladders and cherry pickers and harnesses, but they managed to cover the entire wall in art. Everyone can point to at least one feature and say “that’s mine. I did that”. Miles does the center piece. The parents get invited to the reveal of the new building and their student-made mural. Someone uploads a video, edited and everything, and the internet grabs onto it and doesn't let go for at least a week. Mr and Mrs Morales are congratulated on the achievements of their son. They realise that no matter what, he will always have an artistic streak in him. Jeff looks at his kid, and for half a second sees Aaron, the way he was when they were kids themselves. He tries not to cry with happiness.

Miles talks to the owner of the building. He shows him the work he’s done, in his art book, in his spare time, and on the wall of the school. The owner saw the school unveiling on Insta, and is easily convinced to let Miles create a mural. And when he draws Aaron, immortalising his recently departed uncle, the she isn’t surprised. If anything, she’d hoped for it. The entire neighbourhood mourned Aaron, they’re like family. everyone celebrates this mural too. But to Miles, this is different. This is his family’s that is celebrating his work, not a bunch of random people. This isn’t just a demonstration of his art, this is an emotionally significant and vulnerable piece. This is a part of him. And looking at it, he can only ever be grateful that he was given this chance.

[shoeboxboy]

(teenage) david and adam's shared bedroom - character detail rundown below the cut - the fic this iteration of david and adam are from

david's side (left) is a nest of mess. he has dirty clothes, books, and magazines littered around and under his bed, along with a partially emptied bottle and the guitar ethan's dad lent to him for his grunge-rock band startup. his wall is covered with posters for shows he's been to, his favourite pages from playboys, his own graffiti art, and certain photos of the city adam had taken that he took a liking to. the book on his comforter is the catcher in the rye, and the stack on the floor by their shared nightstand is david's collection of books he rereads for their graphic depictions of violence and anarchy. on his side of the nightstand is a pack of marlboros, a lighter, a pump bottle of lotion, and on the floor nearby are spent tissues. the photo resting on his headboard is a framed shot of his band which consists of david, scott tibbs, ethan (oc), and dan (oc), during one of their first practices, a photo that adam took and framed for david for their most recent (shared) birthday. the shirt on the hook between their closet (which is another mess entirely that they often found themselves hiding inside as children) and david's bed is the grey striped button up we later see adam wearing in saw canon. hanging on the wall above his bed is a chain david stole to wear attached to his jeans, and the reversed cross dangling from it is a silver charm their mother was gifted for her first communion, reversed and appropriated for david's purposes following her departure from their lives. the dagger on the wall is from their father, which david received for his ninth birthday and would be the only object he would carry with him from their childhood home into later adulthood.

adam's side (right) is comparatively tidy and more impersonal, but is not flawless nor completely blank. his bed is clean and made, his books are neatly lined up and in relatively good condition, his walls mostly bare -- but he has just as many personally exposing items partially or entirely hidden away. his books (mostly assigned readings or library books from school he's squirreled away for personal use) are full of annotations inside, conversations with himself about characters, the author, the memories or feelings or connections certain passages bring up for him all documented in tiny, secretive script. pasted on the wall are three baseball cards gifted to him by their mother on his seventh birthday, the last birthday she would spend with them. the underwear on his small carpet and halfheartedly hidden under his bed are david's, ones he wears and stains and cleans, then leaves lying around purposefully, the sock his own, the mixing of both of their belongings in adam's possession bringing him a kind of unconscious comfort. there is a full length mirror at the foot of his bed, and above his bed is a semi-professional family portrait of the radfords from when david and adam were small. on his side of the nightstand is his bulky video camera next to a half-filled tape he's working on, and next to his pillow on his bed is the first tape he ever filled with shots from his and david's life. taped to the window is a snippet of film wherein adam had shot david skateboarding, and below it is a polaroid portrait of david smiling in front of a pink and orange sunset from an evening they'd spent in the park, alone together.

[pinkfeathersart]

All (or well most) of the backgrounds I made for this comic. I'm posting these now while I'm working on part 3 as a sign of life and also cus I spent time on details that get blocked by character lol

There was no reason for me to do fully colored background for a silly comic other than the autism got the best of me. They're messy, the perspective is probably wrong and very heavily relied on screenshots from the show. But honestly, still fun to make and I'm still glad I did them. It adds to the vibes. Now because I can't be stopped, lemme yap about all the individual ones >:) Leo's bedroom: I was really excited to use the posters as a place for little jokes and easter eggs. Some people noticed the Sanic poster, I just had to include that one, it's too perfect. The other big poster is a very bad Lou Jitsu poster. The little turtle picture is covered by Leo in the comic, because I didn't plan things out that well. Then the little polaroid above the pillow is a selfie with all 4 turtles, it's very tiny and abstract, I'm not surprised no one noticed that. I gave up on being original with all the action figures and stuff on the shelves, those are just from the show. I have no clue why Leo just has an ORB, but he does... The atrium (?): First of all, I gave Raph a hang in there cat poster, it felt right. Also fun fact: despite copying the graffiti from the show, I wasn't able to read most of them. I couldn't make out the words in the references so I just did abstract shapes that kinda looked the same. The only one I could actually read was the one on the right skate ramp that just says pizza, and tbh I find it so funny that they just have the word pizza written on the walls because they like it so much lol. Also from looking at the shows backgrounds, so far I've counted 3 basketball hoops in random locations in the lair (and I'm sure I missed some). This is truely interior design by 4 teenage boys. The kitchen: I hope no one was emotionally attached to the hanging pans, because I just didn't draw most of them. Let's say they're being washed or something... As mush as I love including useless details, I have my limits. Also I needed to keep some open space to actually put turtles... Oh and don't worry, the milk will be put back in the fridge (probably) The sewers: I got wall decor privileges again >:) And it's very clear I didn't just steal the graffiti this time, the Hot Soup one is a little rough... But I really like the little abstract portraits of everyone. Plus giving them all little paint drips was fun, 10/10 would do again Sadly it will mostly be blocked by turtles again lol.

(btw if anyone wants to use these backgrounds for something, as long as you credit me it's cool)

[radioactivatedspider]

Ten Inches of Fate

Main Masterlist

My Wattpad📖

Radio's Café☆ - my official discord server!

pairings: Boaz Priestly x oc

genre; romantic comedy, slice-of-life

warnings; Mild suggestiveness, A bad day theme

Summary: After a disastrous day, Courtney stumbles into Beach City Grill, where a mysterious, tattooed sandwich artist named Priestly serves up more than just food—he offers a glimpse of something unexpected.

841 words

Courtney Vanderbilt’s day had been an absolute disaster. It started with her alarm refusing to go off, which led to her missing an important appointment. Then, her car—her beloved but ancient little sedan—decided to overheat on the highway, forcing her to wait nearly an hour for a tow truck in the sweltering sun. As if the universe wasn’t done punishing her, she accidentally spilled her iced coffee all over her favorite sweater, leaving her cold, sticky, and thoroughly miserable.

By the time she wandered into the heart of Santa Cruz, she was starving, exhausted, and just about ready to cry. She didn’t know the city well yet—having only moved here a few weeks ago—but she wasn’t in the mood for anything fancy. She just needed food. Something warm, something comforting. Something that wouldn’t betray her like the rest of her day had.

That’s when she spotted Beach City Grill.

The tiny sandwich shop sat nestled between a surf shop and a tattoo parlor, the kind of place you might miss if you weren’t looking. The scent of freshly baked bread and sizzling meats hit her the moment she stepped inside, instantly soothing some of the tension from her shoulders. The walls were plastered with band posters, neon signs, and graffiti-style artwork. The atmosphere buzzed with an easy, chaotic energy.

And then there was him.

Behind the counter stood a guy who looked like he had been pulled straight from the pages of a punk rock magazine. His spiky hair was a mess of green and blue streaks, and his lip ring glinted as he smirked at her. His arms, which were covered in tattoos, were crossed over his chest as he leaned against the counter with the confidence of someone who ruled this little kingdom of sandwiches and sarcasm.

“What can I get you, gorgeous?” he asked, voice laced with mischief.

Courtney raised a brow, smirking back despite herself. “What’s the best thing on the menu?”

“Besides me?” He tilted his head, tapping his fingers on the counter. “You strike me as a Hot Chick kinda girl.”

“Excuse me?” She feigned offense, though amusement flickered in her blue eyes.

“The sandwich. Chicken, spicy mayo, melted provolone. But if you’re feeling bold…” He gestured toward the menu board. “There’s always the Priestly Special.”

She glanced up. There was no such thing listed. “Let me guess—you just make it up as you go?”

He grinned. “That’s the best way to live, sweetheart.”

Something about him was electric—like he was a walking, talking rebellion against the ordinary. And maybe that was exactly what she needed today.

“Well, Priestly,” she said, reading the name tag pinned to his t-shirt, “I think I’ll take my chances with your special.”

His smirk deepened. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”

He turned and got to work, moving behind the counter with an ease that suggested he had been doing this for years. Courtney leaned against the counter, watching him assemble ingredients with an almost artistic flair. He moved with purpose but with a certain recklessness too—like rules didn’t quite apply to him, even in sandwich-making.

“So, what brings you into my fine establishment, besides the obvious need for sustenance and my charming personality?” he asked over his shoulder.

Courtney sighed, running a hand through her long black hair. “Let’s just say today has been one disaster after another.”

“Oh, one of those days.” He nodded knowingly. “I feel that. Do you want me to spit in your sandwich in the name of revenge? Just point me toward the enemy.”

She laughed, the sound surprising even herself. “Tempting, but I think I’ll pass.”

He slid her sandwich onto a plate and set it in front of her with a dramatic flourish. “One Priestly Special, made with extra love and a little bit of chaos.”

Courtney took the first bite, and immediately, she knew she had made the right choice. The flavors exploded in her mouth—spicy, savory, perfectly balanced. It was, quite possibly, the best thing she had eaten all week.

She let out a small, appreciative moan, and Priestly’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “That good, huh?”

She nodded, swallowing. “Okay, fine, you win. This is amazing.”

He leaned against the counter, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “You keep complimenting me like that, and I might just fall for you, Vanderbilt.”

Her eyes narrowed playfully. “How do you know my name?”

He tapped his temple. “Priestly knows all.” Then he pointed at the credit card she had absentmindedly set on the counter.

She laughed again, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming, ridiculously handsome, ridiculously good at making sandwiches. The list goes on.”

She rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop smiling. For the first time all day, she felt lighter. Maybe moving here wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe fate had thrown her a little bit of good luck in the form of a punk rock sandwich artist with a mischievous grin.

And maybe, just maybe, she’d be coming back to Beach City Grill more often.

[penpassthepen]

rottmnt headcanons (pt.1?)

this is short I was just bored 🤞

(I have hella more than just these)

Raph

- he has one of those stuffed animal net things above his bed because he doesn’t have room for all of them ON his bed

- ^ apologizes and feels bad if he knocks one off accidentally + makes his brothers apologize if they so much as move one to make room or if they knock one off (Leo throws them across the room)

- Implemented a swear jar; to no surprise, Donnie has paid the most

- has a scar on his bottom lip from his snaggle tooth and accidentally biting himself

- sobbed while watching the Barbie movie because he realized they don’t rlly have a mom 😭 (he still smothered Splinter after)

- there are just random holes and dents in the walls in the lair (especially his room) from his spikes

Leo

- said it once, and I’ll say it over and over again. He is a Taylor Swift stan, and ONLY refers to her as ‘TayTay,’ ‘T Swizzle,’ or ‘T Sweezy’

- ^favorite album is 1989

- Blasts ‘tolerate it’ when he’s “mad” at Donnie or Raph (or when they hurt his feelings)

- messiest room out of his brother, EXCEPT he keeps his shelves with his figures, comics, and stuff super neat

- ^walls are almost fully covered in posters

- makes A LOT of audible turtle noises like hissing, churring, etc.

- his knuckles and joints crack so fucking loud (he does it just to annoy Raph bc he hates the sound)

- ASTONISHING intuition. he’s one of those people who just KNOW when you’re hiding something or just like when bad things are about to happen.

-

Donnie

- HATES carbonation

- Doesn’t usually show it, but it genuinely hurts his feelings when his family doesn’t listen to him about his science and inventions and interests

- He had a thin eyebrow phase only for like 3 days and it was NOT good 😭 he got absolutely flamed for it

- Velvet, felt fabric, and being sticky are big sensory no-no’s

- calls inanimate objects that he bumps into (and Leo) a whore

- I don’t think he likes coffee so much but if he does drink it it’s black

- his mask covers them but he has hella eyebags and dark circles

- prefers to watch a show/movie or youtube while he eats (iPad kid)

- Queen (the band) stan

Mikey

- graffiti artist. not in like an illegal way, but like on alleyways, on the walls of the sewer, rooftops, abandoned buildings, etc.

- Copies Leo and also blasts ‘tolerate it’ by Taylor Swift in his room at full volume when he’s mad at Donnie or Raph /if they hurts his feelings, but he screams the lyrics (specifically the bridge)

- there’s still a family portrait he drew when he was like 6 hanging on the fridge

- ADHD

- his nails are always painted; yes orange, but also tries like every color you could think of it

- ^ spent a lot of time perfecting nail art (like smiley faces, flowers, patterns, etc.)

- has THE fastest fucking metabolism you have ever seen. the teenage boy hunger is STRONG

- Melanie Martinez stan

- ^ his favorite album is Crybaby

- has his own little game where he tries to see how many stickers he can put on his brothers shells without being caught

- 20+ hours of screen time on YouTube every week

- rarely ever sleeps in his own room and rotates sleeping in Leo, Donnie, or Raph’s room

- Conan Gray stan

- dreams of having his own talk show like Wendy Williams 😭