#feel free to let me know what you think!

[blooming-gwens]

The first 1,200 words of For Everything Chapter Two

Hey guys! I’m really, super excited to be back in action, working on this monster of a fic. It’s still going to take me a considerable amount of time to finish, but to tide you over, I am releasing to you the first 1,200 words of what I am expecting to be a 45-50k chapter. Enjoy~

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Time seemed to slow as she descended from the shadows into a brilliant night sky.

She’d never seen the stars so close before—Glittering like polished jewels caught in the light of a craterous, full, yellow moon.

Not even perched from the highest point of the city had the sky been so crystalline—above her an abysmal sea of a million luminous lights, glinting against the empyrean curve of the fathomless cosmos that retreated further and further away from her, falling out of reach, out of touch—smaller and smaller until they were just pinpoints—until they were absorbed by the silvery clouds she sliced through.

She couldn’t breathe, the air whipping around her stealing any breath she could greedily inhale. She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t cry.

There was nothing she could do.

Miguel had warned her. He showed her, as if knowing would be an advantage, as if knowing would slow her fall. As if knowing would inspire her not to take it all for granted—but she did, and there was nothing she could do, nothing she could say to change it now.

And there was so much she wished she could have changed.

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“Wait, I think there might be a way to figure out where the Go-Home-machine sent Miles.”

Gwen didn’t mean to roll her eyes, but she also didn’t fight the instinctual movement that reflected the otherwise unwarranted annoyance that curled through her. To be fair, the feeling had been festering for the past four minutes as she petulantly sat through a whirlwind of ideas—some good, some bad, some questionable at best.

That had been the first time Margo had chimed in through the plethora of plans being shoved into the mix, and Gwen had already been steadily losing her patience with every dead end they met.

Time was not at their disposal, yet there they were, on some secluded rooftop on Earth-616B, wasting more than they could afford, missing every mark they shot for.

And Miles…

Miles was missing in a finite cluster of multiverses, and Miguel was also on the prowl—armed with rage, and the numbers, plus every advantage they could only dream of possessing. Meanwhile they didn’t even know where to start looking or how, but all of a sudden Margo did.

“Well don’t leave us in suspense, pig tails.” Ham groaned.

“You’re one to talk.” Peter B huffed with a raised brow. Gwen leered at him, shaking her head once. “What?” He asked, meeting her narrowed eyes.

“Oh, I get it! Because he is a pig, and he has a tail!” Pav perked, gesturing down to Ham, who was glaring daggers at the pink robed Spider-man.

“Nice, Pav.” Hobie said, lounging with his arms folded behind his back in a web spun hammock suspended between two air conditioning units.

Mayday squealed from the carrier strapped to Peter B’s chest, kicking her chubby legs with a giggle and reaching towards the talking pig. She had been wholly fascinated by Spider-Ham since first glance as if he was a character from one of her storybooks.

“Right…” Margo sighed before continuing. “So the Go-Home Machine keeps an archive. Just the consequential details like the variant, where it was sent, stuff like that. The data is wiped intermittently as a security measure, but knowing Miguel, there could be a backup.” She explained promptly, Gwen scrutinizing her glowing figure with arms folded over her chest

“That guy does have some major trust issues.” Gwen heard Peter B mutter from behind her. Her eyes rolled again. At this rate, she expected them to be stuck upwards by the end of this conversation.

“Assuming you’re right, would LYLA have access to this back up?” Gwen questioned, her tone bristling.

“LYLA has access to everything.” Margo answered, turning to face Gwen, her holographic form glittering under a flickering flood light mounted to a wall behind her.

“Can you access it?” Gwen emphasized, her tone clipped. Already she could see all the ways her idea could go–none of them consisting of a successful resolution. “Without getting caught.”

A smile spread to Margo's lips. Gwen’s stayed set in a subtle scowl.

It turned out Spider-Byte also had access to everything, it just took a little more effort, and she would have to directly hack into the machine's mainframe on E-928. Any other way would significantly heighten the probability of LYLA’s security protocols being triggered.

“That sounds like a suicide mission if I ever heard of one” Noir added, tipping his hat forward and cupping his masked chin with his pointer finger and thumb. “And I have planned a couple myself.”

“Noir’s right.” Peni said, sitting inside SP//dr, the front hutch of the mech suit propped open. ”Miguel would never leave HQ without surveillance, especially if he knows some of us have gone rogue. Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Margo nodded before gesturing to herself. “I’m an avatar. They can’t catch what they can’t touch.” She waved one hand through her forearm, and everyone watched in astonishment when her arm wavered as her fingers passed right through it.

“Oh, that is creepy.” Pav whispered, covering his mouth with his hand.

”I’ll be quick. In and out. Easy.” Spider-Byte confidently continued.

“But what if—“ Peter B started before Gwen curly cut him off.

“She’s not going alone.”

All eyes turned to her as she spoke, silence following her decree.

Ham was first to break the seemingly long, awkward stretch of stillness. “Now it’s actually a suicide mission. Well, at least for Gwen who can’t do that cool arm thing like Margo.”

Spider-Byte took a single step towards Gwen, her brows knitting together. “I don’t need the back-up. Like I said, I’m untouchable.”

Gwen couldn’t trust that. She couldn’t trust her.

There had been no intention to harbor shock or malice towards Margo, but there was still an itch about her Gwen couldn’t scratch. She never really went out of her way to talk to the avatar, but they would pay each other a respectful acknowledgement anytime they crossed paths—which wasn’t often.

Margo spent a majority of her time in the confinement wing of HQ, where all the anomalies were stacked up to be sent back to their respective dimensions. Maybe it was Gwen’s uneasiness towards the machine, but she never strayed to that side of HQ on her own volition. If she was needed, she would report, but she kept her interactions and time there minimal.

In turn, the two girls remained distant.

Though Gwen couldn’t help but notice how her and Miles had looked a little longer, said a little more than she ever bothered to say to Gwen.

(And vice-versa.)

Her and Miles?

Perhaps the insistence of her blatant jealousy could have better timing. Her focus was needed elsewhere and her emotions were clearly clouding her judgment, right?

“You’ll need the back-up if things go south.” Protested Gwen, leering down at Margo.

“What happens if something happens to you?” Pavitr all but squeaked, his stress tangible.

“Nothing is going to happen to me, Pav.” Gwen hissed, her eyes still locked with Margo’s.

“Is it just me, or is Gwen being very intense?” She heard Pav ask in a hushed whisper.

“S’not just you.” Hobie replied flatly.

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And scene. I hope that satiates the pain of waiting. I appreciate all your patience, and above all, support! Much love <3

#jealous Gwen beloved #like I was about to let that go lol #just a little jealousy to cloud the good ole judgement #anyways #feel free to let me know what you think! #also feel free to reblog to support and share my work! #ghostflower #gwen Stacy #Margo Kess #miles morales #Hobie brown #pavitr prabhakar #spider ham #spider noir #atsv #btsv #megs post-its #my writing

[5ivebyfive]

Here's an excerpt from my new trimberly fic, in this fairytale. It's a rough draft so it may change some, but this is essentially it. I hope you enjoy, and I hope it makes you wanna read the fic when I post it!

Kimberly Hart, age 27, sat on an old, rickety lawn chair on the boardwalk of a beach town pier. Her sketchbook lay open in her lap and her eyes scanned the nightlife around her. The last couple that had asked for a sketch had given her the $40 she asked to do it. The great thing about trying her art somewhere touristy was that people would pay for it. She mostly did sketches of people and their families or significant others. Those paid well. In between, she sketched what she saw around her. Her hand was always moving, charcoal pen in hand. Constant charcoal smudge on the side of her hand and fingertips as always. She liked it. The true sign of an artist. Of what she had always dreamt of being. 

Nothing made her happier than creating art. It wasn’t exactly the career her parents dreamed of for her, but they supported her in pursuing it. She went to a special high school for the arts, and for college (a double degree in Art Studies and Art History), and double Master’s degrees, but despite all of her work, she hadn’t found a real career in it yet. To be honest, she didn’t know what she wanted to do with her degrees. She had just enjoyed studying for them. What she really wanted was to see her art in galleries and not have to do anything else. But she hadn’t gotten there yet. And she didn’t care. 

Luckily, her parents offered to pay her rent while she figured things out, even as it took time, so she settled in the small town and drew tourists all day. She wanted her break. All artists did, didn’t they? But despite showing her portfolio to different art galleries and contacts she made along the way, she had no bites. But it was okay. She was happy with her life. She liked drawing tourists and making them smile. She liked drawing the people she watched around town.

She turned a page in her sketchbook to draw a cute couple leaning on the railing over the water, but as she set her pencil to the page, she was drawn into a beautiful sound. Someone was singing. The sound was soft, a guitar strumming, and Kim looked around. A petite woman was sitting against a pole of the boardwalk, strumming her guitar and singing. Her eyes were closed as she put out a melodic tune. 

The girl wore holey jeans and scuffed Doc Martins, a white muscle tank top with a sunflower on it, and a snapback hat with a blue wave on it that said ‘Hawai’i’.. Her hair flowed from beneath it in dark waves. She wore no make-up, but her features were soft and flawless. A jawline sculpted by the goddesses, long dark lashes, a cute nose, and a long, slender neck. Kim was dying to see her eyes. She was a sucker for a pretty girl with pretty eyes. But she was, in a word, stunning. 

Kim licked her suddenly dry lips. She couldn’t look away. In front of the musician was an open guitar case and people passed by tossing singles or coins in for her. The girl nodded each time even though her eyes were closed. Her voice rose and fell in song. It was husky, small but strong, and just…beautiful. She was beautiful. Kim continued to watch her, and without realizing it, her pencil moved across her blank sheet. The warmth radiating off of the musician, the soothing sound of her voice, Kim was able to capture it all in that picture. She barely even tried. She sketched the slopes and shadows of the girl’s face. The cascades of her hair. The way her lips opened in song and her delicate fingers on the tense guitar strings. 

A streetlight clicked on over the musician’s head, and it sent a soft glow over her that opened up a yearning inside of Kim. She had given up on one-night stands some time ago, over the empty, needy feeling it gave her. She had found other people attractive over time, and even went on a date with a few nice people, but nothing had transpired. It had been a long time since Kim had truly been with someone, and she ached looking at this girl. It made her want for the first time in a very long time -- or maybe she had been wanting and wanting and just hadn’t found the person to give it to -- and there was something else about this girl, this musician, that grabbed Kim’s interest and made desire, desire for touch, skin, and lips, arise in her.

--

Trini Gomez leaned back into the pole she sat against on the boardwalk and hummed softly as she quickly tuned her guitar between songs. Something had sounded off about it, and she needed it to be right. When it gave the sounds she wanted, she smiled and started playing again. 

If it were up to her, she’d be on a stage somewhere sharing her love of music, but she hadn’t gotten that break yet. She didn’t even know, truly, if she wanted it. A little bit of stage fright, a lot of wanting to be unseen, and those things didn’t bode well for a musician. But here, on nights like this, she could feel like she blended into the environment. There were shouts and laughter all around her, the sound of carnival music further down at the boardwalk’s ferris wheel, all lit up for the perfect June night. She smelled popcorn, fried fish, and saltwater. She loved it. 

She had only lived in the small beach town for a couple of weeks, but she was glad she landed there. She had moved around a lot, well, her whole life. But more so since she moved out of her parents’ house at 18. She was basically on her own from then on. Every so often her dad would send her money if she needed it, but she tried not to need it. She worked hard all day at whatever job she had scraped up at the time, and spent her nights going out to listen to other musicians, and finding somewhere to play her own music. The boardwalk had been perfect for it. Now 22, she had only been out one other night before this one, but she got a good amount of money from it, and people had often stopped to watch and listen to her. She liked it. 

As the night wore on, and the sounds around her dimmed, she easily flowed into her last song. A slow, acoustic version of Rihanna’s “In A Hopeless Place”. She heard several people drop money in her case, but kept her eyes closed. It was easier that way. Less vulnerable. She felt and heard one last soft ruffle of someone near her, but just nodded and continued her song. As it ended, she opened her eyes. She looked around. The boardwalk was almost empty. The lights on the ferris wheel were out. She could hear the waves more clearly behind herself. She sighed to herself at the wrap of another evening and looked down in her case. She saw a bunch of bills and coins in it, but also…a piece of paper folded in half. 

She frowned and pushed her guitar aside to reach into the case. She took the paper out and unfolded it and sat in stunned silence. It was a picture of her. A drawn picture. Done in black charcoal and full of lines and shadows. It was definitely her. Playing her guitar, eyes closed, wearing exactly what she was wearing. And it was damn good. Every feature she was so familiar with on her face was in the picture. A calming serenity, mixed with an untold emotion was on her face in the piece of art. All aspects of it were just…her. It was as though the artist had been right in front of her sketching it. She looked around again, but she didn’t see anyone nearby. Her brows furrowed in thought. There had been several artists on the boardwalk, but she had barely registered them. Had she seen anyone else on the boardwalk that had been watching her? Not that she remembered. 

She looked back down at the picture and smiled. She liked it. She liked it a lot. She folded it back up and put it in the inside pocket of her jacket. Then she packed up her guitar, got up, and walked off towards the ratty apartment she had rented. She didn’t even care that she was going home to a dark, dingy smelling one room place. The picture was all that was on her mind.

#feel free to let me know what you think! #trimberly #trimberly fic #power rangers 2017 #this fairytale tag #my fics #otp; trimberly against the world

[savventeen]

so i was trying to get my queue in order for the week and i realized. a good chunk of it is ateez content (wooyoung specifically bc i hate love him and it was his bday recently)

and so my question is: should i go ahead and just make an ateez sideblog?

#ngl as soon as i post this i will probably try and snag a url lmao #since this is supposed to be a svt blog i feel like i should make an ateez one #if only so that ppl just here for svt content wont get sick of my wooyoung obsession LMAO #feel free to let me know what you think! #savv speaks

[inkykeiji]

what now?

character: dabi | todoroki touya

genre: smut + angst

notes: eeeee happy birthday dabi!!! sorry i’m a day late, and sorry i keep writing angst for your birthday. this piece is set directly after dabi’s touya reveal, in that dingy little safe house he seems to love so much! please heed the warnings below and stay safe!

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, rough sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dom/sub dynamics, use of master/owner/sir, fem!reader, minimal prep, biting, branding, blood, the piece switches between both dabi and touya as names, size kink + size difference, spanking, objectification, degradation + dumbification, a lil bit of praise, dabi’s pretty mean when he’s fucking, dabi carries reader, toxic relationship, dacryphilia, choking

words: 8.8k

It’s dark by the time he returns, reeking of charred flesh and ash. He had stashed you away in a decaying little safe house—a place no one else knew about, a place that was his and his alone—and had told you to wait for him. He had promised he’d return to you, no matter how long it took, no matter what happened, he’d be back, pinky swear.

Touya never breaks his pinky swears. Dabi might, though.

You had seen his video. You had been watching the news just like he told you to, anxious, waiting for any sign or indication of trouble, of terror, but the heat and the dust had been too much for the news cameras to penetrate, and there had been no reports of casualties on either side. 

Yet. 

It’s astonishing to think that the whole world knows his name now—his true name, the one buried in his blood and his bones, the one staining his soul, the one he can’t snuff out, no matter how hard he tries. You remember the first time he told it to you. 

“Touya.” 

He had said suddenly, randomly, while laying in bed with you one night back at the League’s hideout—back before all of this was set in motion, back when there was just the gentle clink of glass sounding beneath the floorboards, followed by a muddled curse and the rapid mashing of plastic buttons. 

It was muttered out in the dead of the night, when the wind was stagnant and the moonlight shimmered through grimy windows, brilliance of the beams diffused by the dirt, turning everything a hazy silver, glinting off his stitches.

“Hmm?”

“That’s my real name. Touya.”

“Touya,” you had murmured to yourself, rolling the letters around on your tongue, allowing them to seep into your flesh. “It’s beautiful.”

“Todoroki Touya.”

Oh.  

“It’s still beautiful,” you said softly, after several moments of silence, feeling Dabi melt beneath your words, tender yet resolute. “Even if the man who gave it to you isn’t.”

“Yeah,” he had responded, though his voice had sounded weird to his ears; odd, off, broken. “Fuck that guy.”

And that had been it. You hadn’t made a big deal about it, or pushed him to tell you more, or badgered him with questions and curiosities about his past. You had just accepted it and continued on. 

He had offered up shards of information over the next few months, always murmured out in the dead of night, always a piece and never a whole, always something too jagged to fit with any of the other pieces of his jigsaw he had gifted you. 

But it didn’t matter. Who he was, his past, the name he carries around and DNA twined inside his body—none of it mattered. He was, and will always be, the man you love, irregardless of the name he was born into, and the curse it bears.

The harsh unlatching of that decrepit painting startles you from your stewing thoughts, your gaze snapping toward the noise just in time to catch Dabi crawling through the trick window, entrance hidden behind the heavy gilded frame. 

Your legs toss themselves off the fraying couch the instant his gaze meets yours, heart kickstarting thick bouts of adrenaline to rush through your veins, footsteps keeping time with the tattered exhales each bang of your heart sends barrelling up your throat, body colliding into his only a moment later.

He catches you with ease, laughing loudly as he sweeps you from the floor, strong arms locked at the wrists around your lower back. Instinctively, your ankles hook together at the base of his spine, fingers immediately wandering into the dirty hair at the nape of his neck, whole body wound around his own.

He’s still laughing, bright and breathless and so, so beautiful, even as he crushes his lips to yours, even as your tongue pries past his teeth and slams against his own. It spills down your throat in warm vibrations and you swallow it readily, greedily, hands sinking further into tufts of ink-tinged ivory and twining the strands around your knuckles, desperate to tug him closer. 

The tang of death stings your tongue, earth and copper and smoke, so poignant you swear you can taste their screams, those who lost their lives to his flames and Machia’s feet and the rubble left in their wake, but you don’t care.

You don’t care, because he’s here, he’s home, he’s safe and back in your arms, with his teeth clacking against yours and his spit flooding your mouth and his unruly little giggles consistently breaking the flow of your lips. 

“Did you see it? Huh? Did you see it?” he hurls the words into your mouth, lips still mashed against your own but spread in a smile, sapphire eyes twinkling.

“I did,” you confirm with a nod, tips of your noses nudging. “I did, it was brilliant; you were brilliant, baby.”

“I know,” he snickers, foreheads knocking together, breath wafting in small, ragged pants across your face as his feet begin to move, unable to stand still. “It couldn’t have gone more perfect, I swear to fuckin’ Christ. It was—It was better than I could’ve ever imagined. I can’t even believe it.”

Words continue to tumble from his lips in excited gasps as he twirls in wide lopsided circles slow and careless around the decaying little safe house, his boots conjuring small puffs of dust beneath their soles.

“I wish you could’ve been there, baby, honest. I wish you could’ve seen that fucker’s face, it was fuckin’ priceless, and—Oh! Fuck, how could I forget the best part!” 

Halting his whirling, he pulls back to look at you more resolutely, as if he has to see the whole picture, sapphire darting around your face all wild and erratic, his smile spreading impossibly wider; uncanny, inhuman, eyes glowing with the thrill of the secret he’s about to spill.

“Shouto was there, too! How much happier could a coincidence get!” 

“Shouto?”

“I wasn’t expecting him to be there, but seriously, it was the cherry on top.” 

His feet begin to move again, resuming his impromptu dance number, adrenaline thrumming in his veins, overflowing from his orifices—smile stretching, chest swelling. 

“His presence is what really made it spectacular, you know? Sure, dad was broken, but Shouto…” Dabi shakes his head. “Little baby Shouto was knocked off his fucking feet.”

“Oh, I can only imagine…” 

…How horrifying of a realization it must’ve been; how terrifying it must’ve felt to encounter your father’s worst mistake in the breathing, bloodied flesh.

“I doubt he even remembers me—” Dabi continues, “he was only five or so when I died; he barely knew me at all.” He laughs, but it sounds tangled, caught on something buried in his throat. “Imagine that! Your big brother, only ever a ghost haunting your life, back from the grave!” 

“I’m sure he was very shocked,” you giggle, pressing your forehead to his again, fingers combing through the hair at the back of his skull. 

“Shocked? Baby, he was beyond shocked. He was—He was—I don’t even have a word for it!”

Another laugh spills from his lips, jagged and squeaky and full of razors. 

And, oh, how breathtakingly beautiful genuine happiness looks on him, even if it’s tinted with derangement—the edges of his smile a little too sharp, the glint in his eye a little too vicious.  

“The whole thing sounds magnificent,” you admit, soft and genuine, lips brushing his own. “I’m so happy it went so well.”

“It was perfect,” he gushes in a sigh. “The only way it could’ve been any more perfect is if mom, Yumi, and Natsu were there—but I’m sure they all caught the broadcast.”

You’re sure they did, too. That news programme had been playing on every major screen across the entirety of Japan; you’d have to be buried beneath a rock to have missed it.

He’s still babbling, feet still hopping and skipping around with you cradled tightly to his chest as the anticipation of his return finally wears off, clears from your system, and you take a real, good look at him. 

And your heart sinks.

New burns have bubbled up on his cheeks, leaving only a sliver of skin between them and the scars below his eyes. Staples have snapped in half, hanging precariously from chunks of dead flayed flesh, their broken edges tinged an ugly black, burnt by Todoroki flames. Speckles of crimson are splattered artfully across his hair—though whether they belong to him or someone else, it’s hard to tell—the small remaining patches of healthy skin marred by dried black dye. 

“Baby,” you breathe, struggling to keep your smile from trembling, struggling to keep concern from seeping into your voice. “You’re filthy.” 

“Yeah, you should’a saw the other guy!” he giggles at his own joke, strident and sticky in his throat, but his smile is still so bright.

“And you’re hurt.”

He blows a dismissive breath from between his lips. “Can barely feel a thing, though—and I’m not even rolling right now!” 

“Still,” you say, a frown beginning to weight the corners of your grin. “You should let me clean you up.”

“But it isn’t even painful.”

“Still,” you repeat, tender fingers brushing strands of white back from his forehead. “I want to clean you up.” 

Begrudgingly, he allows it, sat on the closed toilet lid and continuing to chatter on as you tend to his wounds, words bubbling up on breathless excitement, massive smile still slapped, almost uncomfortably so, across his face.

Oxygen keeps escaping him before he finishes his sentences, everything bouncy and enthusiastic, and it’s such a stark contrast to the Dabi you’re used to, with his languid apathetic drawl and unhurried, uninterested speech. 

And despite the subject matter, it’s nice, it’s cute. 

He tells you about his father’s paralyzation and the tears in Shouto’s eyes and the horrified panic coating their faces as careful fingers dab and wipe and smear, meticulous in their task, devoted to their cause, your head nodding along with his endless recounter, emitting the perfectly placed ooh’s and mhmm’s, asking questions when the opportunities present themselves.

And even though you love seeing him this way, full of pure joy and exhilaration, you can’t quite kill the question sprouting in the depths of your mind, chewing on the back of your brain.

What now?

It’s on the tip of your tongue, searing your tastebuds, begging to be spoken. You try to swallow it down, but it claws at the back of your tongue, clinging, curling up in your throat and refusing to be forgotten. 

What now? What’s going to happen now that Enji knows of his existence? What’s going to happen the next time he encounters his eldest child, swathed in the flames he once cherished so dearly, praised so hopefully, eating away at his boy as his hatred burns higher, blazes brighter, consumes his blood and flesh and bones and hopefully swallows down the monster that bred him in the process? 

Will there even be anything left at all? Of either of them?

Does Dabi even care? Does Touya? 

You know he’s still in there, despite the fact that his heart’s been corroded by the bitterness that’s been festering inside of him for eleven years—you’ve seen him. 

You’ve seen him, trailing along with Toga, causticity eating at his teeth as he spits that she’s fucking stupid, this is so fucking stupid, but allowing himself to be led anyway, zero resistance as her tiny hands tug him along behind her bouncing form, feet following willingly. 

You’ve seen him, meticulously picking through the glass bowls at the League’s small Halloween get together, checking and then double checking that everyone’s favourite candy is there, growling that he really doesn’t give a fuck, actually, he’s just looking for his own all the while, despite the fact that his fingers have skipped over that particular chocolate bar several times. 

You’ve seen him, on those nights where Tomura just can’t get to sleep, sprawled out on the couch in the early hours of the morning, dirty boots an inch from Tomura’s crossed legs, staring blankly at his phone and waving Kurogiri off with a go to bed already, old man. 

 So what now?

“He tried to cool me down.”

The sudden switch to a quiet, monotonous voice snaps you from your tangle of thoughts, eyes refocusing on Dabi’s face, realizing you’ve rubbed a streak of his cheek near raw. 

“What?”

“Shouto. He tried to cool me down. With his ice.” A pause, a drop of blood, balancing precariously on his lash line. “Like…Like how mom used to.” 

His Adams apple bobs with the heft of a thick swallow, his eyes blank and unblinking, staring at your shoulder. 

The blood in your veins runs frigid, hand held rigid and hovering over his wounds.

“During the fight?” 

His gaze stays fixed on that spot as he nods, slowly, just once. 

“I was overheating, and he…” 

Another beat of silence passes, the sound of your own breathing echoing in your ears, harsh and fast with the rapid beating of your heart. The blood collecting along his lashes finally overflows, escaping their confines to pool in the crinkles of dead skin and coat gold in crimson.

“Hey,” you murmur, so gentle, so soft it inspires a second wave of blood, dainty hands cupping his jaw and tilting his face to yours. 

Thumbs swipe through the thick streams of scarlet trickling down his cheeks, smearing bright strokes across healthy skin. His eyes, red and glazed but tearless, hold yours for a moment, his nostrils twitching twice. 

Beneath your palms, the hinges of his jaw flex with another dense swallow, warped smile wobbling a little.

“Whatever,” he says, voice less than an octave off from normal. “Doesn’t matter, not important.”

It does, you want to say. It is, you want to insist—

“All I want to do now is celebrate the best day of my life with the love of my life.”

Saliva pools beneath your tongue, the threat of tears thick in your throat.

“Touya…” your eyes search his face, worry woven into the wrinkles between your furrowed brow. “It—”

“Please,” he whispers, so quiet it’s barely more than a wisp of air, his eyes closing briefly for a moment as he gathers himself, lids lifting a second later. “Let me have this.” 

You want to, you so desperately want to—want to allow him this space to be happy, unfiltered and unadulterated, even in all of it’s unhinged, brainsick fervour. You don’t want to ruin this for him, the self-proclaimed Best Day of His Life, but…

What now?

It’s nipping at your lips, leaving them tingling and twitching, but you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth and suck, melting the question in the smothering heat. 

Now is not the time to ask. You will save this question, will fold it into a neat little shape and stash it away in your stomach, where it will rage and roar and demand to be spoken, where you will shove it down and stomp it into submission until it is time to be released.

You refuse to steal this moment from him.

“Okay,” you finally murmur, stroking his blood-slicked cheeks. “Okay.”

It’s hard to ignore the concern scraping at the walls of your skull, to disregard the talons tearing at your heart, to snuff out the flames licking at your lungs, but you’ll do it for him.

Always for him.

And for the first time tonight, his smile softens, sharp edges gone melty with love.

Large hands, hardened by blue fire and the ends of Marlboros, skim up your bare thighs, the callouses adorning his palms scraping roughly against sensitive skin, inspiring trails of chills in their wake. The hem of your dress pools around his wrists as his touch climbs higher, filthy fingers, with dirt caked beneath their nails and grime lining their cuticles, wiggling their way beneath a frilly pink waistband, curling almost protectively around your hips, tips digging into supple flesh just shy of too hard.

“A perfect day deserves a perfect end, don’t you think?” 

The question drips from his lips in a sultry murmur, stare heavily lidded as he tugs you down into his lap, a leering smirk smeared across his face. 

“Oh, yeah?” your arms wind around his neck, nose bumping against his own. “And what’s that?” 

“Stuffing my favourite girl full of my cum.” 

Lips trace along the edge of your jaw as he speaks, words leaving sloppy strokes of saliva as his mouth moves against you skin. 

“Over,” kiss, “And over,” kiss, “And over again, until it’s leaking out of her pretty little pussy, all over her pretty thighs, all over my pretty cock.”

“I think that—ah—I think that’s a great way to end the day.”

“Mm,” he hums, painting a flat, wide stroke of saliva up the column of your neck, the tip of his tongue tracing your cupids bow, nose bumping against your own. “It’s my favourite way to end the day.” 

His lips press to yours, tongues finding each other instantly, dragging across one another in crude, sloppy caresses, heavy and slow and firm as they grind, massaging together in little circles. It’s almost as if you’re trying to soak up his taste, to permanently imbue your tastebuds with it, to keep a little reminder of him—a single piece—with you forever. 

It’s messy, thick drool oozing from the seams of your conjoined mouths, but you don’t care, licking excess saliva from the corners of his mouth, sucking the dribble steadily collecting on his bottom lip, lapping up the foamy spit coating his chin staples, leaving them gleaming with you. 

Lips clash again, teeth gnawing their way into the warm, wet heat of mouths, desperate to devour any part of each another you possibly can, sucking gasps and mewls and laughs from one throat into another, inhaling shards of your souls and swallowing them down, burying them in pits of stomachs and depths of guts—keepsakes, kept safe.

You can taste his blood in your mouth, salty with the tears that can’t fall, trickling from the edges of his eyes. Unfurling from your mouth, the tip of your tongue licks a thin strip up his ragged cheeks, over dead skin and warm bumpy metal, sopping up crimson sadness and consuming it. 

You hold it for him, extract it from him, bear it with him, letting it soak into your heart where it can stay, for as long as he needs it to.

But that isn’t enough for him, because he wants something in return; he wants your blood, too.

Sharp teeth sink into your bottom lip, sucked taut and pressed tight to his tongue, a muted chuckle vibrating in his chest at your responding yelp. The strong hinges of his jaw flex, burrowing ivory deep, deep, deeper into your flesh, until the barrier snaps and copper explodes on his tongue, sticky and potent and so, so much. 

He refuses to release you, ribs rattling with a growl when you try in vain to tug your lip free from its captors, a sob hitching in your throat, followed by a wheezy whine. 

“Stay put, goddamn it,” he mumbles the words through his occupied teeth, tongue stroking your lip in the process. “M’not finished.” 

Your squirming stops almost instantly, body deflating into his own, and he huffs out a snort, hot against your face. 

The grip of his teeth loosens marginally, the tip of his tongue laving over the steadily weeping wound in firm, thorough strokes, tracing every indent his teeth left behind, dips rapidly swelling and filling with watered down blood, a mold of six teeth carved into your flesh. 

The strength of his suction increases, siphoning fresh blood from the tiny gashes, and he moans a little, eyes rolling back in his skull as fluttery lashes frame the whites, his hips twitching up. 

Sicko. 

His cock is already hard, rutting into your core in irregular little movements, the lace of your panties so delicate you swear you can feel it throbbing, his motions molding the dainty fabric to your soaking folds with every slight jerk upward.

Slim fingers flex, grip on your hips tightening and further burying his nails in your flesh as he forces you to begin rocking in his lap, grinding down to meet each roll up.

His lips have left your own again, his mouth streaked with your blood, a pretty pink shimmer glazing the bottom half of his face. Blood is still trickling from the six tiny slashes his teeth left, overflowing from the seam of your mouth and flowing down your chin in unbroken streams. 

Swiping a thumb through the thin floods, he smears sticky crimson across your skin, collecting a healthy swap of the substance on the pad of his finger—so much so it begins dripping down the curve to settle in the lines of his knuckle and his palm.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, repeating the action, painting you in messy shades of yourself. “Just beautiful.” 

A whimper slips through your lips, eager tongue catching his thumb and curling around the appendage—protective, possessive—drawing it into the heat of your mouth. 

He lets you guide him willingly, watches with lust-blown pupils as your lips pucker around the second knuckle, slick tongue cradling his thumb as it sucks it to the roof of your mouth, pools of saliva washing your blood from his skin. 

His breath is coming out in hot, hard huffs, exhaled through parted lips as your mouth tightens, swallows his thumb down further. His pupils pulse, gnawing away at his irises as they try to devour you whole, blue so thin it’s scarcely an outline tracing gaping orbs of black.

Your hips are still gyrating against his in erratic little circles, a single palm still clasped around your waist guiding you, encouraging you as he bucks in response, straining cock rubbing along your cunt. 

It’s just barely catching your clit, nothing more than teasing little grazes, dense heat simmering in the pit of your tummy.

You need more.

“Dabi,” you whine a little, wriggling in his grasp, a desperate attempt to garner more friction. 

“Uh-huh?”

“Touya.”

“Yeah, baby,” he answers, the nonchalance in his tone contradicting the mischief glinting in his eye. “What is it?” 

Chrome chips your nails as you claw at the heavy buckle of his belt, leather squeaking against metal. His free hand captures your wrists easily, holding them together in one palm, hard enough that the bones grind together.

“You want something? Huh?” 

Brows knitting, you glare at him, bottom lip quivering a little, fighting the urge to jut into a full-blown pout, fighting the urge to spit out what do you think? 

“You know.”

He does, of course he does. 

But that doesn’t mean he’s just going to give it to you.

“C’mon, I wanna hear you say it,” he purrs as your chin puckers, your whole face scrunched up in a scowl. “C’mon, baby, c’mon, be a good little girl and ask for it.” 

Sapphire scathes your skin, almost as bright and burning as his flames, his unadulterated attention nearly too much to bear, confidence and brattiness withering beneath his scorching stare.

Lashes fluttering, your eyes flee his, tears forming to shield you from his heat, shoulders caving inward in an attempt to protect you from his unyielding scrutiny. 

“W-Want your cock.”

His tongue clicks in disapproval, a mocking frown slapped across his face barely suppressing his amusement, eyes shining, power flaring. 

“That’s not asking, sweetheart.” 

Swallowing thickly, you force your gaze to his, lids squinting a little beneath his brilliance.

“Can I please have your cock? Please?” 

“Please what?”

And although he’s acting unaffected, he can’t quite quell the spasming of his hips, jerking up in minuscule movements and grinding his cock into your sopping hole, panties clinging uncomfortably to your folds.

An eyebrow raises, a question of Well? I’m waiting… imbued in the subtle action. 

He isn’t going to give it to you unless you ask properly, like a good little girl is supposed to.

As expected.

“Please, Master,” you mewl, fingers curling over the edges of his belt and tugging, sharp leather biting into soft hands. “Please, please, let me ride your cock, Sir.”

Cavernous eyes observe you for a moment, scanning for dishonesty, grin growing when a whine vibrates in your throat, low and needy.

“Please?” you whimper, the leather of his belt creasing beneath your grip, squealing as it rubs together, a plead hitching in your chest. “Pl—Please, Sir.”

“Alright, alright,” he’s pacifying, acting as if he’s doing you some sort of favour, as if his cock isn’t jumping eagerly with each drool of pre-cum leaking from its slit. “Go on, then. Get it out.”

Words of thanks are pouring from your lips as your hands hastily undo his pants, yanking at the buckle, tugging at the zipper, shoving at the waistband, messy and urgent until his cock is finally released.

The stretch is nothing short of incredible, as it always is with him, little hole trembling as it swallows around his girth, drawing him in further and further, deeper and deeper, slow and steady until the head nudges your cervix, his hips twitching up twice, ensuring he’s hit the end, buried to the hilt with nowhere else to go, completely stuffing your cunt full. 

And despite the trademark ache, delicate flesh stinging as it splits into little fissures to accommodate him, your hips begin moving immediately, starved and raring, whimpering a little into his shoulder as you cling to him, every rotation of your hips radiating pricks of pain through your gut.

“God, you’re pathetic,” he snorts, but the insult is soft, edges dulled by love. “So fucking desperate for my cock, aren’t you?” 

“Can’t help it,” you murmur, rubbing your cheek along the curve of his neck, then his jaw, streaking your face with his sweat. “Missed you so much.” 

“I know, baby,” the tip of his tongue swipes through the blood still staining your chin. “Bet you missed my cock just as much, if not more.”

“Yes, yes, Sir,” you’re nodding in messy little motions, hips still rocking languidly against his own, clit gliding against his slick pubic bone in rhythmic strokes. “I did, I missed it s’much—”

A gasp slices through your slurred words, sharp air shoved from your chest as his hips begin snapping upward, rough and ruthless and without warning, the hands grasping your hips tightening around your flesh as he forces you to stay in place.

“Of course you did,” he grunts out, as if it’s preposterous to think otherwise. “I’m not at all surprised; my sweet lil slut can’t live without my cock, can she?” 

“Never, never, ne-never,” you babble out in confirmation, words stuttered harshly with the piston of his hips. 

Another laugh spills from his lips, airy and malicious in melody.

“No, never,” he rasps, ever-so-slightly breathless with the effort, dewdrops of sweat beginning to adorn his hairline. “Fuck, how would you ever get off without me, huh?” 

The question sends a pang searing through your heart, echoing a question you’ve been asking yourself often as of late—how would you ever survive without him? 

The thought stings your eyes, thick tears rushing to cloud your vision and rendering him nothing more than a watery blur of ivory and violet.

“I—I wouldn’t, Sir, I wouldn’t!” you cry out, rapid fluttering of your lids dislodging teardrops, streaming down your cheeks in glistening pairs. “I n-need you, I need you, always, always, al-always!” 

Your fingers curl against his shoulders, nails catching on staples, a hiss spit from the gaps of his teeth. They sink into grafted skin, dead and weathered and dusted in ash, and cling, knuckles locked and stiff as you try to pull yourself impossibly closer to him.

Gnarled flesh collects beneath the edges of your nails as your grip strengthens, chewing on his body and gathering it in your grasp, consuming whatever tiny slivers you can, a silent plead to stay.

“It’s okay, precious,” he hushes you, lips pushed into a mocking pout, contradicted by the smothering affection exuding from his eyes. “M’here, m’not going anywhere.”

God, you hope not. 

“Please, please—” 

And you drown yourself in it, drown yourself in him; his taste, spicy hickory and warm smoke, exhaled onto your hungry tongue, soaked up and swallowed down; his gaze, overflowing with adoration and intense attention, tying itself in a thick braided noose around your neck and tightening; his touch, stamping his prints into your flesh in blotchy bursts of blue, singeing his name with licks of sapphire that welt and wound, that crust and crater and scar. 

Your ribs squeeze, sucked inward by the voracious black hole your heart has morphed into—never sated, never filled, always vying for more—whole body curling beneath the strain.

But he’s right there to hold you, to steady you, to keep you intact, his hands the stitches you need to keep from unraveling.

“I know, I know,” he’s cooing as you choke on sobs, still scraping weakly at his back, “your Master’s gonna give you what you need.”

Slim fingers flex, soot-stuffed nails latching onto your flesh like tiny leeches, dug in nice and deep, using his grasp as leverage to control the speed and angle of your hips. 

Your feet skid against the chipped bathroom tile, the muscles in your legs tensing as you attempt to find stable purchase on the floor trying to aid in his movements, to fuck yourself on him.

It’s no use, though—it’s not like it matters, anyway, not when Dabi’s got complete domination over your body, over all of its movements and positions, manhandling you into whatever arrangement he pleases, reduced to nothing more than his favourite little plaything. 

“It’s real cute,” he’s telling you in that sugared condescension you’ve come to love so much, “that you’re trying so hard to help me.”

A whine escapes your lips, caught somewhere between apologetic and petulant, hips stammering as they begin to slow, and he laughs. 

“Aw, no, don’t stop,” his tongue clicks against his teeth. “Keep trying, it’s so precious.” 

And although his tone is taunting, full of characteristic derisive glee, his eyes are encouraging, begging you to keep going, for him. 

And so, you do, desperate to please him, the muscles in your thighs beginning to burn as you work in vain to pathetically hump away at him, hips knocking together irregularly as your footing continues to slip.

It doesn’t do much to assist him, but he’s happy anyway, a certain type of pride saturating his features, dulling the points of his wide smile, dimming the harsh brilliance in his eyes, turning his face into something a little softer, something a little sweeter.

Dabi keeps an iron grip on the pace—not that you’d ever expect anything different—forcing you to ride him hard and fast, bouncing you on his cock as his hips buck up in expert rhythm, completing your movements every time. The head drags over that engorged spot with each pound into you, sending a judder of scorching sparks to rush through your blood, each bout more intense than the last.

“God, look at you, you’re such a little slut for me, huh?” he pants out, rapacious eyes sweeping across your face, keen to soak up your expression. “Taking my cock like you were fuckin’ made for it.”

He’s really fucking into you now, jerking you on his cock like a toy, because you are—something that’s his to use whenever, wherever, and however he sees fit, something that’s his to own, to care for and splinter to bits and painstakingly piece back together, over and over and over again.

Tears of ecstasy are pouring from your eyes, cascading down your face in twin streams, excess dewdrops embedded in spiked lashes glittering with every rough pump of his hips.

It all hurts—always does, with Dabi, incapable of treating anything with any degree of gentleness; not a flaw, just a fact, oblivious to his own strength—but the pain only works to elevate the pleasure, pushing it higher and higher and higher until it’s choking you, smothering your lungs and stuffing your throat and spilling out your mouth in the form of messy, stringy sobs.

“S’been so long, Sir, so long,” you weep, nails burrowing further into his body, almost as if they’re desperate to reach his core—to pry past his ribs and claw into his heart and curl up in his soul. 

Because it has been so long, too long, most of Dabi’s attention soaked up by Paranormal Liberation duties and his own extensive planning as Shigaraki’s due date drew closer and closer, any scraps of time thrown your way whenever he had a spare moment to sneak off to this dilapidated safe house where he’d stashed you away, his visits sporadic and unpredictable. 

“You’re right,” he says, and there’s a tinge of melancholy to his breath. “It’s been way too long since your sweet cunt has been filled with your Owner’s cock, hasn’t it?”  

“It has, it has,” you’re nodding sloppily, tongue tangled in threads of spit.

“My poor lil pussy,” he pouts, and it’s so derisive. “Must be starving, it hasn’t been stuffed nice and full with my cum in forever.” 

“No, no, no,” you’re chanting in agreement, “feels so empty without you, Sir, feels s-so wrong.”

“Aw, don’t worry, sweetheart,” he crudely laps at the steady stream of tears, vicious bouncing causing his teeth to nick your cheek. “I’m gonna change that.”

Chapped lips find your ear, slicked with saliva, his voice dropping an octave as he continues. 

“Because tonight,” he breathes, sweltering against your ear, his tongue darting from between wet lips to trace along the curve. “I am going to stuff you so full of my cum that—ah, fu-fuck—that it’s going to flood your cute lil tummy, that it’s gonna seep into your organs, into your fucking blood, that it’s gonna be leaking out all over the fucking place.” 

“Oh, oh, please, Sir, please!” 

The pleads come out as a single string, melded together with drool and garbled on your tongue. Little jolts of fire shoot through your body with the constant ramming of his hips, flames licking at your veins as they sear through them, the sharp slap of your ass against his thighs complementing his harsh pants and your broken moans.

“Yeah, I know, my little cumslut wants that so badly, doesn’t she?”

Your brain struggles to stitch together a sentence longer than his name, your mind gone delirious for his seed—and it’s an aching, it’s an addiction, sick and depraved and downright uncontrollable—little uh-huh!’s mercilessly fucked from your throat, head bobbling along with the affirmations.

You can feel it, a taut pleasure building within your body, a fluttering that furls into a tight ball of sapphire flame in the pit of your belly, pulsing a little faster, a little harder, a little more with every drive of his cock. 

“Oh, Touya, Tou—Touya!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, say my name.” 

A growl rattles against his ribs, whole chest vibrating with the force of it, and his head dips down, slick tongue painting strokes of thick, shimmering saliva across your skin, an artist priming his favourite canvas.

“C’mon, tell me who’s making you feel this good—” and although it’s supposed to be a command, it comes out as a plead, voice tapering off into a low whine, muffled against your shoulder. “Tell me, tell me.”

“You, Touya,” you choke out, the name mangling itself in your throat. “You, you, you!” 

“You’re goddamn right, it’s me.” 

Sharp teeth bury themselves in your flesh, mouth clamped over the junction of your neck, harder and harder and harder until the barrier of your skin finally splits, syrupy copper erupting on his tongue. 

His name shatters on your lips, a dark chuckle soaking into the wound when you arch your neck, stretched and strained and offering him more room to work despite the squeal of pain sticking in your throat

It’s all so much, too much, his teeth in your flesh and his cock filling your cunt and—and—!

“Gonna—gonna—!” 

A large palm collides with your ass, sick slap echoing off the cracked walls. 

“Is that any way to ask your Master for permission?” Dabi spits, voice dripping with disappointment. “God,” he huffs out a laugh, incredulous, but the mirth shining in his eyes is so bright, so blazing it almost hurts to look at. “My cock must’ve really made you go fucking stupid, huh? Don’t you know this body belongs to me?” 

Another spank lands against your bottom, a yelp hitching in your chest with the ruthless jackhammer of his hips, his fingers sinking into the burning flesh in a bruising grip, amplifying the sting of the slap, digging it deep into your tissues. 

“This body is not allowed to cum unless I say so—so ask nicely, you little bitch.” 

“M’sorry!” you cry out, a fresh torrent of tears flooding your eyes. “M’sorry, m’so sorry, Master—”

“Yeah? Yeah?” 

His other hand snakes between your heaving, sweat-drenched bodies, thumb and forefinger clamping down on your clit and tweaking, hard enough to force a scream from your tongue, sending spikes of pain rushing through your veins. His fingers flatten against the engorged little nub a moment later, rubbing hard, quick circles into it, a malicious little giggle squeaking in his throat because it’s so swollen, baby and Christ, you must wanna cream all over his cock so badly! 

Sounds of affirmation spill uncontrollably from your lips, head nodding in frenetic little motions, whole face shimmering and sticky with salt, snot, sweat. 

“Uh-huh? Uh-huh?” 

He’s mocking you, chin tilted up in superiority, staring down the bridge of his nose to regard you in patronizing pity, eyebrows raised and imploring you to continue. 

“Apologies are not asking, baby,” his grip catches your slippery clit again, twisting it harder this time, your eyes scrunching shut as a cry shatters on your tongue, fingers scrabbling against his shoulders, tearing out staples. 

He’s right, you know he is, but he’s making it difficult to speak, difficult to ask, difficult to stitch together a single word at all, let alone a full thought, when he’s playing with your clit like that, alternating between pulsing pinches and gentle caresses, the calloused pads of his fingertips providing just the right amount of friction. 

Your whole body quivers with the effort of holding your orgasm back, muscles pulled tight and taut with the strain, and he laughs—beautiful, breathless, bona-fide—cock twitching inside of you. 

“Pl—Please, Sir,” you manage to gasp out, entreatment forced from your tongue in a single thin breath. “Please, let me cum, please, please, please!” 

The pleads melt into one gooey stream as they flow from your lips, slathered in drool and dripping from the corners of your mouth in thick cords. 

“Yeah? You want it? You wanna cum all over your Owner’s cock?” 

“Yes, yes!” you practically wail, pawing urgently at him. “Please, sir, let me cum, make me cum, I wanna—I wanna—”

“Alright, alright,” Dabi’s pacifying, but his actions don’t slow, hips merciless with their assault on your body. “Go ahead, sweetheart, make a pretty mess on me.” 

Never one to disobey a direct order from your Master, you do, almost instantly, entire body convulsing as your cunt pulses around his shaft, gushing so much slick that it floods his thighs and soaks the waistband of his pants.

The constant circles ground into your sensitive clit as you spasm around him only work to heighten the pleasure, brain gone numb with the shocks of ecstasy coursing through your body, another flurry of jolts sent through your veins with every run through the routine, skin rippling with the impact. 

He doesn’t stop his assault even after you cum, vehemently refusing to let up even as the clenching of your cunt fades into something faint and erratic, even as violent tremors loop through your veins, entire body quivering in his tight grasp, even as your fingers claw weakly at his wrist, crooking staples and scraping scarred flesh, blood rushing to fill the gouges left by your nails. 

No, he doesn’t stop until you’re teetering on the brink of passing out, wandering in and out of consciousness, his name leaving your lips in a near incomprehensible jumble, slurred and heavy with spit. 

Only then does he scoop you up in his arms, your legs dangling limply from his elbows as his palms firmly clutch your ass, hard cock still aching and buried deep inside of you, and carry your pliant body to that worn, fraying couch, with the puffs of white cotton leaking through the polyester and the exposed springs groaning beneath your weight.

You barely notice the change in scenery, though, still blissfully fucked out, nerves gnawed raw  by his overstimulation, a soft hiss slipping from between your teeth as the scratchy cushion rubs against your bare bottom, a raised imprint of Dabi’s palm and all five fingers still rapidly swelling. 

“It’s my turn now, angel,” Dabi’s words drift over your body in an indistinct haze, vision fuzzing at the edges, your head nodding instinctively. 

“Gonna—Gonna make good on your promise, Master?” 

“I always do, don’t I?” 

And then his hips are thrusting, cockhead repeatedly ramming your cervix with every harsh plunge forward, leaning down to catch fresh tears with his lips. The tip of his tongue traces their salty trajectory all the way to your bottom lashes, matted into wet little spikes, before sucking a hickey into your cheek, tiny capillaries bursting beneath his tongue, staining the thin skin with swiftly developing violet.

Tufts of ivory cling to his temples in damp clumps, dried black dye liquifying beneath his heat and running down his cheeks, leaving streaks along the line of his jaw and the curve of his neck. Sweat collects in the dips of his collarbones, shimmering gently in the flickering light spilling from the television set, a wavering news reporter recounting the tragic events of today, stuttered by static.

“God,” he nearly whines, voracious eyes sweeping across your face, desperate to soak up your twisted expression of pleasure-tinged pain—the way your lids keep drooping as you struggle to keep them pried open, eyes speckled with stars, lashes encrusted with tears; the way your tongue keeps lolling out to draw your slick lip back between your teeth, muffling your whimpers and mewls, and oh, no, he can’t have that, a gentle tut of his tongue clicking against his teeth as his thumb tugs it free from your mouth, drawing out a stringy whine in the process.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous when you go dumb from my cock.”

The words leave his lips in an airy gasp, as if he can hardly believe you’re real beneath him, as if he can hardly believe it’s his cock making you look this way, a hand leaving your waist to slide along your torso, taking the hem of your dress with it, rough palm tracing every curve and dip and bulge as it crawls to your collarbone. 

He takes his time to admire you—to appreciate the sensation of your skin beneath his touch, fingers gripping, kneading, scraping, gathering palmfuls of you in his grasp before letting go again in a stunned sort of marvel—hips slowing to an uneven rutting, unable to fully halt his fucking. 

Keeping a firm, steady grasp on your body and pinning you in place, his free hand continues to roam, hardened fingertips sinking into the pretty blue lace of your bra hard with enough force to elicit a yelp from your lips, amusement tugging at his lips. 

“So, so beautiful,” he pants, eyes skimming your now exposed body, his fiery gaze outlining every edge, dedicated in committing every contour to memory. “Fucking look at you.” 

In all the time you’ve been with him, your body has become a scrapbook of Dabi. It tells stories of him—what he’s done, how he’s felt, where he’s been, why he did it—stamped permanently into your flesh using his teeth and his tongue and his flames, in raised flesh and puckered craters and glittering scabs.

You can’t tear your stare from his face, though, too busy worshipping him, sapphire eyes gaping and glazed as they travel along your body, soft huffs of breath escaping his lips, pushed from his throat with the tender heaving of his chest, saliva glistening on his lips, smeared so prettily across the staples climbing his chin. 

Dainty fingers grope at the air, pathetic and yearning, clawing at nothing, and he laughs a little, nothing more than a smooth, deep vibration at the back of his tongue.

His touch finds the apex of your thighs again, nails dimpling flesh as he spreads your legs wide—so wide your muscles begin to burn, taut beneath the strain—a quiet groan rumbling in his chest as he stares at your stretched cunt. 

Two fingers press into your clit, still slick and swollen, grazing over it in slow caresses—back and forth, back and forth, gliding easily over the puffy nub and snorting a little at the way your hole flutters, eager and aching, squeezing his cock, sucking him in, begging for more. 

So cute. 

Eyes wide and unblinking, he plays with you in a trance, slowly but surely building up pleasure in you, pressure in you, fascinated by the way your body so readily reacts to his simple motions, grinding circles and rubbing strokes and pulsing fingertips. 

It enraptures him, puffs of hot air exhaled through slightly parted lips as he watches just his touch bring you to orgasm for the second time tonight, obsessed with the way your cunt trembles around his cock, a surge of your essence streaming from your hole, embracing him in a thick, wet heat.

Your cunt gorges on him—so fuckin’ greedy, even after cumming twice—fluttering a little around the base of his shaft, still oozing so much slick that it’s glazing your ass and his balls, steadily seeping past the tight seam of your hole. 

It’s so pretty, it’s so fuckin’ pretty, baby, he’s breathing, eyes hazy with awe, hips drawing back just a little to watch the way your body clings to his girth, sheathing his cock in a shimmering layer of arousal. 

A palm wraps around the base of his shaft, the head of his cock still buried an inch or two in your straining cunt, and he jerks himself hard and quick, sick wet slaps echoing out among the room as his hand slams between your cunt and his pelvis. 

“Fuck, f-fuck—” 

His hips start moving on their own accord, too impatient, his hand nothing compared to the sweltering ecstasy of your cunt, and he releases his cock, sticky hand collaring your throat, pinioning you to the couch, his thrusts so vicious they’re jostling your body up the cushions, the palm crushing your airway keeping you in place.

Lithe fingers flex as their grip on your neck tightens, coarse pads of his fingertips beginning to heat up, blood in your veins bubbling beneath his touch. 

Your flesh melts beneath his hold, melds itself to his grasp, desperate to stay in his hands forever. 

The sting is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, his palm and all five of his fingers singed into your skin in the prettiest, most precious permanent necklace. You can barely breathe, exhales coming as weak little wheezes, and you swear his flames must be licking into your throat, down to your lungs and straight through your veins, incinerating your blood as your body goes numb, cunt clenching around his cock for the third time, wailing out shards of his name. 

But you don’t allow his hold to let up, to loosen at all, both of your hands placed firmly over his, holding it there harder, a loud moan escaping his lips, his hips stammering out of rhythm. 

“Brand me, Master, brand me, brand me,” you’re gasping out, voice wrecked and raw. “Make me yours, mark me as yours, forever!”

“Jesus Christ,” he nearly sobs, his thrusts turned brutal, primal, losing any semblance of finesse as he relentlessly fucks you, motions stuttering as he finally cums, a violent shudder coursing through his body before he collapses on top of you, drenched in sweat as his cock throbs, filling you to the brim with hot, thick cum. 

“More, Touya, more, more!” you’re crying out, scrabbling at his shoulders as you try to pull him closer, shivering legs latching around his waist as tight as you can manage as your hips roll up to meet his own, crudely humping him. “Gimme more!” 

A groan, dense and heavy, spills from his lips, his entire body rippling with hiccups as he ruts into you—automatic, instinctual, desperate to give his sweet girl what she wants, even if it hurts.

“Yeah, yeah, ye-yeah, Touya, Touya, fill me with y’r cum!” 

And so, he does, using your cunt to milk himself even as his form quivers with every rock of his hips, chills skidding across his flesh with every bump of his cockhead against your abused cervix. 

He keeps going, just like you begged him to, just like he promised he would, until your tummy is stuffed full and your cunt is leaking with his seed, until neither of you can take it anymore, bodies shuddering with every hump and drag and grind, deliquescing into one another, a puddle of limbs. 

You stay like that for a while, his body blanketing yours, breathing as one, being as one. Gentle fingertips trail up and down the column of his spine as his bones begin to fuse and harden again, tiptoeing over the trails of staples stitching dead skin to healthy flesh and evoking a mild shudder, pads of your fingers pressing into each golden suture, counting them lovingly, kissing every one. 

Eventually, after your fingers have traversed across all thirty-one, he shifts, manhandling you onto his chest as he shuffles himself beneath you, cradled between his thighs. 

“What now?”

You don’t mean to say it, don’t mean to shatter that delicate, post-orgasmic, precarious peace with two simple words, but they claw up your throat and pry past your teeth and gnaw on your lips, desperate to be vocalized, immortalized, heard.

What now? 

They’re uttered out softly enough, lips moving against his heart, warm breath seeping into his chest, the question worming its way beneath his skin. 

His muscles go rigid, his breath stalling in his lungs.

What happens now that his goal has been reached, Part One in his plan succeeded? What’s the next step, now that the world knows Todoroki Touya is alive and simmering in his hatred, fuelled by spite and ravenous with revenge?

What happens when he goes to face his father for the final time? And what happens if he never returns?

“Oh, I dunno,” he sighs out, but his voice trembles. “We could fix this place up, all nice and swanky, have a couple’a kids, get a golden retriever—y’know, real nuclear family type shit.” 

You laugh, but it comes out strangled, sounding strange to your ears, a distorted sob. 

“The dream, huh?” 

“Yeah,” he says, quiet, nostalgia for a time that has never happened, that will never come, aching in his words. “The dream.” 

A silence settles over the two of you, as tender as the edges of a festering wound.

“I have to do it,” he says after several moments have passed, and his voice is soft—softer than you’ve ever heard it before, softer than you ever thought him capable of—infused with apology.

He does.

You know he does. You understand why. That’s how the story ends, the final chapter he’s been drafting—you were never meant to be a part of this tale, written in between lines and margins, stuffed between words, twined throughout the pages nonetheless. But ultimately, this is his story—to write, to tell, to edit, to revise, to create, to conclude. 

You know.

But the acceptance sticks in your throat, furled into a tight, hard lump, so you nod instead, punctuating your affirmative with a kiss pressed to his chest, planted right over his heart. It soaks into his skin, burrows itself into pulsating muscle and finds salvation there, finds home there, a puzzle piece that snaps into perfect place—something that’s always been missing, now complete. Something he’ll take with him, when his pen leaves the page, when his book snaps shut.

You don’t dare look at him. You don’t need to. You can feel the stutter of his chest, hear the hitch of his breath tangling on hard truths to swallow, smell the copper streaming down his cheeks again.

And you hug him tighter. 

You know. And no matter how badly you wish to, you won’t stop him. 

#dabi smut #dabi x reader #dabi x you #todoroki touya smut #todoroki touya x reader #todoroki touya x you #dabi angst #bnha smut #bnha x reader #happy belated birthdaaaay dabi i love you so much #eeeeee feel free to let me know what u think!!! i hope u enjoy it!!!

[royalarchivist]

Mine: Refer to me however you want!

Mike: Yeah, for me too. I think I use all pronouns too.

[They high-five and fist-bump each other]

Mine:

[via @barbmine]

#Mine #Barbmine #Mikethelink #Mike #I LOVE THEMMMMMMMMMMM THEY'RE SO FUNNY #Mine funniest person alive fr #also YOOOO LETS GO?????? #I didn't know Mike was ok with any pronouns #and Mine too??? that's awesome! #Also for those who don't know: Mine is Mike's wife! #They're both bi #They're so cool I wanna have a silly sweet partnership like this someday *clenches fist and stares off into the sunset* #As per usual: not a native Portuguese speaker so can't translate the full thing #please feel free to hop in with translations and/or corrections! #Though I'm pretty confident about these. Wouldn't post it if I wasn't #I'll be real idk how to translate viado LMAO #It's like. Not what google translate will tell you it means #idk imo I think ''homo'' sounds right but ONCE AGAIN: I'm not a Portuguese speaker #Poor Mine I laughed when she first posted this image ages ago and I replied to her saying it gave me a good laugh and she was like #''WAIT I PROMISE IT DOESN'T MEAN WHAT GOOGLE TRANSLATE SAYS IT MEANS'' #it's all good Mine I'm bi too I am not phased lmao #I don't personally use that word but I do not care when other queer folks use it

[katabay]

original thief series basso & garrett :)

ngl, it's about quality over quantity for me. an npc can have a total of three minutes of screen time, but if they have a cool name, they can live rent free in my head and I'll spend several hours trying to decipher drawable features from a blurry screenshot of pixels

there is a vague hint of a story here, and that's because every time I try to play thi4f, I get incredibly frustrated with how Not Fun the game play is. like, is the story good? well. but it has a PLAGUE. that should've given it instant 'I'll replay this once a year' status in my heart, but the game play sucks so bad that I've never finished it. I can't believe Not Fun gameplay beat out my obsession with narrative plagues.

anyway, the idea is basically if the original era had a game with a plague centric narrative and some other stuff I liked out of thi4f thrown into a narrative blender, with a heavy dash of horror thrown in because some parts of the thief games were scarier to me than entire dedicated horror genre games.

⭐ places I’m at! bsky / pixiv / pillowfort /cohost / cara.app

#if i had a laptop and the skillset i would attempt a story mod because the thief modders who create whole mission stories #are GENIUS and also somewhat terrifying. love them! xoxox #anyway im actually kind of obsessed with parts of thi4f but its also like. not at that sweet spot of almost good enough to be fun #to talk about. which. for the record. has not stopped me from talking about it at length to people #the city itself actually fucking fascinates me. its almost alive and im SO mad that not a single part of that game is actually terrifying #it should be gnarlier and instead it feels a bit like it doesn't quite want to be trapped in the story it has to tell? #but between the level that has the bodies on the meathooks #and the scene with the bodies hanging from the rafters or whatever that was and garrett living in a clock tower #because the game is very much ALMOST about changing times and authoritarian violence and capitalism #(like. by virtue of how the story sort of spins out i think it misses it's mark on a lot of stuff here #in the sense that i dont feel like it actually wants to tell that story. it wants to. go in a different direction. or at least walk on top #of those themes instead of through it) #ANYWAY between all of those things. it does kind of live in my head rent free. they did create a compelling setting #SHAME THEY DIDNT WANT TO ACTUALLY EAT ANY OF IT #unrelated but i would've given thi4f a 10/10 if they kept garrett's fucking nail polish from the concept art. cowards. unforgivable #thief the dark project #i still have no idea how to tag the game series as a whole RIP #sorry for the dedicated dark project fans. if you know what the general series tag is. please let me know #garrett thief #basso thief

[bakudekublogblog]

kacchan there is actually a way you and izuku can be together forever i have this crazy inventive solution for you it's called a marriage license

#trust me look it up it's real #it's easy it's not free but it's worth it trust me nothing can go wrong this plan is flawless #bakudeku #bkdk #manga spoilers #mha leaks #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #listen to me i know what you're thinking gabstar this is a shonen the only way two males can be inexplicably linked forever is a rivalry #how are we supposed to be together forever without constructing intricate rituals in order to be closer to each other than anyone else #i hear you i understand you i get you #JUST MARRY HIM ITS 2024 YOU DONT HAVE TO PLAY CHICKEN WITH YOUR FEELINGS I PROMISE ITS OKAY #hori listen to me the next chapters can just be a bkdk shoujou BL we are all seated we are here we are ready #no one is gonna complain if we're just in bakudeku making heart eyes at each other land and slowly repairing their friendship #while kacchan tries his best to convince izuku that he loves him through his actions but inevitably has to use his words to be like #LISTEN NERD I LOVE YOU CAPITAL L CAPITAL O CAPITAL V AND FUCKING E LOVE YOU GOT IT #and izuku s like did i die did shiggy kill me am i in heaven #and kacchans like FOR THE LOVE OF GOD LET ME HOLD YOUR HAND

[psychicdisaster]

The. Idiots.

(affectionate)

#they are so funny oh my god #i know almost everyone in this fandom thinks kuniharu is abusive so you guys can ignore this post #but i don't agree #and i think he's very silly #i love them so much #wish this fandom saw them the way i do #because their dynamic is so silly #and they have such sweet moments sometimes #like the one at the amusement park and the other during kuniharu's birthday #i am not looking to start an argument about this though #since everyone is allowed to believe what they want #but if you agree feel free to let me know #saiki k #saiki no psi nan #tdlosk #the disastrous life of saiki k. #saiki kusuo #kusuo saiki #kuniharu saiki #silly screenshots #coffeejelly.txt

[leothil]

fic recs: archive edition

So earlier this week I was lightly complaining about how there are so many good fics I read back in 2021 (the good old 5A days. Christ.) that I never se recommended anymore, and @shitouttabuck asked if I could make a rec post of some of those fics.

Now, I still think of myself as somewhat new in the fandom - I joined within the first episodes of 5A - but it is true that a lot of people I see on my dash nowadays came into it much later. Fandom in general has a big recency bias when it comes to fics, and trying to find older fics can be a daunting project, unless they've ended up on the first page of most kudosed/commented/bookmarked on AO3 or you have a lot of time and patience on your hands. There are currently over 21600 fics in the buddie tag on AO3, so I don't blame anyone for not having the energy to go through all of that.

Side note - calling fics published during or before S5 old feels fucking weird. I already gave some friends crises when I mentioned reccing "older fics (aka 2020-2021 ones)" so all of you who have been here longer than me - I know, trust me, I know. It was yesterday. We are withering away.

There's no way I could fit all fics I want to recommend into one post (I want to keep it kind of short so people actually have a chance to look into all the fics on the list), so I might do this as a weekly thing for a while. I quite enjoyed going back to some of the fics I devoured in my early days of fandom, so this might turn into a proper nostalgia trip for me personally!

Without further ado, some fics published in 2019/2020 that I think you should read:

falling by @elisela Buck and Eddie take a walk up to an overlook and share one of the softest moments I've ever read. 1.3k words, rated G

Work Husband by hideeho (@agentlemuse) Chimney messes with Eddie's phone and changes Buck's contact to "husband." Eddie doesn't change it back, for some reason he can't articulate to himself. 1.4k words, rated T

four a.m. by asgardiun (@kitchenscene) Buck follows the rain up to the roof of the firehouse. Eddie follows Buck. 2.9k words, rated G

Medicine Man by @lovelylittlegrim Buck hits his head at work, and Eddie kisses his forehead to make it better. Buck gets stuck on it and thinks he'd like Eddie to do it again. 4.1k words, rated G

like a revelation by throughfire Maddie watches Buck and Eddie's casual intimacy and is confused by what their relationship status is, until she gets help realizing she doesn't need to be. 5.2k words, rated G

the meaning of the words you see by @florenceandthemachine Nurse!Buck gets a text from an unknown number who thinks it's someone they talked to in a bar, but they keep texting even after clearing up the mistake (and proving it with selfies), and things evolve from there. 8.6k words, rated E

#fic rec #911 fic rec #frida's archive project #it's *really* not as pretentious as that tag sounds but i needed a tag for this #better name suggestions are heartily welcomed #let me know if you end up reading any of these and what you think! #and of course feel free to ask for targeted recommendations if you want to!

[true-blue-sonic]

How would you describe Silver's personality?

Let's see... There's a few aspects of Silver's personality that I think strongly characterise who he is as a person.

Silver is determined. He has a strong desire to protect the future, to the point where he's made multiple trips to the past to stop disasters from occurring there and ensure the safety of his own time in turn. Related to this, Silver has an optimistic attitude and generally doesn't lose hope easily, as conveyed in multiple bios such as his one from Generations. Notably, he shoots down Infinite's statements about how he'll show the rabble that "there is no hope" immediately, asking "Does anyone but you believe your lies?!". However, this is not infallible: in both Rivals 1 and 2 there's moments wherein Silver loses his hope ("No! I'm too late!" in Rivals 1 when Eggman Nega goes to space to take a picture of the whole planet; "It's too late. I knew there was way for me to change the future…" in Rivals 2 when the portal to the Ifrit's dimension opens despite his efforts). However, it also takes little for him to get this hope back again: the very instance there's the slightest indication things can turn around, he's back on it again. This is seen in both Rivals games and also '06, where Elise pointing out she feels Sonic's presence in the wind makes Silver give her a rousing speech with the idea she can use the Emeralds to bring Sonic back again.

Silver is sassy, rude, and blunt. In Colours DS, he's got a clear opinion on Eggman's Experience the Future ride that is conveyed in quite a sarcastic manner ("They think THAT is what the future is like? Please." and saying Sonic should give it a pass), and he similarly expresses rather abrasive statements about people who are not his allies. Notably, even Sonic remarked once that Silver is getting on his nerves (in Rivals 1). He mocks Sonic in '06 after their first battle ("Hmpf! Is this a joke? How could someone like you cause the destruction of our world?"), and immediately rudely regards Knuckles after getting the information he wants out of him in Rivals 1 ("Got no time to explain it to someone like you… See ya!" followed by "Like I said before, I don't have time to deal with you right now. See ya!"). In Forces, he bluntly tells Knuckles "Who cares what it's called?" about Operation Big Wave, stressing the fact that a good strategy is more important than a good name. Overall, Silver also has a temper: especially in the Rivals games, he quickly goes to throwing hands when someone expresses scepticism about his mission or makes fun of him as a person. It certainly doesn't seem like he is okay with letting people walk over him!

In an interesting contrast to the above point, Silver is also kind and cherishes his friends dearly. In '06, he puts his entire mission to defeat the Iblis Trigger on hold when deciding to help Amy find her person she was looking for first. I am not actually sure why he does so: I think the fact the past is so beautiful and the people are happy there helped inspire him to spread that kindness to the girl who's been kind to him in turn so far? But Silver clearly cares for his friends and allies: in '06, he is distraught by the fact he'll lose Blaze to save the world, he is similarly seen with a hurt expression when Sonic's alleged death is brought up in Forces, and in Rivals 2, he is genuinely grateful to Espio for the help Espio gave him in stopping the Ifrit from destroying the world.

Silver is honest, to the point of being blunt also... and this thus means that he is not always taken seriously. In a Sonic Channel story, he tells a group of Soleannan officials that he is from the future and gives that as reason why he knows calamity will befall a specific place in Soleanna; this is precisely why he is not believed. In Rivals 2, he is very clear about needing the Chao to save the world: Knuckles and Rouge promptly determine that this is something highly unlikely and that his psychic powers must have made Silver "a bit goofy", despite the fact Silver is entirely correct.

Silver is not always correct in his thinking, but it is difficult to change his mind. It also seems that once he gets encouragement that he is perchance doing the right thing, he goes right back to his earlier ideas: seen in '06 with Blaze's statements about what must be done to change the future, where it took an intervention by Shadow and a trip to the past to change Silver's mind about Sonic in full. However, Silver does show the ability to be introspective. After his fallout with Amy in '06, he is sitting quietly by himself, entirely unengaged with his mission to destroy the Iblis Trigger and instead wondering if hurting one person to help many others is "right". In Rivals 2 he is the one who figures that just endlessly fighting is actually against his goal of collecting Chao, and thus he turns that very goal around into a battle with Sonic wherein the victory conditions are to collect the most Chao. And in Colours DS, he is the one taking note of the fact it feels like he and Blaze have fought together before, after Sonic points out they were in perfect sync.

Silver seems to like fighting and has a bit of a Blood Knight mentality. In Generations, he expresses happiness at brawling with Sonic again in a rematch (stating that it should be fun), and in Colours DS he is intrigued to find out what the robots in Sonic's era can do (but unfortunately has to face Orbot and Cubot, making him lament that there was no challenge). Similarly, in the Triumph cutscene of mission 2-3 in Colours DS, he almost begins one-upping Blaze about how he could easily have handled the likes of Orbot and Cubot by himself, to Blaze's displeasure. He thus also seems confident in his own abilities, helped by the fact his powers are tremendously strong and can do amazing feats.

Silver is sharp and takes note of small, almost insignificant details to come to correct conclusions. In Rivals 1, he notices "Eggman" is actually Eggman Nega due to his speech and mannerisms, as well as a small slip of Nega about how there'd be nobody to stand in his way in the past and future. He is also only shown as gullible in '06: in Generations, he originally fights Sonic because he's not sure if the real deal is asking him for the Chaos Emerald (thus not blindly trusting that someone who looks like Sonic actually is Sonic), and in Team Sonic Racing he is right on top of Eggman's plans with the Ultimate Energy Engine. In Rivals 2, he immediately determines at the first appearance of "Eggman" that it is actually Eggman Nega trying to pull the same trick as before, where he is shown to be correct as well.

This got very long, and I am certain I am missing some (or perhaps even many) things. I've written multiple posts about parts of Silver's personality before, but leave it to Tumblr to not return those to me, haha. But I think these are some of the most important aspects of Silver's personality! Lastly, there's also some things that are not explicitly stated but that I think do fit his personality well:

Silver appreciates the small things, things that other people might not notice so easily. His favourite thing is noted to be the blue sky in the Mario & Sonic games which is also shown with him stating that "the sky [of the past] is gorgeous" in '06, he marvels at the desert area of that game (that Amy notably shows more disregard for, asking him "What? You mean this desert?"), and he is multiple times noted to have awareness of the happiness of a whole world: the above quote is followed with "and everyone's happy", and in Colours DS he says "The sky is blue, and everyone's got a smile". A blue sky and the fact the people of the world all have a smile are not extremely noteworthy things, but they're clearly important enough for Silver to mention them both in two games.

Silver doesn't care much about what others think of him. The only time I can recall wherein he reacted crabby to someone poking fun at him is in Rivals 2, where Knuckles calls him crazy for thinking the Chao will be necessary to stop the world from being destroyed (here Silver's response is "I'll show you how crazy I am"). What he is doing furthermore also directly relates to him wanting to save the world, which could explain his annoyance at Knuckles not believing him. The only time wherein Silver has gotten anything akin to flustered in the games is, at the top of my head, '06 wherein Amy gets the jump on him and doesn't let him get a word inbetween her spiel before she drags him off to go find Sonic.

#silver the hedgehog #long post #Silver is a character that is ripe with alleged contradictions to me #he's rude and does what he wants but he's also a sweetheart with a heart of gold who'll drop everything to help you #he's sharp and not easily deceived but also entirely wrapped up in what *he* thinks is right and acting according to that mentality #if there's any characteristics or examples I have missed‚ feel free to let me know! #I know there's been discussions about how insecure he actually is in '06 but that seems to have been added mostly in the English script #and that also doesn't seem to have carried over to any other games‚ like his gullibility #but I could be entirely incorrect here!

[puppetmaster13u]

Howdy, who wants a WIP of my dark-ish dragon batfam that I mentioned and rambled about? I am also open to answering questions and doing even more rambles lol.

Warnings for some gore and such :] Also Tim's lacking self confidence and general unreliable narrator-ness when it comes to everyone.

   “Shh… it’s alright Timmy… you’re okay…” 

   Tim shuddered at the familiar voice, now tilted by a growling croon as fingers- claws- ran through his hair. He hiccuped slightly, the grip on him tightening and tucking him closer to a scaled form. 

    “You’re okay,” Dick crooned again, continuing to run fingers through his hair. “Dad will be back soon, won’t that be nice, Timmy?” 

   Scales scraped against his clothes as the older vigilante nuzzled against him, grip gentle but oh so possessive. He couldn’t tear free if he tried- and oh he had, he’d tried to run a few different times even with his broken leg, until he was no longer left alone. 

   Tim blinked back tears, trying to stop his heart from pounding against his chest as a thumb rubbed against his wrist. He’d never thought that his life would end up like this, cradled in the nest of things no longer pretending to be human. Trapped with no way out. 

   “Shh…” the shushing was more like a hiss, Dick’s cheek rubbing against his cheek as he failed to keep the tears from falling. “It’s alright Timmy, you’re going to be okay, alright? Sh, you’re just a little baby, it’s alright to feel overwhelmed…” 

   He shook his head, unable to make his tongue work or his throat form words, only able to get out a whimper. Tim wanted to go home, to the Drake home, even if it was empty and cold compared to the boiling heat of the Wayne manor. He wanted to pretend he had never become Robin, had never done such a stupid thing without realizing the consequences. 

   Dragons were possessive creatures. He’d known this even before he found out what the Bats were. He knew how violent they could be, even before seeing Nightwing and Batman rip Joker apart. If he wasn’t careful he could still taste blood and feel the viscera spatter across his face and into his hair. 

   Dick hummed, shifting his hold. Claws continued to gently tug tangles from his hair, even if there weren’t any left. “Everything is going to be fine, ‘kay Timmy? Look,” he knew the older boy was motioning to the batcomputer in front of them even if everything was blurry. “Dad is on his way home now, isn’t that nice?” 

   No, because he couldn’t even escape when it was just Dick, nevermind if there was both him and Bruce. Bruce, who could tear open a man’s rib cage like it was a ziplock bag. He didn’t think he could ever forget the sound of it, nor the sight of organs being violently torn free from where they should be. 

   He’d become Robin to stop the violence, but it seemed like he’d made it worse. All it took was one stupid mistake, one stupid slip up that resulted in him being caught, and now people were dead. 

   He couldn’t stop the tears from dripping down his face, even if they were wiped away by sharp claws. He had only wanted to help, he hadn’t meant to make everything worse. 

#dragon batfam #batman au #batman #dc #dcu #cryptid batman #cryptid batfam #dark batfam #cryptid batfamily #tim drake #dick grayson #my writing #writing wip #Fuck Ur Bullshit (Found Familys Ur Monsters) Project #let me know if you wanna know more lol #or if you wanna be tagged #also just feel free to lemme know what you think lol

[rambunctioustoons]

-even dumb luck runs out eventually !

sort of another part to this

dialog that got stuck in my brain , not much context other than rhys doesn't have anyone outside the pizzaplex so if he went missing due to a freak accident, who'd really know! they could just wipe him from the database and out of his friends memories!

i like to think sun even grows agitated and warily at rhys's negligence for his own safety. *cough* AsTheDCALiterallyTurnsAroundToDoTheExactSameThing-. COUGH.

#cw death mentioned #not sure what to tag this afajf nothing actually happens but feel free to let me know !! #daycare attendant #daycare attendant fnaf #sun x reader #sun x oc #sun x y/n #moon x reader #moon x oc #moon x y/n #my art #rhys #dca fandom #long post #rhys: *being silly goofy* #sun: mayBE THInK A lITTLE MORE ABOUT hOW YOU COULD dIE- #rhys: :(( #sundrop x oc #sundrop x reader #moondrop x reader #moondrop x oc #doombop!

[mishapen-dear]

thinking about the elections tonight... bad, cellbit, baghera, and forever are four candidates who are devoted to the island- more specifically, to the residents of the island. They care for the eggs, and they care for each other, and the way they exhibit that care through their primary presidential strategies is fucking fascinating.

Bad is who I watch the most, so I know him best. He's a classic mother hen. He doesn't like to take risks with the eggs, and he likes to prepare. If there's any sort of variable that could hurt an egg then he wants to control it. They have a stable relationship with the federation right now- it's not great, but they know the parameters. Don't trust cucurucho. don't follow cucurucho. send the eggs to NINHO every time there's a threat. the time of day changing means you need to run. Other than that they're p okay and roughly safe. But adding a president could potentially change everything. What if the president makes a rule that makes it easier to kill the eggs? And what about the way a president could cause tensions between the players to rise even higher? The dynamics of the island could change drastically. It's safer to neutralize that threat before it ever becomes a threat. It's easier to stop a war before it can start.

Baghera's primary concern is the way the election is designed to pit the residents against each other. All of them know that the Federation is a threat and she, like Bad, is focused on not letting them hurt more people. But, unlike Bad, she's less resistant to change. If the power is spread to multiple players rather than just one, it will be harder for the Federation to corrupt any one of them. Each time before the Federation has gotten to someone it's done so by isolating them. Felps, Cellbit, Jaiden- they've all spent a lot of alone time with Cucurucho. A council isn't just to consolidate the ideals of the island; a council would protect the players themselves. Sure, there might be disagreements and arguments, but they've had those before (and they're having them now!) and there's no reason to think they wouldn't be able to get through them again.

I hit a bit of a wall with Forever and Cellbit's pov here. Everything I know about their plans are from the debates and paraphrased discussions that have been translated here on tumblr, I'm going to talk less about their explicit plan and more about what the result will entail- a single president who takes responsibility for the island. It seems to me like they've recognized the presidential seat as the powerful opportunity that it is, and they want to take advantage of it. Here's some extra personal speculation but, adding rules, adding or removing mods, proposing public works, enforcing laws- those are just the abilities that are listed. Those are incredible opportunities to make the Federation take action, which is more than they've had before. We've seen before that the Federation isn't perfect; the Federation makes mistakes.

By working with the Federation, by making them take action (in a semi-controlled, semi-predictable way) you open them up to more opportunities for them to fuck up (while benefiting you). And, maybe, one of those fuck ups will be the key to taking them down. Maybe they could reopen ender chests. Maybe they could open the nether. Maybe they could learn why the Federation is holding an election in the first place. It's possible to do all these things with Baghera's plan, sure, but that's not a guarantee and, if someone like Bad is on the council, there's absolutely no way to be sure it would get done. And, if there's a council, then that opens up everyone on the council to the Federation's wiles. If there's just one president, then that's where the Federation's focus will be. By using a single person to build a relationship with the Federation, they only risk that single person. By electing ministers instead of a council, they can ensure that the island residents' needs are being heard while placing the federation's focus on that one person. A point can be made that they've done that before- with varying results. like kidnapping. selling your soul. etc. But! overall, I think they've gained more than they've lost by singling out one person. Because of them, we know that Cucurucho can't be trusted. We know that the Federation has a series of tunnels underneath the island. We know that the Federation not only has some sort of cryo technology, but had some unknown reason to use it. We know that there was another person working with Cellbit to take care of Felps (theorized to be ElQuackity), so we know there's at least one more Fed that isn't Cucurucho + blank-faced workers. There's been risk, but there's absolutely been rewards. This is just a very long meandering way to say that their plan to sacrifice Forever to the presidential seat reminds me very much of Cellbit's plan to sacrifice himself to the federation. They're saving their friends by potentially damning themselves and I, for one, think that is cool as hell.

they all care about each other so much. bad's plan means taking on no more risk. baghera's plan means spreading that risk evenly to stand strong together. and cellbit and forever's plan means taking the risk onto themselves so they can reap the rewards for others. am i reading too much into things? no this is tumblr and this smp is about LOVE and i really genuinely think that their election plans are a fantastic example of just how much they love each other

#qsmp elections #qsmp #qsmp analysis #again i haven't been following cellbit and forever's exact plan too closely but i've gotten the sense that their pushing of public works is #just to get people to vote for them and the true reason they want forever to be president is to infiltrate the federation #if that's not it tho feel free to let me know i'd love to know these cubitos reasonings #but with my interpretation i like the silly little extra headcanon of mr cell “sold his soul to the cops” bit #subconsciously sacrificing forever to the feds and pushing him into corruption #which ALSO makes the forever-killing-cellbit-to-kick-him-out-of-the-running plan Even More Tasty #'what if i let you kill me. what if destroying me destroyed yourself. what if i have already destroyed you on purpose and you forgave me #now what if i dont mean it when i do it again' #if anyone wants to examine the other candidates (or these same ones) and figure out how their election strategy is an example of their love #please do #i don't know enoguh about the others #but i know that gegg is love-turned-grief burn-the-world-down #and foolish is love for Item. love for cloud. love for being a silly #i don't know etoiles' plan for if he gets elected but i know he also deeply loves the island and the residents #him and his security <3 and the care packages for new players <3 and the way he Craves Violence but absolutely refuses to hurt anyone who #doesn't deserve it. most guy of all time #personally i want foolish to win because i think it would be really fun #but i think that any of them (even the candidates i don't know) would be a Fantastic president #we're going to get some good roleplay any way it goes so ill be happy :3 #the only mechanic thing i want is for them to open the nether but that feels like a given for anyone so im not worried about it tbh #ty for coming to my tedtalk #hello if you're reading this tag. i see youre just as un-normal about these characters as i am. or you just like to read. respect either wa

[pseudonymphomania]

Diavolo’s Newest Birthday UR Card (3 versions)

Lucifer maxes out Diavolo’s UR card on his birthday and unlocks his devil’s flower all night long. 🍾💦

1) Card ver.

2) Full ver. (Under the cut)

3) Money Shot (AO3)

Happy birthday, My Lord. I hope you enjoy your night. ❤️🖤👅✨🍾💦

#dialuci #obey me diavolo #diavolo x lucifer #obey me dialuci #obey me lucifer #obey me shall we date #obey me #fanart #obey me smut #obey me nsft #here you go you spoiled gremlins #two art in one day? more likely than you think #asks are open so… feel free to let me know what you want to see next #happy birthday #obey me birthday #my smut art

[orangeispice]

they better give pavitr a clone saga at some point

kaine and ben reilly's relationship is heavily based off of cain and abel-- the "am I my brother's keeper" and the like. Kaine's name is literally a play on that. It's been acknowledged several times in the comics.

a really interesting adaptation for pavitr would be bhim (ben) and karna (kaine)

the inspiration for this comes from the Mahabharatha.

Simplifying the Mahabharatha: There are five brothers called the Pandavas (one of whom is named Bhim), who are heirs to the throne. However, their 100 cousins (Kauravas) also have a claim to the throne. They go through a great deal of hardships, after which the Pandavas win.

The leader of the Kauravas, Duryodhan, befriends someone not of noble blood, Karna, and elevates him to kingly status.

Karna is actually the first son of the Pandavas' mother; however, she abandoned him after his birth, as she was an unwed woman scared of being ostracized. Karna refused to forgive her, but promised he wouldn't hurt her four of her sons, except for one (Arjun).

The Pandavas only found out the truth after Karna's death.

so. could you imagine the narrative potential if we had Bhim and Karna? Brothers who feuded, and hell--didn't know they were brothers. (Pavitr works into this story somehow I swear--)

#pavitr prabhakar #spiderman india #okay ykw im turning them into character tags anyone who wants to use them feel free to do so #bhim rao #karna prabhakar #<- id rather call him karn but i think thats name of one of the inheritors or smthn lol #idk what maya aunty's maiden name would be so im using rao for now since it starts with r #but let me know if you have better ideas

[meownotgood]

any aki fics in your drafts ? :)

oh I have... too many... most of them are just small scraps I'll probably never truly finish, but the current draft I was working on (before bg3 brainworms possessed me) was my elf prince aki x witch reader fic...

it's about 10k words right now! definitely will resume working on it when I've finished a few more tidbits for bg3. I'm experimenting with making it my first true multi chapter fic (under the influence was more of a super long one shot just split up...)

basically aki is the prince of a well established kingdom and reader is a witch, magic has been outlawed so their relationship is forbidden... I'll share a small bit of it for you...

There's a man leant on the door, your door, clutching his side. His clothes are simple, pants and a tunic with long sleeves, nothing you'd place as out of the ordinary. Knights from the kingdom would be wearing armor covered in motifs of the royal family's crest, and even commoners would most likely be donning a necklace or a pin or something that'd identify them. You glance him up and down, and he seems to have none of that. 

Surrounding the hand he has pressed into his side, the off-white of his tunic is stained a dark red you can notice even with only the stars and moon to illuminate him. You feel an ache twist in your gut. His chest heaves as he struggles to breathe. His hair is dark and shoulder-length, tied in a half-up style, a small ponytail on the back of his head. Poking out from his hair is a pair of distinct pointed ears. They're decorated by an array of studs and hoops, with black, star shaped earrings hanging from his lobes. 

You watch his jaw tighten as he speaks, the bridge of his nose in a knot, "Please, I don't mean any harm, I was-" He winces, sucking in a breath through his teeth, "I was training in the woods, and suddenly became overwhelmed by devils- I won't be a bother, I only want to rest until the storm clears. And then, I'll be on my way. I swear it." 

Devils? 

Wait. Your gaze flickers to his expression, pinched slightly as he tries to hide his discomfort. Then, to his side, his hand pressed to an obvious wound, blood staining his fingertips and speckling the sleeve of his shirt. This is your fault. 

When you head into the woods to forage, you cast your distraction spell on the opposite side to lure demons over to it, giving you temporary safety. Sometimes there are stragglers, but most of the demons will head towards the area, drawn by the rune without their control. 

This man sounds like he's telling the truth, and he's clearly injured. If he came here alone to train, he must've been expecting a fight he could win. But you sent every single demon in the area to one location; a risky spell, but effective as long as you know where it's been cast. He didn't. 

Even after the spell had been dispersed, even once the rain came down and the demons ran to hide in their holes, there would still be a ton of them, all in one place. Hell, as far as you're concerned, he's lucky to be standing. He could have suffered a whole lot worse than just a single injury. 

But what if there's more wounds you can't see? 

You take a step away from the door. The rain continues to drum overhead, and you hear the man briefly stumble, mumbling a swear to himself through gritted teeth. Your heart is pounding, and you don't know what to do. 

You shouldn't let him in. You shouldn't help him, shouldn't heal him, you should pretend no-one's home and leave him be without meddling. You know that, and yet you can't help but tell yourself you need to help him, you can't shake this feeling that you're the only one who can. 

There isn't anyone else out here, not for miles. He won't make it out in this storm, and if he leaves the protection of the cottage he'll surely be attacked again. From what you can see, he doesn't even have a weapon on him, and even if he tries to run you doubt he'd make it far. 

It's been a while since you've last met or spoken to someone, you haven't since those knights a long while ago. You hear a faint knock at the door once more, and your lips part, although you aren't sure what to say. Ultimately, you're silent, but you shuffle over to the kitchen in a hurry, stumbling through cabinets to search for what medicine you have left. 

Although you shouldn't, you can't help but care about him, even if you hardly know him. You can't let him in, that much is true. He walked over the mushroom circle with no problem, so you're assuming he can't detect spells. Regardless though, your cottage is covered in magical items, in spellbooks that were supposed to be burned with the rest of them. And you aren't the best at keeping your cool, if you say one wrong thing and he somehow discovers you're a mage, his injuries will be the least of your concerns. 

You'll give him some standard medicine, nothing infused with magic, just some herbs and some ointment for his wound. Then, you'll tell him you can't accept visitors, and he must be on his way. That's the most you can do for him. 

You gather the herbs, the ointment, and some bandages, placing them all in a small, spare pouch you found on the counter. You walk over to the door, hands shaking as you attempt to gather the courage to open it. You'll be fine, he won't know a thing, you'll be just fine. 

"Okay," The man's smooth voice starts from behind the door, he sounds slightly out of breath, "I don't think anyone is home, so I'm… I'm going to try to come in now. I'm not robbing you, just need to get the hell out of this rain- Please, don't kill me." 

Shit. 

The door unlocks in a hurry then, you fling it open and the man sways forward, almost tripping once what he was leaning on disappears. He's rather tall, even taller when he stands up straight. Deep blue eyes meet yours and you must be making a face, because he's quickly making amends. 

"Thank the Gods. It's okay," He says, he gives you a reassuring look, but his skin is pale and he seems lightheaded, "It isn't as bad as it looks, I'll be… fine, I'm…" 

With one more stumble, his eyelids flutter, his knees buckle and he falls into you, giving you just enough time to catch him. You squeak in surprise, he's already limp in your arms and you're barely able to hold up his weight. Rain pelts the ground, and in between the rhythmic drone, tiny droplets of blood slowly splatter against the floor of your cabin with a plip, plip. 

Damn. And you were hoping to eat your stew while it was still hot. 

also including this small part even tho it doesn't have anything to do with anything because... aki's cute when he's introducing himself...

"I should introduce myself, shouldn't I?" He starts, a hand extended out for you to shake, "You can call me Aki, I'm glad to be acquainted." 

You'll allow him to stay, just long enough so he can recover, and then he'll have to be on his way. He can't discover you're a mage. A witch, as the kingdom would call it. If even a hint of suspicion arises, you have a potion that erases memory in case of emergencies — Once infused with a hint of your magic, he'll forget everything about you, up to the moment you'd met. 

You won't give him the chance to be suspicious in the first place. 

"Nice to meet you." 

You don't take his hand. Instead, you give him a once over, and then you stride over to the fireplace, tossing in another log from the pile. 

Aki lowers his hand slowly, placing it in his lap. "Could I know your name as well? I'd like to know who I should be thanking for saving my life." 

"I'm going to bed," You head towards your bedroom, and you take one last look at him over your shoulder as your hand closes around the doorknob, "I'll be waking up early tomorrow to gather herbs for your medicine, I'll try not to wake you when I do. I suggest you get some rest, you won't regain your strength without it." 

"Goodnight," Aki murmurs, before you can close your bedroom door behind you. "Sleep well." 

#the fic is veryyyy self indulgent #and I haven't quite decided yet if I want to include any smut #either way anything spicy isn't the focal point #it's very much slow burny romance #in a fun fantasy setting lol #but isn't my writing always extremely self indulgent.... #by the way I haven't edited this small section much #but feel free to let me know what you think..... #ask mags