#forgive the raggedy lines but I kind of like how they look

[makeshift-moth]

I will protect this child with my life!

Commissions open

#this was just a pencil sketch but I liked it so much I had to color it! #forgive the raggedy lines but I kind of like how they look #shinsou hitoshi #bnha #fan art #my art #emlsarts

[jackrrabbit]

Runaways /// Dabi x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: You were like an older sister to Dabi back when the two of you were teen runaways together; now that he’s found you as an adult, it’s not going to be so easy to get rid of him.

A/N: I could write a term paper on all of Dabi’s pathologies in this fic...I forgot how much I love writing smutty angst. Good shit 👌

I was planning on making this a ficlet so it’s kinda structured like that even though it ended up a full-length piece. Also, Dabi says some bullshit about sex work that I absolutely do not agree with or condone so please keep that in mind.

➠ see also: [homeowners association]

Tags/warnings: Dabi victimizes you, noncon/dubcon, light yandere, threats, cheating, NTR kinda?, mentions of past sex work, degradation, rough sex (breath play, impact play, crying), mild violence, very brief mentions of past child abuse in the Todoroki household, sad stuff/angst idk lol, *Daddy Issues by The Neighborhood plays in the background*

Dabi would know you anywhere.

You’re different now, which makes sense. It’s been years. Your old uniform of raggedy denim and hand-me-down leather has been replaced with a prim linen dress, designer label at the collar. You used to dye your hair religiously (it was neon pink when he saw you last) but now it’s styled back to your natural shade, a color he only saw back then when your roots grew out. You smell good, expensive. It does take him a second to recognize you without smudged pencil eyeliner drawn under your eyes like in the old days, but once he catches your gaze the realization is immediate.

It’s you. You. You.

You recognize him too, but your reaction is different—shock, then panic; you tug the arm of the man at your side, urging him to walk faster so you can pass Dabi on the sidewalk. The rejection stings for a second, but he isn’t too surprised. You did abandon him, after all.

Dabi doesn’t let it bother him. You’re not going to get away that easy. He pulls you into conversation, grinning when you reluctantly introduce him to your companion (who is, apparently, your husband) as an old friend from school. You didn’t go to school—Dabi knows that, and you know that, but your husband doesn’t. Which means your husband isn’t aware of your sordid past as a runaway.

This is going to be fun.

Once he knows you’re in town, he doesn’t have much trouble finding you. Your husband is a very wealthy man, well-known in this city now that he’s moved here. So this is what you’ve been up to all these years? Shacking up with some ugly motherfucker who’s at least 20 years your senior because he can afford to dress you up in pretty things and take you on overseas vacations? Dabi has to admit, he wouldn’t have thought it of you. Back when he knew you, you were so sincere, such an idealist, even in your darkest nights.

Then again…you always were willing to get your hands dirty in exchange for a warm meal and a place to sleep. Maybe you haven’t changed as much as you think.

Dabi comes to your house in the middle of the day when your husband’s at work and you’re stuck at home because that’s what you are now, a housewife. From a cocksucking whore to a pretty housewife with a dirty little secret. He’s getting hard just thinking about it as he watches your internal debate on whether to let him in or not. Eventually guilt wins out and you usher him inside, hoping the neighbors didn’t see a known villain lurking on your doorstep.

You make Dabi coffee (and aww, you remember exactly how he likes it). He gets you to talking, and you don’t seen surprised to learn about his current line of work; when he presses you, you admit that you’ve been following him in the news. Your life, in comparison, has been wholly uninteresting: you met a man, he proposed, and you married him. Very little has happened to you since. After a long silence you timidly apologize to Dabi for leaving him behind when you two were teenagers, and he tells you he understands.

He doesn’t forgive you.

Overall, things are good, he tells you. But you know, sometimes he misses the old days. Being on the run with you, stealing food from gas stations, breaking into fancy summer homes and pretending the two of you lived there. Stitching up each other’s cuts, because one of you had always gotten in a fight in the past few days. Sometimes he still has dreams about the smell of the balm you used on his fresh burns…and your cool hands, smoothing gently across the tender skin on his face, but he doesn’t say that.

You look down into your monogrammed coffee mug and tell him you know what he means.

When you turn your head like that, Dabi can see the tiny dots running up the side of your ear where your old piercings have scarred over from lack of use. Do you remember when he gave them to you? You did his first, running a needle through the lonely flame of your lighter (he offered to use his quirk, but it was still hard for him to control then so you declined) and then threading the metal through his ear. You promised it would only hurt for a second, and you were right, so he let you do the others.

Then you offered to let him do yours. Just one on each ear—you already had an impressive collection of piercings, but you wanted to let him return the favor, so he did. You were older and more experienced and had lived on the streets for longer, so when he held the needle in his hand and heard your voice saying you trusted him, it was the first time he ever thought of you as fragile, something delicate, something that he was capable of harming.

He chose twin helix piercings for you, cresting the shell of each ear, silver band rings to match his. When they were done you pulled him to a mirror and asked him what he thought. It hadn’t been long since he got the worst burns on his face (the ones under his eyes, wrapping around his chin and down his neck) and he was still getting used to the knowledge that the ugly, wrinkled scars were never going to heal. “I look like…” he started.

A monster. A freak. A victim.

“A badass,” you said. “You look fucking cool. Any asshole who wants to pick a fight with you will take one look and know you’ve been through worse shit than whatever they can dish out, and that’s something to be proud of.”

Now that Dabi thinks about it, he probably wanted you even then.

…But the longer he reminisces, the more nostalgia’s going to distract him. He came here for a reason, and it wasn’t to have coffee with you and talk about the good old days. What he’s about to take from you—what he’s about to make you give—is long overdue.

You’ve still got a little fight in you. Dabi likes that. But you’ve gone soft, filling out and losing muscle in places where you used to be lean and hard from the constant running and fighting of your old lifestyle. Besides, even if you were as strong as you’d been back then, he’d still be stronger than you—he’s a man now, and it’s incredible how small and weak you seem now that he can look at you as a man.

Were your punches always this light? No way…and your wrists couldn’t have always been this delicate. It’s really no trouble at all for him to wrestle you down to the couch and pin you there so he can tear off your stupid little housewife dress and tug your panties down past your ankles.

Once he’s got you fully naked, though, you pretty much give up trying to fight him off. It’s sad, really—like you’re remembering the past, remembering all the times you let other men hold you and fuck you just so you could have enough money to take yourself and Dabi to McDonalds for a few days. And now look, you’re plenty well-fed, but Dabi’s the one holding you down against your will. Funny how things change like that.

He does appreciate your submission, since it gives him the chance to get a decent look at you. The years have been kind—you look so much healthier than you used to. No more visible ribcage stretching out your skin; no more unhealthy pallor from going outside only at night. Your hands are as soft and manicured as if you’ve never done a day’s work in your life, a far cry from the bitten nails and bloody knuckles of your youth. It’s good to see you like this, and he lingers for a second, drinking in the sight of you and committing you to memory.

Dabi’s pictured this moment for years. He used to think he’d savor it, be sweet with you, slow and gentle to show you what you were missing with the trashy guys you used to hang out with. But now, hey—he’s the trashy one, he’s the one who wants to hurt you and own you and ruin you. May as well act like it.

Your husband doesn’t fuck you like this, does he?

You’re unbelievably tight for a former whore. Dabi can barely hold out when he first pushes into you, licking the tears off your cheeks when apparently it hurts too much for you to keep up a brave face. It takes real effort to fuck himself all the way into you, pushing past the tense squeeze of your muscles while you…well, you’re not exactly wet, but he’ll get you there. As soon as his hips are grinding up against yours, he’s hitching your legs up on his shoulders and pounding you into your stuffy antique couch so deeply that he thinks it might splinter into pieces underneath the two of you.

God, you’re so, so, tight. Dabi feels like a virgin with his cock buried inside you, biting his lip so he doesn’t cum in thirty seconds and thrusting into you with a rhythm that comes from nothing less than pure animal instinct. And you’re getting into it too. Can you tell that your pleading and begging him to get off you is turning into moaning? Can you feel your hips bucking weakly back against his, reverting to the position of the submissive bitch your body remembers even if your mind has tried to forget?

It’s perfect, right and good and perfect, everything Dabi’s been waiting for since he first knew what it was to want someone—no, not just someone. You. It’s always been you. A person never forgets their first love, right? It’s perfect, except—except you won’t look at him, you keep looking off to the side and sniffling, and that’s not going to cut it. So he slows down and wrenches your head back to center and makes you kiss him, sliding his tongue over yours and trying to see if he can feel the place where you used to have a piercing there, too. It’s kind of thrilling, actually—wondering whenever his face dips into yours if you’re going to bite him, if he’ll come back from you with blood in his mouth.

He’s only got to thumb over your clit a couple times before you’re clamping down on him, your body begging to be used and abused. Your husband hasn’t been treating you right, though Dabi doubts the old bastard can even get it up without a blue pill. Sure, you look like a sweet little doll, so darling and delicate and breakable, but Dabi knows you better than that. You’re strong, you can take it. He knows you want it rough, so that’s how he’ll give it to you—and hey, hey, he can feel your cunt quivering around him—you’re cumming, aren’t you? So you like it. You like it.

He knew he wasn’t going to last long before, but when you cum and tighten and squeal so high he thinks you could lose your voice, the tension in his abdomen rises up and he digs his fingers into your hips and—shit, you’re saying something, what are you saying? You’re pleading, begging him not to cum inside—but, ohhhhhh fuck he can’t help it, he can’t, he can’t, he’s cumming all the way deep into your tight little snatch, cockhead jutting up at your cervix, fucking his semen all the way through you until your slit is smeared white from top to bottom.

Stop crying. Dabi’s sick of hearing you cry.

You’re still pretty nimble, even though your current exercise regimen probably doesn’t extend beyond periodic jogs around your neighborhood and weekly pilates with all the other bored trophy wives. He’s kind of surprised when as soon as he lifts himself off of you, you have the strength to roll off the couch and scramble around on the floor for your clothing.

You don’t say anything, which he wasn’t expecting. You don’t scream at him, demand that he leave, or ask him how he could do this to you after everything the two of you went through together. You probably still think of yourself as an older sister when it comes to him.

When you’d first met the scarred kid trying and failing to live off the streets, you knew he wasn’t cut out for this. He’d known pain before, plenty of pain (icy-blue fire roasting the skin off his face—spiral fracture from callused hands twisting his arm behind his back—cold, aching muscles after what he thinks is the fifth hour spent locked in a closet), but he’d never known hunger. Hunger was a different kind of beast, one that would chew the kid up and spit him out and leave him broken if you didn’t take him under your wing, so you did.

It wasn’t like you had much of anything to spare, but you made it work. For a few years. He didn’t talk at first, but he took what you gave him, so you gave him what you could: food, if you had it; a place to sleep at night; the knowledge you’d gathered in your own years as a runaway on how he was supposed to survive in a world that didn’t care whether he lived or rotted away in a gutter. You cared.

Until you didn’t.

‘Going to be traveling alone for a while. Don’t wait for me. I’m sorry,’ your note had read. You left it in his backpack along with $43 in cash—not much, but he knew it was more than you could afford. It was all you had.

And now you have all of this! Don’t you feel lucky? You have the rich husband who barely looks at you, the big house with so many empty unused rooms it makes him sick, more food than you could possibly eat in one lifetime. All of that, and you also have Dabi’s semen leaking out of your cunt. It’s a real rags-to-riches story, he thinks.

Dabi picks a cigarette out of his jacket and you stop fixing up the buttons on your dress to ask him not to light it inside. How will you explain the smell to your husband? Every move you make, every syllable that comes out of your mouth, is weighed down by despair. You look like you’ve been beaten.

He lights the cigarette anyway.

///

Before he had you the first time, Dabi thought once would be enough. Pretty naive, huh?

He makes it his mission to fuck you in every room of your husband’s gluttonously enormous mansion (what with your history Dabi has a hard time thinking of the house as yours, and considering the way you tiptoe around and seem like you’re afraid to move so much as a vase, he suspects you feel the same). There’s a lot of rooms.

When he shows up at your door again you don’t even bother to hear him out, instead just trying to shut it on him, but he forces his way in. You wouldn’t want to make him mad, would you? Not when he’s got such a filthy secret hanging over your head? Will your husband keep paying for your designer shopping trips when he knows you’re a street rat who used to steal everything she wore? Will he still kiss you goodnight when Dabi tells him you used to wrap those pretty lips around strangers’ cocks for money?

If you want Dabi to keep quiet, you’re going to have to convince him the best way you know how. A cockwhore is a cockwhore. That’s not the kind of stain you get to wipe away with time and distance and expensive clothing.

In the kitchen: standing up, your back to his front and your hands barely holding you up on the counter, so hard and rough and deep that the dishes are rattling in the pantry. One of your teacups falls out of the glass china cabinet and shatters into a million fragments in a four foot radius over the tiled floor. Neither of you notice until after. Blunt red lines press themselves into the tops of your thighs where he’s shoving your body into the edge of the counter and there are bruises on your tits from how hard he’s groping you.

In the dining room: sitting on the edge of the table, one of your legs hiked up beside you and the other on a chair while Dabi kneels on the ground in front of you, his head between your thighs and his tongue flicking over your pussy. You start off thinking that you’re going to have to sanitize the entire mahogany surface before you can eat off it again and then he licks his lips and sucks on your throbbing clit and you don’t really think about anything else after that.

In your husband’s study: doggy-style on the floor in front of the fireplace, facedown, his body folded over yours, pressing you so deep into the tacky lion-skin rug that you can taste it. He sighs in your ear—actually, you’re not sure if it’s a sigh or a growl—and his hand comes up to cover yours. You feel the metal stitches and the rough burned skin scraping on your own and it reminds you that it’s him. It’s Dabi.

(A few days after his 13th birthday, the Dabi you used to know told you that he was going to dye his hair—he wanted to be unrecognizable, and you understood, so you found some old scissors and stole hair dye from the pharmacy and you spent three long hours chopping his hair into rough spikes and painting it black. When you washed the dye out of his hair in the sink, your hands were stained inky black too. When he saw, he looked worried and weaved his fingers in with yours and asked if the dye would hurt your skin if it stayed on too long.

And you looked back at this kid—small for his age then, burned by his own quirk, trying so hard to look older and tougher than any 13-year-old should have to be, and you thought to yourself, I would die for you.)

Now you hear Dabi growling out your name and squeezing your hand as he reaches his climax and you think, I would kill you if I could.

///

Dabi saves the master bedroom for last.

Your husband is hosting a party at your house. Dabi knows because you begged him not to come today, looking up at him with those doe-like eyes, offering things you never would have offered if it weren’t important to you that he stay away on this particular evening. But he still comes to crash it. He arrives just minutes before your husband does, and you have barely enough time to tuck him away on the dark bedroom balcony and pull the curtains closed before your husband is opening the door and greeting you.

Dabi settles himself into one of the tasteful Adirondack chairs on the balcony and listens to your voice, or at least what he can hear of it through the sliding glass door. You’re sweeter with your husband than you are with Dabi, and he should’ve known you’d be, but it still makes him hate your husband more than he already did.

On the other hand, there’s something strained and high and nervous in the way you’re speaking. Probably because your husband is standing about twenty feet away from the man you’re cheating on him with.

It takes a while for the two of you to dress for the party, but finally Dabi hears you tell your husband that you’d like to take a little longer to get ready and bid him goodbye. “Love you,” you say to the old man as he leaves the room, so casually Dabi might not have heard it if he wasn’t listening.

Then you’re opening the door and ushering him inside and telling him anxiously that he has to get out before anyone sees him. But, oh, you look nice like this, dolled up in your evening gown and makeup and diamonds, trying to pull him to the door even though you must know by now that he’s not going to leave it there. Instead of following, he backs you up onto the bed and peels down the straps of your dress and slides his hands up under the skirt, and all the while he can’t stop thinking about what you said to your husband.

You used to say that to Dabi.

The first time it was an accident—you’d mentioned it off-hand during a night when it was snowing and his unnaturally high body temperature was the only thing keeping the two of you alive. “God, I love you,” you’d said, draping your arm around his shoulders and pulling him in close to share his heat.

It had stunned him and you could probably tell. Maybe the next few times were just you taking pity on a kid who had never been told so casually and so simply that he was loved. But eventually you meant it, the little love you’s before you went to sleep or when one of you went off to do something alone for a few days—a familial love borne of mutual reliance. For the years Dabi was a runaway with you, you were the only person he could trust, and he knows the feeling was mutual.

Now he wants you to tell him you love him again.

It would be hot, wouldn’t it? You telling Dabi you love him while he forces you into a mating press on the bed you share with your husband. Isn’t that hot? You’re never going to be able to sleep on these sheets again without remembering his hands on your body, his tongue in your mouth, his cock filling you in ways you haven’t been filled since you were 19.

How are you gonna lay next to your husband in this sad cold bed? ‘Cause that old fuck isn’t touching you, Dabi knows that much—if he was, he’d’ve noticed by now that you’re always covered in bite marks and hickeys that he didn’t give you. How are you gonna sleep at night knowing what a nasty slut you are, telling another man you love him?

So say it. Say you love him.

Oh, you’re going to be like that, aren’t you? What did he tell you about being a fucking brat when he’s talking to you? See if you’re still so defiant when he’s got his hand stroking the length of that pretty throat and then sealing down on it, squeezing gently on the veins running up the sides of your neck, not too hard, but enough that you’re probably getting a little dizzy while he continues to fuck into you. Does it hurt? Your face is turning pink. Uh-uh-uh, don’t try to pull his hand off, or he’ll show you just how good he is with his quirk these days.

You’re trying to choke out the words but you can’t quite make them make sense. There’s something endearing about the way your whimpers vibrate through the skin of Dabi’s palm, how he can hear you as well as feeling you. Oh—could you say his name too? He knows you’re feeling all fucked-out and wet and sloppy, every moan rising and falling in time with his cock stretching your pussy open, but can’t you give it a little more effort? He’s sure you can get his name out if you really try.

And if you’re not going to cooperate, Dabi may as well just dig the heel of his knuckle into your windpipe, because you really do tighten up so deliciously when you cough and sputter like that. Fuck, if you keep doing that, he’s going to cum, gonna cum right here in your syrupy pussy and spill it all over your marriage bed—but no, he wants to hear you say it first, so when you’re gagging and turning red and your eyes are watering he finally stops choking you, loosening his grip just enough that his hand is resting on your neck in a lover’s touch. It takes you a second and your voice is so hoarse he can barely hear it, but then you’re speaking and something jumps in his chest—

“I…I love—love y-you, Touya!” you sob. “I love you! I—love you, Touya—Touya—Touya—!”

And ah fuck it’s almost exactly right, your voice saying you love him, saying his real name, a name he hasn’t heard for years because you’re the only one who really knows it anymore—but you’re crying, real heavy sobs while you gulp in frantic lungfuls of oxygen. Your ribcage is heaving underneath him and—god, fuck—your guts are clenching, sucking down on every inch of his cock, every vein—

—oh shit fuck fuck he’s cumming, and he presses his face into your neck, into your hair, kissing you and thinking I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you—

—please stay, forever.

///

When he’s done, he goes for another round just to make sure you’re going to have cum dripping down your thighs when you go back to the party. No panties, unless you want him to walk through the grand foyer with all the other guests on his way out.

You don’t look at him as you fix your dress and your hair and wipe at your smeared makeup. With your eyeliner rubbed down to the bottom of your eyes, Dabi’s reminded a little of how you used to look—and the reminder is doubled when you slide your legs across the side of the bed and limp over to your vanity, walking hesitantly, your hips rocking from side to side. Damn, did he fuck you that hard?

Reminds him of the old days, you shuffling back to the hideout with that same awkward pain in your gait, purple marks around your neck, and a dim smile decorating your face—for his sake. Oh, and cash in your pockets. You’d tell him that the two of you were going out to eat that night and refuse to let him look at the injuries. God, it made him angry, it still makes him angry just thinking about it—angry at the men who bought you for treating you like that, angry at you for letting them. Angry at himself for not being old enough or strong enough or rich enough to stop them.

Anger, yes…and other things too. There had been a sick, insidious part of him that wanted to be in their position. He’d hated himself for it back then, until you left and the desire to punish you for abandoning him got twisted up with the desire to own you and keep you his. Maybe if he let himself think about it, he’d still hate himself for what he’s doing to you.

By now, you’re too good at covering up the bruises. A sweep of foundation and powder passes over each hickey he left on your throat and it’s like he never touched you. You have to push him off the bed so you can strip the sheets and replace them. When you’re done, you tell him to wait a few minutes after you leave to sneak out the back and he makes another half-joke about joining the party and introducing himself to your old man—

—and you shove him up against the wall with all the strength left in you, wrap your hand around his neck, and dig your fingernails under the line of piercings in his cheek. If he even looks at your husband, if he even thinks about it, you’ll rip his goddamn face open, you tell him in a low snarl.

It’s an empty threat (you and he both know who would win in a physical altercation) but there’s real hatred behind it. Dabi hasn’t seen that kind of fire in your eyes since he found out you became a trophy wife. It makes him want to have you again so he does, pulling your arms away from his face, standing and holding you up against the door to your bedroom, forcing you to wrap your arms around his neck and cling to him to keep from falling.

He’s lubed up by his own cum, and the wet squelching of your pussy just reminds him what a mess you’re going to be when you return to high society tonight. Maybe your husband will be able to smell it on you—the cum, the sex, the other man who’s been keeping his darling wife warm while he’s at work.

Well, probably not. If that stupid fucking cuckold hasn’t figured it out by now, there’s not much of a chance he’ll get it on his own. As Dabi sinks into your tight, gummy cunt again, he decides that he might just have to help the process along. A man deserves to know if his wife is being unfaithful, right?

///

Your husband’s office phone number is written on a post-it note that’s tacked to the desk of his study. It takes Dabi 40 minutes and $30 to buy a burner cell phone, leave a message on the man’s voicemail, and toss the burner in the kitchen trash at your house while you’re in the shower.

The message is short and straightforward. Dabi introduces himself as ‘the man who’s sleeping with your wife’, describes the floor plan of your husband’s house and what position he fucked you in for each room, and finally finishes it off with the evidence—the precise size and location of every hickey he’s left on your body that will still be visible by the time your husband returns from work.

Dabi almost wishes your husband had picked up the call—he’d’ve had a good time explaining in pornographic detail the way your tits look under those too-formal dresses, the way you moan when you cum in his mouth, the way you told him you loved him while he choked you out—with your husband in the house, no less. But this is fine too.

Besides, it’ll be so fucking funny if someone else at your husband’s company hears the message before he does.

///

Whore. Your husband called you a whore.

You’ve been called a whore a lot, actually. More than most people. You should be used to it by now. But it’s different when your husband says it. Your husband, the man who rescued you from a life of poverty and starvation, the man who has given you everything you own, the man who slid a ring onto your finger under a wedding arch and promised to love you in good times and in bad. The man you’ve almost convinced yourself you love back.

He called you a whore and slapped you when you tried to explain yourself and shoved you out the door and locked it. You can still hear his voice telling you the only place he wants to see your face again is in a casket.

So that’s why when Dabi comes to collect you, you’re hugging your knees to your chest on your front porch in your shiny lace-edged slip nightdress, hair in a mess around your head and your lip bleeding onto your chin. Your feet are so cold—your husband didn’t even give you time to put shoes on before he threw you out.

The night is cool and dark but the porch light buzzes on for half a minute when Dabi climbs up the steps to come crouch next to you on the doorstep. You try not to look at him, but he tilts your face toward his, electric-blue eyes skimming over the red mark and blue-black discoloration blossoming across your cheekbone; the blood drying on your split lip.

Dabi asks calmly if your husband hit you, and you nod.

Good, he tells you, and his body lights up blue in a roiling cloud of flames. He’s been waiting for an excuse to kill that old fuck.

The fire is like lightning, bright and ghostly in the darkness. The crackling of the flame eats away at the heavy silence of the night and you crawl back from the dry heat of it, sure you can feel your eyebrows singeing from being near. Dabi looks different backed by the inferno—bigger, crueler. Frightening. He reaches at the door but you shout at him to stop.

Why? Don’t you think he should suffer, after what he did to you?

But your fists clench by your sides and you set your teeth and you tell Dabi that if he’s going to kill your husband, he may as well set himself on fire too, because it’s his fault in the first place. And he’s done a lot worse to you than one slap.

Dabi waits a moment, searching your alarmed expression for something, but whatever he’s hoping for you don’t give him and the flames go out. The air smells like smoke and his hands are hot—not burning, but uncomfortably hot—when he kneels in front of you and rubs a thumb over your bruised cheek.

“(Y/N)—” Dabi starts, and then he can’t find a way to finish. So he just gathers you up in his arms and carries you bridal-style down into the lawn and to the driveway, where he’s got a car waiting to take you guys back to his place. You don’t resist, which surprises him again. He thought you’d push away at him, scream, get angry—he thought he’d have to convince you. Or force you, like he usually does. But you just let him deposit you in the seat next to the driver’s.

Before he gets in, he asks you if you need anything from your house. He can go get it for you. See if any balding motherfucker in his forties can stop him. But you just shake your head.

“There’s nothing,” you say blankly. “I have nothing. I…have nothing.”

Just like back then.

“Not nothing,” Dabi tells you, turning forward to the road so you can’t see the look on his face. “You have me.”

///

In the end, he does understand. He understood it the second he held that goodbye note in his hands and knew you were lost to him.

You were 17 when you met him and 19 when you left—hardly older than a child yourself. You barely had enough to provide for your own needs, much less a teenage boy’s. By the time you left, Dabi was more than capable of surviving on his own and already falling into ugly crowds, gangs and syndicates who saw money in his quirk, people you’d sacrificed a lot to keep him away from. He no longer needed you, and it was time for you two to go your separate ways. Dabi understands that.

But now you need him. Just like you needed him when you were fucking strangers for food money; like you needed him when you ran away; like you needed him when you got trapped in this mundane, sparkling-clean life, a life that was never going to fit you. Only this time—this time, Dabi’s old enough for you. He’s not a kid anymore, he’s a man. He’s got an apartment and a good job (well, kind of) and he’s got money. He can provide for you the way you’ve always needed him to.

Dabi’s going to take care of you, and you’re never, ever going to leave.

#dabi x reader #bnha x reader #yandere dabi x reader #yandere dabi #yandere bnha #yandere bnha x reader #dabi #bnha #boku no hero academia #mha #my hero academia #bnha imagines #mha imagines #mha x reader #smut #yandere #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere mha #yandere my hero academia #boku no hero fanfic #tw dubcon #tw noncon

[blackmissfrizzle]

Angel’s Girl

Characters: Angel Reyes x black!reader

Summary: Angel wants everyone to know you’re his girl. Also, part of a request from @brownsugarcoffy​/  Hi! I don't know if your taking any request, but I saw this picture of this necklace with Angel on it. I was wondering if you would write a imagine of Angel Reyes giving the reader a necklace with his name to claiming her as his old lady and now Angel now wants to only see her wearing his name as they make love. I really adore your writing and know you will do it justice. ❤

Warnings: A lil angst, a lil smut, a whole lotta fluff and cheesiness. 

Here’s more of my work or if you would like to be notified here’s my taglist

At some point, you and Angel knew you had a forever kind of love. The kind of love where you get tattoos expressing that love. When it was your two-year anniversary, he propositioned the idea.

He showed you the sketches he drew of your name. He was so excited, that it physically hurt you to burst his bubble. “Angel, I love you, but there’s no way I’m getting your name tattooed on me.” Angel grabbed you by the back of your neck and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I know, mi dulce. You’re too practical for that, so that’s why I drew you these.”

Moving his page of his drawing of your name Angel revealed a sheet of paper full of angel wings drawings. The one in the center, immediately caught your attention. “That one! That’s the one!”

“Yeah? You like it?” He asked nervously. Angel had only shown his drawings to you and EZ. He was too insecure to share them with to anyone else.

“Duh! And I’ll get ‘em on my fingers and go like this,” you flicked your wrist. “And tell them my super amazingly talented boyfriend drew them.”

“Handsome. Your super amazingly talented handsome boyfriend.”

“Oh, how could I forget!?” You smacked your forehead. “It’s okay, I forgive you.” He kissed your temple and listened to you plan when you and he would get the tattoos while he rubbed the ring finger you flicked at him earlier, thinking how well it would look with an engagement ring.

--

Angel just loved how you showed off your tattoos. Or better yet how you explained the meaning behind them. Club hang arounds? You flaunted that shit and in the next breath you threatened to punch them dead in the face if they ever disrespect you by flirting with Angel. Dudes hitting on you at the bar? You shot them down with the quickness and told them you only belonged to one person and fluttered your fingers like you were already married.

But one day the tattoos weren’t enough. Angel didn’t know what it was, but he knew he needed something else to say you’re his. An engagement ring was out of the question because he had yet to find the perfect one. Luckily, one day he stumbled onto a heart locket that had his name engraved in it and he knew that was it. That would show everyone you were his old lady.

When he brought the necklace to you, you were automatically in love, but you also had to tease him. He was practically going all caveman on you when he requested you always wear it. “Damn Angel, I might as well get your name tattooed on my forehead.”

“Angel!” You hit him as he was seriously mulling over the idea. “I’m just kidding, querdia. We want to take attention away from your big ole forehead not bring more to it.”

--

With your forgetful self, one day you forgot to put your necklace back on after the gym. That didn’t sit well with Angel, especially since you and him weren’t on the best of terms.

“Where the fuck is your necklace, Y/N?”

“In the car. I forgot to put it back on.” You set down your gym bag, went into the kitchen and got you a bottle of water.

“You forgot? Didn’t I tell you to keep it on at all times?” His insecurities were flaring up, driving him to be crazily possessive.

“Angel, I’m not your damn property! When you get that through your thick ass skull give me a call!” And with that you ran out the door with him calling after you was cut off by you slamming the door and running into your car.

That’s how you ended up at the bar, listening to some lame pickup lines.

“Angel, that’s a pretty name.”  The guy pointed to your necklace.

Soon as you decided you were going to the bar you put the necklace back on. “It is.” You replied in a monotone voice, keeping your eyes straight ahead. He didn’t take the hint that you were not interested and continued to talk to you.

When you raised your glass to take a sip, he noticed your tattoos and made some corny joke. Somehow, he kept going even though that was like the fifth joke you didn’t laugh at.

From afar Angel was watching the interaction partly amused and partly jealous. He wanted you to tell the guy get lost, but he could clearly see your annoyance and it was funny to him. He decided he’ll let it go on for a little while longer to let you suffer some more unless it got out of hand.

“So, Angel what’s a beautiful girl like you doing here alone?” The stranger was about to put his hand on your thigh, but he finally picked up on some social cues and stopped himself. “I was enjoying my drink and my name’s not Angel.”

“What? It says it right there.” He pointed to your locket. Oh, this man was dumber than you thought. “Doesn’t mean it’s my name.”

“Then whose name is it?” He got defensive, he didn’t appreciate being made a fool of.

“Her boyfriend’s.” Angel finally decided to intervene when he saw the guy become agitated.

The sleazebag was about to be Billy badass, but then he saw Angel’s kutte and became a stuttering mess. “Sor-so-so-sor-sorry man, I didn’t know she was your girl. My bad.” He didn’t even give Angel time to threaten him. He ran off afraid of what could happen.

“Took you long enough off.” Halfway through your one-sided conversation with your unwanted suitor you saw Angel’s reflection through the bar’s mirror. “You knew I was here? Why didn’t you stop him?”

“I thought you would.”

Angel took your glass and drunk the rest of your drink. “Nah, it was too much fun seeing you suffer.”

“Asshole!” You playfully shoved Angel.

He started to laugh but it eventually died down. “I’m sorry, querida.”

“For being an asshole at home or being one here?”

“At home. That shit here was too funny.” He backed away before you could hit him again. “Seriously though, I’m sorry. I don’t think of you as my property. Yeah this,” Angel moved in closer to grab your necklace, “it means you’re my girl, but the deeper meaner is that you own my heart.”

“So that means I’m not your whore you can fuck however and whenever you want?” You asked with a smirk.

“Check, please!”

—

Angel had you twisted up like some damn pretzel, but you loved it. As soon as you got home, he got on his knees and made you cum three times with his mouth and he would’ve gone for the fourth if you didn’t beg him to fuck you.

“Shit! Who’s pussy is this?” Angel was pounding into you, his eyes were focused on your locket swinging against your neck. “It’s yours Daddy!”

“Damn right it is.” He took your left hand and sucked your ring finger. With his hand he took a hold of your neck. “And next time some little bitch tried talking to you, you shit that shit down. You understand me?”

“Yes, daddy,” you whimpered with tears streaming down your face. Angel was too good at this. You could feel another orgasm mounting up and it felt like it would be the most powerful of all.

Angel noticed you trying to hold back your orgasm because he didn’t give you the permission to cum. “Good girl.” He praised you, leaning forward until your foreheads met. “Daddy’s making you feel good?”

“Yes,” you nodded your head, “You’re so big, I can feel you deep in my tummy.”

He pressed a hand to your stomach. “You’re right, princesa. I’m deep in them guts. But can you do me a favor baby girl?”

“Anything for you.” Angel smiled against your neck. “Cum all over daddy’s cock.” And just like that you did. You screamed Angel’s name at the top of your lungs almost drowning out his own shouts of pleasure.

After that thorough round you wanted to bundle up and go to sleep but Angel made you get up. “Hygiene over comfortability,” he said.

As you went to use the restroom, he changed the sheets and started the bath. Just before you joined him in the tub, he handed you your shower cap. It was blissful silence as you two cleaned up.

Again, Angel was rubbing in your left ring finger. Ever since you got the tattoo there, he’s been obsessed, but he never gave the same attention to your middle finger with the other angel wing.

“Angel?”

“Yes, querida?”

“Why do you keep a hand on my ring finger?”

“Man, I thought you were the smart one of us two.” You splashed some water his way and he quickly apologized knowing you could start a splash war like nothing.

He brought up said finger to his lips and kissed it. “Because I can’t stop imagining how good it’ll look with a ring on it.”

His answer appeased you which led you to your conditions of your proposal. Angel listened eagerly and ingrained each requirement in his head. There was no way he was gonna mess this up.

--

He hadn’t been shopping for it, he just accidentally stumbled on it while at the mall. Weeks later, Angel finally found the perfect engagement ring for you. He was so excited that he planned to propose that night, but your nails weren’t done and one of your requirements were to make sure your nails weren’t ‘raggedy’ as you would put it.

Then another couple of weeks later the opportunity presented itself. You were on your lunch break and you came to the clubhouse to spend it with him and the guys. Your mouth was full of tacos like chipmunk cheeks while you yelled ‘No fucking way!’ at Coco and Angel thought there was no one he rather spend the rest of his days with.

He did a quick check of your nails and they still look good from the day before. Yeah there were people around, but it was people you and him consider family. Your hair was done, and you had a nice outfit on, so all the boxes were checked.

“Querida,” he called out to you to stop you from arguing with Coco.

“Yeah babe?” You turned to him and found him on one knee. “Oh my god!” You jumped up and started wiggling around doing some weird celebratory dance.

The guys turned to see what was happening and they all cracked a smile. “About damn time.” Coco slapped the back of Angel’s shoulders. The rest of the Mayans came out with their guns out when they heard your screams, but quickly put them away when they saw what was happening.

Each time Angel tried to say something you would just squeal and continue dancing, not giving him a chance to get one-word in. “Prospect, get her.” Bishop ordered, seeing how uncomfortable Angel was getting from kneeling on the gravel.

EZ wrapped one arm around your shoulders and the other over your mouth. “I know you’re excited to be my sister-in-law, but you can’t say yes if he can’t ask the question. So, can you be quiet and be still?” You nodded your head fervently and EZ released you.

“Thanks, bro.” Angel cleared his throat before looking at you. He was getting nervous again, but then he saw how you had to contain your excitement and he was overwhelmed with love again. “You know I’m not good with words and shit, but I’ll try. You’re my everything, Y/N. You’re my first thought in the morning and my last thought at night. I honestly can’t think of my life without you because it would be too depressing. God, I hope this isn’t too corny, but here it goes: what’s the point of an angel if there’s no heaven? So, with that being said, Y/N, will you marry me?”

“Yes!” Angel was lucky he started to stand up because you tackled him once he slid the ring on. He was attacked with kisses all over his face and he wondered how could he had been worried about you saying no at all.

“You know you’re gonna be stuck with me forever, right?”

“Yeah, I’m perfectly fine with that. What’s the point of heaven if I don’t have my Angel with me?” Forever with Angel sounded like paradise and you couldn’t wait.

Tagging: @tomhardydallasstarsgirl​ @sadeyesgf​ @woahitslucyylu​ @starrynite7114​ @angelreyesgirl​ @blessedboo​ @ourlittlesecretsoveragain​ @sambucky8​ @mygirlrenee​ @ljstraightnochaser​ @my-rosegold-soul​ @angrythingstarlight​ @richonne4life​ @brattyfics​ @lovebennycolon​ @langiinspirations​ @chibsytelford​ @trulysuccubus​ @spookys-girl​ @brownsugarcoffy​ @thesandbeneathmytoes​ @fvckthisbxtchup​ @theartisticqueen​

#black!reader #angel reyes #angel reyes x reader #angel reyes x black!reader #angel reyes fanfic #mayans mc #mayans mc fanfic #mayans mc fandom #frizzlefic #frizzlesfic

[sasskarian]

@systlin can I offer you some inane Din/Cara pining fic in this trying time?

Edit: now on Ao3, because why not - >>link<<

“So. Let me get this straight.” Greef lifts his bad knee with a groan, settling it over his other leg so he can sprawl a little more indolently. Din’s HUD focuses in, shows the elevated temperature in the joint in a dark red, and he turns it off with a flicker of his eye. Greef lifts his glass again, takes a sip, and gestures with it before continuing. “You two. Not together?”

Greef isn’t precisely a friend, but they’d been shot at by Moffs and droids and troopers all the same, which, in Din’s line of work, made for something close enough to friends for a drink now and again.

Besides. Greef had never shorted him on a bounty or passed up choice ones for sordid favors, and aside from trying to kill him that one time, had never really treated him all that badly. And what mando didn’t have an ally turn on him now and again? That hadn’t been personal; just business is a phrase that gets a lot of legwork on The Way.

“Definitely not together,” Cara hisses, slamming her own tankard down and sloshing the oily-looking ale over her white-knuckled hands.

Under the beskar, Din’s neck warms. While true, she didn’t have to sound quite that offended by the notion, did she?

A new notice pops on the HUD: the kid—he never had settled on a name for him, had he?—gurgles sleepily, pulling the thin blanket over his head with a vague hand-wave. Ever since the little womp-rat had tried stealing the Crest for the second time, Din counts the pricey motion sensor security system as one of his best purchases to date, and it lets him keep an eye on his kid while he’s out.

He tunes back into the not-so-friendly argument in time to hear Greef splutter. “You trash talked while holding hands! If that’s not flirting, I’m a kowakian monkey lizard.”

“It was arm wrestling, not holding hands,” Din points out mildly. His own drink sits in front of him, untouched since sitting down; neither of his companions seems to find the mostly-symbolic tank odd in the slightest.

“And there was nothing flirty about it!” Cara says, and she is some shade of magnificent, with her eyes flashing dark brown fire and a flush riding high on her cheeks. She looks about one more teasing jab away from throwing a fist in Greef’s face and for one amused moment, Din entertains himself with how that fight would play out:

Cara has the speed and raw strength to take Greef to the floor, and with her economical, no-punches-pulled style, she’d have him begging for air or death inside of forty-two seconds. If that. She doesn’t so much fight as simply brawl her way through whatever obstacle dares set foot in her path, and damn if it isn’t some sort of fascinating. There’s a joy in Cara Dune when she fights that calls to the manda inside him, a flash and sizzle that tells him if Cara put her mind to it, she’d make a hell of a mandalorian.

He might kind of like that, if she'd ever stop running long enough to actually look at him.

But she hasn’t, and probably won’t, and Din isn’t exactly in the habit of making himself so vulnerable to every strong, capable fighter that stumbles across him. He definitely has never pined in his entire life, and isn’t about to start now. Even if Carasynthia Dune is as mandokarla as beings come.

“Sure,” Greef says. He salutes Cara with his glass. “I’ll believe that when you aren’t helping him raise a kid and getting all chummy with the mandos.”

The sound that comes out of Cara’s mouth is about fifty percent outrage and fifty percent embarrassed horror, and completely entertaining. Din laughs to himself as Cara doesn’t, as he’d thought, launch herself over the table but aims a vicious kick at Greef’s chair that sends him skittering backwards on two legs. Even after he falls to the ground with a painful thud, Greef shoots her a smirk and says something about going native that has Cara hauling him up by his jacket to snarl in his face.

***

“Little shit still sleeping?”

Din doesn’t jump when Cara looms out of the shadows, blending into the moonless Nevarran night; his HUD has 360 degree motion detection, and he’s usually got an eye on her anyway.

“Growing fast,” he replies softly, one nerve-simulated gloved fingertip stroking along the little one’s ear. “And eating everything in sight.”

“So I see.” Cara arches a brow at the small, furious imprints of baby teeth on the metal crib. For all her I don’t do babies talk right before things went to shit with Gideon, the strong lines of her face soften when the kid turns over and snuggles into a baby-sized pillow. “Maybe you should try some flash-frozen meat to keep him from gnawing on your ship. One’s gotta be cheaper than the other.”

Din points behind him at a chest that easily reaches his waist: Fresh Naboo Jella Gorgs; flash frozen for that perfect crunch!

“Huh. Don’t you just think of everything.” She reaches down, brushing a knuckle across the kid’s cheek, and a knot of tension Din refused to pay attention to in the depths of his stomach loosens. Most people wouldn’t forgive someone for choke-holding them, especially when she was almost two full meters and the kid was maybe a fifth of her size. But there was nothing but baffled affection in her face and Din settles his newest purchase—a small, raggedy stuffed doll with armor loosely, and inaccurately, based on mando designs—in the corner of the crib before nodding to the galley.

They’ve done this half a dozen times or more since Gideon and IG-11. Whiling away long hours while the Crest diagnostics run, while Din cleans his guns and Cara sharpens a knife with a wicked curve. While they wait, even still, for the other shoe to drop, for Stormtroopers to rush the ship or Gideon to rise from his grave yet again.

Din doesn’t look at the angled lightsaber hilt tucked in the bottom of his weapons cache, and Cara knows better than to ask about it, when she stops pretending to not see it. Until he decides what to do with the Darksaber, it’s just going to sit there and be patient.

The silence that falls between them in these slow, lazy hours is usually companionable, sometimes holy, and only broken by the sounds of bodies in chairs and a sleeping baby. Tonight, though, there’s a wire of tension strung between them, plucked taut with every overly-aware breath and movement. He wonders, idly, who’s going to break it first.

#baby yoda #din djarin #cara dune #Mandalorian #Star Wars #greef karga #Sher does Star Wars #favorite series alert #it's not like any of my one shots ever STAY one shots #they always go out and develop PLOT and FEELINGS

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 157: Giant Zelda Boss

Previously on BnHA: The badass lady squad kicked some villain ass (even if it did take them a while). Toga showed up disguised as Deku and directed the heroes to where Nighteye and co. were fighting Overhaul underground. They crashed onto the scene as Toga, Twice, and Compress watched from the street above. Twice and Toga told Compress to go kidnap Eri, and he was all “:/ but it’s dangerous” but in the end they bullied him into going down there. Overhaul tried to escape with Eri and Deku leaped after them. We learned that Eri was the granddaughter of the Precepts’ boss, and her mom abandoned her, so the boss put her in Overhaul’s care. Apparently she had an unknown quirk that had somehow killed her biological father. Overhaul experimented and found out her quirk had something to do with “rewinding.” Then the rest of it we already knew -- Overhaul continued to hurt her and she had to suffer through it and eventually she was conditioned to blame herself and to believe that she was “cursed.” But now with everyone trying to rescue her, her quirk is apparently “awakening” with her desire to somehow save them all. omg.

Today on BnHA: Deku grabs Eri and says he’s not gonna let go! Overhaul, who has reverted back to his normal form, is all GIVE HER BACK, and creates some stabby rock tentacle claws to try and get at them. Deku instinctively uses 100% OFA to escape to the surface, and then panics afterwards, thinking that he’s broken his legs. But surprisingly, they’re fine. Meanwhile, Overhaul fuses himself with another unconscious minion and heads after them. Nighteye tells Ryuukyuu and the others that he saw the future and that Overhaul is going to pursue Eri and kill Deku, and that even if they go after him they won’t win. Back on the street level, Deku realizes that all of his injuries have been healed, but then he promptly crumples over in pain. Overhaul, having transformed into some sort of multi-limbed giant rock dragon man, explains that Eri’s quirk gives her the ability to “rewind” humans, and that she can’t control it. But Deku decides this is the perfect opportunity to activate OFA Full Cowl at 100% and just have Eri heal him as he goes. He’s gonna BREAK BONES LIKE NO ONE HAS EVER BROKEN BONES BEFORE.

(As always, all comments not marked with an ETA are my unspoiled reactions from my first readthrough of this chapter. I’ve read up through chapter 187 now, so any ETAs will reflect that.)

oh! I like this!!

“the determination to be saved” YESSSS ERI YESSSSS

also, going back to the previous panel for a second, what is going on??

what happened to Overhaul and Nemo? they unfused?? did she rewind time and undo all his bullshit?

anyway Deku has her now and he says this time he’s not letting go of her! YAY

AHHHHH

FUCK. SOMEONE SWAT IT WITH A NEWSPAPER

also Horikoshi’s love of drawing hands has officially gone too far. that is SO FUCKING DISTURBING. and also AWESOME, GODDAMMIT

like, look at how his fingers are separating the panels in the bottom right corner. fuck this artistic bullshit

also why is Deku worried about his ability to move? it’s not like Overhaul is any better off. he’s disintegrating the platform he was standing on so he can literally fall at them. you’re both falling. just dodge him. it’s not like he’s any more mobile than you are, and he doesn’t have 20% OFA or 8% or whatever the fuck you’re using right now

anyway he’s hugging Eri determinedly and glaring at Overhaul and again thinking that he won’t let her go no matter what

oh cool are we flashing back to one of the best lines in this arc? I’m down with that

nice to see Deku getting back to his roots

nice to see Horikoshi getting back to his roots, actually. pacing has picked up again, art style is back in full swing, and Deku is thinking determined thoughts about heroically saving others? this is the manga I fell in love with

...maybe I spoke too soon

wait, what? did he just make a giant claw cliff only to grab himself?

okay but what the fuck is happening, though?

wha

that’s what I... you know what, never mind

OH MY GOD

DID YOU BREAK YOUR FUCKING LEGS DEKU YOU FUCK

ARE THEY!?

I can’t tell?? they don’t look anything like they did the last time he used 100%, but the one time it happened with his legs, it looked pretty different from when he breaks his arms. with his arms his sleeves usually rip right off and he’s all noodley and floppy. but with his legs, his pants always seem to stay intact to preserve his modesty. which is very thoughtful of you, OFA

anyway, down in the basement, Ryuukyuu and the others are saying they felt some sort of shockwave, so it’s indeed seeming like he broke his vow to never use OFA at full strength until he mastered it

I forgive him though. do you guys. I fully forgive him. as long as it actually worked oh please god let it have worked

hmm?

SHE WHAT. WHAT’S HER QUIRK GODDAMMIT

he’s screaming at Eri (even though she’s not there) that he needs her “in order to realize Pops’s ambition”

well too bad

Ryuukyuu looks very concerned, and I didn’t understand why, but then I remembered that even though Deku and Eri got to safety, the rest of them are all still stuck down there with him lol

it honestly didn’t even occur to me to be concerned. I don’t know why. I just assume they can handle themselves

NIGHTEYE WHY ARE YOU TALKING

I mean, we already knew that though

omg

...well shit

but I mean. did he really see that? because if so, that’s officially the first vision he’s had that we 100% know is not going to come true. so I guess they’re not infallible after all

and of course Ochako is FREAKING OUT now

oh no but she’s falling down now for some reason

(ETA: I guess she’s still fatigued from all the vitality-absorbing attacks earlier)

Nighteye says that he saw it

Ryuukyuu’s turning in disbelief asking him if he thinks they’d just go along with what he’s saying after hearing that

but he says that in their current condition they can’t win

EXACTLY

Nighteye is all “...”

and he’s giving Tsuyu directions to where Mirio is

and he’s asking Ochako and Ryuukyuu to help him to the surface omg

ARE YOU GOING TO SACRIFICE YOURSELF

meanwhile back on the surface, Deku is landing!

and HIS LEGS AREN’T BROKEN OMG

IT’S ERI’S QUIRK

he’s asking her about it!

oh shit and now something’s happening

“RRIP” is not a good fx for one’s body to be making, generally speaking. though jury is still out on “ZZGGGG”

oh shit

look Overhaul, I’m going to allow you to make one last stand for just long enough that you can explain how this quirk works. and then you can fucking die

he says she doesn’t know how to stop it

siiiiiiiiiigh

you really went and made yourself into a giant Zelda boss. and made yourself into its fucking tongue

anyway he’s continuing to explain, and it seems it is indeed a time-rewinding quirk

actually that quirk sounds amazing. once she’s able to control it she’s going to be a BEAST. offensively and defensively this is a winner. I can’t believe she had to put up with so many assholes telling her she’s cursed. cursed with being fucking awesome, maybe

(ETA: question, the way Overhaul phrases this makes it sound like she can rewind literally anything. do we know if there is a limit? is it limited to just living things, or organic materials? or is it literally anything, because if yes, holy shit though?)

Overhaul’s telling Deku to return Eri to him. hahahahaha. full of jokes now, are ya

“there’s no way to stop her other than her disassembly” um, nah. pretty sure she’s capable of stopping herself if they can get her to calm down. which could probably easily be accomplished if you would just kindly step off and go fuck yourself

anyway, Deku’s strapping Eri to his back. oh damn

he gets it now. the instant his leg broke, she reverted it before he could even feel the pain

he says it’s a kind, gentle quirk

oh my god Deku yes. say it louder for her to hear!

oh

oh baby girl it’s okay

oh fucking shit, of course Deku immediately thinks of how to appropriate this quirk for his own reckless needs

DEKU YOU SELF-DESTRUCTIVE LITTLE LUNATIC

(ETA: “CONSTANTLY ACCUMULATING INJURIES AT AN EVEN GREATER SPEED...!” jesus christ he is so fucking excited to have found this new and revolutionary way to wreck his body more efficiently than ever!!)

HIS HAIR SPIKED UP LIKE ALL MIGHT’S OMG!!??

DID THE SHAPE OF HIS FUCKING FACE CHANGE?? IT LOOKS MORE ANGULAR AND LIKE HIS BABY FAT IS SOMEHOW GONE ALL OF A SUDDEN?

I WISH I COULD SEE HIS MUSCLES, ARE THEY ALL BIG

(ETA: normal! so we’re still not sure how All Might does it, but that’s okay)

THIS KID IS ACTUALLY INSANE. “WILL YOU LEND ME YOUR POWER” FUCKING MAYBE ASK THAT BEFORE YOU GO AND DO THIS

NIGHTEYE REALLY PREDICTED HIM DYING EVEN AT ALL MIGHT LEVELS OF STRENGTH? JUST HOW BADLY IS HE SOMEHOW GOING TO MANAGE TO FUCK THIS UP

OH MY GOD LET’S KEEP READING AND FIND OUT

BONUS:

okay first off we have an “afterword” by Horikoshi announcing that this arc will finally come to an end in the next volume, and thanking everyone who’s sent him fan letters, and apologizing that he doesn’t have time to respond to them

he also talks about how tired he is and how energy drinks aren’t as effective anymore

I’m pretty worried about him burning out now tbh. Jump always works their best mangaka to the bone, and it’s a problem

other than that, there’s just the back of the volume 17 cover, which has Eri clutching her beloved Lemilliocape and more or less looking like she’s come straight out of some sort of apocalyptic AU

how did her clothes and bandages get so raggedy omg. Overhaul is just the worst caretaker in the history of time

#bnha #boku no hero academia #midoriya izuku #overhaul (bnha) #eri (bnha) #sir nighteye #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #makeste reads bnha #so in the bnha universe whoever makes pants needs a raise for sure #deku's pants can survive anything apparently #whereas his sleeves rip apart if he so much as sneezes #y'all remember his polo shirt from the forest lodge arc #'what shirt' you ask #yeah exactly #it lasted for like half a chapter #so what we have learned from this is that deku has the same tailor as bruce banner

[not-close-to-straight]

Appointment with Loki (Mature)

This is a completed fic! MASTERLIST **********************

You don't really want to be here, spending all summer in your cousins posh summer house, having to attend all her fancy parties and mingle with her ridiculous sorority sisters. No, you'd much rather be walking the boardwalk back home, sharing an ice cream cone with your best friend Mel and wearing the same pair of raggedy cut offs and tank top every day until they fall apart.

But Alyssa was getting married, and you for some ridiculous reason are her maid of honor, and she has invited you to spend her bachelorette summer with her. Because when you are rich as she is, you need more than a bachelorette party.. no you need an entire summer to party. So you had dragged yourself up the coast to Boston to the summer home on the beach, not excited for it, but unwilling to say no to your only cousin and really, oldest friend.

Sometimes you miss the days where both of your ran around in pigtails, thumbing your noses at boys, eating cotton candy until you were sick. Those were fun days, before she exploded into puberty quite suddenly and you were the freckle faced, flat chested girl she was ditching to make out with boys under the pier. And then all at once it seemed like you didn't know her at all. You had to work, after all. Your side of the family wasn't the rich side, and while she had cotillions and sweet sixteen parties, you served soft serve to preteens. When she joined a sorority, you lived with your parents and took classes at night to make things work.

But this summer, this last summer before she got married to some legacy fraternity brother with old money and the kind of jawline that should only exist in Harlequin novels, she had offered to pay for everything. New clothes, a little car to run around in, your books for your final semester so you didn't have to work. If only you would come up to the house and spend the summer with her like old times.

I feel like old times didn't require trips to a tailor to design dresses for dinner. You think wearily, stepping out of the little sports car she had lent you. But it is hard to complain. Alyssa had swore up and down this tailor would turn you from a country bumpkin into the perfect girl all summer, and even though you were maybe slightly offended, you couldn't say no.

So here you are. Standing anxiously on a raised little stage in front of entirely too many mirrors, in the private fitting room of the best designer on the east coast.

Well. you think to yourself. Too late to back out now. And if I don't have the perfect dress for Alyssa’s big first party I'll never live it down.

You sigh anxiously, glancing around the room, with its floor to ceiling mirrors on three walls and couches lining the fourth. Is it right for a tailor to have such an intimate room for fittings? The lights seem a little dim, the soft music a little too jazzy to be professional.

The cute little assistant-- Darcy? Was that her name? had helped you change into a dark green silk robe, and left with your street clothes, assuring you that Mr Laufeyson would see you in just a few minutes.

Yeah, he might see a little too much of me. You think uncomfortably. The robe only falls to mid thigh, and you hadn’t thought about wearing practical underwear today, no you were wearing that ridiculous tiny lace bra Mel had insisted on buying for you, and the matching bottoms that were really barely bottoms at all.

“Ah, there you are darling. So sorry to keep you waiting.” You gulp audibly and stare at the reflection of the man walking up behind you.

He is beautiful. All long limbs and shifting muscles beneath tight black dress pants and a white button up that isnt nearly buttoned up enough. Black hair that is just on this side of too long, and when he lifts his head to meet your eyes, you nearly melt staring into emerald green orbs.

“You are looking for a gown, is that right?” He asks, and a tremor runs down your back. His voice is low and soft and maybe British? But do British guys sound like sex like this?

God, pull it together, dumbass. Voices don’t sound like sex. You scold yourself, and almost as if he hears your thought, his lips lift in a slow smile.

“There’s no reason to be nervous.” He moves to stand in front of you, and he is tall but up on the raised little stage, you are nearly eye level with him, and it is disconcerting, having him staring right into your eyes. “I am very good at what I do. We will create something perfect for you, something as lovely and delicate as you. Perhaps in green? This robe on you is simply….” long fingers trace the collar of the robe, tugging just enough to part the material, stopping right before he exposes your bra. “No.” He seems to make up his mind with a quick shake of his head. “Something in blue. A delicate crystal blue. Like the color of glaciers in the sun. But silk. Do you like the way silk feels on your skin, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart? You think, but you just nod dumbly, and he smiles again.

“Yes, silk. Soft, and slick and smooth… raise your arms, love, let me get an accurate measure of you.”

You raise your arms automatically, still stuck on the way he had said slick, and he pulls a tape measure from around his neck, running it through his fingers idly before reaching around you to slide it around your back. “So slender you are.” He murmurs, bringing the edges of the tape together, then tightening it over your breasts. “Just exquisite really. But you know this, don’t you?” He sounds amused, perhaps pleased and you take a quick breath in. Those green orbs flick downward, the tape wrapping tighter around your chest until his knuckles are resting right against you. “Perfect size.” His tone drops into something darker and you bite your lips to keep from sighing. But he might have heard you, because he moves a little closer, his thumbs brushing over the curve of your breasts, and this time you absolutely do moan, and he absolutely hears it.

Son of a fucking---you close your eyes and curse yourself over and over, because he’s loosened the tape, pulled it away from your skin, backed off a step.

“Arms down, please.” He says mildly and you drop your arms, unable to look at him, just so embarrassed you could die. But then–

“Darling.” His voice is still that deep dark rumble and you force your eyes up to his.

Oh shit.

Those emerald eyes are blown wide, dilated to nearly black, and his shirt is definitely less buttoned than it was a moment ago.

“Darling, I would love to touch you here.” He reaches out with one graceful hand, almost but not quite touching you, barely skating over the rise your breast, down your stomach and over the swell of your hips to rest on your ass. “Would you let me? Is that too terribly forward of me?”

“I think you already are touching me.” You manage, then kick yourself mentally because honestly, you couldn’t have said something smoother?

“Ah, then you must forgive me.” He steps up into the platform then, and you realize in surprise that he stands at least seven inches above you, and you are suddenly feeling… tiny. And that's not really something you've ever felt before.

No, next to Alyssa, with her petite perfect figure you have always felt large. Tall and gangly and awkward. Certainly not--

“You are so delicate, a woman like you should only be touched with reverence, and I so badly want to see....” he leans down, until his lips are almost to yours, and only every single scrap of your dignity keeps you from standing up on your toes to kiss him already. “I must apologize, kitten, it seems I cannot keep my hands from you. I simply cannot wait to hear that lovely little sound from you again. That soft little moan, from before, could you do that again for me? Perhaps if I touch you like–” his hands--Christ his hands are so big I wonder if-- bring you against his hard body and it’s all you can do to keep your reaction to just that little moan he seems to like, when really you want to scream and cheer because the whole hand-size -in -relation-to -everything-else is SO TRUE and you can feel it and wonder if it would be rude to ask if you could see it.

“Oh.” His eyes widen even more and you think for a moment you could drown in them. “That was lovely. Beautiful.” He whispers. “Shall we see if we can do that again. Perhaps louder this time? Perhaps a little longer?”

“Do I have to stand the entire time?” You mumble and he has almost kissed you then, but leans back and laughs, an entirely delighted sound that makes your heart race even faster.

“Of course not, my pet, we can retire to my back room. When a project keeps me overly late, I simply rest there. Entirely comfortable, I assure you. But first–” he finally brings your mouth to his in a long, slow kiss, and suddenly you are holding onto his shoulders for dear life.

He kisses the same way he speaks, smooth and slow, with his tongue tripping and curling with your own. When did we start frenching? You wonder, but only for a second, because oh then he has tilted your head just so, and the kiss becomes impossible to escape from, and you just try to follow the shape of his mouth and the twist of his tongue as he brings your body closer against his own.

It's the sudden press of his hips to yours, the sudden press of him against your stomach that changes the moment. You break the kiss--entirely unwillingly-- because you absolutely have to breathe to wrap your mind around how big he is, and are relieved to see he is just as affected as you are.

“May I touch you here, right here?” He says breathlessly, and you nod without even looking, but you are not prepared for those long fingers to close around your neck, forcing your head to fall back, but no forcing isn't the right word. Not even close to to describing how the gentle touch on your throat makes you want to bare yourself entirely to his gaze. No, forced, isn't right, not when you lean back so naturally, your hair falling across your shoulders and his eyes flash at the...submission.

Yes, that's exactly the word for it.

“You are exquisite.” The words are nearly lost under the music still playing around you, and suddenly you are overly aware of everything. How you are standing on this platform in front of so many mirrors, letting this complete stranger, this designer or tailor or whatever he is, touch you, hold you, all while music is playing, and in the front room his assistant is probably wondering why the appointment is running long, and on the street people are going about their everyday lives. And none of them know how close you are to being lost right here. Lost and perhaps taken, and you-- the overtly practical woman you pride yourself on being-- is finding it difficult to care.

So you sigh, and your body loosens, and you can see the exact second he realizes you have made up your mind to give in.

“Exquisite.” He repeats, this time with so much admiration threading his words and you can't help the blush on your skin. “Does all of you flush this perfect shade of pink?” He asks, and maybe you imagine the hoarseness, but maybe not.

“What do you mean?” You ask, just barely above a whisper.

“I mean to say--” he stops, hesitates, “Actually, first, could I ...touch you right here?” His fingers haven't left your throat, so you can hardly nod, can't look to see where he means, but you nod anyway, and with a quick jerk he has you turned facing the mirrors, your hips firmly pinned to his, and you can see how you look.

Wanton. Half way to ravished. Any other description from a romance novel. That's how you look.

The deep green robe is falling off of one shoulder, and the sheer lace cup of your bra makes you realize exactly how little the ridiculous garment covers. His pale fingers circle your neck, holding your head back against his shoulder, and one hand presses your lower body against his. He's pushed your back into a graceful arch, making you look long and slender and…

“Darling you really are…” he drops his dark head to your shoulder, and you can feel his lips moving as he speaks. “The most beautiful creature I have ever seen. Now answer me, pet. If I were to make you blush again, is it just your lovely face that shades so gently pink, or does every inch of you turn such an intriguing shade?”

And you think-- oh god he wants to see me naked.

*********************

#loki #loki laufeyson #lokixreader fic #tailor shop au #summer love fic #hes the best tailor ever

[thesamesandwicheveryday]

11.

I can’t myself believe what time has passed since yesterday and today, my perception is all whacky, maybe I’m getting ill with something. My legs feel heavy and my calves are cramping at the slightest provocation; in reaching for the argan oil hair mask in the shower today they gave way and buckled under and had me tumbling onto the ceramic tiles and there I sat in agony being rained on, thinking about the grouting, thinking about the indoor weather, thinking about that song, what is it? Something something, it sounded almost like a very sad sea-shanty at the start of it, big billowing vocals, the 90s, the woman singing sounded to be really going through it, endless something. But I didn’t have all day to be sitting in the shower thinking of upsetting music, not again, because today’s the day that Ben moved in. He called last night and said “sorry I’m a day out, but it’s going to have to be tomorrow. I assume you’re not busy?” and my need to cooperate with his plans got in the way of both finding offence that he predicted I’d be up to nothing much save for waiting on his arrival, and his lackadaisical altering of the things I’m sure we had set in stone. I don’t know. There’s still a part of me that wants to give Ben an easy life wherever I find an opportunity. I know, he knows, that maybe sometimes I don’t give him an easy life, and it’s always unintentional. This way, with the conscious efforts, the forgoing of my own needs, wants, feelings, I’m redressing the balance before the scales even tip. It’s karma debt. He’ll remember the time I was incredibly laissez-fare about his whimsical fluidity of what I thought were iron-clad plans, and it will be evidence of how easy-going I am. When he accuses me of not being easy-going in the future — and he will — I should hope I won’t have to remind him of things like this, specifically this, the things he doesn’t notice, but ought to. He arrived two hours later than scheduled with his mother and father in tow, all sardined in the front of a red Bedford Rascal, a tiny crate on wheels, and I imagined that once they’d parked on the raggedy cobbles and the door to the flat was safely and effectively wedged as gaping open as it could be, all of Ben’s life would erupt through the back door, out the miniature windows, gasping for freedom after a six hour trundle up north all cramped in. What was peculiar though was how that did not at all happen. Ben’s father (Nigel, they call him Nodge; you don’t have to tell me how odious that is, trust me, I’m aware) seemed to open the back with very little trouble and inside were four, maybe five medium sized boxes, neatly packaged, nothing overflowing from the tops or piercing wonkily through the sides. What else, two large laundry bags, those canvas checked things, both mid-way full. A single bag would’ve done it but Ben is so sickeningly sensible I’m sure he thought the sight of one bulging great hulk of clothes was repulsive, aggressive even; Ben won’t see anything overflowing or superfluous, without feeling a sense of supreme dread and anxiety. And then, something I found rather offensive, something I never knew about my boyfriend — a shoe rack, that had somehow remained intact and orderly on the journey here (actually, Nodge drives like he’s always anticipating an elk might jump out, it’s desperately tedious and slow to be carted around by Nodge, NODGE), all lined up with — and I counted — fourteen pairs of trainers. All of them, just trainers. No smart shoes, no smart casual shoes, no work interview shoes, no funeral shoes. Trainers, mainly white but some red, a rather jazzy blue pair that Ben absolutely could not pull off, all of them still box-fresh as if they’d never met a pavement. Christ, it made me uneasy. I’m moving this man into my home, and this is how he has his shoes. I said to him, Ben, are these all your shoes? And he smiled, this kind of affected cheeky-chappy smile, and his accentless, Hertfordshire tones took on this mockney sway as he said, not as part of a bit or skit, “yeah, that’s all of ‘em, the full works”. I mean, who is this man? I knew I was spinning at this point, I laughed it off but I had to get back upstairs to the comfort of my flat — our flat —no, my flat, I was here first — and get back into the safety of the bathroom where I started to breathe uneven, worsened by the 3 storey sprint, and sat on the toilet with the tap running so nobody could hear my hyperventilate and eventually vomit. I was only in there for perhaps one, one and a half hours. Ben’s family forgive me these kinds of dismissals and disappearances, they know about me and my deal, the medication, the past. I always get this look of soft pity from Dory, his mummy, like she’s trying to bore into my mind with her kind eyes, too kind, and yank out the badness with a soft, blue gaze and head-tilt. She calls herself an empath, so I expect me having those kinds of turns really fucks with her. I don’t know how she gets through the day. I composed myself and the Bens all told me they could really do with grabbing a bite, but being exhausted from what had just happened I requested I hang back because I had household chores to attend to and there’s really no time like the present, and Nodge liked this, because it was wifely, and Dory liked this, because it showed I had some control over my life. Ben said, again, in mockney, “What’s this saaandwich place you’ve been baaanging on abaht?”. I thought he was joking. It really was an extraordinary way in which to articulate oneself when one is from Ruislip, and nobody even said anything. I shot him a look, a sort of, “I see you, I hear you, and I’ll raise this with you later" look, before assenting into a sweet smile and saying, “Yes, I’ve found this really great sandwich stall, you can still catch them, they’re still open.”. The Bens agreed this would be super and quickly I realised Ben would have to give my order for me. The order of the layers, the specific request to hold the cucumber. And who would be on today? Who’s serving? So I threw out a casual, “you guys stay here, I can do the lunch run” but Dory empathically sensed my profound unease and softly laid a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll get them, you stay here and centre yourself sweetheart”. I had to distract myself very quickly. “I noticed earlier on that the grouting wants doing” I said. “Sounds silly but the idea of a dirty bathroom knocks me sick” I said, and I went into the bathroom, closed the door, and leant up against it, listening to them leave and thud down all thirty nine of our stairs, I counted them, and then my calves cramped and released my stance into a crumple once more. I'm still here, wondering if anyone will really notice that I've done no grouting since they left, they’re not likely to check, are they? I’ll do a little. I’ll hum a little tune to myself in the rain and the shower water will at least make it seem as if some work got done. Lord help me if that sandwich comes back all wrong, and give me the strength to find joy and music in this most uncertain time. That song, it’s really embedded in me now. A black and white video; a heavy, sad moodiness, dejection and rain. 

— Got it. It’s k.d lang. It’s Constant Craving.

[fashiontrendin-blog]

My First Fashion Week Has Been Imperfect and Strangely Life-Affirming

http://fashion-trendin.com/my-first-fashion-week-has-been-imperfect-and-strangely-life-affirming/

My First Fashion Week Has Been Imperfect and Strangely Life-Affirming

This is my very first fashion week! I’m very excited and also nervous and oh my god what will I wear I hope I don’t fall over at some point. I love fashion as something to think about and observe in others, but I feel I’m very firmly not a “fashion person,” if that makes sense? I sort of feel like a band nerd at a jock party, but I have no doubt this week will be fun (if I don’t fall). This is also my first fashion week as a managing editor, so while we’ve had meetings and google docs and emails galore, 90% of my anxiety comes from a deep need to not mess this up. Below, a recording of my first few days — let me know whether you think I succeeded.

Thursday

10 a.m.

I’m working from home today and have knocked out the work-from-home essentials: brush your teeth, wash your face, put on a bra and make a huge pot of coffee. I spend most of the morning doing normal non-fashion week things.

2 p.m

I make one of those weird work-from-home lunches that’s just a bowl of stuff from your fridge.

6:30 p.m.

I sign off to get ready for the DapperQ show at the Brooklyn Museum.

7 p.m.

I decide to walk because it’s finally not a million degrees out and immediately get rained on. I regret nothing as it is important to see the outside world for at least 20 minute on a work-from-home day.

7:30 p.m.

I meet up with my friend Naima and head in. It’s a full-on scene. Technically this is my very first fashion show, but it’s on what feels like my home turf. The general public can and is encouraged to buy tickets so it’s more of an event than anything else. There are pop-up boutiques, a gif booth, the world’s longest bar line and a station to get all of your measurements taken.

8:10 p.m.

The show starts and it’s actually 10 different labels showing: A/C Space, Audio Helkuik, Jag & Co, Kris Harring Apparel Group, Nicole Wilson, SALT, Stuzo clothing, The Phluid Project, TomboyX + Squirrel Vs. Coyote, and THÚY Custom Clothier. It’s a mix of incredibly tailored suits for all types of bodies and all types of gender expressions, flowy linen tunics and pants that feel like tropical menocore, ’90s inspired rave wear and a truly great bike short look. The models that are sent down the runway are all races, ages, sizes and orientations.

9:15 p.m.

That was a very long show, I fell in love at least three times and now I need to buy a suit. First fashion show down!

Friday

10:30 a.m.

I get into the office late because the Q was majorly delayed this morning and it was physically impossible to get on the first one that came. Haley, Simedar and I spend five minutes talking about how dumb New York is as an idea. Someone points out there’s a nutella cookie on the counter and I decide to treat my emotional wounds with too much sugar.

11 a.m.

The office is a ghost town, between people dashing in and out for shows, working remotely and squeezing in end-of-summer vacations. I get a lot of the task-based stuff done (pay freelancers, update our project management software, send some strongly worded emails). I think/hope we prepared well for fashion week this year. We had two meetings to try to get ahead of everything but also decided that this year everyone will be flexible within reason. There’s no need to stay up till midnight working on a post.

1 p.m.

Amelia turns around her Tory Burch post with lightning speed, Edith finds the photos and we turn it live! Nothing like the rush of timely content!!!

5 p.m.

Maybe it’s the sugar, maybe it’s the fashion week adrenaline, but it is 5 o’clock and we have lost our minds. We get on the topic of tattooing celebrities on our thighs, Haley has busted out her weird animal toys and I keep changing my hair. I’m going to Chromat in a few and feel like this is the day to just go for a fulllllll look. I’m wearing a purple jump suit and more makeup and jewelry than I ever do, but changing from a high bun to a messy low ponytail feels like a true leap into a fashion-forward existence. Haley loans me her incredible white coat and while every part of my always-underdressed soul is screaming for me to take it off, a small voice says, it’s fashion week.

5:50 p.m.

Eliz and I arrive at the Chromat show after a quick walk (that girl can walk). There’s a lot of street style hullabaloo and when a nice guy asks to take my photo I say YES. Fashion week has turned me into a whole new woman!! It was a weird process but whatever, I’m an old pro by the time we meet up with Simon and he snaps my photo for this here diary. We’re in line for about 30 minutes but it goes quickly because there is just so much to see, so many people to watch.

6:20 p.m.

After a somewhat confusing line situation and an elevator ride that set off my anxiety (made an iPhone note: “Play about fashion people stuck in an elevator???” I don’t think it’s a hit), we get into the space. In the rush to find our seats I see one Whoopi Goldberg and feel beyond blessed.

6:50 p.m.

The show is over and it was so fun! Once again we were blessed with a gorgeous mix of models including Ericka Hart, whose hair I’m copying immediately. Their swimsuits and sunglasses and beads almost made me sad that summer is over, but I now have some full looks to dream about for the next 10 months or so.

7:15 p.m.

Back in the office to send the final end-of-day editorial email and check in on some things before running off to surprise my friend who just got engaged!! Feeling very happy and grateful for this day.

Saturday

10 a.m. – 1 p.m.

Very chill morning, made some breakfast, did some reading, wrote for myself, went to the gym, ate a second breakfast, took a shower and put my “look” together.

1-2 p.m.

Getting ready for the Christian Siriano show and am VERY excited. I got to talk to him ever-so-briefly earlier this year and love not only the stuff that he makes but the people he casts. Also hoping to see my tall sister Leslie Jones.

Feeling a bit of an emotional hangover from pushing myself outside of my comfort zone (amazing what the right coat can do), so I just threw on the Levi’s from this story, a black turtleneck and some dad sneakers. Feeling very much in my comfort zone, I left, giving myself 20 more minutes than Google maps told me I needed because of the raggedy-ass MTA.

2:15 p.m.

The Q isn’t coming for 17 minutes. The B isn’t running at all. I remember how much fun I had in Baltimore earlier this year and briefly imagine what Baltimore Nora is doing right at this very moment.

2:32 p.m.

The train is beyond crowded but I push myself on because I can’t be late. I hope that all of my I’ll-wait-for-the-next-one karma has been stored up for this very moment. Texting with Haley and Em to let them know I’ll be late-late. Because, oh, guess what? This late-ass Q is now running local instead of express. A 3-year-old-girl is pummeling her older brother while their dad plays a phone game. Her brother pushes her and she falls on my shoes, the dad finally looks up. I double check that I’ve registered to vote.

4:17 p.m.

I finally meet Emily outside in line. We have standing tickets and Haley has a seat so she already went in. We chat, see Tiffany Hadish walk in (she ready, I mumble enthusiastically to myself) and I think Carmen Electra? It is raining and the line is outside.

4:23 p.m.

No room at the inn! Someone tells one person at the front of the line that we all have to go home and it quickly becomes the world’s saddest/grouchiest game of telephone. Em and I are both a little bummed and decide to just head home rather than wait to see people exit. I get back on the Q train, it is running as it should.

I’m a little annoyed and frustrated and the high of last night’s New York magic has worn off. The afternoon was stressful, challenging, disappointing and no one likes to feel like they’re being left out. It felt like what I was nervous would happen (“mmm you’re not cool!”) happened and I know it’s not personal and I know it’s not an actual big deal but I’m just…over it.

5:20 p.m.

Grab some groceries on the walk home, come back to send a few emails, update a few headlines and check in on everyone else. My ticket for Pyer Moss is standing also and I’m feeling a little Eeyore-ish and think about skipping it. My friend Morgan’s birthday is tonight and so is my friend Michelle’s goodbye and I could use the extra energy/hours. But I ultimately decide against ditching. So I eat too much cheese, sigh and put on my shoes, and head out the door. Feel free to bookmark that as an inspirational quote.

6:30 p.m.

The show is in Brooklyn at the Weeksville Heritage Center so I splurge on a Lyft since it’s kind of close. I get there and just like that, I’m back in it. Roughly 98% of the people outside are black and there are some fantastic outfits. I bump into my new pal Simon who was smart enough to wear a rain poncho. We wait in line for a bit which gives me ample time to covet the Pyer Moss sweatshirts the staff and crew are wearing. There are also staff members with shirts that say “If You’re Just Hearing About Pyer Moss We Forgive You.” I’ll take two. I don’t know anyone but it’s fine, because I’m just happy to be there.

7 p.m.

I walk into the space and it’s amazing. It is full on raining so it’s a bit of a bummer that it’s outside but very much worth it. I wander over to the back where the historic houses are. Which, I feel like I should explain something here: I LOVE historic homes and historic house tours. Like 80% of my personality is loving historic homes. These particular historic homes are the Hunterfly Road Houses , built at the height of Weeksville’s time as a thriving free black community in the 19th and early 20th century. Okay. Back to fashion. Shaun Ross is here! I think MJ Rodriguez is here too! Karruche is for sure here!

7:15 p.m.

A jazz quartet walks out. They’re all dressed in white and posted up to the side of the houses: I’m about to witness some black excellence, I think to myself. I’m standing by the stage manager and hear her say “the choir is coming out now” into a headset. Which, okay, sorry to keep doing this — I LOVE choirs, and while we’re here on this historic black site about to watch a black designer send black models down the runway while a jazz quartet plays, I watch this choir come out and think about how much being in choir helped shaped my identity and community and realize that, at this moment, it feels a bit like a community, and I get in my feelings, just a little bit. What would it have been like to see this future for myself? What is it like to grow up now with all these infinite ways to be black and successful?

8ish p.m.

The show is over and it was incredible. Yellow pleather overalls, a yellow mesh dress that I would not be surprised to see on MR sometime in the future, gorgeous pleated pants, amazing graphic prints and a gospel choir that swag surf-ed. I would see a look and think of a black actor it would be perfect for, or a friend (I’m matchmaking Crystal and those pleather overalls for sure). It just felt special.

It’s been a rough couple of news days, so standing in that space in awe of all that we do and all that we create was the first time I truly felt what it means for fashion to transcend clothing or magazines or trends. To be at the heart of how fashion can be the start of a conversation or even a feeling.

There was a cookout, with Hennesy, duh, but I decided to leave on a high note. I turned around to look at the Hunterfly Houses all lit up as an amazing 90s R&B mix floated out from the party and I remember why I love New York. That all parts of myself are given a place to thrive, to be seen. That in three days you can see different pieces of what matter to you reflected back in all of the crazy glory of the city at its most insane. I’m signing off to celebrate a friend and say goodbye to another, to give thanks for this city and the people that fill it.

Feature photo by Simon Chetrit.