compendiumofdecay

[compendiumofdecay]

hii congrats on the milestone!

I’d like to request Aizawa Shouta and Shigaraki Tomura! and i wanna let fate decide on the dice rolls. no restrictions let’s see where this goes 🫶

to a flame: eraserdust

submission # 1 for the 777 event! thank you so much!!!!!! ლ(╹◡╹ლ)

eraserdust- oneshot; 3k words rolls: 5; 3 (porn with plot & cryptid au) summary: for fifteen years, point pleasant has been quiet and uneventful. for five of those years, shota aizawa has been retired from monster-hunting. until now. cw: 18+, mdni. cryptid au. appalachian/deep woods setting. hunter x prey theme. shigaraki tomura x aizawa shota no beta readers: read at your own discretion! ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

You'll meet him through the woods, around the bend, to the left of the creek.

Through the woods, around the bend, to the left of the creek... Shota turns the key in the ignition of the old Chevy, its engine roaring to life with a shudder. He re-reads the notes in his hands, the weathered leatherbound book leaves a film of dust against his calloused hand, and he tosses it into the passenger seat, adjusting his hair beneath his hat.

If it were up to him, the truck would stay sat in the driveway tonight, his blinds drawn and a nightcap in his hand. He was done with this shit, done with all the hunting and fighting and saving. Or, so he thought. Unfortunately for Shota, this was no longer his choice- he had to see through to the end of this blight.

For the past six and a half months, the town had been living in fear. Cattle dying in pools of viscera, drought through the growing season, houses decaying to nothingness in the middle of the night. Disaster had struck Point Pleasant again, and Shota had had enough of it.

Shota Aizawa had been hunting death for six months. And now, Death hunted him back.

"Through the woods, around the bend, to the left of the creek..." he repeats to himself as he drives, left hand clinging tight to the wheel. The radio crackles thickly as he gets closer to the outskirts of the town, the deep green of the forest casting a nasty shadow across the road. He grits his teeth and shakes off the remainder of hesitation he brought with him- now was not the time for pussy-footing.

As the forest unblurs itself, he presses his foot down further, accelerating. The last time the blight came and went, his jaw clenches, Oboro disappeared. I won't let it take anyone else.

The forest is in plain sight. The moonlight blankets the tree-tops like snow, with only shards of light needling through. It wasn't even close to dusk when Shota left, but nightfall waits for no one, not even those hunting the damned.

The truck slows to a stop before a clearing. A small gate blocks off what was presumably a walking trail years ago, now overtaken by the overgrown ferns and leaf litter. A large wooden slab rests against the gate, and Shota's eyes narrow as he tries to read it.

DO NOT ENTER! DANGER!! GOD WILL NOT SAVE YOU †

He scoffs and slams the truck door closed, slinging his shotgun across his back. He pats down his coat and jeans quickly: lighter, book, ammo, keys, flashlight, lasso, hunting knife. He lights a cigarette and turns his flashlight on, the path ahead of him now dimly-lit. He takes a step forward as his heart beats strongly in his chest. A once-retired hunter now turned town-hero yet again; the adrenaline never failed to rattle his bones.

"Through the woods, around the bend, to the left of the creek". His feet carry him past the weathered, useless gate as he once again recalls his instructions. With every footfall, he notices the crunching of leaves and twigs under him. He hadn't put any thought into it before, but the forest was eerily silent. Not a sound of birds or crickets, not one critter. Not even the huff of a bear nearby, or the stench of a wolfpack. The trees, towering above him, didn't move a single leaf- like they were frozen in time. It was like life ended at the gate, and only darkness survived here.

He walks on for about a mile with nothing but the sound of himself. His eyes scan every inch of forest floor for footprints, only to find more brush. Despite how empty the forest feels, there's a nagging pull on the back of his head, making him turn over his shoulder every few steps to be sure.

He finally reaches the "bend" mentioned in his notes: its a steep, narrow drive off the hill, leading down to a rocky area, followed by the creek. He steps slowly, carefully, the rocks under his boot slipping away. It's unstable and loose, not exactly what one would consider "walkable" by any means- but he makes his way down regardless, putting his hands low in front of him.

"Shit," the ground below shifts dryly, dirt crumbling like oats. He loses footing for one second too long, and falls back into a seated position into the hill. His hat falls over his eyes, and a searing pain slices through his palm. He hisses, pushing his hat back and pulling his hand from the ground. A thin gash runs the width of his tanned skin, and he curses, wiping the dirt and blood off on the leg of his jeans. He pulls out his notes from his jacket pocket, flipping through the pages.

FEATURES: Pallid skin Fur?? or feathers Glowing eyes, typically red Wings--POSSIBLE?? Flying???? Antennae Claws or long fingers??

He closes the book unceremoniously, shoving it back in his jacket. Despite all of his research, all of the time spent listening to folktales and stories from the elders around town, Shota had doubt and worry in his mind. Doubt, that he would even be able to find the harbinger of death, the infamous symbol of fear. Worry, that he would not even survive to tell his own tale. For the first time in a long time, he was genuinely scared.

He stands, steadying himself on the dirt shelves beside him. He dusts himself off, looking up to try and find the night sky- but instead, he is met with the distant glimmer of two soft, red orbs. He blinks, hand on his hat, but when he looks back up, there's nothing.

"Fuck," he rubs the back of his head. He plucks a leaf from his long black hair, scoffing. "Seeing things".

He shambles down the rest of the hill, barely lifting his feet from the ground. Once he's back on flat land, he scans the area, sweeping the trees with his flashlight repeatedly. He finds the creek when his light ripples in the distance, bouncing back to him. He follows forward until he reaches it, gazing down into the clear water. His reflection, though distorted and dimmed, paints him tired. He can only pick out the most prominent of features: the lip of his hat, the mess of his hair, his broad shoulders and daunting posture. He tries to look closer, kneeling down into the soft marsh-like land around him, the sop soaking into the knees of his jeans. His flashlight, brought closer, only obscures him further; and as he moves it around to find purchase of his reflection, he swears he can almost see himself fifteen years ago. Fifteen years ago, when life was much simpler. He wasn't Eraserhead, the hunter. They were just kids. Sixteen felt like adulthood and seventeen felt like he had so much to look forward to. Fifteen years ago, Oboro hadn't been gone at all. Not a day, not a year. Not over a decade.

Shota pokes at the empty water. So much movement, so little life. Not a fish nor tadpole. Just him, and the crushing weight of what he searched for.

He dips his hand further into the water. It's cool, smooth against his skin. He washes the dirt from his hands, the sparkling sediment in his cut from earlier. He finds a moment, no more, of peace in the water as he washes away everything he's ever known and been. For all he knows, he's out hunting for a ghost. A feeling. The thing he sought after may not even exist, so he may as well make use of all the time he's spent here already.

Something reaches for him underneath. It's cold, colder than the air or the water itself. It's like death and rot and decay, and it sends a lurch through Shota so visceral, he almost topples headfirst into the creek. He yanks his hand back with a shout, scrambling for his light. But when he shines it down onto the water again, he finds nothing.

The ground beside him shakes only soft enough for him to feel. He turns to look, the same pair of red orbs twinkling at him incredulously. He steps back, reaching for his shotgun, as his body recognizes the threat before his mind does.

"You?"

The orbs, seemingly detached before, now find themselves on the shadow of a figure. Tall and lanky, with plumes of thick black around it. Shota cocks his gun with a heavy click, the sound echoing through the forest. He doesn't respond to the creature in front of him, instead, he aims the barrel between the orbs- no, the eyes- of it.

The figure disappears with the sound of wings flapping, a gust of wind knocking Shota back with a grunt. "Where are you, bastard?" he shouts up, searching around. He feels a soft, cold drag on the back of his neck, and he swings around, shooting at nothing. "Fuck!" he exclaims, reloading it.

He begins to follow the creek, just as he'd planned. Except now, he knew what he was hunting, he just had to find it.

He shouts out again. "Where are you?" only to hear himself echoed back through the trees like a mockery. He keeps his eyes wide, and his finger on the trigger, when he reaches a clearing.

Thick tendrils of silken web tether the trees, decorating them with soft white curtains. It's vastly different compared to the rest of the forest: the moonlight flows down through branches, dancing on leaves of thick green. There's a warmth to the air, a precious feeling after freezing for hours. A curious pull nags at the hunter as he finds himself mindlessly walking into it, the soft webbing dragging across his face and body as he walks directly into it.

In the center of the clearing, where the moon's satin beams illuminate the ground, stands a pale, nude figure bathing in the light. White hair drapes like cream over its shoulders, cascading down over the center of two large, iridescent-looking wings. They flutter and curl inward before stretching out completely. Shota lowers his gun slowly, just watching.

The figure stretches out, raising long arms above it's head. Cuffs of fur matching the rest of its hair wrap around its wrists and ankles. Spindly fingers with curved nails shoot up, almost grasping at the stars above.

If Shota had to describe an angel, this would be it. Soft as a lamb, pure as bone. His eyes feel like sap, lids falling heavily as he gazes at the figure. He's dizzy, his stomach churns with an emptiness.

The figure turns slowly, wings flapping. Atop its head are two plumose-like antennae, twitching and swaying with the soft night breeze. More fur scarfs his neck and chest to a point, leading down his torso thinly to another tuft below his navel. Spots of shiny, soft purples and blues paint his wings like watercolor. Shota's mind is lost as the moth-man's eyes lock on his. Like the purest of rubies, they glow red in the moonlight, blinking widely at the hunter with a curiosity.

"You," the moth-man speaks, with a calm, quiet voice. In near disbelief, Shota nods. Like he was destined to be here, like it was always him. This creature, this beauty- any sense of danger had decayed the moment he saw this angel.

It walks towards him timidly, antennae twitching with curiosity. It comes close to his face, sniffing softly. It reaches its hand around Shota's flashlight, fingers tapping at the acrylic lens slowly.

Shota reaches a hand out, fingers grazing the soft fur of his chest. The moth coos, a gentle smile stretching across his peculiar face. The smile deepens, sharp teeth poking over his bottom lip. The moth-man's eyes darken as he licks against Shota's face slowly, lapping at the tired skin with a hum.

Deep inside of his chest, Shota feels the adrenaline. A raw fear, primal and primitive. But he cannot move. He cannot see anything but light, cannot focus on anything but the warmth. He pulls enough of his senses out to croak out a few raspy words: "What are you?"

The moth-man hums, "Tomura". He takes hold of Shota's hand, pulling him towards the center of the clearing. "You...Eraser. Monster-hunter".

Shota nods. The stars above twinkle, the air smells sweet and musky around him. As if the world had crumbled down entirely, and only left Shota and the Moth. His fears are stifled by the humming of Tomura's sweet voice, nymph-like and sugary, enough to lure Shota to his knees.

"Stay?" his saccharine tongue pleads for an answer that Shota cannot dispute. Instead, he sheds his jacket and hat, discarding them on the ground. The heat- god damnit, it's so hot- was distracting him. Tomura's antennae sway up and down, as if he's sensing every heartbeat from Shota's chest. They're encapsulating, the way they move like tall grass, the hunter reaches up, grazing against one of them with a shaky hand.

Tomura twitches, moaning softly- a siren's song to Shota. He caresses the antenna again, the hair on the back of his neck standing up as Tomura presses his body into his, sharp teeth sinking in to the exposed bit of neck by his collar. He ruts against Shota's thigh, that sickly-sweet scent crowding Shota's senses once again. It's driving him crazy. He must be going crazy. If he could move, Shota thinks, he wouldn't want to anyways.

The moth-man suckles sweetly at his neck, whimpering. Shota's hands begin to grab hold of his hair, the soft locks wrapped around his fingers. He pulls gently, bringing Tomura's angular face right against his. There's a moment of ragged breathing, the stench of wanton drive hanging heavily between the two. Shota needs more of Tomura, needs to keep him like a prize, he wants absolutely nothing else in the world than to protect the creature in every way he can.

He presses his lips to the moth-man with rigidity, growling at the gentleness he's met with. He forgets everything in this moment, its only him and the moth, the sound of Heaven beating warmly in his tight chest. He drives his hips into the naked hip of Tomura, teeth gnashing and tongues curling. Tomura mewls, his whole body vibrating. His wings unfurl again, shuddering, as Shota wraps his arms around, dragging his rough fingers lightly down the surface where skin meets membrane.

He picks Tomura up, scooping behind his thighs and hiking him up against his body. He lays him down on the soft forest floor, the pine-needles and leaves cushioning the ground like a duvet. He undoes his belt with a clink, and his shirt he places under Tomura's head, protecting it from the dirt. He could never soil something so pure.

Tomura's wings splay out under him, curling inward and wrapping around the two of them. His cock, pressing tightly against his stomach, leaks precum; it shines under the moonlight, and Shota traces one long finger up to it, sending another shudder through the moth. Shota frees his own blushing cock from his jeans, his hair falling wildly around his face as he groans. Tomura's eyes glaze with heat as he whines, a pathetic and rudimentary sound. Shota spits into his hand, coating his cock before plunging a finger into Tomura, whose back arches as his body burns. He adds in another, slowly and purposefully, watching the moth-man pant with need. He reaches up and strokes one of the antennae, eliciting a whorish moan from the man beneath him. The sound alone is enough to make Shota's eyes water with desire, and he removes his fingers with a soft noise, replacing it with the head of his beating cock.

Tomura's jaw falls slack, his antennae drooping as his head turns to the side. His pale face is brushed with pink as Shota presses into him, holding him against his chest now. He pumps into him slowly, filling him as the shivering moth-man sputters and cries. His indecent song fills Shota's ears, clouding his thoughts as his knees buckle, falling into the winged man. Tomura's head lolls as his fangs sink into his bottom lip, drawing blood on his porcelain skin. Shota notices and brings his face to lap at the moth's sticky blood, the taste cloying. The trees around him spin, the only stable thing is Tomura.

Tomura. Tomura. Tomura.

He never wants to leave. He would die a happy death. Right. Here.

Tomura is on top of him, grinding luridly. He doesn't remember moving. He can't see anything else. Just Tomura. The angel, the lamb, the end. His candy eyes stare into Shota's carmine, the feeling almost familiar. He wants so badly to remember, wants so badly to know more.

The hunter grabs at the moth's hips, tanned thumbs digging deep into snowy skin. He drives into Tomura from below, his mind absolutely set on breeding him. Pumping him full, marking him safe and at home, his alone. Tomura moans loudly again, his breaths quickening as his cock trembles, so close to finishing.

Shota doesn't fight against the urge, he rakes his hands down between the base of both of Tomura's wings, causing Tomura to shatter and purr as threads of pearly white shoot from his cock, coating himself and Shota's torso in heat. Shota moans, losing it at the sight. He paints Tomura's insides, thrusting rapidly as he rides out his euphoria. Blinding white flashes in his mind, his head pounding as he tries to blink back tears. Nothing will ever feel as perfect, as holy.

Shota wakes with the sun burning against his eyelids. Birds chirp above him, and a light breeze washes over his damp skin. He sits up quickly, his heart sinking as he looks around. Trees towering above him, soil beneath his body. His jacket and gun lay beside him, and he grabs for them both. His notebook falls into his lap, a chill running over his sun-kissed skin.

He remembers it all. Tomura, the moth. The hunt. The monster.

He flips his notes open, only to find the pages torn out, leaving only one word:

DEATH.

Shota Aizawa had been hunting death for six months. And once he found it, he finally felt alive.

[compendiumofdecay]

𝐍𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

➛ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: When her co-worker gives her the contact information for a broker that could possibly help her situation, Mrs. Nanashi didn't know this was how it was going to turn out.

➛ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: dubcon, mild use of degradation, misogyny, blow job to deep throat, cum swallowing, feminine "endearments", female reader with husband's last name, non-descriptive, not beta read.

➛ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.9k

➛ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: Thank you @your-infernorose for giving me the courage to write old man dick. (: Additional notes at the end.

Cherry flavored smoke billows out from chapped lips as Giran laughs heartily. “Seven million yen? Are ‘ya kiddin’ me? It’s gonna take a bit more than that for the information you’re wantin’ darlin’.” 

The woman sitting in front of him waves the smoke from her face with a cough. This was the third offer she had made to the broker and still, he refused. Irritation was bubbling in her chest the longer she went back and forth with the man. On one hand, she knew what she was asking for was going to be expensive, but on the other, they had already far surpassed her top dollar. If he would have accepted her last offer, she’d be going into debt. 

Unfortunately for her, she was desperate. “Would you consider ten million yen then, sir?” 

“Nah. You’re asking for information on a hero—a top hero at that. I’m gonna need something as collateral. You got’a house?” Giran asks, flipping open a file that contained everything he had found on her. After a minute of perusing the information he had on her, he closes the file and slides it aside. “Yep. A nice house at that. Been in your family long?”

The woman visibly bristles at the mention of her home. “Yes, three generations, but I can’t just—give my home away.”

The broker flicks the ash from his cigarette with a sigh. “If you don’t have the money, don’t wanna give your house up as collateral... I’m afraid I can’t take ‘ya on as a client. Unless there’s something else you can give me.” Only the tick, tick, ticking of his old clock on the wall filled the silence that grew between them. He leans forward a bit in his chair, staring her down with a heated gaze that left no room for misinterpretation. That’s when his crooked grin grew and his hand joined the other, steepling between his spread legs.

“Mrs. Nanashi, you’ve gone quiet. That a no?” 

Her name. He used her name. For some reason that made her ears burn and her face flush. This entire meeting, he hadn’t once used her real name, only the contact name she had given him. Once her heart stops beating in her ears, she tries to respond as if his change in demeanor didn’t bother her. 

“Sir, I’m a married woman with two children, I can’t—” she watches as he stands and rounds the side of the desk so he stands beside her, “—can’t give anything else. And I’m not giving you what you’re suggesting.”

Giran moves one hand to prop himself up on the side of his desk while the other moves to the back of her chair. He leans down, his face inches from hers as his grin turns predatory, as if his entire business wasn’t already predatory. A shark circling his next meal. “The whole reason you’re here in the first place is because your husband cheated on you with a hero. Don’t think you’re doing anything wrong if you wanna use that pretty mouth of yours to pay for a bit of information.”

Her eyes widen briefly as she looks away. He was right. The only reason she sought out this broker was because she saw text messages between her husband of fifteen years and some woman saved in his phone under the purple and yellow circle emojis. She couldn’t see her face in the nudes she sent him, but there was one thing she could point out from the multiple photographs she sent: the underwear she bought her husband strewn over various pieces of hotel furniture. Another bout of silence. 

“C’mon. You wanna know who it is right, Mrs. Nanashi? I’ll even get ‘ya some water to rinse your mouth out after, what do you say?” He offers. The smell of his cigarettes burned her nose now that he was this close. 

If she wanted to find the woman, that whore, who stole her husband, she needed that information. 

She had to have it.

She was leaving this office with it.

“Fine, fine, okay,” the woman relents.

The way he was already leaning against his desk, legs spread, with his hands resting on the edge before she could even turn back to look at him nearly made her gag. And that sick little laugh of his that rang out in his dingy office made her skin crawl. Was he planning this the whole time? 

The woman slides from her ratty chair and to her knees in front of him, swallowing hard as she comes face to face with his crotch.The purple fabric of his slacks was already tented, straining the zipper. 

Giran looks down at her—his eyes holding a coldness to them now, yet his grin remains. “Go on, work for it.”

With shaky hands, she reaches up to unclasp the button and tentatively pull the zipper down. She expected to be met with another layer of fabric when she began to tug the front of them down, but she was met with his cock instead. A small gasp leaves her when it grazes her chin with its already slick head.

It was bobbing right there in front of her. She knew it was. But for a moment her vision blurs and the sounds around her are drowned out by the beating of her heart in her ears. She was no better than the woman her husband cheated on her with, a whore. But this was transactional. This makes her a —

The taste of salt drags her from her thoughts, across her parted lips, and she swallows her first taste of him when she snaps her mouth shut.

The woman looks up at him from beneath her lashes, finding the broker looking down at her with a crooked grin.

“Don't know why your husband cheated on you when you look like this on your knees,” he laughs lowly, moving one of his hands to the base of his cock. He taps the mushroom head of it against her cheek. “Looking up at me all pouty and doe eyed.”

She doesn't say anything. 

He sighs, running the tip over her lips until they part for him again. “You want that information? C'mon sweetheart, open that mouth.” She says nothing, earning her a ring ladden hand that was placed atop her head. “Show me how you got that fucker to give you two kids.” His manicured nails drag across her scalp and pull on her locks gently. A warning. 

More of his pre-cum drips on her lips as he impatiently shifts his hips forward. She couldn’t back out now, especially when the bitter taste of him still lingers on her tongue, igniting a fire in her lower abdomen she hasn’t felt in quite a long time. 

Besides, it was just a blow job... 

Just a blow job.

Blow job.

She found herself leaning forward, taking the head of his cock in the warmth of her mouth and running her tongue over the wet slit; the low groan that left him makes that fire in her gut burn brighter. 

“Mmm, such a good little whore, heh,” he laughs, gripping her hair a little tighter. “Already treatin’ it like you love it.” The woman closes her eyes as she takes more of him in. So much about him was well-put together, she supposed the line had to be drawn somewhere. And that line happened to be his cock. A grey bush of pubes brushes her nose—a hearty musk along with it. The scent of him was heavy, as was the taste. He was clean, yes, but there was something about him that made her want to gag and get more at the same time.

Tears brim her eyes when she reaches her limit and Giran’s grip on her hair only tightens, making her whine around his cock.

He laughs as he pulls her back, watching as strings of saliva bridge between her lips and the head of his cock.. “Again, why the fuck did your husband cheat on you again? Clearly, you put out.” Giran doesn’t let her answer before he spears himself down her throat, catching her off guard and making her choke and sputter around him. He groans, tilting his head heavenward. The woman’s groans mingle with his as she tries not to puke on his dick. 

When was the last time her husband used her throat like an onahole?

When was the last time she felt her cunt as wet as it was right now? 

Her hands move to hold onto his hips when she starts to bob her head. Giran moans louder, his heavy balls tightening as they swing against the underside of her chin.

“Gon’a cum. You gon’a drink it all, pretty thing?” He laughs through another deep groan. His fingers ease their grip on her hair, silently giving her permission to take over for now. “Or can I rip that shirt of yours open and cum on your tits.” 

She nearly chokes on her saliva—for a reason other than the head she was giving. That wasn’t what they agreed to. The woman slides her hands down to his thighs, squeezing the meat of them firmly in protest. He seemingly understands this as he lets out a hearty laugh.

Giran’s hips twitch. He’s so, so close, all he needs is one thing: 

“Look at me.” 

The woman’s eyes flutter open and flick up to his. She finds his mouth parted, his chest heaving, and those pink bedroom eyes of his half-lidded. Then with a grunt, warm ropes of his spunk hit the back of her throat, making her cough and sputter around his twitching cock. 

She swallows what she could before she has to pull away from his dick, gasping for air. His cum drips down her chin, landing on her pretty, yellow, top. The tears that had welled in her eyes finally spilled; her cunt crying with her. She shouldn’t want to fuck this man right now. 

Giran has to hold onto the edge of his desk to keep himself upright. “Christ, woman. You sure you wanna get back with that piece of shit? Could marry this piece of shit instead. Want that mouth every fuckin’ morning,” his words were spoken through soft pants as he tries to catch his breath. 

She stands slowly, trying not to give away the fact that her tights were soaked beneath her pencil skirt. “N-no, I’m not marrying you, broker. Just want the—” she clears her throat, “—information you promised.” 

“Information? 

“Yes! Information!” Now that he didn’t feel like he was going to fall to his knees, he tucks himself back in his pants and laughs. “Right, information,” Giran says, plopping himself back down into his office chair. “It’s a hero, that’s for sure.”

There were many silent moments in this exchange prior to her sucking his dick, but the one that bridged between them now was thick.

She could have killed him. “That’s all? That’s all you have?” 

“Well, yeah, that’s all I have. You brought the case up this morning and came in here demanding I give you some answers, then gave me not one, not two, but three—” he holds up three fingers for emphasis, “shit offers. So, yeah, lady, that’s all you’re getting until you max out your credit cards, gimmie your house, or...” 

“No.”

His grin grows as his eyes wander over her. “You sure as hell seemed to like suckin’ my dick, baby girl. What’s takin’ your top off gon’a hurt...? Or spreading those long legs of yours, huh?” The woman angrily yanks her purse and coat off her chair, hurriedly moving to his door. She hadn’t felt this humiliated since... since her husband. Right. 

Her hand pauses on the door knob. She didn’t even have to turn around to see the shit eating grin that now disgracefully curls on his lips. Maybe taking her top off after that wasn’t so bad. 

Right?

𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: Nanashi literally translates to "nameless" or "anonymous." I didn't want to give her a name, but it wasn't working out the way I wanted it to. So technically... it's a nameless oc/reader, lol.

[compendiumofdecay]

this except i think im providing in depth analyses and im in fact, just rambling

i envy ppl who can provide deep analysis about their favorite media and/or characters b/c whenever i like something a lot it looks like:

[compendiumofdecay]

Hey chat. Serious post fo today.

I am currently fixing to make arrangements for an appointment to get screened for cancer due to a bad report of an abnormality in my ovaries. It runs in my family which is why I, as of right now, am fucking terrified.

I recently got wrongfully fired from my job. And I, again, as of right now, and broke as fuck and am trying to find the right lawyer.

Even a fucking dollar would help and will go towards gas money for appointments if the worse comes to worse.

If you can’t donate, please spread the word.

Thank you :’)

[compendiumofdecay]

do y'all remember when they found all that tf art in Osamu Tezuka's drawer post-mortem because I think about it often

anyway keep chasing your bliss and draw weird shit, god knows we need that right now

[compendiumofdecay]

i'm having sm fun analyzing this boy

he's a straight gooner freak fr

also these asks are crazy thank u for the ideas im learning so much

freak ass

[compendiumofdecay]

Do you think Shigaraki would be into:

Pet play

Hypnosis

Body functions/gross play (emet0, eruct0, etc.)

Breeding

Musk/Sweat

Love your content! -🍄

ah alright we have a list LOL. i'll break it down

MDNI.

this one's longer, read below the cut 🫶

pet play: eh. 5/10.

he would probably engage in it if his partner was into it, but it's not a huge kink of his. he's seen catgirls, which he does find hot, and he could probably get behind some basic level puppy play, but nothing beyond that. i think if anything, yeah he'd be into the whole cat-girl/boy thing, and would NOT complain if his partner had ears/tail etc. but he's more into "primal play" which is less pet behavior and more animalistic and feral, like growling, biting, scratching.

however, he has heard of A/B/O dynamics and has had a few fantasies about that. which could tie in to 1) breeding and 2) musk/smell.

hypnosis: not really, 3/10.

this is gonna sound silly but the first person i associate hypnoplay with is mr. compress. cause he's a magician LOL.

he wouldn't really want to have to force someone to obey him like that. he would rather have a partner willing to obey his commands and fulfill his desires, and in turn he will do the same. he thinks mind control is going too far, honestly- and he isn't necessarily into anything "consensual-non-consensual" unless boldly and thoroughly discussed beforehand. he likes his partner level-headed, otherwise he feels like he has to bribe them or trick them into loving him, and that's not at all what he wants.

bodily functions: overall, 5/10.

emeto: not his thing. 0/10.

nope. he spent a LOT of his youth and even into adulthood sick, and nauseous. he does not associate being sick with anything sexual or euphoric. in fact, (and i might be projecting a bit but im allowed to do that and so are you) he may have developed an aversion to vomit over the years, doing his best to avoid it as much as possible. granted, he won't have a full-blown fear since he's desensitized, but it does remind him of pain and trauma.

eructophilia (i had to google this term, thank u for teaching me lol): ehhhh 5/10? depending?

tbh? this is an odd one! no judgement zone here, i can kinda see where you could apply it to tomu. i did my research on this pretty quickly- but i think the lack of manners might be the most intriguing part of this kink to him.

i hc him as being kinda crude to begin with- so this actually checks out. although AFO most likely beat manners into him, he would do everything in his power to rebel against that whenever he could. another reason why things like his room being dirty, his (i don't really hc often, but some ppl do) lack of hygiene, his attitude, and his vocabulary make sense for him and his upbringing.

as far as being a giver/receiver, i think he wouldn't gaf either way but if his partner had the kink, it wouldn't change him one bit. he'd be gross around them regardless, so it's a win for both of them.

other body stuff?: not really, 4/10 if i'm being unspecific

if anything, yeah he would probably dabble in stuff like the aforementioned, but mostly in passing. he might get off to the occasional "combo" porn of like, watersports/drunk or intox/eructo stuff but that's once in a blue moon prob. he may have went through a phase with it though, just to experiment. he gets bored easily.

breeding: depends, 6/10

yk what, hell yeah?

i don't think he wants specifically to impregnate his partner BUT he loves to cum inside. he sees it as a way to "mark his territory", plus he's a glutton for filling up his partner over and over and watching it spill out.

while he's inside though, he'll definitely say shit to give his partner a quick "scare". stuff like, "gonna fill you up", "gonna breed you", "gonna make you mine", etc. strap in bitches. he's possessive. (heart eyes)

side note: he's super into anything bukkake, creampies, facials, etc. he loves making a mess.

musk/sweat: 7/10 for specific reasons tbh

this is gonna sound weird but yeah! the reasoning behind this one is a bit more wholesome, actually- but he just loves the scent of his partner. he associates it with being comfortable and loved.

he's not an armpit licker or anything, but he definitely loves anything regarding his partner/their natural state. in the morning, he'd cling and just sniff their hair, saying how good they smell, etc. he gets warm thinking about it.

he also fucking loves the smell of sex. like, when he's finished with his partner, he loves the smell of them on his body and will let it hang heavy in the air for a bit before actually letting himself or his lover shower.

he's seen porn on armpits and knows it's actually kinda common, but he just doesn't fuck with it like that. but yeah, if his s/o comes home from a mission dirty and sweating and a little bloody, oh he'll make sure they're nice and clean when he's done with them. mhm.

okay. mic drop. thank u for the ask this one was fun to look into

[compendiumofdecay]

Okay you said piss/ everyone said piss/omo

But why..? No shame in it i just love your character analysis

MDNI.

alright let's get into it

yes, 10/10.

this post will also correlate with my other recent submissions btw, so if i repeat myself i apologize.

my qualifications for this: spending a lot of time on tumblr.com and dating someone into piss for about a year without knowing for 6 months.

tomura spent a LOT of time online. between gaming, social media lurking accounts, and a definite porn addiction at some point, he fell into the deeper side of hardcore porn categories and got experimental. some other categories he's looked into/gotten off to would be things like extreme bdsm, blood/pain play, extreme dom/sub, desperation & humiliation play, etc. this is common for people who are addicted to porn, especially those who are more sheltered or stressed.

omorashi is also a very common kink in japan, though typically confused with urolagnia(water sports)/urophagia (consumption). considering the sheer amount of time spent online he would not only have been exposed to softcore versions of omo in manga/regular media forms, but also more dead-on representations in H manga & eroge (erotic games). which, argue with a wall IDC- tomura definitely has a collection of overtly sexual visnovels and games.

i don't think he expected to develop such an odd fetish, nor did he really plan on it- for most people, they don't recognize the connection of sexual excitement for a long while, or they deny its existence until the repression feeds the desperation. but eventually, curiosity would get the best of him, and he'd find himself secretly looking up omo/watersports pornography after a while and getting off to it.

out of all the shit i see tomura being into, a lot of things being disturbing or "niche", piss is the tamest thing, genuinely. he wouldn't necessarily be open about it, especially not with a new partner- but he would absolutely have a hard time repressing his depraved thoughts when it came to discussing it. he'd probably mask it behind a layer of jokes like most people do, tbh. he would have to trust his partner 110%, and feel entirely secure with them before admitting it. like, it might take years for him to finally spit it out, if his partner doesn't figure it out through context clues or snooping through his game collection/browser history.

he'd be more into the desperation side of things, though i think he'd totally get off on the occasional golden shower (giving or receiving tbfh). outside of that, any other toilet play would automatically get you turned to dust LMAO. overall preference though, he'd want to get peed on i think lol. subby gamer boy vibes, yknow?

anyways, in conclusion, tomura represses a lot of his sexuality and therefore it leads to a lot of buildup in terms of fetishes. he may not even be fully INTO all of the ones he says he is, he just hasn't been able to experiment. but he is depraved, and has a lot of time on his hands.

[compendiumofdecay]

tomura=foot fetish in my mind tbh

MDNI

honestly? yeah 6/10

i don't think he'd be into like, foot licking or being stepped on, just seems like it's not his thing. the furthest he'd go with feet, i think, would be complimenting them. i.e, you have soft feet, if you paint your toes then he'll help pick out the polish color, etc.

i think it's more of a combined foot/thigh/tit thing really- he just loves to fuck anything he can. so it wouldn't be unheard of for him to rut into feet while he's going down on his partner, or grinding against their thighs from behind while cuddling. he's obviously pent up, and at least for the first few months of fucking/dating, he's gonna be pretty handsy (haha pun) due to being touch starved. he's probably also hypersexual, and desensitized to common-day fetish culture. so he'll take what he can cause he knows it feels good, and he's 100% guilty of indulging in his personal pleasure.

honestly most younger adult men have foot fetishes nowadays- so it wouldn't be a huge stretch to associate that with him.

[compendiumofdecay]

biting?

MDNI

YUP 9/10.

tomu likes to bite because i feel he gets overwhelmed. brain doesn't process emotions quickly enough so he just sinks his teeth into your arm, neck, legs.

he didn't think of it as anything sexual at first, really. it was just an oral fixation problem he nearly always dealt with. nail biting, chewing on hoodie strings, gnawing on rubber or plastic pieces. but then he got a partner, and he felt himself unable to control the urges.

since it's a stim he does when he's overwhelmed, or, for lack of better term-extra flooded with feelings- he definitely is a biter during sex. curling his tongue across your skin and letting his teeth graze over you before sinking them in, moaning around the supple skin of his lover.

he likes when you bite him back, too. he likes when people, and i quote, "match his freak"- so if you show him love in his terms, it resonates a little harder. he gets a little harder.

yeah, he's super into biting. vampirism as a form of love >>>

[compendiumofdecay]

MDNI

Wait what do ppl think tomura's kinks are...

[compendiumofdecay]

choking.......?

MDNI

yes; 7/10

tomu likes the idea of being feared, and having power over someone else. taking his quirk into consideration as well, he'd definitely enjoy inflicting a bit of faux fear into his partner on occasion- but he would have to be in the right mindset for it.

i think he actually would prefer to be the one being choked. i think he'd be into the receiving end, because being someone with that much power, losing that semblance of control can cause intense euphoria.

he likes to play with power imbalances between him and his partner, though he'd make sure they knew first hand that he could never truly hurt them. since he himself would have to feel extremely safe with whomever he's practicing this specific kink with, he would want them to feel equally as safe and in charge of the situation as he is.

when he is in the right mood, and has the desire to take control, he'll graze his fingers slowly across his partners throat, making sure to leave one finger lifted the whole time- but keeping them moving, to create the illusion of a five-fingered grip.

[compendiumofdecay]

bondage...?

MDNI

yes 10/10

tomura first figured out what bondage was at a younger age, ironically enough due to Eraserhead. secretly hiding away in his room to watch clips of the pro, he found himself oddly excited to see the hero restrain villains and put them in their place. his idolization of Eraserhead, and his fascination with his quirk, drove his fixation further from there.

tomura associated the taboo nature of being raised by AFO as a villain, learning to hate heroes, and still having the secret adoration of Eraser together as something pleasurable and secretive. it slowly developed as he aged into adulthood, which there it became a sexual fantasy. as time went on, he eventually found himself aching for that same emotion, and looked up porn on bondage play and shibari.

overall, bondage is one of his top searched + watched porn categories, and will most likely take a top ranking for favorite kinks.

thank u kisa ily 🫶🫶

[compendiumofdecay]

saw light discourse on twitter earlier ab tomura's kinks and 90% of the replies were piss, blood, body stuff. i obv agree but like if u also have other hcs of that send them to my inbox and ill make a little list of it all and drabble a bit <3

[compendiumofdecay]

the ink that never dries

chapter three

professor shigaraki x reader

cw/tags for this chapter: sexual imagery, masturbation, lewd content, shigaraki being a horndog lol, heavily NSFW

tags for entire fic: age gap, slow burn, professor x student, older!tomura, non-canon university au a/n: yeah this is lowkey inspired by millers girl, except its not illegal, just controversial. oh also MC isnt evil lololol

Imagery- using descriptor words to navigate a scene, usually to invoke deeper meaning and relatability. For example, a stack of divorce papers that are now dusted over and coffee stained sitting on the dining table in an empty house. What can you infer from this image? How would your character react to seeing them? In literary terms, imagery is used to trigger the reader to recall memories, or mental images that specifically target one or more of the five senses (sight, sound, taste, smell, and touch). Assignment Details: Write a short passage without dialogue to enhance this scenario's imagery, while also including meaning to all three objects listed: -Location: Empty cathedral -Objects: Necktie, gloves, shattered glass or debris.

You re-read the assignment instructions once more before hitting the turn-in button, eyes glossed over. Glancing to the small alarm clock flickering across from the bed, you groan and slam the laptop shut. You rub the exhaustion from your eyes, feeling the painful weight of being awake catching up.

It had been a long week. Even longer now, with Tomura's proximity keeping you from a restful sleep. You couldn't have five minutes of peace without his visage crowding your thoughts. Hunger. Craving.

So you swallowed the sound of his voice like mulled wine and let your fingers speak for you. In between finishing the assignment, you took the time to act out every portion in your own mind, wondering how he'd react. How his voice would sound reading it aloud, your poetic confession turned to a rushed gasping from the old theatre room, muffled moaning from the other side of the door.

You couldn't be so bold as to tell him head-on of your depravity. Instead, you sweetened it down to something palatable, something you could have plausible deniability with- should you ever need it. Just a simple assignment completion, nothing more.

"The angel beckoned him with open arms, the drapery covering her frame softly falling to the floor. He stepped through the aisle, tossing his hat and gloves to the ground, the wooly material of them both scratching him. He wanted to say something- wanted to ask her of her own afflictions, or beg her to stay. But he could not speak. She would not allow it."

Tomura's eyes light up as he scrolls through, highlighting marks on the short paragraphs for later grading.

"The man, searching somewhere for solace, found himself cradled in the arms of the angel. She undressed him of his sins on the marbled tile, heart beat audible over the silence of prayers ignored. He fell to his knees at the altar, no longer wanting answers."

His brow raises. He takes a slow sip from his mug, double-checking the time. Half-past one in the morning.

"His hands now free of his own restraints, grab hold of the angels legs, and he dips his head between them. Flashes of gardens, with lush flora. The sweet taste of salted honey falling onto his taste buds, a summer breeze washing over his chilled skin. The man, in full presence of his own Eden, did not act lightly as he devoured the angel, staining her with impurity forevermore. It was if the sun shone just for them alone, fractals of light splattering his face through stained glass murals."

The professor takes in a deep breath through his nose, holding it for a moment as he feels himself growing warmer. He's immersed, that's all.

"As the angel begins to weep, he tightens his grip on her, prying her legs further apart. Her wings flutter heavily behind her, he sinks his humanity into her perfect flesh. Tainting her with mortal bliss."

Tomura can't help but undo his belt buckle with a free hand, palming at the aching weight pressing against his slacks. The wording, the passion- it was too cruel to bear. He curses lightly as his hand slides slowly against his length, continuing to read.

"Her tender flesh, silken to the touch, drips with undying desire like small crystals. The man's glittering eyes darken as he unwraps her innocence, a rhythmic beating of two hearts intertwined pacing him. Her breasts press against his near-bare chest, her fingers coiling around his loosened tie. He holds her up in his arms, carrying her to the cathedra. Placing her upon his lap, her cries emulate a familiar hymn in his once-deafened ears".

He gasps as his fingers graze over his tip, his thumb slicking with pre-cum. He moans softly, turning his face away from the screen. He imagines you writing it, picturing your eyes fluttering shut under him, or bending you over his desk and making you read it aloud. How you, his angel, perfect student, so innocent and pure, wrote something like this just for him. Something as desperate as he was, lonely and needy in nature. It was if you knew. He forces himself to look back, finishing the reading.

"The man finalizes his sin with a shuddering thrust, the angel singing weakly as he kisses down her carved neck, across her softened shoulders. He dips his fingers between her, guiltily tracing soft patterns against her like ripe fruit. She shatters like glass in his palm, and coils against him like the serpent. His body was baptized that day, in the decadent taste of her."

If he could taste you, he reckon it would be just as sweet. His hips buck up in his seat as he cries out, hand and shirt already sticky from the thick beads of cum. "Fuck", he whines, panting heavily. Beads of sweat collect against his forehead, and he wipes them with his clean hand before collapsing into his chair. "Fuck" he repeats, a wave of guilt crashing over him as he exits out of the assignment submission.

He hastily wipes off his mess with a spare napkin, turning out the light to his office and abandoning grades for the night. Never again.

[compendiumofdecay]

the ink that never dries

chapter two

professor shigaraki x reader

cw/tags for this chapter: slow burn, tension, yearning

tags for entire fic: age gap, slow burn, professor x student, older!tomura, non-canon university au

"The difference between acting and faking is the emotional connection. When you act out a scene, you use memory as a baseline for your actions and reactions" The professor walks up the small, rotting staircase to the stage. He sways as he speaks, a small hunch in his shoulders.

You lock eyes with him as he continues. His red eyes glimmer behind the lens of his wiry glasses that perch loosely on his nose, his voice lilting. "When you act out a scene, you have to immerse yourself in the role. You are not an NPC. You are the focus, you are the reason for the scene. See this, for example-" he slides off the stage and grabs a small book, flipping it open to a tabbed page, before hoisting himself back onto the stage and reading aloud.

"Fortunato’s step was not sure," he moves, his feet falling softly against the lacquered wood. "...Because of the wine he had been drinking." Professor Shigaraki makes his movements a bit shakier now, swaying as he looks around, his head tracing the room with a wondrous gaze. "He looked uncertainly around him, trying to see through the thick darkness which pushed in around us", he squints his eyes just slightly, almost unnoticeably, as he holds a hand up, feeling down an imaginary wall.

He tosses the book down by his feet with a thud. You, along with some other classmates, jump at the sound before he smirks to himself, and comes to the front of the stage.

"See how with every line, my body falls effortlessly into the role, how I play it out like its me? Don't let the script run you- you run it. You're the human, the paper is just a guideline". You nod as you jot a few pointers down in a notebook.

Shigaraki clasps his hands together. A student raises their hand and he points to them.

"But, isn't the whole point of a script to tell you what to do? How to act it out?"

The professor smiles and tilts his head, "In a sense. But the paper can only suggest how to act it out. You can hang your head to show shame, but, its more natural if you react how you would in real life". He comes down the stairs and approaches the front rows of desks, yours included. He grabs the notebook from your hand, flipping to a different page. "Pen?" He holds his hand out to you.

As he scribbles down, he nods.

"How do you react to your dog dying?" He asks out, and a few students mumble. He points out, and one student answers.

"I cry", she says. he writes something down.

"Good. How about you?" another student responds, "I also cry".

He points around to a few others. "It depends on how I find out, how young it is, if they're sick" one student says, and he smiles with a "Yes!"

"It's situational. You have to read between the lines". he keeps writing down, and shows the class the page briefly. "Most of you said crying, or accepting it, or screaming. But the truth is- how would you know how you'd react to a specific situation? You have to accumulate emotion, collect the eggs, unlock a range of memories to use as your weapon."

He hands the notebook back to you. In the corner, he left a small note.

"Does that mean we have to kill dogs?"

He turns with a furrowed brow and raises his hands up in confusion. "No? No- don't kill dogs, Jesus Christ. No. The point I'm trying to make is, you have to live. Experience life, and get to understand yourself and your emotions. That's how you reach peak performance. Acting is just as much a science as it is art. Understand yourself so you may help others understand."

A few students begin grabbing their bags. He checks the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. "That's time, I guess. Finish the Cask reading, on Thursday we'll discuss how to act it out. It's a short story, please don't slack. If you can't read five pages, I have no hope for you. Oh, and remember to submit your imagery assignment by Friday morning..!" His voice trails off as he watches the students leave, pinching the bridge of his nose.

As the last of the class files out, you remain seated. he loosens the red tie around his neck and sits at his own desk across from you.

"I wanted to talk to you about your most recent submission," he begins, and you suck in the air through your teeth. "It's not bad, just...where did you get the idea for that?"

The assignment was to write a short opening scene set in a dystopian society. You'd set yours in a universe where, instead of wealth or power, their ranking system was based off of how many times their soul had been reborn.

"I particularly liked the line where you had the protagonist, I assume, speaking with the "big bad,"" he clicks his teeth and tries to paraphrase the line. "I will find you again".

You feel something light in your chest as he re-reads the paper again after finding it. "In every life, my soul will latch to yours".

You pick at the skin around your nails. Hearing it out loud, especially from him, was way different than reading it to yourself. You'd raked over the draft over and over, eventually turning it in in defeat. "It's a bit cliche, I know-" you start, but he holds up his hand.

"No, no. If you can execute it properly, cliche can work" "I have plans to make the villain win at the end" Your voices overlap and he stops talking. With a brow lifted, he urges you to continue.

"I want it to be cliche at first- but throughout the script, its unveiled that the actual dystopia is the curse of rebirth itself." As you speak, he nods. You can't help but feel his eyes rake over you, the way he leans in, the tension between you both in the small classroom. "The antagonist is actually just someone who wants the cycle to end, but the protagonist is the supposed "hero" who only cheated life for their role in society".

He adjusts his collar slightly, scratching at the pale skin beneath it. He stands from his own seat and steps up to yours. "Conceptually, its great. In the opening act, it sounds like your hero is making a promise to protect society- when really-"

"Its a threat" You look up at him, and his lips curl. He places a hand firmly onto the desk's surface, and lowers himself down to meet your gaze.

"I love the sound of that" his voice lowers just a few notches, like it's a secret between the two of you. You look away for a moment, but the sting of crimson floods your brain. His words chain you back to the ground as he finalizes his thoughts. "You're a damn good writer. Don't let our own dystopia steal that from you".

He's managed to sear himself into your mind.

Every step you take through the now melting snow leaves a trail from the 310 building, like sprinkling breadcrumbs for carnivores. The invisible red thread, the same cherry-wine red of Tomura's eyes, the red of the velvet curtain on that old stage.

His voice plays like a haunting as you stare up at the sky, counting every star like you count the markings on his face. There's a small, but distinct crease between his brow whenever he reads something. His tired eyes that light up like traffic markers as he demonstrates a scene. When he smiles, the birthmark below his mouth shifts slightly upwards. Every word that leaves his pale pink lips hangs heavily with the weight of understanding. Everything reminds you of him.

So cliche- cut it out.

"If you can execute it properly, cliche can work".

Just because it can, doesn't mean it should. Fate is cliche, invisible string is cliche. Professor and student is...No.

The fortitude you'd built over the years would not crumble for the first person who acknowledged you, especially not a man double your age. This wasn't a Nabokov novel- this was real life, and fantasies were merely that. A subject of fantasy, fiction.

Though, it gave you a pretty good idea of what to write for the next assignment.

[compendiumofdecay]

the ink that never dries

chapter one

->t.shigaraki x reader.

it happens in instances. small, brief moments in passing. a quick hand bushing against yours, a stolen glance from across the room. and then, as if all at once, it grows outside of your control, and its formidable and terrifying, and everything you want it to be and more.

professor shigaraki is the new drama teacher. for years, the arts classes had been nonexistent for your university. lucky for you, you find yourself at the front and center of his musings, hearing him like you've never heard anyone else before. the path you walk now is a little less cold, but a little more dangerous.

cw/tags for this chapter: mental health/strained parental relationships.

tags for entire work: slow burn, professor x student, large age gaps, shigaraki (non-canon)

The room across from the music hall was barren again. For eight consecutive years and counting, not a single professor had filled the space, and dust collected heavily on the shelving units and outdated desks. A small stage at the head of the room, sat covered with the same heavy curtain that closed once, never to be opened again. Long ago, it was Drama 101. Now, it was a sad storage room, haunted by the dream of theatre.

You hadn't been there to see the crumble of the arts classes, but it was a tale many professors loved to share. Namely, the English professors, in an attempt to reverse the vicissitude of budget cuts and lack of interest. At best, their grief was enough to push back lesson times- which was something you came to enjoy.

Freshman year was difficult, especially coming from such a small town. University life wasn't anything you'd ever imagined it to be. The movies got it all wrong, there were no flourishing clubs or crazy frat parties. The sorority you wanted to join had immediately denied you after finding out your major was nothing even close to a medical degree. No, why would it be? You went and picked the black sheep of majors, the one educational path that would guarantee you a spot waitressing for the rest of your life, at most. Creative writing as a degree was an empty promise these days. Yet, you persevered, fixating on the pointless revival of prose and poetry that you, and you alone, would resuscitate. You wanted to be an author, the forty or so written and revised drafts sitting in your "portfolio" said so. Pride was a silly thing, though, so you bit the bullet and took a minor in business just in case. Maybe you could be a teacher, working twenty odd years to grasp closer to professionalism. You could tutor on the side. Children's books sold fairly well on most e-commerce and social media sites these days. You'd be able to find a demographic somewhere, right?

It would work out. It will work out, you assure yourself as you step through the doors of the main building, shoes clacking heavily on the old marbled tiles. Most night classes were on the other side of campus, which meant the other half of campus was a ghost town past 6pm. The walk was nice, though, even with winters cruel chill whispering down your neck, the snow fell softly on the green, illuminated by lampposts and moonlight. Every step rang through the empty courtyard with a resonance that reminded you of the crunch of leaves in a forest. Any prey that wanted to, could take your cervidae throat in its frothing maw as a suppertime delight. But no one you could see prowled here now, it was just you and the plumes of warm breaths on cold air.

A rustling of papers and clinking objects stirs you from your low gaze, as you watch a man approaching the 310 building, fumbling with a comically large cardboard box. The box falls almost scripted from his hands, and he throws his head back in exasperation.

Your feet move faster as you approach the mess, not sure if you're going to watch or help. But you find yourself grabbing items from the concrete sidewalks as they roll and bounce away. An antique-looking pocket watch, a mask suitable for the Phantom, and a small plush bird.

You watch as the man scrambles around, tilting the box upright and tossing stuff back in haphazardly. Gently, you offload the items into the box without saying a word. As he curses and huffs, his eyes trace up your legs, to your chest, and they meet yours. Even in the darkness, you can feel his stare. A decadent cherry color, like the juice that stains your hands in the summertime.

He stands and brushes his hands off, thanking you repeatedly. "Sorry, that box is flimsy, I just- stupid props, that's all-"

You take his warbled apology to look over him fully now. He's tall, lean. His hair is a pure white color, long and tangled in the low bun he's managed to tie it in. A tight turtleneck stretches across his frame, paired with loose slacks that nearly match his eyes. His face is the amalgamation of hurriedness and embarrassment, as he bites at the cracked skin of his lips.

"Don't worry about it, it must be stressful being the embodiment of Mary Poppins's handbag". You hold back a laugh as you glance down to the overflowing box, and he chuckles dryly.

"Well, if you ever need the time-" He rubs the back of his neck, pulling another pocket watch by its chain out of the box, "you know where to find me".

"That was a horrible joke. I really hope your major isn't public speaking". Another chuckle.

The man stuffs his hands into his pants pockets and shakes his head, "Ah, no. It was actually Drama".

"Was? Is this you, packing your things? Are you the ghost that haunts the art halls?"

He shakes his head. "No, no, I'm moving things in. I'm actually going to be teaching."

You nod with a furrowed brow, but tilt your head. "I thought they cut the funding for those studies years ago?"

"Yeah, they did. But there's been a lot of talk about an uptick of liberal arts degrees, and...I guess they have spots to fill again." The man pushes a stray strand of hair from his face and grabs the box with a huff. He turns his heel with a small gesture of thanks, heading for the door to the arts building.

"Wait, so the theatre classes are available for next semester?". Your voice falls heavily against the chill of the air, and it feels nearly desperate as he turns back on his heel with a quaint tug of his lips.

"If you're asking to be polite, then no. But if you're asking so you can play the game, then yes". The man tilts his head in a sloppy bowing motion, and sets back on his path through the doors.

You stood watching as the lanky professor slunk through the doorway, tattered box still held tightly to his chest. Next semester was only a few weeks away. You hadn't picked any electives yet, not outside of your required courses. You never found yourself a theatre person, but your current screenwriting class could be good enough background. Hopefully.

"Well, hope is a fickle thing, Miss. You're lucky you came when you did. Seems the class just had one person drop it, leaving a spot for you". The course counselor straightens his glasses on his nose, wiry frames fitting on his wiry face. He clicks a few things on his computer, prints a few things, and hands you a warm stack of papers outlining your schedule.

With a curt nod, you thank him, heading out the door before he can try to ask any more grating questions. You've had your fair share of "How are your classes?", "Is there any subject you've been struggling with?", or the worst of them all, "Have you decided on a major yet? Are you sure creative writing is the one for you?". It felt like a mockery. Like they knew something you didn't. And out of everything, you hated feeling belittled.

It had happened enough in high school, it happened enough with your parents and your shitty friends who all got accepted to the same school and left you behind to "focus on your art". Your art that they never once even tried to understand, never read or listened when you talked about it. The art they swore up and down was so good, but when asked what they liked about it, they just said "everything". Statistically, you knew a person couldn't love everything equally, there's always going to be a part that sticks out or makes them feel something. That's the whole point of it.

But it was a moot point to dwell on it now. You hadn't talked to any of them since graduation, and you would only see your parents for holidays. Home felt like a distant memory. All you had now was the small college housing unit, kept warm with two space heaters plugged into ungrounded outlets, and a shoddy gas stove from what appeared to be the 1800's. It was enough for now.

Tossing your bag on the small dining chair in the central area, you take a breath in slowly. The nice thing about attending such an old school was the dorm rooms weren't big enough to cram two people into, so they were solitary. The bad thing was that, well, they were solitary. It got lonely at times, especially when just across the yard, the sorority houses bustled with energy and excitement. Even in negative 10° weather, both them and the frats were throwing parties, get-togethers, events. And sure, you had some very nice neighbors, but they weren't anything to brag about. You knew them in passing, a few of them shared classes, and on occasion you'd meet with them to study or share notes. But it was nothing tangible. Not like the lifelong commitment of sisterhood and friendship you so desperately tried to grapple onto.

As the stove sparked to life, you let the heat of the burner warm the small kitchenette a bit, the firelight casting a homely shadow on your frozen skin. You let the stress roll off your shoulders finally, for the first time in weeks. Exams were over, and tomorrow you'd be on a bus back to your parents home for the winter holidays. Then, you could live and eat rent free for a full month. You could even indulge in a bath. God, you hadn't seen a real tub in months. The mere thought of it eased you, as you warmed your hands above the half-boiled pot of water on the burner. Last struggle meal for a while, you smiled to yourself as you cracked the ramen packet into the water. Sleep would thankfully come easily tonight, with your bag packed and your fridge unplugged.

You were right to think home was an unfamiliar place. Your parents, eager as ever, had already used the excuse of your college dormitory to begin renovations on the house. Which meant you now slept in the small, cramped attic space, alongside various knickknacks and cobwebs. But at least they kept the tub. By god, they kept the bathtub.

Lumpy was at least happy to see you. The fat little tabby that, with every visit, got more and more spoiled. He meowed from the floor as you picked at the chicken and rice on your plate, big yellow eyes pleading as if he hadn't eaten in months. Severing a piece from your plate, you hand a little bite of chicken to him. "Glutton," you whisper to him as he paws at your hand, like a beggar in the desert.

"So, how has the big uni life been treating you? I feel like we've barely spoken since you got here" your father, swirling his drink in his glass, tilts his head at you.

You hadn't. You got there at five pm, it was only half past six. Your mother had ushered you in, while wrangling your two siblings, your brother proudly showing you his newest Lego set. Then your sister laughed at you having to crawl up to the attic, and took a humiliating angled photo of you for her group-chat. So no, you didn't get much time to talk to dad yet.

"It's good, actually," You start, putting your fork down. Lumpy meows quietly at you again, and you shake your head at him. "I've been doing really well, and I really liked my professors this-well, last- semester. And when I go back, I have a few classes I'm really excited for-"

"You change your mind on your major at all?" He interrupts, and you shake your head.

"No, I haven't, and I don't even need to make that decision until the end of sophomore year, so I figured I'd get my general studies sorted before I-"

"I'm just wondering. I mean, if that's what you really want to do. I just, you know, we are helping to pay for this, and I just want to make sure it's worthwhile, your mother and I really want you to be successful". Your mother, silently drinking her wine, nods along.

"I think she'll be fine. As long as she's happy, that's good, right?" she turns to him, squeezing his hand. Reassurance? Or a silent plea for him to not press the question.

"No, no. I know," you start back up, doing your best to defend your choices. You've fought this fight before. You know how to play the game. "Honestly I was thinking of maybe teaching. Maybe writing on the side. I haven't decided, but I will. I promise".

It's enough that he sighs and nods. Contempt, supposedly. Your mother smiles, trying to be supportive. You know she doubts you the same way, she just does it in a different font.

"What classes are you taking next semester?" she asks, an attempt to do something other than spark the argument of financials.

"Well, I've got my requirements, like american lit, and algebra, but I'm also taking a drama class. My advisor said it would be beneficial for my desired degree."

"Christ. They teach drama now? In college?" Your father raises his eyebrows.

"Well, they didn't for a while. The school had a major funding issue but I guess the art fields are coming back so, they brought those classes back. I think it'll be fun".

"Yeah, Jesus, I wonder why." He shakes his head in disbelief, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, sure. As long as it doesn't take away from your actual education." He finishes his drink and your mother chuckles.

"Just don't become one of those...well, you know. Art kids turn into unemployed welfare leeches." He finalizes his statement and stands from his seat. You shake your head, taking a breath before collecting your plate and placing it in the sink. At least you don't have to do dishes anymore. That's a job that got assigned to your younger siblings after you left. One small blessing at a time, right?

You didn't talk about school any more. Not even on Christmas, when your extended family asked you about it. You just nodded and said you were having a good time, yes you were just doing general education, and that you would pick a "good, successful" major. End of story. You didn't have the heart to fight the assumptions.

You left two days before school started again. Your bother was sad, handing you another pokémon drawing to hang above your dorm bed. Your sister, even in her indifference, hugged you and told you that she loved you. Moody teens are...special. Lumpy even meowed pathetically at the door, though you couldn't tell if he was sad or just hungry again.

Your mother and father smiled and hugged you tightly as the bus slowed to a stop. Despite their doubts, they at least loved you. And that was enough to settle with, it was enough to make you sad to leave. But it would be over soon enough. Summer vacation would be a saving grace back at home, with the chirping of cicadas and fat toads, the creaking of the old treehouse swing set, late night drives with your sister and best friend to get slushies. Soon.

Soon, you repeat, unpacking your things and restocking the fridge. You plug in the heaters, cranking them onto high as they zap at the outlets. Not soon enough.