#but eeee!!! very exciting if i can one day have a cat without needing cat free spaces in my house

[tea-earl-grey]

very exciting news that i spent half an hour with a cat today and i didn't get any allergy symptoms!!!! I've done almost 8 months of allergy shots and this is when you're supposed to first start seeing results so fingers crossed!

[inkykeiji]

you be the match, i will be your fuse

fluffy anon said: dabi coming home after an absolutely horrid day at work and just needing to be absolutely BABIED by reader (i’m talking cuddling in bed, taking a bath with him and washing his hair then getting out just rubbing his back as he sleeps with his head on your chest)

genre: angst + fluff, laced with just a hint of smut (like two sentences)

notes: aaaah happy birthday dabi!!! this has absolutely nothing to do with your birthday but eeee ily | title cred: sure thing by miguel

warnings: 18+, implied/mentioned death of a child, one instance of implied past physical abuse, self-destructive behaviour + coping mechanisms, co-dependent toxic relationship

words: 3.5k

It’s thundering the day it happens, ferocious growls that rumble through your apartment—a tiny, quaint space you share with Dabi, full of faulty appliances and cracked linoleum—rolling, fluffy grey clouds blanketing the entire sky, swollen with restrained rain droplets as a storm brews within them. Little fingers idly toy with the yellowed pages of your worn pulp fiction novel, flipping through them and bending corners as your eyes search the angry sky, chewing on your cheek.

Dabi should’ve been home by now. It’s not like him to be late without calling, without letting his babygirl know what’s going on—he knows the way you worry, the way you overthink yourself into a frenzy, the way you’re so clingy and needy, teases you about it incessantly and tells you he thinks it’s cute—and a deep sense of dread takes root in the pit of your stomach, dark and bitter and unfurling, quickly spreading throughout the cavity of your chest.

His phone must be off—no, it’s never off, he doesn’t do that anymore, not since you stumbled into his life—his phone must be dead, your repeated calls growing increasingly frequent and urgent every time you’re greeted with the drone of his automatic voicemail.

Something’s wrong, horribly so.

It’s evident the moment he arrives home, scratched brass doorknob slamming against the wall, deepening the crater its left from past incidents of a similar manner.

It infects the air around him, hanging heavy and thick, its dense presence nearly suffocating. His shoulders slump under the pressure, the weight of whatever he’s carrying practically crushing, as he drags his crimson splattered boots through the front door, soles scraping against the cheap hardwood, bringing the putrid scent of charred flesh with him—his or someone else’s, you don’t know.

You swear you can almost see it, this—this thing, this aura, enveloping him in its haughty embrace as his chest heaves under a deep, controlled breath, pausing in the foyer as the door shuts behind him.

Bare feet pad against the floor, your legs moving without your explicit permission, drawn towards him in an almost instinctual manner, the desire to care for, to comfort, burning as it bubbles up in your chest, mixing with that intense sense of trepidation and invading your veins.

He permits you to wrap your arms around his torso as you nuzzle against him, body going rigid for a moment, still and stiff as marble, before he exhales again, melting into your embrace.

Several questions race through your mind at such a speed that they crash and clash together, becoming nothing more than incoherent jumbled lettering, tiny fingers curling in the fabric of his clothing as you try to pull him closer, nonsensical babbling spilling from your lips. A vacant ghost of a chuckle leaves his lips, nothing more than a simple huff of breath, and he squeezes you closer.

“Bad day?” the words are mumbled against his dirty t-shirt, what was once a pristine white now tarnished with ash and blood. You don’t get a response—you don’t expect one.

He doesn’t talk much, not on days like this.

He doesn’t need to.

Bad days—really bad, terrible, awful days such as this one—are surprisingly rare with Dabi. Sure, he’s had the typical ‘bad’ day before, where someone pisses him off, or he gets into a fight with his superior, but those bad days usually require railing you into your creaky, springy king-sized mattress until you’ve forgotten everything but his name and he’s fucked all of the anger and hatred out of his body.

They are not like this one. No, on days such as this, on days where he’s killed someone he deems to be innocent, someone who—like him—is a victim of heroism, he’s quiet, distant, unpredictable, bordering on unhinged, and you’ve learned to tread with extreme discretion.

But you don’t push, either, resolving to communicate through gentle touches, soft fingertips that run along his tense, broad shoulders and press into the hard coiled muscles, tender fingers that thread through inky tufts of hair, sapphire eyes closing as he hums and leans into the motion like a cat.

It’s only for a second, though, just a moment of weakness before he’s breaking out of your embrace, pushing past you and clearing his throat, glass door to the balcony sliding shut a moment later. 

You don’t follow. You know better than that now, a phantom sting in your cheek serving as a reminder, the resounding sharp sound of glass shattering as it’s hurled at the floor slicing through your mind with such viciousness it makes you wince. 

Instead, you sit. And you wait. Like you’re supposed to, like a good little girl, a book clutched between your quivering hands, unblinking eyes staring at the words on the page, nothing but incomprehensible symbols—lines and lines of black ink in meaningless shapes—as scorching sapphire loops through your mind.

Be a good girl, give him space, let him come to you. Be a good girl, give him space, let him come to you. Be a good girl. Give him space. Let him come to you.

It’s standard procedure, really.

And eventually, he does, comes back inside with an empty bottle of whiskey clutched in a hand, along with a crumpled package of cigarettes. You don’t know how long it’s been, muscles sore and joints aching from sitting in the same position for so long, eyes dry from staring at the same page, barely moving, barely breathing. His hand is bleeding, knuckles bruised and gleaming with sticky scarlet that’s still fresh and flowing, but it could be worse. It has been worse.

The harsh clink of the bottle against the kitchen counter makes you flinch, and he sighs, heavy and full of derision, eyes flicking up to glare at your side profile.

“I can hear you thinking,”

“You’re filthy, baby,” the words tumble past your lips, uncontrollable, involuntary, almost reflexive in your response, eyes snapping to his face and voice whiny, voice pleading. “Take a bath with me,”

And you can see it—can see it in the dark cobalt of his irises, what he needs, the very thing he’s fighting himself on, the very thing he’s fighting so hard against. Always so stubborn, so reluctant, so cautious.

Because, fuck, he used to be able to resist it, this pathetic ache for comfort—something that’s only managed to grow in your presence, that’s shifted and morphed from a dull smoldering to a raging fire, an insatiable longing for your fingers in his hair and your breath on his skin and your voice against his ear—a skill he’d been constructing, developing, perfecting, since he was thirteen years old. A skill you succeeded in shattering in the matter of a few measly months.

Because you—you’re different. And he hates it sometimes, he swears to the good Lord he does, but hating it doesn’t make it any less true. You break him down, you make him weak, you make him want, and the longer he spends around you, the more he finds that he doesn’t fucking care. And that’s irritating, that’s exciting, that’s terrifying, that’s new. 

Fury blisters his chest, his lungs, his throat as he holds your stare, jaw clenching twice. But you don’t falter, not like the rest of them, not like anyone else—everyone else. You never falter, always so eager to see the good in him, a snort leaving his nose at the thought. The good in him. Is there any good left in him? Was there ever any good in him in the first place? Are you the good in him, now? Does he care?

And he’s not sure he’ll ever understand it, but he’s beginning to realize that, maybe, he doesn’t have to. 

Maybe, it doesn’t matter. Maybe, it’s okay, if you love him, if he loves you.

Maybe.

It’s too much, and he can feel frustration stinging his eyes, long delicate eyelashes fluttering as he quickly blinks it away. Spears, sharp and cold, splinter your chest at the sight, but you know if you begin crying too, you’ll lose him. You know that if you begin showing what he considers weakness, he’ll pull away, even though this is what he so clearly needs most. 

So you steel yourself, swallowing hard against the pain collecting in your throat, will the tears away and force your body to stay calm, approaching him slowly as if he’s some sort of feral animal prone to lashing out. 

Apprehension is clear in his azure eyes, head tilting a little as they narrow, regarding you with skepticism, with suspicion. 

It’s bold, and dangerous, and—as far as Dabi’s concerned—fucking stupid, but you don’t care, determined to prove to him that you aren’t going anywhere regardless of how many tantrums he throws, no matter how many times he hurts you in his anguish. It’s almost desperate, really, this sheer need to prove to him that you aren’t scared of him, that irrespective of how soft he seems to think you are, you are strong, even if it’s in ways he could never understand, that you can be strong for him, when he needs it, that he can borrow some of your strength, if he needs to.

And that—that’s why he loves you. It hits him hard, as this realization always does, kicks him in the chest and knocks the breath out of him every time, and he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to it.

A tiny hand hangs in the air between the two of you, Dabi regarding the offer with a wary hesitance. Wiggling fingers attempt to entice him, earning a tiny smirk—a massive victory—as sapphire flits up to gaze at you through thick lashes, an eyebrow raised.

You match his expression, quirking an eyebrow of your own and nodding at your hand, speaking a moment later.

“Let me in, baby,” the words are barely above a whisper, but they’re so raw, filled with so much unadulterated love it hurts, pure and real and everything he’s never had before. “Let me help,”

And, God, it’s fucking overwhelming, how badly he wishes to give in to this unfamiliar compassion, how desperately he desires your affection, despite the malicious voice echoing off the walls of his skull, berating him for being so pathetic, so weak, so vulnerable.

But the urge to accept, to seek out consolation in you, wins, just as it always does, that nasty voice reverberating in his mind silenced the very instant his skin touches yours.

You let him make the last move, allow him to make that final decision entirely on his own accord, to grasp your hand in his, warm and rough, and pull you towards him, crushing you against his chest as he buries his face in your hair, eyes squeezed shut against that annoying burn of tears, chest stuttered with a hitched breath, air that gets caught in his throat as he chokes on the words he wants to say.

But he doesn’t need to say them. You already know.

“Come,” you murmur to him, fingers threading through the tufts of hair at the nape of his neck. “Let’s take a bath,”

     ✰          ✰          ✰

The bathwater stings your skin, just a hint too hot to be comfortable, but you say nothing as you settle onto his lap in the cramped little tub, encompassed by frothy bubbles, dainty scent of orange citrus tickling your nose.

Heated fingertips press into your hips as he finds comfort the only way he knows how to, in your precious little whimpers and broken moans of his name as he bounces you on his cock, so vigorously you’re positive you can feel him in your tummy, the pads of his fingers searing his prints into your skin.

It’s heady, it’s intoxicating, it’s addicting, heightened emotions both pleasant and unpleasant swirling together with the symphony of your cries and his grunts as the water you’re submerged in begins to bubble and boil, to crack and pop, sudsy liquid sloshing over the side of the tiny tub as he forces you to ride him, faster and faster and faster until you’re whining and convulsing around him, and he’s filling you with thick cum, cock throbbing aggressively as he spurts load after load into you.

After, as he leans back against the cold tile, residual droplets sizzling into steam as his heated skin touches them. Gentle fingers card between his hair, water cascading through onyx strands as it pours over his head from a worn plastic cup—a faded Darth Vader staring back at you as you rhythmically repeat your actions until the tresses stick to his forehead and cheeks, drenched and shining in the low light of the washroom.

Heavy lids obscure the most brilliant sapphire from you as shampoo is massaged into his scalp, slow and unhurried and thorough, every stroke, every comb through inky clumps easing the turmoil in his mind bit by bit, calming the storm that’s been raging inside of him for hours now. Deep hums rumble in his chest as your fingers continue their ministrations, your eyes trained on your motions. And you can feel it, the tension dissipating from his body with each circle of foam rubbed into his soft hair, shoulders finally beginning to relax as he subconsciously nuzzles into your touch, following it, longing for it, aching for more.

He shifts then, after you’ve rinsed the soap from his hair, manhandling you into a position between his thighs, bare chest pressed tightly against your back. You work hard to keep your body from tensing, forcing your breathing to stay even, to stay calm as you brace yourself for what’s coming next.

“He was eleven,” he says after several long moments of silence, voice low and trembling, hoarse and heavy with remorse. “This time.”

This time. That’s the third innocent civilian—innocent by his standards, at least—this month.

That’s the first time it’s ever been a child.

You don’t turn around to look at him, not yet—he isn’t finished—simply opting to lace your fingers through his and bring your joined hands to your lips, kissing each wounded knuckle, crude staples catching in the dim warm light of the tiny bathroom. 

You want to tell him it wasn’t his fault, even though it was. You want to tell him anything that’ll make him feel better, that’ll absolve the guilt so evidently gnawing away at his insides, even though you know there’s nothing you can say.

“What are—I don’t even—” his voice breaks and you feel his chest stutter against your back, feel him exhale harshly, breath cool on your damp shoulder, feel him swallow thickly as he tries again. Because as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, as much as he would never admit it, you know he needs release this from the confines of his mind—you know you’re the only person who can offer him such an outlet. “Why the fuck were there kids there in the first place? Huh? They shouldn’t—They shouldn’t have been there,”

Orphans are everywhere in this city, you murmur, lips moving against his rough skin. He knows. Orphans of heroes. He knows.

“I’m gonna kill Shigaraki, I swear to Christ. Sending us to a—a fucking place infested with fucking ch-children,” his fingers curl around yours, hand beginning to shake as it clutches you like a lifeline, like that guilt will devour him from the inside out, like he’ll disintegrate into nothingness, if he doesn’t. “I bet you he fucking knew—nah, I-I’m positive he did. Asshole only cares about himself, though. Doesn’t matter that—that the cause we’re supposed to be fighting for affects these stupid kids,”

You’re right, love.

The words leave your lips in a gentle breath, leaning your head back against his collarbone and staring up at him. Cobalt eyes stay trained on the cracked tile wall, jaw methodically clenching as his molars grind together, an attempt to quell the trembling of his chin, exhaling hard harsh breaths through flared nostrils.

“Whatever,” he huffs, voice still wavering and not nearly as self-assured as he wishes. “Th-That brat shouldn’t have been there in the first place,”

He shouldn’t have, you agree, finally squirming in his grasp, turning to face him, to straddle his hips again in the tight space of the tub. And he welcomes your affections readily this time, arms encircling your waist as he holds you tightly to him, blunt nails digging purple-tinged crescents into your flesh as he shoves his face against your neck, finally allowing those emotions he’s been fighting to leak from his eyes and absorb into your skin.

Little palms rub soothing circles into his back as he shudders against you, allowing him to empty his soul onto you as soft lips press chaste kisses to his damp hair, waiting until there’s nothing left, until his eyes are drained, azure glassy and bloodshot, nose twitching and red.

And after he’s done, when he finally pulls back, scrubbing aggressively at his nose as tiny sniffles hitch in his chest, gentle fingers begin to lather soap into his skin, washing away the dirt and grime and blood from the day. Fingertips carefully trace along the metal sutures decorating his body with immeasurable adoration, you whispering all of the things he so desperately needs to hear that he’d never dare to ask for, complimented by the tender touches that cleanse his soul with their unconditional love.

He’s bigger than you are, but that doesn’t stop you from trying to wrap him in a fluffy white towel, using another in an attempt to dry his hair as your hands move in shaggy motions, heart soaring in your chest when you pull a soft laugh from his lips, wet and wobbly and croaky, but a laugh nonetheless.

A mutual silence, gentle and comforting and stuffed full of an immense love, a special kind of love, a love words do not exist to explain, swathes your bodies as he allows you to dress him, pulling a ratty old band tee over his head and a pair of plaid PJ pants up his legs.

“You always look so cute in my clothes,” he rasps from his spot perched on the edge of the bed, glowing crystal eyes watching as you pull one of his t-shirts over your naked body.

A genuine bubble of laughter erupts from your throat as you climb into bed with him, immediately allowing him to latch onto you, to pull you towards him, to hold you close like his own personal plushie.

“Sleep,” you murmur as the two of you settle into a comfortable position, limbs tangled together, his head resting on your chest, fingers threading through his hair and then tracing down his neck, his back. “And then I’ll make you ramen,”

“The spicy kind?”

“Of course,”

I love you.

“Extra spicy?”

Laughing again, you feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin, grip around your torso tightening. “Extra spicy. Now, rest,”

More than anything else.

“With the little fish cakes?”

“Your favourite little fish cakes,”

More than words could ever tell you.

“And the pork belly?”

“And the pork belly,” you feel his chest rise with an inhale, hastily adding, “And those little cream puffs you love so much, from that dingy convenience store downstairs, for dessert. Now sleep, baby,”

He laughs, even though his vision is blurring, even though it comes out more strangled than anything else, because he doesn’t want to cry again, because his chest stings and aches and swells and warms, full of inexplicable emotions, feels like it’s going to fucking burst as it chokes and reinvigorates him all at once, and—God, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

Because even though he’s terrified beyond belief, he’s willing to try—just for you, only for you—as he continually realizes with each passing day that he isn’t sure what the fuck he’d do without you, now. Because you’re too entangled up in his life, too deeply embedded in his very soul, for him to ever remove you, now. Because as petrifying and unfamiliar as it is, he doesn’t want to, now.

Because even though he’s broken, irrevocably so, and you can’t fix him, won’t fix him, you’ll still stay, to hold those pieces so gently, so tenderly in your hands, you’ll still protect those fragments and keep them from shattering further, you’ll still give them the affection and devotion they need, the affection and devotion they deserve. Because you love every part of him, even the bad ones, even the shards with jagged edges that cut into the soft flesh of your palms every time you caress them.

Because you accept him wholeheartedly, flaws and all, and that’s—he’s never experienced anything like that before, this unlimited, unreserved, unquestioning love. And although he doesn’t know how to say this, isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to find the right words to communicate it, he’s beginning to learn that unfamiliar doesn’t always mean bad; that sometimes, it’s okay—it’s good—to be vulnerable. He’s beginning to learn that with you, in the warmth of your shitty little apartment, with the stove that only has two functioning burners and the fridge that’s perpetually too cold, he can be, without judgement, without fear, without trepidation.

Because you are his only salvation, and he wouldn’t trade this for the goddamn world.

[kouei116]

Piofiore no Banshou: Dante (1)

Y: Eeee!? Why are you ... But thank you for saving me ...

After the prologue, Dante brought MC to his Falzone mansion. She was treated as a guest, had a comfy room, an escort called Leo that brought her everything she needed but Dante refused to explain/tell her anything, didn't allow her to step outside the mansion either. One day MC knew Dante was going out, she told Leo she was taking a bath but actually making a rope from bed sheet to climb down and escape. The rope snapped and she fell straight into Dante’s arms below ଘ(੭ˊ꒳ˋ)੭✧ Dante had a bad premonition hence he quickly returned and managed to catch her. He was mad, she could have died! MC thanked him for saving her. Dante brought her to his office and explained Sister Sofia died from the wound that night, MC was in a dangerous situation, she should stay here so that the Falzone could protect her from LaoShu (the Chinese mafia).

Y: (His face is very gentle...)

D (to Carlo the cat): ...  What happened to you? To be lost this late at night?

Leo brought MC books, music records so she wouldn't be bored, even a cat (that she named Carlo, it has blue eyes just like Dante's) so she wouldn't be lonely. MC was very thankful to Leo but eventually found out all of these were actually Dante's orders. One day, Carlo finished eating and ran off into Dante's office. MC followed and saw Dante patting Carlo's head gently ~(=^･ω･^)ヾ(^^ ) She came in to thank him for giving her all the books, records and Carlo. She asked if she could trust him, he said it was hard to ask her to trust mafia, but he had rules and he would move ahead to do what needed to be done without wavering - similar to what Sister Sofia told MC before. MC burst into crying missing Sofia and Dante stroked her back comforting her. She thought to herself, thanks to Carlo, she found out this kind gentle side of Dante today. 

Y: (Dante was fighting while he himself was wounded like this ...)

Nicola (Dante's right hand man) told her to go with him to the mansion's dungeon where Dante and other men were interrogating Fei (underling of Yang - Laoshu's leader). Fei saw MC and said ohhh she is the Key Maiden! Nicola lied to Dante that they came down here to look for Carlo the cat. MC asked Dante to stop bc Fei was still a boy, but Dante said this was not her business. Nicola brought MC back up and explained he showed MC that to remind her even if they treated her kindly, they were still mafia, and the world they lived in was different from hers. 

MC found out Sister Sofia was still alive, she wanted to go to the church to ask Sofia about the Key Maiden. Leo helped sneak her out on the day the Falzone attacked Yang's dealings but Sister Sofia wasn't in the church so they returned, bumping into Gilford (Visconti family's head) on the way but he let them go without troubling them. The Falzone's attack was successful, MC had been waiting to ask Dante abt Key Maiden, but when she saw blood on his arm, she rushed to get the first aid box and gave him treatment. She apologized to him, saying she found him scary in the dungeon and she still didn't like violence. He said it was natural to be scared and she didn't need to come to accept violence, in the world he lived in, sometimes there are things that need violence to get done. 

Y: (The leaf must have been flown by the strong wind earlier)

MC saw a famous politician angrily left Dante's office then Dante came out, looking all gloomy. She asked him to come to the garden with her, she tried to cheer him up talking abt fall and winter lol but nope, not working. Then she asked what sweets he wanted, more dulce? panacotta? tarta caprese? Btw Dante had a sweet tooth, he drank cafe latte, cappucino and liked the dulce that MC usually made for him. He was interested in the tarta caprese. MC was very excited saying she would try her best to make it delicious for him - this made him smile (❁´‿`❁)*✲ﾟ* Suddenly a strong wind flown by and he came very near to her face because ... there was a leaf stuck into her hair. He took the leaf off and MC heart pounded in her chest UwU

Leo said he was sure Sister Sofia was in the church this time, so when the Falzone went to do another attack on Yang, they sneaked out again (urggg whyyy Leo). But the intel for this attack was a miss, Yang wasn't there. Meanwhile MC and Leo were cornered by Yang's underlings. They ran away, bumped into the police officer Marcus and Robert. Leo offered to acted as the diversion while Marco helped bring MC back. But Marco and MC bumped right into Yang... Luckily Dante arrived and fought with Yang to protect MC. Then Nicola and more backup arrived so Yang left.

When they returned to his office, Dante slapped Leo for not thinking before acting, then was abt to explain everything to MC but there was a commotion at the front - Orlok arrived and on his own beat up the Falzone people to get inside the mansion. Leo rushed in to warn Dante, Dante prepared his gun and as soon as he stepped outside, Orlok was right at the door wanting to talk to MC. Dante wanted to stop Orlok so Orlok lunged at Dante with his short knife. Leo jumped in and got stabbed in his arm. More Falzone backup coming so Orlok jumped out the window and escaped.

After this, Dante told MC to pack things up and they immediately left to a hidden house that even among the Falzone, only Nicola and Leo knew about. These 2 usually came by to bring food and give reports to Dante. Nicola now was in command while Dante was here with MC.

Dante explained to MC, the Falzone has always been protecting the Holy Relic. In order for the Holy Relic not to be misused (that would cause Burlone to fall into wars and disasters), the Holy Relic was strictly sealed and according to legends, the 2 important factors to unlock the seal were the Falzone family's blood (hence the family was very strict with bloodline) and the Key Maiden (that the church chose aka MC).

D: Y...? What is it...?

Y: I really wasn't about to attack you in your sleep!

Later Dante fell asleep on the couch, MC was trying to wake him up to go to bed properly and avoid catching cold, but Carlo the cat at her feet made her slip and nearly fell down onto Dante, hence this adorable blushing Dante CG (*´﹃｀*)  Well, she managed to get up and their hands only touched a little bit what a shame (￢ε￢　) The two of them lived in this house, MC cooked and cleaned bc when Dante offered to help he immediately broke a dish lol. He asked her abt her life at the church while she asked him abt his childhood (with Nicola sneaking into the kitchen, they grew up together so could understand each other very well). It's nice for Dante and MC to get to know each other while living here all on their own ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Nicola: Well, once I finish reading this book, the three of us (Dante, Nicola, MC) can discuss our thoughts together while having tea. 

Introducing my Falzone Panini (the Italian cousin of Anna's sandwich™ haha): Dante Falzone (VA: Kaito Ishikawa) and Nicola Francesca (VA: Kimura Ryouhei). I automatically have a soft spot for Nicola the moment I saw Kimura Ryouhei as his VA. Dante is ahhhh, not only is he very handsome, I like how he seems cold but actually silently protects and looks after MC. He is sweet like his sweet tooth! His voice is so nice too, I'm definitely playing Midnight Cinderella's Alyn, Psychedelica the Black butterfly’s Hikage and Gensou Kissa Enchante’s Il Fado de Rie in his honour (♥ω♥ ) ~♪

This post is about chapter 1-5, about half of Dante's route that I have played and so far I enjoy it very much. The story, the arts, the music are stunning. I can't wait to finish the rest of Dante’s then onto Nicola’s ヽ(。ゝω・)ノ☆