Patreon Exclusive— Forbidden Thought: Jiro Dream Log #1

The stage lights hit like lightning, violet and gold slicing through a sea of screaming fans. Smoke machines billowed. Bass trembled underfoot. And at the center of it all... like a goddess armed with cords instead of chains- stood Kyoka Jiro.

Her hair was teased like rebellion. Her outfit, a half fishnet rock-star fantasy. One earjack sparked like a firecracker, the other coiled around her mic like a snake in heat. Her fingers clenched her guitar as if it were an extension of her own body. She didn’t perform on stage... she commanded it.

But then her eyes caught something in the crowd. Something, no, someone, that shouldn’t have been there.

Front row. Shirtless. Sunglasses on. At night.

Ryuu Midoriya, living offense to personal space and inner peace, leaning back with the arrogant poise of someone who just caused a nation to declare war out of spite.

And in his hands?

A LED-lit monstrosity of a sign that pulsed with color, arrows pointing straight up at him like divine mockery:

“SIMP 4 SOUND QUEEN.”

“OH HELL NO.” Jiro gripped the mic, rage and panic colliding in her chest.

“This next one is called: SHUT UP, RYUU!”

The arena erupted. Cheers shook the scaffolding. Fireworks ignited prematurely.

And then, because this was a dream and nothing was fair, every single member of the audience, from Mt. Lady to Aizawa to freaking Toga, rose in unison like a synchronized cult and chanted...

“MARRY HIM!”

Jiro’s brain short-circuited. “HELL. NO!”

She struck a chord, full force, shoulder thrown into it, defiance in every twitch of her fingers. But instead of the crunchy, distortion-heavy blast she expected…

...the guitar moaned.

Not like a mistake, not feedback. Like a breathy, sensual gasp that pulsed through the speakers and reverberated in her earlobes. The strings beneath her fingertips thrummed like bare skin under a teasing touch. Her spine stiffened. Her eyes widened.

The crowd screamed louder.

Jiro’s face heated so fast it felt like spontaneous combustion. She could feel Ryuu’s shit-eating grin from the crowd like it had become a sentient entity all its own. Her grip on the mic faltered. Her knees almost buckled.

“Some of you should definitely pay me for emotional damage,” she whispered hoarsely, into the mic, unaware it was still on.

She stormed backstage like a tornado in fishnets. Her guitar clanged against the wall as she tossed it, not even in anger. Just... overload.

And of course, like an STD in the shape of a boy, Ryuu was already in the green room. Shirt unbuttoned halfway down, leaning back on a ratty couch like he was filming a cologne commercial called “Annoyance by Midoriya.”

“You didn’t crash and burn this time,” he said with a lazy grin, voice low, rough, and somehow so close.

“Shut the hell up,” she snapped, stomping forward. “You are not even real. You are a hallucination. A delusion. The product of my overworked subconscious and late-night ramen!”

He stood without losing the grin. Tossed her a water bottle… from his mouth. She caught it like it was radioactive.

“Then why do your knees keep buckling?” he murmured, no, breathed, as he stepped closer.

And now… now his voice was in her earjack. She felt it on her spine.

The lights flickered. The green room tilted.

Her mouth opened for a comeback. What came out was a noise halfway between a gasp and an embarrassing whimper.

No. Nope. Not real. I don’t like him. I don’t want him. He is-

“Volume,” Ryuu whispered.

That one word was a cheat code.

Her quirk detonated like a musical minefield. The earpieces sparked. Vibrations coursed through her bones like a private concert made of breath, bass, and bad intentions. Her moan, small and involuntary, echoed over the arena speakers. The intercom was still live.

“Wha- what the hell are you doing to me?” she stammered, gripping a wall like her legs had declared mutiny.

“You are the one remixing your own dreams, Queen,” he said, looking almost reverent as he watched her fall apart in silence.

She ran.

Bolted back onto the stage like it was a life raft.

Bad idea.

The crowd was no longer just chanting. They were armed.

Signs.

Mass-produced, glowing signs held by every single person in the stadium:

SCREAM HIS NAME

YOU WANT HIM BAD

SHUT UP & KISS HIM

And worse? Aizawa had one too. Aizawa. The last bastion of emotional repression.

“THIS IS NOT HAPPENING!” she screamed into the mic, voice cracking like a broken amp.

“MARRY HIM!” the crowd screamed back, now in four-part harmony.

And then he stepped onto stage.

No mic needed, his presence alone was louder than thunder.

“Let’s drop a duet, Jiro.”

He grabbed a spare mic. Strummed one low, perfect note.

And that was it.

Her body betrayed her. Her scream came out a moan. Her hands dropped the guitar.

And then-

“FINE! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE, OKAY!”

Silence.

Even the crowd was stunned.

Then applause.

Fireworks.

Confetti.

She woke up face down, smothered in her pillow like it owed her dinner first.

Heart jackhammering. Earpieces tangled in her hair. Shirt rucked up to her ribs. Her thighs were pressed together so tightly she might’ve developed new muscle groups. Sweat clung to her like she’d played a three-hour concert on stage and then got dragged backstage for something else entirely.

The worst part?

She could still hear his voice.

“Volume.”

Just a whisper. That’s all it took. Her body twitched like it was waiting for another command.

She hissed through gritted teeth and slammed her face deeper into the pillow.

“That idiot,” she muttered.

But it wasn’t even angry anymore. It was... trembly. Unstable. A whimper disguised as a curse. Her legs shifted. Wrong move.

A sudden, traitorous pulse lit up her spine and dropped her into emotional freefall.

"Marry him."

It echoed in her skull like a song she couldn’t delete.

“WHY-” she croaked into the sheets, voice muffled, strangled, “-why did it feel that real?!”

She slapped her palm against her forehead, burning red. She could still feel the imprint of the LED-lit sign in her soul.

SIMP 4 SOUND QUEEN.

In bold flashing pink.

Her knees squeezed tighter. Her hand almost moved.

But she stopped. Froze. Just lay there, eyes wide.

“No. I am not... I am NOT doing that. Over him. Over that smug, chaos-spreading-” her hips shifted “-incubus in sunglasses.”

She growled into the pillow, animalistic, like a caged beast trapped between murder and something worse.

“If he ever finds out… I will kill him. Then I will kill me. Then I will haunt him. Forever. Naked. In his goddamn dreams.”

Somewhere across the city, Ryuu Midoriya sneezed and muttered, “Someone is probably plotting to kick me in the balls.”

And he wasn’t wrong.