#allconsumed

[in-tenebris-et-in-solitudine]

[cbarry-allens]

I guess you could say I'm obsessed at this point Every pin, every word, every day - I'm falling deeper into the beauty of the English language. Obsession never felt so poetic.

[franta-rps]

I guess you could say I'm obsessed at this point Immersed in a realm of captivating visuals and lyrical language - I confess, I'm hopelessly infatuated with the world of Pinterest.

[ms0milk]

when you suddenly catch a nasty cold

gn!reader ft. todo, bkg, kiri, and (hearts in my eyes) shinsou

i am so ill and these are so silly, indulge me :,) 600ish words ea.

Todoroki starts to cry when you joke about dying.

He’s bought more flowers than can fit into your little apartment, picked up your prescriptions, tissues, juice, a heating pad, cleaned your kitchen, tucked you in– he paged the fucking family physician– but watching you shiver under a heavy duvet, surrounded by all the things that are supposed to help you get better, ignites a fear he didn’t know that he had. They aren’t working. You’re still sick because of course you are, and he can’t bring himself to move more than an arm’s length away from you because what if– if he leaves and–

“Shoto?”

“Yes,” his response is immediate when you pull him from the ether. Always is.

I’m not going anywhere,” you croak, too conscious of how strange your voice sounds, “so you don’t have to stay with me all day.”

“I don’t mind.”

Todoroki is a wonderful boyfriend but when was the last time he went to the bathroom?

“You must be bored.”

He leans over you from his spot at the side of your bed and runs a blessedly too-cold hand across your forehead. Bored? Like he could calm down enough for that. “I can’t relax when you’re like this.”

You’d roll your eyes if they ached less, at your beautiful boyfriend and his cluelessly shoujo declarations of love framed by no fewer than two whole flower shops worth of camellias. He turns his hand over to palm your cheeks and wipe the water from your puffy eyes.

“Would you like me to leave?”

You shake your head, smiling under the weight of an overkill of blankets and the heavy dip from his butt at the edge of your mattress. You’re inclined to reach a hand out to grab it, but you don’t have the energy to raise your head let alone fondle your boyfriend.

“There’s no one I’d rather be with in my final hours,” you rasp, joking, obviously joking.

This cold is something evil, chills, aches, snot– the works. But you couldn’t ask for a better nurse. A gentle, thoughtful, sexy, temperature controlled man, a man you would raze the city for, whose hand fits so perfectly in yours and who– whose trembling? You blink back up.

Todoroki’s features don’t shift or soften, his lip doesn’t quiver, but a tear does slip down his cheeks from those pool cool eyes– one after the next until his jaw is lined with them all patiently waiting to fall from his chin.

“Why, why why?” You panic and try to sit up but he comes to you. Todoroki cups your hand tightly in a hot and cold grip and bows over his own lap to rest his head in yours.

“You’re not going to die.”

“What?”

“I promise.”

“Sho, what– no of course I’m not. What’s wrong, baby?”

Your voice is so weak that he has no other choice than to sit back up and reach for the cold compress. He wipes his eyes with renewed determination when he turns back around, “I’ve got you.”

“I’ve got you, Sho. ’m not going anywhere, promise.”

And when the Todoroki family doctor lets himself in, he does consider coming back another time at the sight of you, finally comfortable under a mountain of fabric, and your love curled around you asleep on top of the blankets.

———

It’s not until you genuinely collapse that Bakugou realizes something is wrong. He didn’t even hit you that hard.

“You’re wide open today!” The restless pro looms across the arena, grinning. You both come to the agency’s underground ring on Saturdays to train and he’s blasted you clear across the room like he’s actually working for a paycheck.

There wasn’t any amount of money you would have accepted to get out of bed this morning but Bakugou, a less than casual hookup from work, accidentally spent the night and the surprisingly sleep soft rumble of his voice, the gentle kneed of palms as he pulled you back against his body under dawn light– was, persuasive.

The sooner we finish, the sooner I can go home and nurse this headache.

Headache. Naive self-convincing circles your head as you pull yourself to your feet like spinning stars from a goddamned cartoon. This is not a headache. Standing was fine a second ago, and the floor was fine a second ago, but the move from floor to feet fills your sinuses with sudden pressure and immediately the arena starts to swirl.

“C’mon twinkle toes, you’re– Y/n– shit–”

You’re not interested in where that sentence ends today and you blessedly don’t have to hear it because your ears have filled with cotton and you’re sinking back down to your knees. You’ve been congested like this before– it’ll pass in a minute or two, you know how it goes and you’re only embarrassed by the fact you were down so bad for your teammate this morning that you didn’t realize how your body had started to feel.

The vertigo eases somewhat when you rest your head on the ground, but Bakugou has cleared the empty room and already has his domineering hands all over you. “Y/n? Y/n– do not close your eyes.”

“‘m not concussed, Kats.” But you know the explosive hero’s first fear isn’t exactly a head trauma. “You didn’t hurt me,” you add.

“Doesn’t narrow it down shitforbrains,” the aggressive tone doesn’t match his anxious hold though, and you melt a little when he kneels and pulls you into his lap, “if I didn’t hurt you then what’s wrong?”

Bakugou definitely doesn’t like the way your head seems too heavy for your neck and tilts himself back just enough for you to lean it against his chest. You look so fucking uncomfortable, scowling, eyes pinched closed. “What hurts?” He rasps as he moves to feel your temperature but his palms are sweating hard from a few quirk ignitions so he stalls, and lowers his forehead to yours instead. You’re soft where he touches you, warm in his hands.

You just need to sit, you don't need the #2 hero to cradle you in his arms like a corpse on the battlefield. Your eyes squeeze shut harder as a tiny wave rocks you in the dark and then suddenly one ear releases. “Think I’m getting sick,” you breathe. Carmel in and relief out. “It’s my head–”

“Head hurts?”

“I’m just stuffed up, I–” the other ear releases, “— just dizzy.”

Bakugou sits on his heels, perched. Should he pick you up? It’s terrifying to watch– you, his teammate, a capable hero, suddenly unable to stand.

But as the pressure behind your eyes levels out you can lift your head without discomfort. You can bring your arms up around Bakugou’s shoulders and settle your fingers in his hair. Bring him back down from where he’s tried to pull away.

Your foreheads bump again, “I’m okay.”

He growls, “I don’t believe you.”

So the hero takes you home. He makes sure you’re horizontal and goddamned tucked in before he slips from your front door and scares the shit out of you an hour later with a vice grip on some grocery bags and your apartment keys slipped around his middle finger. It’s almost romantic, the way he snaps at you to hold still while he dabs antiseptic on your scratches from sparring, or glares venom from behind the stove when you hobble to the kitchen to see what smells so good.

———

When Kirishima lets himself in and you’re asleep on the kitchen floor, worry overrides his confusion.

You won’t pick up his calls, but he’s never missed a movie night and he’s not about to start today. He throws your front door open with his copy of your apartment key and kicks off his gym crocs as loudly as he can manage so you might hear him come in. The last thing he wants is to startle you.

But you’re the one who nearly kills him when he slips through the genkan, arms full of snacks and catches sight of your slippered foot stretched out on the ground around the corner.

He’s on his hands and knees faster than he can even take a full step, dropping bottles and soft melon bread from his arms as he scrambles to where you must be lying lifeless on the other side of the entrance.

“Y/n–! Ah, huh.”

And you are, in a way, lifeless on the ground, but you’re breathing. And smiling? Curled up on the white tiles in front of the sink cabinet.

“Y/n?” Kirishima doesn’t wait to ponder, instead placing a hand on the side of your head to check for concussion, wound, vertebral injury—But you coo, something completely unintelligible, and you’re much too warm. You tilt your face into his palm and every inch of you is hotter, damper than the next.

“Y/n? C’mon on back to me Y/n, gotta tell me what’s wrong.”

Maybe it’s the chill of the floor or the addition of his other hand cupping your cheek, but your lashes heft apart just enough to register who it is trying to resuscitate you in the kitchen.

“Ei?”

Kirishima, always handy in a fire, has every hospital route an EMT could ever need memorized from all his volunteer work with the fire department and mentally tracks each one as you try to form a sentence.

“shouldn’t be here, Eiji, m’sick.”

“What?”

“flu,” you murmur and pull your hands to your side to try and rise. Kirishima doesn’t register anything not directly related to whether or not you’re suffering from blunt force trauma– except for the fact he could recall the exact date and time your dream drowsy smile falls and perks back up again tonight for the next fifty years.

“–tried to text you,” you manage as the redhead helps you sit up. The sentence comes out in gasps instead of coughs as you try to spare the air of any extra germs, “I can’t watch the movie tonight."

He laughs with pent up anxiety and simultaneous relief– he’s taken that charming fireman’s knee at your side and you wish in your flu-addled state that you’d stayed unconscious long enough for him to hoist you into his arms. Instead, Kirishima places both of his big soft hands back around your face to brush away the dust and crumbs.

“Why are you on the floor?”

“got hungry,” you admit because you know it’ll make him smile, and with his face this close to yours you’ll be able to watch the skin around his eyes crinkle up too. “Then tired, little dizzy. I just needed to sit for a bit.”

His eyes do crinkle up. And his teeth bit at his lip like he’s trying not to be amused.

“Y/n, you are very sick. And very sweaty.” And the sweetheart, the biggest crush you’ve ever had, your closest friend, the man you dreamed of on the kitchen floor, asks if he can carry you to the bath.

———

Why are you breathing so hard? Shinsou is the only pro in the office that you can’t hide a fucking thing from. Maybe it’s because he works primarily in the underground– observant– that it’s obvious, the way you wobble on your feet when your eyes are closed too long, or the sudden effort it takes you just to climb the stairs.

How can he focus on paperwork with you trying to subtly catch your breath in every hallway? None of your sidekicks are brave enough to ask why you wore a mask to work today, but it’s summer and the air pollution gets bad enough that some of them have to too. Are they really all that stupid? Has he done the worst hiring job of any pro in the city?

“Shinsou,” you murmur across the now-empty end of day office and he whips around because god knows how many times you’ve tried to get his attention while he’s been off in space.

“Yeah boss?”

Your voice is rough with sick when you reply and it would be so fucking sexy if it didn’t remind him to be so anxious about your wellbeing. “I’ve told you not to call me that, haven’t been my sidekick for years,” and then you’re smiling even as you hold back a cough, “makes me feel old.”

“You are older than me.”

“By a year!” you sputter and then your lungs take over, heaving and hacking so hard you have to double over your desk to steady your forehead against something. Shinsou’s on his feet immediately, navigating the office in sweats and his capture gear.

What happened? This morning it was just a tickle at the top of your throat but the aches sank from your head, down your spine, and flooded through your body just as quickly as the sun’s shadow crawls across a stone. Which is to say, all day long and all too slowly to realize you probably should have called in sick.

“Here.” A cool hand materializes on the back of your neck and you roll your head to the side to check what exactly has arrived for you. With his free hand Shinsou presses a paper water cup forward, which you’d love to take if you had the energy to pull your mask down.

“went to school together n’ everything,” you breathe.

“Boss, you should go home for the night, I’ll– I can finish this paperwork.”

By now the dark-eyed hero has sunk slowly into a crouch beside your chair and keeps a careful hand on your back to ensure you don’t slip to the floor sideways one way or the other. Thank god he sent the rookies home because stupid or otherwise, you'd have to be braindead not to notice this adoration that he can’t seem to get a handle on.

“Shinsou,” you murmur again, just as sexily as last time and he feels just as much if not more shame at how lovely it is to hear you call to him sweet and low, “I can’t get up.”

“What?”

That’s it though. There’s no trick or test. Shinsou has a fucked up sleep schedule from all his overnight patrols so he always stays in the office late, but you? You’ve been trying to rally for the last two hours and now you’ve used all your energy teasing a man whose eyes go bright every time you say his name. It serves you right, collapsing at your desk after using the last of your strength to squeeze as many Shinsous as you could into an evening.

“call me a taxi?”

He rises to his feet, “Will you even be able to get up your front steps?”

“sure hope so.”

“Do you feel nauseous?” He’s shuffling around the room now, plucking keys from hooks, and you watch him sideways with your head still resting in the day’s paperwork. “You gonna aspirate if I let you go home alone?”

“if god’s feeling extra silly”

He scoffs to hide the smile. Shinsou returns to your side to lay his faded denim jacket over your shoulders and then crouches again at eye level.

“Y/n,” he urges, and rests a hand to the back of your head to get your attention, “If I carry you downstairs, will you be able to hold onto me?”

Downstairs is a bluff. With you snug and mostly unconscious between his jacket and his back, Shinsou carries you home. Face full of your clothes, hair, quirk, whatever’s getting in his eyes, under the stars, and down back streets to avoid any publicity, the hero tries to walk gently enough that you don’t whimper from the impact of his steps.

“Thank you Toshi,” you whisper just when he thinks you’ve finally fallen asleep and the big bad underground pro almost stumbles hard enough to fly.

[jakeabel]

really great vibes here. ignore all the saltburn songs

[kemendin]

In case it wasn’t obvious, I may be a little quiet on the ‘other games’ front while I work through the initial stages of enjoying BG3 too much xD And truthfully on the tumblr front in general - I’m not doing as much scrolling and browsing as usual, my brain’s got limited capacity right now. Still here! Just lurking!

[womanlives]

there was a brief period of time after rot-eyes' attack where monroy told dinks he was worried merce wouldn't make it. her surgeries went fine, but the fight wasn't there. so dinks sat down at the edge of her bed, showed her pictures of each syndicate set leader that had convinced the patron to order that hit, replayed in detail what they did to her and her family, and told her it was her job to make them pay.

it worked. probably too well. she made as full a recovery as could be with what was left. but sometimes he wonders: at what cost?

[starjunkyard]

Ohmy GOD. Oh my GOD wilson lied to a cop for house . Wilson is fucking blindsided and learns in real time that House is Forging prescriptions under his name potentially jeopardising Wilson's Entire Life Career and Wilson LIES FOR HOUSE TO A COP... Wilson doesn't even have to mull over it . The lie spills out of his mouth before he can even register it... so easily it could've have been a single breath and it would've taken just as much effort

Im just so . Wilson protects house .Enables him without. Without thought .without prerequisites. And you can clearly tell that he regrets it later. in the scene at the end where he's hunched over as the realisation that he's just potentially destroyed his entire life hits him like a freight train and what for? To let his best friend keep killing himself?

Wilson doesn't have a wife. He has three failed marriages He doesn't have a family, kids; as in this job is quite literally all Wilson has. What he's dedicated decades of his life to And .without even THINKING he just. he throws it all away. Like it doesn't even matter FOR .HOUSE

I know i sound like a broken record but I just . God. Im trying to wrap my head around this scene because it actually gutted me when i first watched it .i knew it was coming But I dont think. I registered just how easily and casually wilson would lie to a cop for house

Wilson throws himself in front of house without house even having to ask like He just does it

He just protects and loves and enables house because Wilson just. needs to.

And Wilson will tear down his entire life for house and regret and resent and Hate house for it because wilson doesn't even Know why he's even doing it . Because House doesn't even need to ask wilson to do it. House has never even asked. House DOESN'T ASK He will manipulate and lie and cross and con and backstab people however much it takes to get what he wants But house will never EVER ask because that takes vulnerability. It takes humility and House cannot. handle that. So house will never get on his knees .Repent, beg; shed his facade and be naked for the entire world to see and laugh and sneer at For fear that he'll be seen as an actual person. A person scarred with ugly bleeding flaws just like everyone else that don't make him a better doctor; or more insightful or more right, they're just ugly. i dont think house can handle that

House will never ask. And because of this wilson could leave; snarl and bite and tell house that all of this is his fault and that he deserves every bit of it; that hes awful and horrible and self-serving, and he won't help if house can't even bring himself to ask; to shed his clothing and be naked and vulnerable and ugly and Ask him. thats the least wilson deserves because maybe then he could tell himself that it's worth it. That he gets to see a human side of house that no one else has ever had the honor of but wilson gets Nothing

Wilson can take that out . be completely justified in leaving house to climb out of the grave that he's dug for himself But he doesn't. Againand again and forever he chooses house, again and always

And Wilson will curse and resent and tear himself apart wondering why he's so goddamn stupid when it comes to house: why Wilson doesn't even need to be asked; why protecting and enabling and loving him is like wilson's second nature and Why hes willing to give away everything for him and he. He hates house . Fucking Hates him because the enormity of what hes willing to do for house disgusts and mortifies him .Hates house because Wilson is absolutely aware of how much he knows hes willing to sacrifice for house and he knows thats going to be exactly what kills the both of them, hand in unlovable hand

He'll do anything for house for nothing. Like a dog. Like he's cheap. and its humiliating and degrading and pointless and yet wilson can't bring himself to do anything else

Wilson hates house because of how much he loves him..... how little effort it takes ... How he can't bring himself to do anything else but love house .God

[kyorusns]

[justanotherfanartist]

some foul thing put the itch in my head to make a fucked up little horror game that’s actually part dating sim that is literally designed to scare the shit out of you and the logic is like but at least there’s blorbo. yeah you’re scared of your own real life shower now but hey you can date fake blorbo

[hexjulia]

how do i stop feeling like this

for no apparent reason

[in-tenebris-et-in-solitudine]

[antipl3asure]

valentines day was the most beautiful holiday all the years before i was in love and now that i am in love it is even better its silly amounts of joy in a day. bcz the world and grocery stores and websites and everything all are covered in pink and sparkly hearts which is how i feel on the inside carrying around all this love inside me 100% of the time. and its nice to see it outside. it’s like everyone has finally caught up to my wavelength.

[rainbowgod666]

*BMI over 2

it is legit bizarre to me how hard video game creators and film directors and showrunners try to pretend that fat people don't exist. can you think of the last time you saw a fat person in a lead role? god forbid a fat woman? i can walk down the street or go into a shop or restaurant and see fat people everywhere but then i switch on the tv and suddenly it's like a glimpse into an alternate universe where no one has a bmi over 24

[funnywizard3000]

Making character playlists is sooo hard because the shit that fits is literally just vibes based with no/unintelligible lyrics. Or you find 1 perfect song with spot on lyrics and can't extrapolate that vibe into a full set

[d1nnerd0g]

wow i took too long getting around to reading euryd1ce suite. retroactively justifies the existence of xtopher nolan