#especially the fics you love most

[ahwuum]

alright this is a total shot in the dark but i am DESPERATELY trying to find the great sealand takeover by whalehuntingboyfriends on ao3 and i saw your name floating around in some of the tumblr notes. did anybody ever send you the download for that? i would love to have it if they did! thanks in advance!

I only ever asked for the link for the crowned souls series but here my friend tender posted a link ages ago for sealand <3

sorry I took so long to reply I forgor </3

also speaking of fanfics if anyone has mindfulwrath's murder with the devil and friends (espeically the full devil's clocktower series) I would greatly appreciate it <3

[benevolenterrancy]

Swords pining for each other's cultivator is my new favorite type of pining. Love your NieYao content! <3

I don't suppose we could get Baxia or Hensheng throwing a tantrum while Jin Guangyao / Nie Mingjue are away, leaving their owners to deal with the embarrassing aftermath?

Also, do you have any recs you'd recommend with these two?

this is the exact moment Nie Huaisang realised he was going to have to start meddling in his big brother's love life (con't: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5)

Hensheng, on the other hand, doesn't throw tantrums but WILL sulk...

[brianmaysclog]

figured I should hop onto the Richboy! Gojo trend i’ve been seeing!

warnings: blood, period. afab reader.

a/n: not proofread lol. wrote this when my phone was at 10% so a bit rushed. had this idea for a while. Richboy! Gojo drinks nothing but respect y/n juice everyday.

Richboy! Gojo who has had his eye on you for months.

Richboy Gojo! whom you can’t stand because he’s entitled and gets whatever he wants.

Richboy! Gojo who practically begs you to go out with him! just one date and he’ll stop. and to get him to shut up, you say yes. to one date.

The day of the date comes and your stomach hurts but you figured it was just nerves.

Richboy! Gojo who picks you up right on time. Not a minute early, not a minute late. He takes you to the destination. The mall. You figured it was so he can flaunt off his money, but really it’s to get to know you. What you like and don’t like. Ideas for future gifts and surprises.

Now your stomach really hurts. Really, really hurts. You excuse yourself to the restroom and rush there. To no avail, there’s blood. Enough to seep through the pants you’re wearing. great.

you have no idea how you’re going to get out of this and how you’re gonna cover this up.

You must have been there a while because eventually Richboy! Gojo comes knocking on the door. “y/n? is everything okay.”

you could tell him to screw off and leave you alone but he’s your only way out. You open up the door. “Go-“ but you don’t get many words out because Richboy! Gojo has already looked down and seen the stain on your pants.

“stay here. don’t leave. i’ll be right back.” and with that he grabs the door shut.

it’s been 30 minutes, an hour maybe when finally you hear a knock on the door. “y/n? can i come in?”

you get up and unlock the door and let him in. Richboy! Gojo walks in with multiple bags in hand.

“okay for starters I didn’t know if you used cups, pads, or tampons so I got a box of each.” he hands them to you and continues on. Then I went around to multiple stores and found you some new underwear too. Grabbed a few pairs for you too because I wasn’t sure what you preferred.” He then hands you a Victorias Secret bag. “then I stopped by another store selling leggings and got you, again a few pairs in different styles and sizes. Anything that doesn’t fit we can just return.” He hands you the last bag and gets ready to walk out, but before doing so, tunes back towards you.

“Oh yeah I got you these too, just incase you’re cranking.” He tosses you a bottle of Tylenol and leaves the bathroom. You sort through the bags and grab what you need.

Once dressed Richboy! Gojo takes the remainder of the bags (bloodied clothes tossed into a bag you had emptied). “I can take these to the car, and then we can continue on here. Or we can leave. it’s up to you.”

“I don’t care.” warming up to this Gojo. who isn’t as consisted and spoiled as you thought. “as long as it’s with you.”

[stunie]

it’s so easy to forget that you can literally write whatever you want

[some-pers0n]

Every once in a while I think about the ship I've been obsessed over for close to two years now and feel like I'm ascending to another plane of reality. Like sometimes you just encounter a ship that hits every single mark and is perfect in every regard and you're left stunned how something like that can even exist

[empyreansentinel]

Yay thank you for responding to my bandit au ask! Follow up question. Does Nisha surviving change the inter-bandit clan politics at all, especially with the COV trying to get everyone to assimilate? I imagine she wouldn’t play nice, or go down without a fight.

and yes hello I see you on Angel + religious something or other with the bandit clans. If there’s anything more there please elaborate. Angel cults sound interesting as hell, moreso in light of her being alive in this AU. How does she feel about her position as a religious figure?

ty for your ask! another read more situation because this ones even longer than the first. somehow.

nisha surviving does cause some problems in BL2, though because of lynchwoods isolated nature those complications are more to do with the slabs and the crimson raiders than anyone else. the hodunks are also in uncomfortable proximity, living in the dust, and the zafords juusstt out of reach in the highlands. lucky them, because even though nisha is ‘technically’ on the crimson raider’s side for the remainder of their war with hyperion, her opinions on the other bandits clans do not change. there is a sense of lawfulness and control that separates her from them. something that simply makes her Better. her anger with hyperion is all-consuming, which is what helps her integrate so well with the crimson raiders for the brief time they work together. its the only thing that overpowers the general bloodlust she displays when facing the rest of pandora. shes on a warpath because she specifically feels spurned and that is what pushes her out of the BL2’s vault hunters way long enough for her to survive. some assholes shooting up her town and blowing her bank? thats funny. her grievances with handsome jack? thats personal. also worth adding in that wilhelm lives in this AU. orrrr…he lives up until the bunker fight, at least. its always been the dumbest thing in the world to me that he gets killed off so easily in BL2. hes the actual threat he deserves to be in my rewrite. mentioning this because nisha is also there. and nisha absolutely does not go down easy when it comes to the COV, which puts her between a rock and a hard place with them and the crimson raiders. lynchwood had dissolved, as much as she can try and hold onto power within the town, its purpose is gone. lynchwood was only ever made to profit off the eridium underneath it, she admits this herself, and it was gift wrapped to her on her anniversary to ensure the mines had their protector. so hyperion goes down, the mines lose their worth, and lynchwood enters a sort of limbo. she cant keep people in because theres no money coming in from hyperion. lynchwood isnt like other bandit clans, theyre not raiders, they dont go on the offensive for resources, and even if they did, nisha cannot provide for an entire town like a billion dollar corporation can. so people starve and people leave. nisha is furious, of course. she keeps a handful of her riders, those who are actually loyal to her, and she stays in the outskirts of COV territory for her own survival. but she’s not sitting on her hands, she did enough of that already as sheriff of lynchwood. thinking of her active role in BL3…hm. again, id have to play the game to refresh my memory. its been a while! she fights the COV parallel to the crimson raiders, but not necessarily alongside them. i have a few times in my head planned where they butt heads, though. specifically her skag riders chasing after carnivora alongside the crimson raiders. which is just fun to imagine. mad max style. and now angel! my idea isnt completely thought out, but! this starts at the end of BL1, angel heralds the death of baron flynt and commandant steele by leading the vault hunters and because there is that immediate power gap, the bandits who would become the bloodshots try to find anything they can cling onto, and they cling onto her. this unexplainable voice from the radio, watching from above. a very convenient idol to turn to in their time of need!

this is ENTIRELY based off of angels siren telepathy whatever sometimes having closeups of her eyes and the bloodshot clan symbol being eyes btw. thats it thats what kicked this off. if you give me long enough i can make Anything in borderlands circle back to angel she is my everything.

and good question! seeing as how angel is ~13 at the time of BL1, at first she buys into it for a sense of human connection because of how isolated she is. shes a child, she doesnt understand the consequences of indulging these people in their beliefs, because shes too busy indulging herself in playing pretend with these new "friends" of hers. we know that angel has had contact with pandora outside of vault hunters, so why not with the bandit populations? as she gets older that opinion changes. the bloodshots solidify, and they grow, and soon it isnt just a bunch of desperate people that she can play barbies with. and she changes too- with the opening of the vault, eridium floods the planet and it doesnt take very long at all for her to become reliant on it. nothing is “fun” anymore. (nothing was ever really fun, but now she is old enough to understand it. this is also my way of explaining her playful nature in 1 becoming more restrained in 2.)

so she disconnects. this happens maybe a year or so pre-BL2, so she’d be around 17. the bloodshots lose their idol, their god has gone silent, and theyre facing blow after blow from a war on three different sides. so they turn to someone else. enter marcus! professional war profiteer. he floods the bloodshots with guns, gives them a fighting chance, and angel becomes a memory as they refocus on the war. when they get their hands on roland and try to ransom him off, angel tries to intervene, but now that they have been promised something tangible, they reject her.

and then the fight at the dam happens, the bloodshots are swarmed by vault hunters and hyperion alike, and they lose a good portion of their number. angels first reaction is surprisingly apathetic, which immediately disgusts her. these are people she has known for years now who have been mowed down by her friends and her father’s death machines. people she, at some point, felt a strong sense of responsibility for. to at first feel nothing for their deaths shocks her and (in her mind) puts her too close to her father for comfort. its another crack in the wall of angel’s rebellion, she is terrified of the apathy and potential hatred she could foster for these people, and she wants to rip it out before it takes root.

her contact with the bloodshots has been lost, though, and its not long after 2 that their population starts to wane. angel post-BL2 is set on trying to help everyone on pandora, including the bandit clans, but she is just one person, one teenager at that, and her hold on the planet feels so small now that shes no longer connected to the control core.

so, for a year maybe, or however long it takes from the end of 2 to helios falling in tales, she feels very stuck. she’s sick, still not fully recovering from her eridium addiction, and her world has gone from being trapped in the control core with satellite access to the entire world to living in sanctuary and being unable to help in a way that she truly wants to.

and then helios does fall, and she finds a way. but thats not really bloodshot focused and this post is long enough as it is so. If youd like to hear more about that i can explain! just not on this post omg

[razzledazzletrassh]

no major fic updates just yet guys TAKE MY WOY OC I MADE LIKE. April of last year IM PLUGGING SOME INFO ABOUT THIS GUY IN THE TAGS.

I may also redesign her soon or something. Make her more bug-like with some stuff. I can cook guys let me cook !!!

[sainz100]

a few Carlos moments from the 2024 Azerbaijan GP

[jam-packed]

hiiii no one asked but pt 1 of a billion to my last unicorn au where marc is not a unicorn it will be marcnaia but not u gotta be patient im sry. anyways intro ily

about 1.3k

Casey sighs as he and Enea step carefully through the loose, winding path the forest grants them. They had been looking for a viable lake to fish at for a while, and despite the beauty of the greenwood that surrounded them, Casey knew this was not the place for them. It is far too quiet for comfort, Casey thinks, far too peaceful for him to truly enjoy—he is quite a modern man, as he considers. The trees stand tall and foreboding but plentiful and lush; the ground without leaves or brambles—not a prickle of snow has seen the ample soil beneath them—each blade of grass stands just tall enough to tickle the hairs on Enea’s naked ankles; each critter and creature they saw met them with curiosity and childlike wonder but leaving enough distance where Casey would not have to prevent Enea from taking something home; the birds sing sweet melodies into their ears, each note seeming to lead them closer and closer to where they would like to be; and Casey gets the lucky remnants of delicate and decadent speckled fur in the corners of his eyes—bright specks flitting in his vision to-and-fro.

Casey puts his hand on Enea’s shoulder, forcing his attention from the beauty enveloping them. “We must look elsewhere, Enea. This is no place for us.”

“What do you mean?” Enea’s eyes sparkle as he asks, mesmerized by the twisting leaves in the reaching branches above them, shining sparse but angelic light onto the two—kissing each curl on Enea’s head and spinning them to gold.

“There is magic here, my friend, learned slight by those that dwell in the cerval’s forest.”

“Cerval?”

“You are too young to have seen one, Enea, for the one here is lone in this world.” Casey declares, looking into the deep brush of the forest, where two bewildering moon-slit eyes follow him intently; he knows better than to stay here now. “We must think better than to fish here, lest we remove the world of any more magic.”

“Tell me of it, since I have not seen one—not heard of one,” Enea pleads with shining eyes, his boyish charm much more apparent now than even when they first met those fair months ago, in a small pub far from where the sun sets on them now. “Tell me, Casey.”

Casey hums, feeling tiny, near minuscule ants crawl up his calf with no care, and he grants them such privilege. “My great-grandmother—maybe even great-great-grandmother—told my mother, who told me, of her meetings with one. It came to her, rather than her to it—as most seem to do—and–”

“Did she capture it?” Enea’s voice trembles slightly.

“Of course not, dearest Enea. She simply sat near it, with the barest of a smile upon her lips to perhaps bring it close to her, and it did. It laid its head in her lap and licked the small sprouts of blood that flourished from her hands, healing the cuts that may have wounded her. Then it fell asleep, bringing her along with it—she only woke when she found it had gone, leaving her clothes barren of blemishes and bruises.”

“What did it look like?”

A smile floats onto Casey’s face. “Its eyes reflect the moon, and its fur is as soft as a well-loved cat’s.”

“Where did they all go, my love?”

Casey shrugs, his face flaring from the title Enea bestows him with. “Things change. There are things greater than us that haunt the Earth—it is no place for grand creatures such as he.”

There is a pregnant pause from Enea, bare of his usual thoughts and questions and mistakes in his speech that Casey finds ever so endearing. He looks around the forest for what they both come to know will be their last, the floral air kissing him sweetly. “Yes,” Enea says, determination set on his brow. He adjusts the rod and bag that lay upon his back, taking deep steps into the forest floor as if running towards the outer world beyond them. “Yes, let us fish someplace else.”

They reach the forest’s edge quickly—the blinding eyes following each move with careful precision—and Casey turns towards the poor creature, knowing its presence despite his decided lack of vision about it. He frowns as his voice cracks on his tongue, teeth clicking together reluctantly with each word.

“Do not leave here, dear wolf, for the world out here will ensure your end; keep in your forest, keep it lush and bright, with each creature protected by your grand stead—for no other can do as you do, for you are the last.” Casey can feel his eyes fill with salt and glistening pity. “I wish you luck, my friend; beware of men and girls that will only become bitter, old, and silly.”

The two take their leave, their packs full of nets, rods, bait, and gear gone along with them, and the cerval wolf’s gaze falls from them with a slow, dreary sadness. “Is it true?” He asks the forest he habits, his voice hoarse and crackling from disuse—it would frighten him if he allowed himself fear. “Am I really all that is left?”

He does not prance like the deer that follow his horrified sprint. He throws himself to the ground, twisting and crying in the dirt and gravel, biting at his tail and bowed legs for some poor sense of comfort. 

“How selfish they all are!” He growls through his mournful yelps. “My brother, my beloved brother! How could I live if he has left me, too?” The sprawling roots and sagging blades of grass hug at the poor creature’s shivering and solitary bod. The cerval drags itself up to lay by the river bed, its water akin to a mirror—clear and unwaning—if the pitiful beast had ever seen the latter to compare the two. He weeps once more, his tears mixing deep into the minute waves that come from the small waterfall nearby. He takes a drink, kissing the surface of the water with his speckled fur and padded nose, only to replenish himself of the tears he lost so he may start anew.

The heavens fall to darkness, the only light coming from the moon and stars shining through the trees’ fair leaves and branches overhead, and the heart-rending wolf has stayed in its tragic state for—to him—what felt like days. “Maybe,” he thinks out loud to the fish beneath the quivering ripples of the river beside him, “maybe I am to leave this place. What do men know? I could find them with ease, with pride. I am a great beast like no other; men tremble before me, and thunder calls my name—it would be with great ease, yes.” He swats at the brown trout taunting him from below, catching one by pulling it to the edge—where the water and soil meet in hopeful embrace—lifting it with his claws and peering at the poor thing with deep, bright, curious eyes. “Or maybe I should stay,” he concedes, pushing the rather dull trout back into the glistening waters. “I cannot really leave.” He stands to walk the river’s stream. “If I am truly the only one, I cannot leave for selfish reasons as they all have.”

He laughs to himself, “The forest will make fun, they will make me cry on return, and I will never leave again.”

“Yes,” he decides. “I will not leave. There is no possibility for it.”

[gardenofnoah]

part one: you’ve been running behind, i’m afraid you’re too late

wc: 5.7K chapter tags: MDNI, dark content (domestic abuse/physical abuse within a romantic relationship (not between reader and shinsou), general violence, nonconsensual quirk use??, graphic descriptions of injuries), ptsd, healing and forgiveness, undefined relationship between reader and shinsou, gn reader (no pronouns), pet names (“angel”, “baby”), probably inaccurate description of shinsou’s quirk idk

Kyoji was good to you. He was older, he was handsome–he exuded a confidence that you’d not yet been privy to. He spoiled you, really–with gifts and dinners and glimpses into a lifestyle that your young naivety latched onto–you liked him for that. You were taken by his charm, and how he always knew exactly what to say. 

The very things you adored seemed to turn to sharpened weapons that nicked at your skin. But he was careful not to draw blood until he knew he had you.

You’d met at UA, you in your second year and he in his last. You were inseparable from the start–you hung off his arm like a little trophy he could carry around. What he’d ever done to earn that, you’ve no idea now. 

Hitoshi had been weary of him from the start. 

“I don’t know, angel,” he told you, sprawled across your extra long twin bed while you did your hair in the little mirror that sat on your desk. “He seems a little…” pausing between words, treading carefully, “off.”

You’d gotten angry with him at that. You told him that he just didn’t like that you were happy and not hanging out with him–that he was only jealous that he couldn’t follow you like a lost puppy anymore. Your words had very clearly wounded him, but he recovered before you could think too much of it–the hurt bleeding back into his practiced indifference. 

“Just be careful, okay?” he asked quietly as you all but tossed him out of your dorm. “Call me if you need anything.”

You’d brushed it off, along with everyone else's thinly-veiled warnings, and continued to see Kyoji. Things were going well enough–he graduated and took you with him. There might have been something foreboding about it, but it was fleeting and you didn’t put up a fight–didn’t dig your heels in at all as he was picking up the boxes made up of everything you were before him and loading them into the back of his car. You completed your last year at UA from the bedroom of the apartment you were suddenly sharing–all tall ceilings and chrome appliances. All for show, sparking and without a sign of life–just how Kyoji pictured it. There wasn’t a sign of you anywhere–all of your boxes had ended up in a storage unit not far from UA. They hadn’t even made it the whole drive to the apartment–it hadn’t taken long at all for him to convince you that he could buy you things that were far nicer than what you had in them. 

You still saw Hitoshi, but your interactions were rare. If he caught wind that you were on campus for any reason, he’d seek you out–joyfully ignoring the cold shoulder you usually tried to give him. He’d loop an arm around your neck, laughing at the way you bristled at his touch. You pretended not to notice how forced it was–how he raked his eyes over you, searching for something you didn’t want him to see. Both of you caught in a bizarre performance of make believe in front of your other friends, who all regarded you with the same, thinly-veiled apprehension. Scanning for something that wasn’t yet there, but that surely would be. All of you a group of dangling marionettes, creaking clumsily toward the final act.

Kyoji didn’t like Hitoshi. He’d made that clear from the beginning. He thought that your relationship with the purple-haired hero was strange, going so far as to tell you that Hitoshi was “toxic”– someone who was “isolating you from the people who cared for you”. The fact that Hitoshi behaved like he did–mostly aloof, eager to wound with his quick tongue–made it an easy sell, despite him only ever regarding you with a gentle fondness. Kyoji stressed that he was only worried, because clearly Hitoshi had manipulated you into some semblance of friendship with him–one that was surely only transactional to him. It had always been clear, to Kyoji–who was wiser and older and only ever wanted the best for you–so you let him steer you away from Hitoshi. You closed your eyes when he turned you away from your other friends, too–letting him take the wheel. He knew better than you did, you were sure. 

Now you know it was bullshit, but you were in love, supposedly–you believed him because you had no reason to doubt him. And he loved you–he told you so, in all of his elaborate, and often very public, displays of affection. Each overblown effort made you uncomfortable, but he’d gone through so much trouble–and made sure you were aware of it. So you let him love you like that, even if it left you feeling a little hollow. 

You scoff at the memory, now. Curled up in the corner, locked in your bedroom. Bruised and weak, you reach for your phone on the floor next to you. You scroll until you find his name.

He watches your face pop up on his phone on the coffee table. Half asleep, he reaches to pause the movie he’d been watching, and presses the green button by your name.

“Hi, angel.” he murmurs through a yawn. 

“Hitoshi,” you croak, and he’s upright immediately. By your tone, he knows you’re not safe. He curses himself for not catching this sooner–he should have known that things had gotten worse when you stopped answering his texts a few weeks ago. He’d given you space, hoping that time show you what kind of person Kyoji really was, but it’s apparent now that it only served to isolate you further. He’s made up his mind, though–the gears in his brain slip into place automatically, and he won’t let himself feel remorse over what he’s about to do–not yet, anyway. He’ll ask his questions–give you the chance to lie to him, like he knows you will–but he’s already decided. He hopes that you won’t hate him for it. 

“What’s going on?”

“Just–” a sharp intake of breath, like it hurts you, “so tired. I’m so tired of this.”

He takes a breath himself–deep and rattling in his chest, pleading with himself to keep a level head. He needs to, or he won’t be able to do this. He just needs to get you out–to get you somewhere safe. He squeezes his eyes shut, and pictures your reality–alone, hurt, and curled into yourself. He feels his pulse pick up, and tries to think of something else.

Questions be damned. He needs to do this now. 

He says a quick, silent prayer to whomever is listening. To please let this work. To make you understand–to maybe forgive him, one day. 

He steadies himself, and opens his eyes.

“Are you hurt?”

“Um–no, I don’t know, I–”

He’s flooded with pain, all at once. Sharp and radiating, in his eye and over his rib cage, and across his throat in a way that feels suspiciously like–

You were hurt, then. 

He’s overwhelmed by the full range of your emotions, too, as intimately as if they were his–shock, at first. He jolts as you startle, like the lights have just flickered out during a heavy storm. He feels the moment the recognition hits you–when you realize what he’s done–and he feels it when you start to fight it. 

“Please stop,” it’s a whispered plea that comes from him, into the receiver he keeps up to your ear. He hears your breath hitch.

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” he says, and he’s moving now–already down the front steps and out the door.

It’s effort, like this–he wasn’t sure if he would even be able to use his quirk over the phone. He’d asked Aizawa about it, who eyed him for a long time before he’d answered simply, “You should really think about it.”

And he has, but he sees no other option. Hitoshi knows, very acutely, that he is hurting you– that he’s not doing a good thing right now. The thought of it turns in his stomach, but he can’t stop. Not until he knows you’re safe. 

He envisions your body in his mind. It’s fuzzy, at best–the outline of you is warbled and distorted, but he can do this. 

“We’re gonna move now, baby,” he rasps, suddenly fatigued by the exertion of keeping himself moving and keeping you in his grasp. Like a villain, he thinks, and promptly ignores.

He starts to move you and the feeling is nearly blinding–you’re in pain. His own rib cage seizes and it knocks the breath out of him. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he tries to placate you, even though he knows it’s shallow, “We just need to get you standing. Can you do that for me?”

It’s stupid of him to try to ask anything of you right now, and he hears you echo the sentiment–you’re still fighting him, though not as valiantly as before. He can feel how exhausted you are, and it’s not your injuries that make his chest ache now. 

He hurries past a gas station and realizes he’s closer to you than he thought. He hadn’t been paying attention, not really–hadn’t even bothered to disguise himself with more than his black hoodie pulled over his head. He hears voices to his right and realizes that he really didn’t think this through–that he could easily be caught off guard right now, with all of his focus on you. Driving wasn’t an option, though–it was dangerous enough just for him to try to walk and do this.

He catches himself trying to create distance in his mind. To call it this, instead of naming it. Because if he allows himself to recognize what he’s really doing to you, he won’t be able to keep you under his quirk, and he just needs to get you out–

He feels a bump to both knees, and he realizes that he’s gotten you up and moving. He sees the vague outline of your bedroom window, and thanks whatever god is up there that you live on the first floor. Now that he’s closer to you, your body is more in focus. He can manage like this.

He comes to a stop at a street corner, less than a block from your house. He takes a breath in, and focuses again. 

“Okay angel,” he says, keeping his voice soft, “we need to get this open. I’m going to be gentle, but it’s still going to hurt.”

It does–immediately. Having to lift the window with one arm to keep the phone to your ear–the only way to keep up the connection–is putting too much strain on the fractures of your ribs. He feels you thrash in his mind, and he almost wishes he could hear your voice, just so you could scream at him. He wishes he could at least give you that. 

All at once the pain is cut off and bleeds into something different. Panic, he recognizes. Hitoshi feels the adrenaline spike in your body and realizes he’s run out of time. 

He needs to get you out now.

He takes off in a sprint toward the direction of your apartment. His hold on you falters, only for a second, but it makes you stumble. He feels his own fear spike. 

“I’m coming,” he tells you, and it comes out like a plea, “I’m right there baby, just hold on–”

He hears the yelling as he rounds the corner. He sees you then, half way out the window, and he knows if he lets go of you now, you won’t make it out. 

He feels a bruising pain wrap around his wrist, and he goes cold.

Hitoshi makes it to the window before he knows it and lets you go. He wraps his arms around your middle as you go limp, and when he looks up, he is face to face with the man who did this to you. 

Kyoji, who is still crushing your wrist in his hand. 

“What the fuck,” Hitoshi grinds out, and it is lethal when it leaves him, “are you doing?”

“What am I do–” 

He doesn’t give Kyoji any time to give a real answer before he’s in his head. The fatigue is stifling, but his adrenaline fuels his quirk. The grip on your wrist falls slack. He pulls you the rest of the way out of the window, careful not to aggravate your ribs further. You whimper, not yet fully conscious, as he sets you down gently in the grass.

“Give me one second, angel,” he tells your limp form, brushing your hair back from your eyes.

He takes a step forward, as does Kyoji–rigid and clearly unwilling, but he moves despite himself, because he’s no longer in control. Through the window, Histoshi takes a long look at him, and feels nothing but contempt. He lets it bleed into the connection between them–feels only a white, hot anger coming from the man in his hold, and it makes him smile.

“You won’t make that mistake again.”

He watches from outside himself, then, as he leads Kyoji’s hands through the open window. Hitoshi feels nothing as he slams it down over his fingers. He lets the bastard go right as it connects.

Hitoshi hears the crunch of splintering bone, and only watches as his victim comes back to himself. Feels nothing as he watches him process what has just happened. And then, as a howl of pain breeches the silence, a sick part of him howls back—feeling more than a little justified. 

He watches for a second more, and then turns his attention back to you. Still limp in the grass–whether you’re still unconscious or you’re pretending to be, he isn’t sure, but he couldn’t blame you if it was the latter. Hitoshi gathers you in his arms, and you don’t fight him. He wonders if you have any fight left. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, rubbing his cheek against your temple in some vain attempt at comfort as he walks, “I’m so sorry.”

Hitoshi is a nervous wreck. 

He fumbles through his own kitchen like he’s never been in it before. He opens cabinets, closes them, and opens them again. He’s opened the fridge at least three times in the last five minutes, like something will be different each time he opens it.

He has no idea what to do with himself. 

He comes to a stop, finally, in front of the counter and braces his hands against the cool stone. He lets his head hang and takes in a deep, shuddering breath through his nose. The only thing he can focus on is the knowledge that you are asleep in the next room.

He’d brought you in and set you on his bed, checking to make sure none of your injuries were life threatening. When he was satisfied that they were not, he turned on his heel and all but sprinted out of his room, closing the door as softly as he could behind him. Sleep wasn’t an option for him after that. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, knuckles straining in their grip on the countertop. He was nothing if not cowardly. 

He nearly comes out of his skin when his phone rings next to him. He spares it a glance, and feels his stomach lurch when he sees who it is. He hits the green button, and it’s not a second after that the voice on the other end lays into him. 

“You fuckin’ idiot,” Bakugou seethes, “what did you do?”

Hitoshi has never experienced Bakugou as quiet as he is right now. The silence on the other end of the line stretches and expands like a living thing–it’s suffocating, but he allows it to drag on. He won’t be the one to break it.

He hears Bakugou sigh and lets out a breath of his own.

“The injuries–” he says finally, sounding tired in a way that Hitoshi hasn’t heard in a long time, “are they–”

“Not life threatening,” he grits, hearing the strain in his own voice, “I can take care of them here. But Bakugou–”

“I get it,” Bakugou cuts him off, gruff. For the first time in Hitoshi’s life, the constant of his harsh inflection is a comfort. “Was fuckin’ stupid, and you’re real lucky I was the one to respond. But I get it.”

Hitoshi says nothing. He can’t say anything. Bakugou sighs again, long and resigned. 

“I’ll handle it,” he says finally, and Hitoshi can barely breathe, “Just take care of your shit.”

“I will,” he whispers, but Bakugou has already hung up.

He stares at the phone in his hand then, like it might come alive at any second. Now that he knows what he can do with it, he thinks he ought to throw it down and crush it under his heel. 

His mind goes back to where it always does–to you. He knows that it’s a vile thing he’s done, and he doesn’t know how he’ll face you now. He just couldn’t stand the way your voice cracked every time you called–he isn’t too proud to admit that he was afraid. He’s responded to so many of these calls, and he knew of the few that heroes didn’t make it there in time–he doesn’t know what he’d do if he lost you like that. He couldn’t sit and wait for that to happen–that was never an option. 

He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. He tries to resign himself to what's coming when you wake up. Tries to tell himself that it will still be worth it if you hate him–and he knows that it is, because you’ll be alive. But he will be another man that you can no longer trust, and as much as he deserves that, he can’t stand it.

He swallows thickly, setting the phone down and pushing off the counter. He supposes he could at least make himself useful and get some food ready for you while you slept.

You don’t know how long you’ve been awake, but it feels like far too long.

Every jagged intake of breath rattles an ache through your rib cage. It shouldn’t feel like that, you think, but the thought fizzles out of your mind with the rest of them. It’s enough effort to force your lungs to inflate. You reach out a hand, slowly, ignoring the pain that radiates up your arm when you close your fingers around the sheets beneath you. They’re soft, and they’re not yours. But you knew that.

You don’t have the luxury of survivor’s amnesia. You remember everything. 

You won’t cry. You wish you could, and you think it’d do you well–but to cry requires energy that you just don’t have. So you blink your eyes open through the sting, watching the fuzzy outline of the ceiling fan come into focus. It whirls around lazily, and it seems silly that it’s not doing much of any cooling, but you think that maybe Hitoshi couldn’t stand for things to be still when he put you there, so he turned it on. 

Hitoshi.

You suck in a breath, gritting your teeth at the flash of pain. You feel it everywhere, and you are catapulted back into the feeling of your limbs moving against your will. It makes you want to curl into yourself, but you have a feeling you’d risk puncturing a lung if you did, so you lay there and let the feeling wash over you, pinning you to the bed. 

You might be angry at him–you can’t be sure. You feel what could be anger, broadly, but you have a feeling that it’s true target is beyond Hitoshi, beyond Kyoji, beyond the way you’ve been rendered immobile more times than you care to count. You can’t reach it yet, but it is certainly there. 

You know that your injuries are severe, but that they will heal. The physical ones, anyway. You don’t know how to go about healing what lurks beneath the surface–what’s been circling in the dark for years now. You’d reached a point about a month ago, when the verbal abuse became physical–a new place, one without much feeling at all–that had startled you at first. But you found it was better when you allowed yourself to lean into it–the physical pain from a throttled neck or a broken bone paled in comparison to the vast emptiness of the quiet void you could escape into. But the feelings come back, as you lay here, and you yearn for the dark nothing again. You know suddenly that it’s not the broken ribs keeping you here in this bed.

Despite every nerve in your body screaming at you to stop, you push yourself to a sitting position. It takes a while, and you have to twist like one of those wooden snake toys you had as a child. You feel your bones clink off one another similarly, and you breathe out something that sounds to you like a laugh. It’s ridiculous, the whole thing–to be reduced to something so fractured and still feel the need to stand up and keep going. It’s hard for you to see the merit in that right now, but you do it anyway. 

Hitoshi nearly comes out of his skin for the second time that day when he sees you standing in the doorway out of the corner of his eye.

He looks at you and he knows he should stop, because he’s not in control of his face right now and he wants to be composed for you. But he is not, and he knows you can see it. 

He can’t look away. There’s a bruise that spans from your cheekbone to your eyebrow that he’s fixated on, which feels like the safest place to look right now because he knows if he looks at the one across your throat, he will lose out to the animal growling in his chest. Knows he will walk out the door and not stop at Kyoji’s broken fingers. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, taking in a deep breath. When he looks at you again, he can’t tell what you're feeling. You are more devoid of emotion than he’s ever seen you, and it scares him. He opens his mouth, because the tension is crushing him.

“I–”

“Overstepped.”

He blinks, unsure if he’s just hallucinated. It isn’t until he watches your mouth move around the words that he’s sure he didn’t.

“You overstepped,” you say again, flatly. 

“I know,” and he does. He thinks that’s an understatement. “I’m sorry.”

He watches the corner of your lip curl into something he doesn’t recognize. 

“You’re sorry.” You repeat him like you’ve never heard the words before. “What is it that you’re sorry for?”

“I know that I shouldn’t have used my quirk on you,” he says, too quickly, “I just knew that he hurt you and I was–”

“You were what?” the tone of your voice is a warning when you cut him off, “hoping to be the hero that saves the day? You were inside me–did you think that wouldn’t hurt me?”

“No–I know it did,” he hears the plea in his voice and hates it. He knows he has no right to ask you to hear him. Really, he shouldn’t say anything, but he keeps talking anyway. “I know it did, and I’m sorry, I just knew you needed help–”

You cut him off with a bitter laugh, and then a hiss, hands hovering over your abdomen like you’re trying to wave away the pain. He feels it in his own body, quirk or not. 

“I never asked for your help, Hitoshi.”

He’s quiet then, feeling the phantom ache spread to his limbs. He knows you didn’t–it’s not often that abuse survivors do. It didn’t matter how close you were to him–you were out on that island alone, all the same. 

“Would you have ever?”

You glare at him. You open your mouth and close it just as quickly–he hears your teeth clack together like you’re biting down on what you really want to say. He watches you think about it. 

“No.”

He sighs, running a hand over his face. He knew the answer, but it’s not any less jarring to hear you say it. 

“I didn’t feel like I had a choice,” he whispers, “I didn’t know what else to do.”

You let out a laugh–clipped and indignant. A knife, thrown right at him. 

“You didn’t have a choice?” you snarl, and he wants to grab his words out of the air and swallow them, but he knows he’s too late. “You took over my body and you want to talk about choice?”

He can’t say anything. He watches the emotion flood you and knows it’s his doing. 

“Jesus Christ,” you laugh, “did you ever consider asking me what I needed, before you did that? Or did you think that being a hero meant you knew better?”

It’s startling, how on the mark you are. The shame lumbers over him like a tidal wave– he’s never asked anyone what they needed, not really. He just acted. He was always just acting, never thinking first. Until now, the former made him a great hero.

“What I really need is for everyone to get their fucking hands off of me and to let me have the control that I deserve to have over my life.”

He can’t look at you, and he knows for that he is a coward. He knows that he has done something so unforgivable and he hates the way he wants to get on the ground and beg for your forgiveness anyway. He knows this is the part where you walk out of his house and never speak to him again. He considers telling you that he’ll call someone to come get you so you don’t have to stay here.

And that thought gives him pause, because there he goes again–deciding what’s best for you. 

He wants to stop doing that. He’s been looking at you as a statistic, and that alone breaks his heart, because you are his best friend.

You are his best friend—the love of his life—and you are hurting right now.

So he gathers all of his resolve and meets your eyes. He tries very hard not to flinch away from the anger you pin him with when he asks, “what do you want to do right now?”

Your face twists with an emotion he doesn’t recognize for an instant, and then it’s gone, and there’s that blank, unfeeling look staring back at him. You sigh, and it surprises him when he hears it tremble. 

“I–there’s blood. On me.”

“Yeah,” his voice is a whisper, “do you want to shower?”

You sag against the doorframe, like someone’s let go of your strings for the first time. He smothers the urge to go to you and hold you up himself. 

“I don’t think I can stand,” you rasp, eyes shut tight. 

“Can I run you a bath?” he asks gently, rising to his feet.

You nod tightly, watching him as he approaches you. He stops a foot in front of you, cautious. 

“Can I help you to the bathroom?”

You eye him like you think it’s a trap, and it’s a twisted knife in his chest. But he doesn’t waver—he waits. He leaves room for a no. 

He bites back the relieved sigh that wants to escape him when you reach for him. 

It takes a minute to figure out how to support you without hurting your ribs. You settle for looping your arm through his, and he covers it with his other hand, careful of your wrist. He gets you to the bathroom and sits you on the toilet while he turns on the faucet. 

“Hitoshi.”

He almost doesn’t hear you, over the water, but the shake of your voice has him whipping around, posturing to protect–

“Don’t do that again.”

And it’s him, then, who has hurt you– who continues to hurt you. He watches the tears pool in your eyes and feels so, so sick. 

“I won’t,” it’s quiet, but he hopes you understand that he means it, “not ever again.”

The water that ripples around your body is tinted pink. You wonder how long you’ll have to watch pieces of you slip down the drain until you’re whole again. 

For a while you just sit–the warm water offers some small comfort if you close your eyes and pretend that this is a regular day for you. That you’re not coming apart at your seams. But the temporary lull is interrupted when the water grows cold. 

“Hitoshi,” you call, quietly. You have a feeling he’s sitting just outside of the door. 

“Mm?” He is.

“The water is cold.” 

“Do you need help getting out?”

“No, I–” you struggle a bit, to vocalize what you need, despite so adamantly wanting that not 20 minutes ago. All of your bravado from earlier has slipped down the plumbing with the rest of you. “It’s cold.”

You think you can hear his brain go through the mental gymnastics routine you’ve tasked it with, and you try to feel a little sorry for him, but before you can get too carried away he catches up.

“Can you pull the curtain closed?”

It’s hard, and it hurts, but you manage. “It’s closed.”

You hear him come in and kneel beside the tub. You watch him reach into the water–the water that’s saturated with you–to grab the plug from the drain, and your heart kicks in your chest. 

“Hitoshi, the water is all–”

“It’s okay,” he says gently, and you hear the seal break with a little bubble beneath the surface, “It’s alright.”

He lets about half of the water out before he twists the faucet. You feel the water warm up again and you sigh, trying to relax a bit. Hitoshi dips a hand into the tub, moving the warmth around.

When it’s full, he twists the faucet back and moves to stand.

“Do you—” the words taste uncertain when they leave you, “do you think you could sit here with me?”

He doesn’t hesitate this time, and it makes you feel a little better. You hear him move to sit next to you–you watch his outline through the curtain. When you look down, the water is clear. 

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” you whisper. Not quite willing to apologize, but still feeling like you should say something.

“Yes, you should have.”

You pause, and when the tears come, you let them. “I’m tired, Hi.”

He lets out a breath at the nickname and you wrap your arms around yourself, needing to feel some sort of comfort.

“I know you are, angel.”

The silence is stretched between you, but it’s permeable this time. He’s trying to extend an olive branch—you decide to let him. 

“Will you help me out of here?” you ask quietly.

It takes some maneuvering to get yourself standing, and when you gather the bravery needed to draw back the curtain, Hitoshi is already holding up a towel and looking starkly away from you, the tips of his ears a little red. You’d laugh if you could, but instead you just lean into him and let him wrap the towel around you. It’s warm, and you realize he must have put it in the drier at some point during your bath. The consideration has you stepping out of the tub and further into his arms–wrapping yourself around his middle before you can think better of it. He goes rigid for only a second before you feel his arms around your shoulders, caging your head in and pulling you closer. It’s startling how familiar it feels–how safe it feels, despite what he’s done–and you don’t fight the sob that tears through your throat when he presses his cheek to your temple and runs his fingers through the damp tangles of your hair. 

He sways gently, rocking you like he’s consoling an infant. You don’t have it in you to be anything but comforted by it. You let out a broken whimper of his name through your tears.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs as you gather the material of his shirt in your fists, “I know.”

Before either of you know it, weeks have passed. You haven’t mentioned leaving and Hitoshi wouldn’t dream of asking you to go, so you stay. He takes every day as an opportunity to gain your trust. 

It’s a fickle thing–he notices every time you flinch away from him when he accidentally brushes against you. He notices how far you sit from him on the couch, and how quiet you’ve been. It hurts tremendously, but he knows it is his fault. He’ll give you all of the time and space you need. 

He cooks for you–both because he’s not sure how else to care for you right now, and because he just likes to know that you’re being looked after. He remembers how often he’d call in the middle of your “dinner”–something frozen and microwaved because Kyoji hadn’t bothered to follow through on the plans you’d made and you were left alone. Hitoshi thinks this is the best way he can help you heal–to make sure your body gets all of the vitamins it needs. It’s a small thing, really, but he hopes it means something. 

He sees you out of the corner of his eye–leaning against the doorway, watching him. He smiles softly at you before he continues slicing the vegetables he’s picked out.

“What are you making?”

“Soup,” he tells you, sliding the cubed carrots off the edge of the knife and into the broth that boils beneath it, “seemed like a good day for it.”

He hears you hum, a sweet little affirmative that makes him smile again. He pulls a potato from the vegetables in front of him and turns it over a few times in his hands–checking for blemishes and wondering if he should cut it differently than the carrots, to give it some variety–if you’d appreciate the extra effort.

He startles when he feels pressure between his shoulder blades–goes rigid when he realizes it’s your forehead pressed against him. 

“Angel?” he croaks, cautious.

“I’m trying, Hi.”

He lets out a breath, setting the knife down in front of him. “I know you are.”

“I just,” you start, pressing a little harder into him to emphasize your frustration, “I don’t want you to think that I’m punishing you–”

“Hey,” he calls to you softly, trying to interrupt whatever self deprecation is happening in your brain, “I don’t think that. I know that it’s going to take some time.”

You sigh, a strained thing, and when you wrap your arms around his middle, he indulges himself in the unbridled relief that comes with the knowledge that you want to forgive him. He looks down at where your hands cross over his abdomen–the bruise on your wrist is nearly faded now. A tiny yellow stain on your skin. He wants to smooth it away with his thumb, but he doesn’t–he keeps the ball in your court and his hands glued flat to the countertop.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m…” you pause, thinking about it, “I’m okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm.”

“Alright,” he murmurs, looking over his shoulder to get a glimpse of you, “you want to go find a movie to watch? The food’ll be done soon.”

You hum, untangling yourself from him to do just that. Hitoshi finds that the weight of your absence is far heavier than he expects it to be.

It’s a start. There are undoubtedly things you still need to say and questions that you need answers to. He’ll give them when you’re ready. For now, he reaches to turn up the flame on the stove, stirring the broth with new intention.

this fic belongs to me (@gardenofnoah). i do not allow anyone to repost, edit, or reproduce this work.

[c1trvswurld]

been thinking of writing a very experimental yeehan fic where hanzo and cas are an old married couple with kids in suburbia but their love life is fucked and the only reason they stay together is for the kids until some weird horrific shit goes down in their neighborhood which brings them closer than ever

[deepseawave]

obsessed w the tags on ur last reblog

Omgg, thank you haha, it was a quality post so I just had to appreciate it in full force 😂❤️

Can‘t believe someone would actually enjoy my yapping :,D

[itstimeforstarwars]

My formative years were spent as a lotr fic writer which means that every day I refrain from adding people bursting into song or putting on a play out of boredom in my fics.

[necrotic-nephilim]

I’m here to bother you again!!!

You don’t have to if you don’t want to but maybe dark ship bingo with timjay or brudick????

hELLO i love being bothered by you this is delightful omg thank you, i would love to

Here is JayTim, I can't believe I only got one bingo for them. Ironically I genuinely don't view Jason and Tim as family, even when I'm not shipping them, I think they're tentative allies at best and you can only brother-ify them if you're doing very generously OOC fluff, a la WFA-style. They're absolutely toxic and codependent on each other's existence, Tim wouldn't exist without Jason and Jason is Undeniably Weird about Tim, but not brothers so I can't check off the familial squares. Also, I have no idea if I've been blocked by 10+ people, but it'd be funny if I am. And funnily enough, I don't think Tim or Jason are vanilla in any capacity even when they're not fucking. Especially not Tim, that boy is Certified Weird.

and ofc BruDick I nearly blacked out the whole board because they absolutely are weird and unwell. Some of these only apply to certain AUs of BruDick (like an idea I have rattling in my skull rn with Talon!Dick) but most of it applies to them all the time. I really need to write some fucked up BruDick, it's tragic I haven't yet. Right now the two fics I'm working on are a weird JayDick and a more fluffy DamiDick, but I have Plans™ for BruDick too. They are the OG and deserve their flowers for being the most toxic mess you've ever seen.

[unhealthy-leon-brainrot]

i would like to thank every single leon x reader fic writer who has written about reader being generally insecure about their self and their worth in the relationship 💐😭

(if you’ve written one, please reblog with a link to your fic!! i promise you ill read it and hype it up !!!!! i seriously love supporting the leon kennedy nation!!! 💞)

[aerodaltonimperial]

woke up feeling weirdly grateful to fandom (must be pride month lol) so just wanted to toss out a big thank you to anyone who has ever read my fics. you really make me feel like i matter when i hear that my words make people happy or flaily or screaming or what have you. it honestly means the world to me knowing that people take their own free time and use it to read things i have written; given everything, i can't overstate how much this helps to heal over the big me vs. writing/publishing wounds. 💚💚💚 i had really truly considered leaving fandom the past few weeks, but i don't want to any longer, and a huge part of that is you wonderful folks for being here.