#the process of writing is the worst

[biteofcherry]

I want to write this next chapter, but I don't want to write it. You get me?

[thechekhov]

👌Content™

[vagueconfusion]

Feeling real ridiculous for not having realized that Baron's "stark father" was the Nightmare King until now

[jonsnowunemploymentera]

ASOIAF discourse would be a lot more fun if we all realized that every single person who has been put in a position of leadership/rulership fails in one way or another. Jon and Dany failing is not an indictment on their abilities to lead or rule. They’re kids, they still have shit to figure out. Given “what was Aragorn’s tax policy”, I doubt GRRM will write a story that will feature the appearance of a most perfect ruler ever who will be a total success instead Jon and Dany who were tOtAl FlOpS. Especially if this person has no previous experience that has been detailed within the text itself. That’s not only antithetical to the series, but also not how you write a narrative.

[bhmallorie]

Me, when bad things happen to my characters in the plot that I wrote: 

[honey-writes]

Believe it or not, your writing doesn’t always have to be good. Especially if you’re doing it for fun. One thing I’ve learned that’s become precious to me is: You’re allowed to free yourself from the chains of “everything I write has to be good.�� No it doesn’t! You can write things just because! You can write down your random thoughts in the middle of the day that don’t make any sense; you can start that poem with no plan and see where your instinct takes you; you can write that story or that fic just because you need to get it out of your system. Who cares! Besides, you can always go back and revise it later! All art begins somewhere. You don’t always have to worry about being “good.” Just make it. Just let it exist. Just be.

[soliusss]

i open the google doc i stare at the google doc and i imagine so many words and then i close the google doc

[magic-is-something-we-create]

this is your periodic reminder that this blog is run by an aroace transgender man who loves his siblings all across the earth with his whole heart. including every person on earth who has been deemed a non-person by the masses!

[noxinkwell]

Something I have to keep telling myself this week:

“Some of your writing is not that bad. Some of your writing is not that bad. Some of your writing is not that bad.”

[ageless-aislynn]

Guess what, frens? I wrote almost 700 words tonight and I was actually, legit enjoying writing them! I can't even tell you how long it's been since I was able to get back in that headspace again! 🥳💃

Only two slight problems:

It's not any of my WIPs and it's for freakin' Dead Rising.

I'm not ever, ever, evvvver going to post it anywhere, so it's pretty worthless OTHER than...

I was writing. I was enjoying writing and that feels actually pretty major to me right now, even if it's not "for" anything else. It's for me. And Frank. And the OC I just made up but am writing in second person so I can try to get back into the voice for my Reader fics.

I haven't felt actual inspiration in SO long. I've missed you, old friend. Maybe there's some hope after all?

PS - I was hoping that getting back into vidding would help jumpstart the ol' writing muse again but, well. I'm scared putting Vegas back on will destabilize Georgette again. I cannot TELL you how nice it's been to just have a working computer after nearly half a year of daily struggling and of hours of research that led to no solutions. It's really hard to make myself do something that has even a tiny chance of undoing it all, you know? I dunno. I'll worry about that later. 🤷‍♀️

[brutal-nemesis]

E&T: Caught in the Clutches of Lust

No im not sorry for any of this. cope and seethe

Btw I used a line from @painsandconfusion and @wormwriting's degradation starter list that I saved THREE YEARS AGO for this very moment. I am always playing the long game (⊙ˍ⊙)

←Previous - Masterlist

Ingredients: VERY creepy/intimate whumper, implied threat of noncon, a lot of noncon touching (unsexy but right on the edge), implied noncon kiss, unsexy nudity

Shiori?

No, it couldn’t be, she was a world away, she was human, he’d left her waiting by the fountain after the party and she’d moved on and forgotten about him, no reason to follow him here, into the depths of hell, looking exactly like she had the night of the party, jarringly out of place in her pretty dress, smiling at him like he wasn’t a blood-covered, unrecognizable version of himself.

And then he blinked, and all of a sudden it wasn’t Shiori at all, but Lythia, wearing the same yellow bandana that she always did while she was working in the palace gardens, the little black braids of her hair just as beautiful as he remembered. There was no pity in her dark eyes, like there had been the last time he saw her, looking up at him from the crowd while he was chained to that pillar, promising he’d be rescued after it was already too late. Actually seeing her hurt, and Erebus looked away for a moment, just a moment…

When he saw the woman in front of him now, his jaw dropped, eyes widening, his tense, burning hands finally relaxing.

“Come on, let’s get you somewhere safe.”

Her voice was just as he remembered, and she was smiling at him so kindly, her eyes soft, her gloved hand outstretched, she was here to save him, she’d found a way to bring him back, he was too tired and scared and stressed to do anything else besides surrender control to her once again, to take her small hand and follow her blindly towards the fate she’d chosen for him. She was squeezing his still-healing hand tightly in hers, but she could do whatever she wanted with him just as long as she got him out of this place.

“Well, that was easy.”

The voice wasn’t Shiori’s, or Lythia’s, and it certainly wasn’t Neteri’s.

Erebus jumped back, finally seeing the person next to him clearly for the first time. She-they?-smirked at him, bright purple eyes sparkling. Their white hair was long and wavy, partially braided back with impeccable precision. Gold jewelry and a low-cut black dress accentuated their natural beauty, seeming very out of place in this hellish world. Most striking of all, though, was their bright red skin, a shade that was very familiar to Erebus.

This was a lust demon, and she’d lead him right into her lair.

“You-how did-I-”

They laughed, deep and bright, obviously amused by his shock and confusion. “You only saw what your heart wanted you to see, darling. It’s not my fault you turned into a meek little lamb and followed me here.”

Erebus’s face grew hot. “Well I-I…” his wings sank behind him. He’d thought he was about to be saved. Like an idiot. She’d led him away from the bubbling pools and acrid air into a sort of cave, a furnished one at that. But now he was cornered in here, at a disadvantage in the cramped space. He swallowed and changed the topic, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “Who are you and what do you want with me?”

“Apologies.” She bowed slightly, the sort of bow people gave when they were pretending to show respect during negotiations, but then declared war a few weeks later. “My name is Asmodeum, and really,” they gave him a disapproving look, “I’d rather not fight with you. I heard you’ve defeated Somiaken and Vorath already, but I believe you and I could work something out without coming to blows.” They held their hands up briefly, but the way they watched him made it clear that their guard was still up. “So, tell me your name, now. Unless you’d prefer I just call you darling?”

Erebus very much did not want that, so he complied. “Erebus. But you didn’t really answer my question. What do you want, if not to fight me?”

Asmodeum sighed wistfully. “Well, I can tell that you’re the sort of person who’ll never agree to what I really want, but I believe something can be arranged. You see, I’ve been stuck here for Akumo knows how long with no toys to play with. So, I was thinking-”

“I-I’m not gonna be your toy,” Erebus choked, his throat feeling like it was closing up. 

“Ah, ah, ah.” Asmodeum wagged a finger. “Let me finish, dear. I could have my way with you quite easily, you know. It would be oh so effortless to drag you back into my domain proper and throw you into a pool of boiling water or lava and watch the show. However, I think your forced cooperation would make this a little more fun, and it would be nice if you behaved for me. So, if you let me do what I want with you, barring the most intimate acts, I’ll let you kill me once I’ve had my fill.”

“What happens if I don’t say yes?”

Asmodeum casually examined their nails. “I will take you by force and I will defile you.”

“D-defile?! You don’t mean…” Erebus quickly glanced down, and Asmodeum smiled wickedly.

“Oh, I do mean. If you let me play with you, I swear I won’t do anything of the sort. Call it an incentive. So come on, Erebus, get rid of your sword.” Erebus just tightened his grip on it, weighing his options. As much as he didn’t want to let this demon…play with him...did he really have any other options? He was exhausted, and there wasn’t much room in here for him to try and put up a proper fight. And more than anything, he really, really didn’t want to risk being...Despite the anxiety building in his chest, Erebus unbuckled the sword belt around his waist, setting it carefully on the ground.

“Fine. But if you so much as touch me there I’ll-I’ll make you regret it.” How would he do that? He wasn’t sure. But he just-he had to make it clear that he wasn’t surrendering. He was just…agreeing to play along. Just to get a break from fighting. He was okay with this. He’d be fine. He'd been through so much worse.

He'd be fine.

“I promise I won’t cross that boundary, don’t you fret.” Asmodeum walked over to him, kicking his sword out of reach as they took his hand. “First things first, you’re absolutely filthy. Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

Erebus pulled his hand out of her grasp. “I mean, I-I can do that myself,” he muttered. Asmodeum raised an eyebrow.

“I’m sure you can, but I want to wash you, dear. And right now,” she grabbed his hand once more, “I get what I want.” They pulled him along into a bathroom, and he followed reluctantly, feeling an odd sense of familiarity in just going along with this sort of thing. Their threat was certainly a motivator, but that didn’t mean he was going to roll over completely on every little thing, right? He had to make it clear that he wasn’t happy with this, despite agreeing to it. She started filling up the bathtub with water, turning to him with a smile. “Let me strip you now.” 

“I-I’d rather-”

“Shhhh.” She placed a finger on his lips, her other hand starting to undo the ties on his shirt. “None of that, dear. I can’t get you all clean if you’re wearing these dirty clothes, now can I?” He looked away as they tugged his shirt off, hoping that they’d-nope, now they were going to try and take off his pants, too.

“You said you weren’t going to-to do that to me.”

“I won’t. But that doesn’t mean you get to keep your clothes on the whole time, you shy little thing. I just won’t touch.” Erebus stifled a whine as she pulled down his pants, and his underwear along with them. “There we go. You can get in now.” He did so, almost jumping into the warm water and crouching down, hugging his knees close and spreading his wings around himself protectively. They gently pushed his wings back, stroking his face as he glared at them with wide eyes. “There’s no use hiding when I’ve already seen everything, silly. I think I’m going to need to get these arms out of the way, hmmm?” They pulled out a pair of manacles, and Erebus’s stomach sank.

“Wait, I won’t resist just-just don’t-”

“Too late for that, Erebus.” She clamped them around his wrists, twisting the chain securely around the faucet. “Besides, you look absolutely darling like that, all helpless. Now, keep those wings out of the way or I’ll pierce them together.” Erebus’s wings sank in defeat, slowly moving back until they were behind him. There wasn’t any winning here, was there? “Good boy.” She grabbed a cup from the countertop and started using it to pour water on him, rinsing away some of the pieces of flesh stuck to his bloodied skin. After she lathered a washcloth with soap, she began to gently clean the dried blood off his face. He screwed his eyes shut, fists clenched as he tried to think about anything else. 

Even back when he was a prince, he’d hated being fussed over, preferring to take care of himself when he could. Asmodeum, however, seemed to have no concept of personal space, or just didn’t care. She had to work hard to get through the blood caked over most of his skin, leaning in close, starting with his face before switching to his hair. Their hands slid in, tenderly working through tangled bloody mats and massaging his scalp. He hated how nice it felt, how much it reminded him of the way Lythia always used to play with his hair, forcing himself to open his eyes and look at Asmodeum, to remind himself who was…

Lythia smiled at him sweetly, and Erebus felt his blood run cold. That wasn’t her, no matter what he saw, no matter how he felt. She wasn’t here. She was back home, probably still tending the palace gardens despite the change in management. Did she still think of him as she looked at all the places they used to laugh? Or could she not get the image of him screaming and sobbing up on that podium out of her mind, unable to remember any other version of him than the one he’d left her with? Maybe that’s what he deserved to be remembered as, since he’d hardly thought of her since that day, the memories too painful. 

Erebus shuddered when Asmodeum moved to his horns, which were always far more sensitive than they had any right to be. She seemed to be able to tell, continuing to stroke them long after they were clean, and as much as he wanted to ask them to stop, he was afraid it would only encourage them. At the very least, the disconnect between Lythia and his horns was enough to push the thoughts of her out of his mind, and Asmodeum changed back to their normal form.

Her hands finally slid lower, caressing his neck, fingers slipping under his collar, making sure the skin underneath was clean, pressing down against his throat every so often as they did so. It wasn't enough to really choke him, but the message was clear.

They moved onto his shoulders, his wings, his arms, his back. He caught their smile as they saw what his right arm really looked like, and her fingers traced his whip scars as they were uncovered. Dread started to pool in his stomach as she moved to his chest, scrubbing away, revealing-

“Oh, well isn’t this pretty.” They marveled at his brand, stroking the lines of the scar, pausing over his rapidly-beathing heart. “Too bad you’re already owned by someone else, huh? But I suppose they’re not here now, are they?” Erebus just bit his lip, refusing to make eye contact. The thought of his…of Neteri not being here hurt, and, try as he might, he couldn’t help but think of her, of the way she’d always protected him. He wondered how angry she’d get if she saw what was happening to him, or if she could feel now that someone besides her was touching him. He could imagine her bursting in, yelling at Asmodeum to get their hands off of him, unchaining him and letting him cover up before pulling him into a hug-wait wait what was he thinking she’d been his captor she’d hurt him and ripped him into pieces and kept him locked up but she'd promised to save him and he missed her.

“What’s wrong, darling? Is even this too much for you?” Asmodeum brushed away a tear he didn’t realize had been falling with her finger, her skin no longer red, but brown. He couldn't look her in the eye. Not while she wore that face. “Such a sensitive little thing.” Hearing those words in that voice was already bad enough. Erebus tugged at his chains, wishing he could rub away those stupid traitorous tears, because he wasn’t crying about Neteri or Asmodeum or any of this. 

Their hands plunged beneath the surface of the blood-clouded water now, and Erebus couldn't stop himself from tensing up as they scrubbed his stomach, glad the parts of him that were previously under clothes weren't as caked in blood as those that weren't. Still, there was enough to clean that she had an excuse for her hands to wander lower still, caressing his hips, his thighs, and now he was trembling, fists clenched, tears dripping even more steadily into the tepid, cloudy water, no one had ever touched him there, at least she was wearing her own face now, but please, please stay away from there, you said you wouldn't touch me there and if you do then why am I here why am I letting you do this why do I keep letting people hurt me if I just stood up for myself more if I wasn't such a coward maybe I'd still be-

"You're rather pathetic, aren't you?" Asmodeum mused as they cradled his face, turning him towards them. Erebus blinked away tears, just now realizing that they'd finished cleaning him, the tub already drained. He couldn't exactly argue, crying and shivering like he was, so he just swallowed and gave the tiniest nod as he pulled himself together, hoping it'd be enough to get them to move on.

With a satisfied smile, she unhooked his wrists from the faucet, but left the manacles on as she pulled him up and out of the tub. He tried to cover himself as best he could as they toweled him off, hoping they’d stop touching him or at least give him clothes soon. Thankfully, they did, handing him a small bundle, and upon unrolling it he found...a pair of shorts that barely reached his knees, and that was all. Once he’d put them on, she dragged him into another room and let go, crossing her arms. “Kneel.” 

“I don’t-” Asmodeum raised an eyebrow, and Erebus stopped himself. They were expecting him to obey their every little whim if he didn’t want to be...he knelt, staring at the floor. She circled him a few times, and he clenched his fists in his lap, hating how much of his body was on display. Not that she hadn’t already seen everything.

“You were just made to kneel, weren't you? Absolutely gorgeous." Erebus's face burned even hotter than before. All he could hope was that they'd be done with him soon, but he'd never specified how long this would go on for when he agreed to it, so this might last…He was such an idiot, why did he just go along with this without any negotiation?

Asmodeum stopped in front of him. "Well, what are you in the mood for, dear? Pain,” her hand slid under his chin, tilting it up, “or pleasure?”

“Please just-anything but-” he choked, and she just laughed.

“Anything, you say? Then, I think...I'm in the mood for this.” They grabbed his collar, yanking him up onto the nearby bed. Before he could even try to sit up they were on him, wrapping themselves around him, worming in between his shackled arms, forcing him to embrace her back. A shudder ran down his spine as her skin came into contact with his, her arms pinning him flush against her body, her legs tangling around his. “Have you ever been this close to someone, darling?” she whispered in his ear, their fingers stroking his hair.

“I-I, um, a few times but-” 

“Aw, and you’re still nervous.” Her hand ran down the back of his head, stopping at his collar. “It’s so cute how you still wear this. I’m sure you could get it off if you tried, so you must like having it on, huh? Do you miss your owner?”

“She’s not-I don’t-I just-it’s…” he screwed his eyes shut, “I can’t take it off, alright?!”

“Such a dutiful little pet-”

“I wasn’t h-her pet!” 

“You’re so adorable when you’re in denial.” They stroked his back, rubbing around the base of his wings. Erebus just opted for staring at the wall, hoping they wouldn't touch his horns. “Do you know how lust demons feed, my dear?”

“By eating…?”

“Well, of course, but not the same way you do. We feed off of humans, more specifically, their bodily fluids.” She smiled widely, showing off her fangs. “And I haven’t had a meal ever since being locked up in here. I normally get my fix a different way, but, to be considerate of you, innocent little boy,” they shifted until their lips were right next to the base of his neck, fingers pushing his collar out of the way, “I’ll settle for feasting on your blood.”

Her fangs sank into his neck, and he couldn’t help but gasp at the sudden pain. He tried to breathe in calmly through gritted teeth as she sucked on the holes in his flesh, drinking his blood. Soon enough, his ears started ringing, and lightheadedness crept in. He gripped the chain between his wrists just too feel something solid, glad that he was lying down, at least. By the time Asmodeum pulled away, licking droplets of blood from their lips, a dizzy haze had settled over Erebus. He closed his eyes, tears leaking out as she snuggled back into him, just hoping that this would all be over soon. In fact, maybe he would just...let the blackness take him...just for a little bit...so he didn’t have to be...awake…

Erebus’s mouth tasted like dried blood when he woke up, and Asmodeum was still wrapped around him tightly. She smiled when their eyes met. “Did you have a good little nap, my darling? I hope you don’t mind, but,” she gripped his chin, her thumb stroking his lips, “I had a little bit of fun with you while you were out of it.” A bit of...wait is that why his mouth tasted like-

“W-you-you can’t d-do that to me I-I don’t-” his voice broke, and he couldn’t breathe all of a sudden, no matter how many fast little breaths he sucked in, just get away, get away from me stop touching me don’t do that to me please please I don’t want that you can’t do that to me you can’t you can’t I never wanted that not from you not from anyone and now now now I-I’m-I’ve been-

He felt something solid press into his hands, and he realized that Asmodeum was standing in front of him, and that was his sword in his hands, he was sitting up now and that was his sword and Asmodeum was smiling they were holding out their arms to him they were ready they were ready they were laughing they were coughing up blood they were on the ground there was so much blood how much of it was his he wasn’t sure he didn’t know they reached up and he backed away he had to get away he couldn’t stay here a second longer she was dead she was dead she was already crumbling away and he had to go he wanted to rip off his own skin he could still feel her touching him where where where were his clothes where was the key to these manacles he had to go he-

Erebus dropped his sword. He fell to his knees. He buried his face in his hands. 

And he screamed.

Tags: @dramaticcollapse @thehopelessopus @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @galaxywhump @as-a-matter-of-whump

@mnmlover2002 @tears-and-lilies @yet-another-heathen @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @starnight-whump

@unicornscotty @thebewilderer @kixngiggles @itallstartedwithharry @inky-whump 

@redstainedsocks @lonesome--hunter @his-unspoken-words @susiequaz12 @its-mysweetlittlesecret-blog 

@whumpasaurus101 @patheticlittleguy @jadeocean46910 @whumpinggrounds @pumpkin-spice-whump 

@suspicious-whumping-egg @befuddled-calico-whump @whump-in-the-closet​ @pumpkinsncoffee​ @aryox​​

@vampiresprite

[iguessitsjustme]

I know Moo and Kang are kind and forgiving and wonderful human beings. I’m not though. Shone is getting pushed right off thr cliff.

If you answer “not me” congrats on being a good person. You are so much better than I am. But also if you ever need a mean friend to deal with someone for you, congrats, I’m your friend now.

[jennycalendar]

k making this an official post bc i've been unwell about it all day: am essentially four chapters from finishing the first book of the marigold fic. it's over 200k words it's going to be over 50 chapters i'm going to have to start straight up combining chapters because otherwise weekly updates means this thing WILL take like two years minimum to post properly.

technically i could start posting book 1 as i work on book 2 but i'm not sure if that's what i wanna do? i've really enjoyed writing this thing in semi-seclusion and handing it to like 3 people whose enthusiasm has buoyed me thru the writing process. at the same time tho i do recognize that at this rate it's likely gonna be another 5-6 months before this thing is done, and then weekly updates suggest that it's going to be at least a year of posting, so like .... shall there even BE an audience for this thing when that happens?

unsure. unclear. trying to figure out whether/if there's a secret third option

[muselexum]

( waking up one morning after 18 months of hiatus and finally getting the spark™ to freshen up ur rp blog )

[igotthis-egg]

*me writing a VERY rough story draft in a caffeine-fueled fit at 5am*

Also me: “why is it bad”

[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.