#fear quirk

[willofhounds]

Fear snippet

Shouta skid across a rooftop in Eastern Musutafu his right hand slammed onto his chest. Pain like he hadn't felt since he was a teenager rushed through him. The bond between soulmates that hadn't even untethered as it was still existed. He had to clench his jaw to keep from crying out.

This was a soulmate bond breaking. It was far worse than the formed bond he had with his soulparents during his second year at UA. It felt as if his soul was tearing into pieces and then being burned.

How did this happen? Wasn't his soulmate a child? Why was he dying so suddenly?

...

Tsunagu leaned against the wall his right hand gripping his left forearm tightly. He desperately tried to keep his breathing even but it was becoming increasingly difficult. Glazed green eyes watched from the doorway as the doctors did their work. He hadn't been able to call Naomasa before the pain had overtaken him. His phone was laying on the ground with the contact pulled up.

A new iv was hooked into Izuku's arm and a bag was attached. From his position he could see the markings making it glucose. What?

The pain continued and he moved his hand to check the mark. Only for his heart to practically stop in his chest. It was cracking along the green otter and it was beginning to blacken. The bond between soulparent and child that only had begun to form was breaking. If the doctors did not save Izuku he was going to die.

"Best Jeanist?" Questioned a young male voice from behind him.

Tsunagu turned to face a teenager with ash blond hair and blood red eyes. Behind him was one of the orderlies who had not been a part of Izuku's treatment. The orderly looked uncertain between them. It was obvious if he was wondering if he had made a mistake.

[willowser]

now i wake up by your side—

bakugou x f!reader

wc: 2.8k+

tags: u.a. college au, canon-compliant, reader has a telekinesis/telepathic quirk, references (and potential spoilers) for the current arc in the manga, angst, a lot of secret hidden feelies

tysm to @alrightberries for giving me the opportunity to bring this lil thought of yours to life 🥺 your patience and understanding during the time it took me to write this is so appreciated it, and tbh you're the reason i'm even still here right now LOL you're so sweet, and i hold your kindness so close to my heart. i wish i could convey how much it means to me. i hope i did this even a lil justice !! happy birthday dear !!!! 🥺🩷✨️

Sero dreams of watching the sunrise on top of the Roppongi Observatory.

It’s a beautiful sight, one you’ve never seen with your own eyes, but you soak in the warmth flushing across his cheeks and the anticipated break of morning through the clouds. When he takes in a hefty breath, you feel the spring chill sting inside his chest, crisp and clear, like it’s you breathing instead of him, and it’s almost comforting enough to lull you to sleep, too.

But a clay pot shattering against a nearby bench has your eyes springing open, ripped from the haven you’d been lost to. 

You have to blink several times in order to fight through the exhaustion wearing you thin, but the evening returns to you in small, bleary doses. It’s the middle of the night—or at least it was when you’d first wandered out to the training field, and you can’t be sure how many hours have passed since then. Across the yard, you’ve successfully managed to carry four pots from the garden plot near the entrance all the way to your feet with your Quirk— but number five sits in pieces in the grass.

You’ll have to clean that up by morning or Eraser will make you run laps until you puke. Again.

Kirishima flits through your mind in a suit and tie: not as a Hero, but a spy of some kind, chasing down men with masks covering their faces and wielding a gun that looks odd in his hands, even in his own dream. Despite being back in the dorms, stories up and near the end of the hall, you can see it—hear him yelling out at the criminal to stop, feel the thud of the ground under his feet. His own determination blares through you like a freight train, as strong and damning as he is, and you fight to force yourself back inside your own shoes as you try to carry another pot.

Recovery Girl used to tell you that you did this to yourself: all your worry about losing sleep psyching yourself out of it completely, chasing it away before it even had the chance. When everyone is getting ready for bed, heading out of the common room and hitting the showers, you can feel that suspense building; what will come across tonight while everyone dreams? Fantasies? Or nightmares?

During the day it’s easier to drown out the foot-traffic of everyone’s thoughts—you do it without trying, now—but your brain needs rest, too. Letting go of control for even a second, just to get some shut eye is—

Something frightening is outlined in your peripheral vision, the dash of a pale shape you aren’t able to discern before it’s gone. The air turns metallic and stale and you can hear water sloshing, though you’re nowhere near the pools. All your blood rushes in your ears and your fingers curl, like you’re gripping your seat—gripping the edge of the couch in the common room, where you’d been sitting beside Mina when Kaminari put on that horror movie. The one with the—

“The hell are you doin’?”

Your eyes snap open for the hundredth time that night—show over, credits rolling—and it’s Bakugou. Standing only feet away from the new set of clay shards of your failure, tangible and real and staring at you with an intensity not even your dreams could mimic.

You blink, eyes stinging and heavy. You must look insane. “Oh, hey,” the voice that comes out of you is far-away, chartered off to distant lands, and he notices immediately, focus razor-sharp despite how late it is. “What did you say?”

Bakugou wrinkles his nose, like he’s offended at having to repeat himself. “I said, what the hell are you doin’? It’s nearly 2 in the morning and you’re out here throwin’ shit around in your fuckin’ pajamas.”

Almost on cue, the breeze brushes past your legs, chilly enough to have you shivering, and you peek down at them as if you don’t know what they look like. The sweater you’re wearing is from second year and the U.A. logo is half-worn off, but it’s the comfiest thing you own and if you’re going to be plagued all night by the forced intimacy of your classmates’ dreams—you at least want to be cozy.

When you look back up at him, Bakugou is pointedly looking away, taking interest in something other than your wimpy state of dress. 

It dawns on you then that he’s out here, too, in sweats and a simple back sweatshirt, hair a messy, golden halo in the pale, buzzing field lights. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think his face was a little rosy, but—maybe you’re seeing things.

Still. Being out and away from everyone, alone with Bakugou, makes your stomach tighten horribly. Like you’ve done too many sit-ups.

You try to brush off your sudden bout of shyness, because you know he’ll clock that in no time, too. “Well, I could ask you the same thing.” At the raise of your eyebrows, he only tchs, and casts you a filthy look. “But I think maybe I’ll just mind my own business.”

The face he makes is so awful and hot-blooded that you laugh, truly and earnestly, enough that a headache pulses to life. You wince, and the stream of pain that shoots down the middle of your skull brings back that image of Kirishima’s action-thriller: blood and knives, the sound of skin on skin, a fist against cheekbones, the ugly snap of breaking—

“Oi.”

Bakugou is closer than before, when you’re grounded back inside yourself. At least no pots have been broken this time. Less to clean up.

“Sorry,” you shoot him an apologetic smile that you know he must hate. “It’s just so—” your hand feels like it’s made of lead, but you drag it up to massage slow circles into your temple, trying not to grit your teeth and worsen the pounding in your head. “So loud sometimes.”

He’s silent until the pain ebbs out, and when you can blink without flinching, you peek up to catch how intently he’s watching your face. In the night like this, his eyelashes seem darker, longer, a kind of haunting beauty you would dream about, if you could get some sleep.

Again, you think of Kaminari’s horror movie, legs pressed against Mina’s under the heavy comforter she’d brought down from her room. It’s warm, the kind of pink, fluffy thing you’d imagine a girl like her to have—but it didn’t stop you from shivering every time you chanced a glance at Bakugou and found him already staring back.

The heat in your cheeks spreads to the back of your neck, so immediate that you think you might start sweating. “Dreams and stuff,” you murmur, by way of an explanation, “nightmares, sometimes.”

Bakugou's frown deepens, the muscle in his jaw tightening once as he grits his teeth. “What, you can just…hear that shit all night?”

“Usually,” you shrug, “It just comes in, you know? And I—” you steal another glance at him, aware, then, of just how intrusive you might sound. The veil of privacy is thin between you and others, and they don't often like being reminded of that. “Not for you, though. I don't—I don't get anything from you.”

And it's true, frustratingly enough. Not that you are ever intentionally peeking into anyone's head, but things slip through, occasionally—sudden reactions, wild, loose trains of thought. 

Bakugou's face twists, regardless, and you're reminded of all the times you've been forced to spar together, at Eraser's behest. One of the smartest in your class, quick on his feet and never without a plan; every time you've managed to get a hand on Bakugou, there's been nothing but a sea-shore calm.

It's hard to do and, at this point in your life, you've seen a thousand people try it—but he's the only one that's ever succeeded in keeping you at bay.

Nothing in his expression changes, but all your nerves spread to your voice until it shakes. “You're—I don't look in there, of course, but it's—you've always been…” Bakugou is terrible at taking compliments, you know that, almost as bad as you are at giving them. “Pretty, I guess.”

Awful, at giving them.

Embarrassment floods him, suddenly stained pink as he curls into himself. “Piss off,” he barks, and though he’s scowling at you in what must be disgust—you can’t help but to smile at how aggressively bashful he is.

You almost get the guts to make matters worse, just because you can. Admit how handsome you’ve come to find him, after the last few years, until his face is steaming in the sweet nighttime chill; the kind of intimacy you wouldn’t mind dreaming about again and again.

The absence of his thoughts are a comfort for your tired mind, has all the harsh edges of night fading into something a little easier to swallow, to breathe in. You know he does it on purpose as a strictly defensive move, but you almost want to thank him. For the quiet.

You don’t know if it’s from you or him, but when you reach a hand up to hover near his temple, the air buzzes between you, gently. Charged with that same thing that had you unable to look away from him in the common room only days ago. “In here, I mean,” you murmur, and the smile you pull on feels lame, but it’s as genuine as ever. “I don’t know, I don’t know how you do it. But it’s…nice.”

You’ve seen him die a thousand times.

Mostly in Midoriya’s dreams, sometimes in Eraser’s when he nods off during last period, but that horror—like many others, from that day—stains you all. When dinner is put away and showers are finished and the lights go out and the flood gates open, someone almost always relives the ugliness of it all; you’re more familiar with that moment than you are with any of your own.

Here and now, you close your eyes and see Jirou staring back at you, face beautiful and full of hope. You see Kirishima’s torn suit jacket and the blood on his cheek and the empty gun in his hand, the most dedicated secret agent. Aoyama is dreaming of his mother, something warm that makes you feel like you’re dazzling, too.

And yet—Bakugou is silent. Even right in front of you. Even after everything.

If anyone deserves the peace and quiet, you suppose it ought to be him.

“When’s the last time you got any sleep?”

You blink until his blurry figure is clear, and it’s like you can physically feel whatever energy you had left seeping from your body at the mere mention of sleep. “Maybe a morning or two ago,” you tell him truthfully, “I usually pass out after a few rounds of ‘throwin’ shit around’.”

Bakugou only stares at you as he digests the words, and once he’s gotten them down, he shakes his head before looking out over the mess you’ve made of the training field. With his head turned like this, you can take in the full weight of his scar—the one that’s wide and still baby-pink across his cheek. 

You almost get the guts to tell him he’s handsome. Almost.

Frustration is evident on his face when he looks back at you, but his voice comes out softer than you expect, like he's struggling to get out any words at all. “Can’t keep doin’ this,” he chastises. “Can’t be a Hero if you’re half asleep all the time. Gotta figure this shit out.”

“I am,” you give a lazy wave to your pots, “What’s wrong with this solution?”

“It's ass.”

“Alright, you have any better ideas, pretty boy?”

He bristles, visibly enough to have you snickering, and—you’re not sure what you expect of him; to continue his griping or leave you to your own devices, building his walls up high as he always does. Ever the fighter, ever the protector; maybe it’s a good thing, you tell yourself, because you’re weak like this and one of you needs to be thinking straight.

Despite his flush, there’s a playfulness to his grouchy expression, his raspy tone—and it has you leaning too far into things you don’t know how to name.

You never know what to expect of him.

There’s the slightest brush of skin against the back of your hand, and when you drop your eyes to the slowly-dwindling space between you—the rough pads of his fingers are touching you, gently. Softly enough to be the breeze, if it weren’t so warm.

You’re afraid to look at him, suddenly, like it will break whatever spell the night is casting over both of you; instead you press your lips together to stop their wobbling and the smile fighting to give you away. You’re waiting for that sea-shore calm, that quiet comfort, whatever it is he’s trying to offer you, strangely enough, in this moment. When you turn your hand over to catch his, the air buzzes again and the blood rushes in your ears.

You focus and—all you can see is your own face staring back at you. In a flash, like he’s cycling through his cards in a hurry, trying to find the best one.

You, across the arena during the entrance exam. You, in the locker room before the Sport's Festival. You, sitting in the common room during Christmas. You, ruined with tears and your own blood and covered in grime, on the darkest day of your life.

You, now. On the field in the stale light, prettier than you think you must look, for being so exhausted, the lines of your smile deep as you grin up at him.

—And then there's nothing.

The absence of noise is louder than anything. A stark, white silence that cuts through; a different world trickling away. A single touch and a little focus is all it takes to take root inside someone’s head and that’s always felt like a weapon, but now it feels like coming inside from a snowstorm, relief shuddering down your spine. Everyone else's fears and nerves and heartaches dissolve until they’re only a bitter taste at the back of your throat. Something far, far behind you

There’s just Bakugou. A strong silence that feels impenetrable, invulnerable to the outside. The steady beat of his heart is comforting in a way you didn’t realize it would be, has that bloody, dead-eyed image of him shifting into something else: another moment in Midoriya’s memories, of his silhouette standing in the sun, tall and fierce and alive.

Returned. Here and now with you, after numerous, unforeseen turns of events. You wonder if the ease surrounding you is his own, something else he’s sharing—or if this is just how it feels to be with him after so long. Maybe in the past it was different—you know it was; during the entrance exam, during the Sport’s Festival—but now you feel more relaxed than you ever have. A reminder that, no matter how dark the nights get, the sun is only just beyond the horizon. 

Returned, comforting and quiet.

(You won't know this until much later, but your hand will go slack in Katsuki's and his fingers will tighten around your own because he's not ready to let go yet. When your knees buckle, he'll already be there, awkwardly holding you up against his shoulder as his face flames and his eyes dart around the empty field, checking for any shitty snoops.

Ears is always up damn late, too, and there's a decent chance he'd get caught trying to haul you back to your room on the third fuckin’ floor, so there's really no better option than to gently lower you both to the grass. After a couple of minutes with no movement, the field lights will shut off and only the distant glow of the stars will remain.)

(You won't know this until much later, but Katsuki will arrange the both of you so that your head isn't slumped on the hard ground, but resting on the plush of his bicep, an arm around your shoulders so that the warmth can be shared between you both. His heart will pound hard enough in his chest to be worrisome, and every time you shuffle and scoot closer to him and nudge your nose into his sweater—Katsuki will fight to stay open and true, only honest with you in this wordless way.)

(You won't know this until the sun rises high behind your lids and your bones ache and he’s shown you things he could never say, but it's the best sleep you think you've ever gotten. With him, under the stars, surrounded by his calm and his constant.)

(You won't remember this but in your dream—your real dream, born from with solace Katsuki offers you—the morning will rise and settle in and he'll walk you back to your room despite the stares and in the elevator when you're alone, his lips will touch yours and you'll feel his  heart in your chest and his nerves in your stomach and his fear and relief all in one.)

(And right away, when you wake up, you'll finally have a name for this thing that's been blooming between you both for as long as you can remember—and he will, too.)

[fizzytoo]

karlee gets her horse! meet chewy <3

[dgalerab]

local radio lore drop man has adhd, more at 2 am on his next broadcast

part 1

next >>

please boo and throw tomatoes if you don't see another part within 2 business weeks

[nat-without-a-g]

I probably shouldn’t find this funny, but as someone who was Terrified of learning to drive, I could never imagine being in TJ’s position. Your first time driving, you are the oldest of your peers, and you EXPLODE THE ENGINE? I would never sit behind the wheel again. There’d be no recovering. Even IF someone manages to force me to take lessons long enough to re-learn and get a license, I’d never want to sit in the driver’s seat again in my life, I’d burn the liscense.

Aaaand I just realized that I think TJ is the only dad we never see drive a vehicle in season 2 so he probably feels the same way I do.

[cerubean]

*insert ben affleck smoking pic*

these children are running me ragged i swear. they both got the hates bedtime quirk AND romeo got the destructive and the aggressive quirk oml oh also priscilla is kicking akira to the curb

[spiribia]

a lot of the time when characters contort bodily into ginormous freak monsters it's because they're either about to die by being vanquished or put down or that the transformation ends up cleanly reversed and they're human again, because you understand that the narrative & the world dont have space for a monster like that to exist sustainably. it's not even really that -- a dragon can exist as a dragon somewhere eternally in peace -- but a metamorphosed Person can't ever remain as a permanently moon-blighted abomination. kind of peculiar thing i felt bone pain about for a while for some reason. even for laios from dungeon meshi i was like oh but you cannot be a monster anyway it's inevitable that that is only a temporary state of your being. even this story wont hold you for so long as something so incomprehensible.

[shallowseeker]

What drew them to each other is that they were both willing to do reprehensible things.

Whether it's to save their own skins, to save their families, to carry out a plan... They're naturally fucked up in the same pragmatic way.

But they can BE their full, "flawed, petty evil creatures" in full light of the other.

///

///

DUNDUNDUN SAM WAS JUST WAITING FOR HER TO TURN AWAY WHAT A BASTARD

///

She should've gotten to KILL him at least once, I think. Just to further make their bond weirder.

///

"Don't struggle," she says.

///

ALSO.

I like to watch the unraveling futility of their ambitions. Rowena, Crowley, and Sam were all united by wanting status and ambition to help them escape "a rigged game."

"And it took everything from me, everyone I love-- my family."

///

///

BOOM. There it is.

See, Rowena sees the lengths Sam will go, and she actually RESPECTS it.

Their relationship is built on the comfort of understanding WHY they're willing to gut each other AND each other's loved ones. Strong feelings that they try to dissociate themselves from.

They use their smarts and ruthlessness to protect themselves and their loved ones at all costs.

And they both want to change.

"You were never gonna kill him. There was a time you would've. But not now."

///

There is such an--an OPENNESS about the bad things they've done, and Sam needs that in his life.

///

And in season 15, Rowena knows that Sam wouldn't have been able to kill her at the end there... not unless she guided his hand and helped him.

[inittosinit]

Idk a weird ass dog or something probably [design for the fella in this post]

He thinks you’re neat

[adhd-merlin]

I love established relationship fics... getting together stories are great but what about after. let me check in on my friends please I need to know how they are doing

[aromanticannibal]

in the newest mha chapter in the scene with the new unknown character A few people suggested that the scissors were actually cutting off the fingertips of the character. What are your thoughts on that?

ooooh because their fingers are darkened when we see their hands?

honestly they don't look that cut to me? If they were they'd be bleeding and we'd see a trail on the wall I think. Also, they maybe wouldn't want to be touching anything, but it's possible they have some kind of resistance to pain.

i personally think whatever they were cutting is either their hair (less likely) or whatever this is :

that is muzzling them and potentially previously holding them tied somewhere. or their restraints, whatever they are.

[deathinfeathers]

//I will always have a lot of respect for people who write their own original characters. It is an uphill battle in a lot of cases. Wether or not your character will get traction is largely based in who you interact with/the graphics you use/pure luck (none of which should be a factor but that is the way of the tumbls I'm afraid). I've had Ocs who crashed and burned within a couple of months and others who were cornerstones of massive verses for years and years. My only advice is to keep being creative and keep putting your characters out there. You'll find your audience if you are willing to put in the work.

[austajunk]

Sometimes I really wanna know why all of Kodaka’s creative properties gel with my brain so much. Something about the sense of humor and themes in Rain Code, Danganronpa, Akudama Drive, World’s End Club (he didn’t write WEC, he was creative director)… just makes my brain go brrrr and fixate for like months (years actually, it seems).

I know there’s a hyperfixation thing a lot of us go through on tumblr, but like…I wonder why this type of content is so addictive to me honestly. *shrugs*

[optiwashere]

How do you manage to write smut that's like, actually arousing? What's the secret?

Well, first of all thank you! I'm glad you enjoy it, I really am. Happy to hear from you here as well 💜

Also, I'll let you in on my secret — I can't stand almost anything I write after it's posted. I see nothing but the flaws, grammatical choices, and technical foibles. This extends triple, quadruple, to smut. So if you're feeling the same kinda way, that your writing feels somehow off, then just know you're not alone.

I could give some pointers, but I don't really know how much benefit anyone will get hearing these from me of all people. But in my opinion it's a lot of the non-smut aspects that highlight the smut and make it shine. So here ya go.

Keep it in-character. I'm not out here talking as an authority on anyone's characterization, nor am I saying I'm some master of it and there are plenty of people out there with differing opinions, so take this with a colossal mountain of salt. But you should focus on making the voices, internal thoughts, and prose in keeping with the POV character. This is something called "POV control" and it's a very useful skill. Be able to flow in and out of a character's POV as the need arises. How Shadowheart interacts with sex is very different from Karlach is different from Orin, for example.

Strong focus on dialogue. This is a sorta addendum to the first point. Characters shouldn't suddenly turn silent when they're having sex. That is, unless that's the point of the story! They should also be speaking in-character even (or especially) during sex. Also, "porn dialogue" is something that gets brought up a lot in writing, and I think we all know it when we read it. That being said, people in the real world do say things during sex that, out of context, are hilarious. So it's a balancing act.

Fitting descriptions. This is actually one of the more important ones! If a scene is very romantic and meant to be light and fluffy, maybe avoid words for genitals altogether and focus entirely on simple visual aesthetics (how moonlight plays on a body, to give an example). If it's meant to be rough and focused on bodies or the mechanics of the scene, ham it up on those words. This also isn't a binary. Things flow back and forth all the time.

Firm language. I don't mean, like, power dynamics "firm." I'm talking about a willingness to use the words that fit the descriptions and sticking to it. Some people despise certain words, but other people will find the alternatives hilarious and completely tone-breaking. Find the words you like and stick to them; consistency gives your voice strength.

Don't try to appease everybody. You just can't. You have to write what you personally enjoy reading/writing/doing/thinking about, and go with it. If you try to cater to everyone's whims with any of the above, you'll wind up with a beige platter of nothingness. That doesn't mean you can't explore other tones or flavors, but don't try to do too much in one story.

Focus on emotions. Emotions could mean anything from love to lust to anxiety to fear to uncertainty and so on and so forth. My strategy is to center a fic on a theme/emotion that resonates with the characters involved and then I explore the smut around that central point. Revisit the idea between the action. Show how the characters' feelings around the theme change or how they're reaffirmed.

[cupiidzbow]

LMAO I forgot to post it here and but I was hyper analyzing gifs of him last night and I know I joke about this gif a lot but just looking at it made me SO 😢😢😢 bc he was genuinely so caught of guard by the ice breaking underneath his feet NOOOOO 😢😢

I DONT LIKE IT WHEN HE LOOKS LIKE THIS NOOOOOOOO 😢😢😢😢😢😢

[quietlyblooms]

staring directly at chiyo’s old bnha verse… ma’am was essentially a chameleon and had a student and teacher/pro hero verse and it’s making a comeback i fear ( i cheer )