Me when someone asks to see what I do on tumblr
Three Goblin Art

Kiana Khansmith
Show & Tell
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

★

blake kathryn
noise dept.
KIROKAZE

No title available
Jules of Nature
d e v o n
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
wallacepolsom
Xuebing Du
Not today Justin
AnasAbdin
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

shark vs the universe
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seen from United States
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seen from Albania
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seen from Türkiye

seen from Palestinian Territories

seen from United States
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seen from Malaysia
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@infatuatedrose
Me when someone asks to see what I do on tumblr
making lists is so important to me like yesssss girl let's break a large concept into manageable pieces
I hope all fan fic writers get everything they want in life- wishing them abundance and prosperity🌱
I’m dying.
I NEED MORE BLACK CLOVER READS.
no joke is a problem now. I’ve read about every black clover thing you could find. IVE READ THEM ALL. I’ve been gone for 5 weeks and there’s only ONE new story. I’m going insane.
I’m not okay
Wish it was as popular as Jjk
FROM ACROSS THE ROOM
summary: he’s so into you but all he does is admire you from afar. what a loser!
feat. yuno, nozel, fuegoleon, william
a/n: gn!reader except for yuno’s cuz i got lazy to change things
also, writing styles vary cuz i couldn’t write anything in one sitting like i’ve been adding sentences here and there at different points in my life. this has been a journey for like 2 years but now i’m at the finish line thank god.
anyways, as always, thank you to everyone who still reads my fics no matter how inactive i am ily <3
yuno could count all the times he felt nervous on the fingers of one hand.
one, when his necklace almost got stolen.
two, when asta insisted on roaming around outside at the dead of the night he was so anxious of getting caught he couldn’t breathe.
three, the magic knight exam.
I yearn for black clover content
Taxi Cab (Part 3)
— k. bakugo x f!reader angst continuation
part 1 part 2
──── ୨୧ ────
I saved thousands, yet I could not save us.
11:47 AM.
I am curled in a fetal position, still wearing the clothes from last night. They smell faintly of smoke, cheap alcohol, and his fiancée’s cloying perfume. It’s a bitter scent.
I remember the cool, grounding weight of Shoto’s arm around my waist, the quiet promise of safety in his presence. I remember the way he didn’t ask questions, the way he just took care of me.
But mostly, I remember the ring. And the word.
Fiancée.
A single, elegant word that serves as the final, official obituary for all the years I gave.
The world owes me nothing, I know that. But Katsuki Bakugo owed me something. He owed me the memory of a love that reshaped his entire being. He owed me the recognition of the woman who held his broken pieces until they fused into something whole.
And now, even that sliver of hope — the fragile, illogical thread I clung to that one day his memory would return — has been cut. He is building a future on the hollow ground of my past.
I whisper the truth into the damp cotton of my pillow, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence of my room:
I am not just the woman he forgot. I am the woman he had to forget to finally become the man she could choose.
Now, I am left with only the artifacts of a life that never was: the phantom weight of a ring that was never placed on my finger, the bitter taste of promises that belonged to a man who no longer exists.
I have to move on. I have to accept the world’s cruel irony.
But a tiny, pathetic ember still glows in the ruins of my heart. It is the hope that one day, years from now, when he is settled into his beautiful, easy life, a scent will cross his path — perhaps the familiar trace of my hero suit’s custom detergent, or a specific brand of coffee I always made — and that the memory will break through.
I hope that, just once, the real Katsuki Bakugo — the one who learned how to be vulnerable beneath my touch — will look at his perfect fiancée and wonder, just for a moment, why his chest aches for a girl he doesn't know.
I hope that one day, he will turn his crimson eyes to me across a crowded room — years after I’ve moved on, years after the pain has scabbed over —and he will see not a drunk, shouting stranger, but the essential anchor, the constant, the beginning of everything good in his life.
I hope he sees me again.
Until then, I will be out here, in a world I helped him save, learning how to be a hero when the greatest battle was already lost.
──── ୨୧ ────
Thirty days.
Seven hundred and twenty hours since the wrought iron gate clicked shut. Since the ring flashed under the porch light. Since Shoto Todoroki walked you away from the wreckage of your own heart.
They say it takes twenty-one days to form a habit. You’ve spent thirty trying to break the habit of loving him.
You aren’t cured. You aren't "over it." But you are functioning.
The first week was a chemical haze of painkillers and sleep aids. The second was the purge.
“I hate this apartment,” you confessed to Mina, your voice raspy from disuse. “Every corner smells like him.”
“Then we fix it,” she declared, summoning an army.
Mina, Hagakure, Yaoyorazu, Ochaco, Tsuyu, and Jirou descended on your life like a perfectly orchestrated hero operation. They didn’t mention his name. They didn’t need to. They understood the assignment: Erase the Anchor.
They packed up the double-sized agency planning whiteboard where his spiky, aggressive handwriting had scrawled "Dynamight & (Your Hero Name) — BEST FUCKING AGENCY, ZERO COLLATERAL.” They painted over the wall where he’d accidentally scorched the drywall while arguing with you about microwave etiquette. They replaced the ancient, hideous couch he’d insisted on keeping.
Ochaco meticulously scrubbed his favorite mug, the one shaped like a grenade, and placed it in a box labeled "DONATE."
“You’re getting a new life,” Jirou said simply, plugging her headphones into your speakers and blasting something loud and distracting. “The one you were always going to have, just… without the noise.”
They didn't try to fill the void. They taught you how to live comfortably with the space.
──── ୨୧ ────
Slowly, through the haze of grief, you began to find the outline of yourself again.
You started thinking about the man he was, not the stranger he had become. The old Katsuki — the one who remembered you, the one who fought for you — would have hated seeing you like this. He would have clicked his tongue, scowled, and told you to stop being an extra in your own life.
“If you’re gonna cry, do it while you win,” he used to say.
So, you chose yourself. Because he wasn't there to choose you anymore.
But the days were manageable; it was the nights that were the enemy. The nights were when the silence got loud. You’d roll over and your hand would hit the cold expanse of the sheet where his warmth used to radiate like a furnace. You’d wake up reaching for a shoulder that wasn’t there.
And then there was his mother.
The doorbell rang two weeks in. You almost didn’t answer, but the aggressive pounding was familiar.
Mitsuki Bakugo stood there, holding three containers of spicy curry. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but her jaw was set.
"I didn't cook this for him," she said, her voice gruff as she shoved the containers into your hands. "I cooked it for you. You look too thin."
She came in, and for the first time, the loud, boisterous woman was quiet. She looked around your apartment, seeing the lack of his boots by the door, the lack of his presence.
"I tried to talk to him," she admitted later, sitting at your kitchen island while you ate the curry that tasted painfully like home. "I told him he was making a mistake. I told him he was throwing away the best thing that ever happened to him for some... some shiny new toy who likes the fame more than the man."
She sighed, rubbing her temples. "He doesn't remember, kid. And he's stubborn. He thinks I'm just being controlling. He thinks..." She trailed off, her voice cracking. "I'm sorry. I raised a hero, but I forgot to teach him how to remember."
"It's not your fault, Mitsuki," you whispered.
"I know," she sniffed, standing up abruptly. "Anyway. I'm not gonna bother you with him. But you... you're still family. Even if that idiot is too blind to see it."
She became a regular fixture, bringing food and fresh laundry, ensuring you survived.
And then there were the flowers.
Every Tuesday, a delivery arrived at your door. Simple, elegant arrangements. White camellias. Blue hydrangeas. Nothing romantic, nothing that screamed "date me." Just... presence.
The card was always the same.
I’m here. — S.
Shoto didn't push. He didn't try to fill the space Katsuki left. He just stood at the perimeter of your life, a silent sentinel, reminding you that you weren't invisible. That someone saw you.
It gave you the strength to do the hardest thing yet.
You walked into the leasing office downtown. The paperwork for the agency was on the desk.
Dynamight & (Your Hero Name) Agency.
You stared at the header for a long time. The dream you had built together. The floor plan included two offices, side by side. A shared gym. A balcony where he promised he’d grill on Fridays.
You picked up the pen.
And you crossed his name out.
"Just me," you told the leasing agent, your voice steady despite the tremor in your hand. "I'll be opening the agency alone."
You were doing it. You were moving forward. You were breathing without the assistance of his memory.
But the universe has a cruel sense of humor.
The call came in at 04:00 AM.
It wasn't a local dispatch. It was a priority summon from the World Heroes Association. A massive, coordinated raid on a villain stronghold involving an international trafficking ring. Target location: Italy.
They needed heavy hitters. They needed widespread quirk coverage. They needed you.
You packed your gear in a trance, the muscle memory of being a hero taking over where your heart failed. You zipped up your hero suit — the one he helped design to withstand high impact, checking the reinforced seams with trembling fingers — and looked in the mirror.
You looked strong. You looked ready. You looked like a woman who hadn't spent the last month crying on her bathroom floor.
You didn't check the mission roster. You didn't want to know who else was deployed. You just needed to work.
Two hours later, you are strapped into a seat on a massive, long-haul military transport jet. The interior is dim, lit only by low-level blue safety lights. The air is cold, recycled, and smells of jet fuel and sterile upholstery.
You stare at the headrest in front of you, focusing on your breathing. In. Out. Just a mission. Just a job.
Steps echo down the aisle as the last few heroes board. You keep your eyes forward, shrinking into your seat, hoping to remain invisible until you land in Europe.
And then, the air shifts.
It isn’t a sound that alerts you. It is a scent.
A sharp, distinct mixture of burnt sugar, nitroglycerin, and expensive, spicy cologne. It washes over you like a physical wave, stealing the oxygen from your lungs. It is the scent of mornings in your kitchen. It is the scent of the pillow you haven't been able to wash.
Your heart gives a painful, treacherous thud against your ribs — a traitor in your own chest.
Against your better judgment, you turn your head.
You look behind you to see who owns the smell, though you already know.
And you are right.
Katsuki Bakugo is walking down the aisle, his gear bag slung effortlessly over one shoulder. He doesn't look at you. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, his jaw set in that familiar, stony line. He looks exactly the same as he did that night on the porch, and yet, he looks like a complete stranger.
He passes your row without breaking stride. He moves to the back of the plane, finding an empty row far away from everyone else. He drops his bag, sits down, and immediately leans his head against the reinforced window, crossing his arms over his chest. Closing his eyes.
He looks peaceful. He looks unbothered.
You whip your head back around, facing forward, your knuckles turning white as you grip the armrests.
You thought you could manage this. You thought thirty days of silence, thirty days of rebuilding, thirty days of tearing him out of your life would be enough armor to withstand seeing him again.
But it still stings. It burns worse than fire.
The proximity is suffocating. Knowing he is breathing the same recycled air, just thirty feet behind you —alive, whole, and completely belonging to someone else — breaks the scab right off the wound.
You turn your face toward your own window, staring out at the grey, pre-dawn runway. You bite the inside of your cheek, willing the emotions to recede. Don't cry, you order yourself. Not here. Not where he can see.
But you can't stop it.
A single, hot tear spills over, tracking a slow, humiliating line down your cheek.
You raise your hand to brush it away, to hide the evidence, but another hand beats you to it.
Cool, gentle fingers graze your cheekbone, catching the tear before it can fall further. The touch is grounding, solid, and safe.
You freeze, turning your head slightly.
Shoto is there.
He doesn't say a word. He doesn't look back at the blonde man in the rear of the plane. He just looks at you, his eyes filled with a quiet, steady understanding.
He lowers his hand and silently takes the empty seat beside you.
As the engines roar to life and the plane begins to taxi, pushing you back against the seat, Shoto shifts slightly so his arm is pressing firmly against yours. A silent anchor.
He is here.
And as you lift off toward Italy, leaving the ground behind, you realize that while you are flying into a war zone with the man who broke you, you are not flying alone.
──── ୨୧ ────
a/n: hiii 💗 thank u SO MUCH for waiting for part 3!! ✨and YES, before anybody throws tomatoes at me — there will absolutely be a part 4.
also if you need emotional support or a palate cleanser after this heartbreak buffet, my wattpad fic “trust no hero” is waiting for u!! it’s got fluff, romcom energy, k-drama moments, all the serotonin ur poor heart deserves 😭💗✨
thank u for the love & the messages… see u in part 4 🫶
I’m obsessedddd
AURORA
A/N: hii :p it’s my very first fic! hope you like it babes. if you have any recommendations, let me know :3 mwah mwah -> m.ist
sequel here
Your eyes are still puffy from all the crying. You turn softly and glance at your clock. 11:27. You look over to the other side of the bed, only to be greeted by cold, untouched sheets. Your husband, the strongest, Satoru Gojo, isn’t here, even though he promised he would be.
You lie back on your side of the bed, staring at the ceiling of your shared, luxurious bedroom, a room that holds no sweet memories anymore. You both married out of love. That’s what you know. That’s what you feel. He loves you… right?
Then why does he always keep his Infinity around you?
You try to push the thoughts away. He’s probably busy, you tell yourself. He is the strongest, after all. Someone has to protect the civilians and who are you to judge, when all you do is sit at home, waiting prettily for your loving husband to come back to you?Your throat feels dry from all the crying, and suddenly the truth hits you.
Your husband, Satoru Gojo, is cheating on you. With her, his coworker.
The one who always needs his help, because she’s still new in the jujutsu world. Because he doesn’t want her to turn out like his best friend, Suguru. Because he cares about her. Because he truly sees her. Did he ever see you? Who the hell are you to him, anyway?
You stand up, unable to bear the pain of these thoughts any longer. The mansion feels haunted, not like a home. You pour yourself a glass of water, trying to calm your shaking hands. You tell yourself you’ll sleep again, like you always do. Drown your sorrows quietly, like always.
But the looks… those pitying looks from his coworkers when you bring him the lunch he forgot. When you hug him. When you talk to him. When you kiss him.
Did he even want to be kissed by you?
Did he even want to be loved by you?
You sit at the dining table and take out your favorite ice cream, but it tastes like sand, bland and lifeless. You remember it so clearly: the day you brought him his favorite strawberry mochis, only to see him hugging her, with his Infinity off. It felt like a knife stabbing straight through your fragile heart.
You stare at your ring finger. The rosy-gold, expensive ring gleams in the dim light yet it feels worthless without love, without devotion, without memories. You started neglecting your medicine. Your health. You went out less and less, avoiding the public eye, avoiding the whispers about how you’re still with a cheater.
Then it all hits you at once the hate, the disappointment, the suffocating pain. Couldn’t you have been better? Prettier? Smarter?If you were him… you wouldn’t choose yourself either.
So, the best thing you can do for him — your final act of love — is to let go. You rise slowly, almost hypnotized, and grab your medicine. Your eyes fall on your phone, still showing your last delivered message:
Happy 2-year anniversary, Toru. I got cake and some drinks. Maybe we can do a movie marathon? Stay safe.
You smile softly. Almost… relieved. You take nearly all the pills and swallow them. Then you wander back to your shared bedroom. The room feels warmer now safer, somehow. Your eyelids grow heavy as you hum a soft tune.
You look at your ring finger one last time and smile the cutest, most peaceful smile you’ve ever made.
And then, just like Aurora, you fall asleep.
Only this time, not even his kiss can wake you.
Prologue: Your Infinitesimal Holiness
DIRECTORY: (Platonic! Yandere Greek Gods x Neglected! GN Reader x Romantic + Platonic! Yandere Warriors)
Read until the end for an author's note.
"You have a face not even a mother could love..."
Intangible, wisp-like fingers interlace with the smooth strands of its baby hairs. She almost, just almost rips it off, wishes so badly that she would.
That she could.
But the little babe nestled into her shaky, cradled arms, gave her closed-eyed laugh showing off its gummy teeth, and she could only resist the temptations — to climb at the highest peak of the mountains, beg to your father, Zeus, the king almighty, that she'd do anything to take you to Olympus, just to simply throw your body down the heavens, feed you to the raging storms, or into the hands of the merciless seas, and into the arms of unruly death— yet could only sigh and look away, cold apathy, an immeasurable disgust smeared all over her pretty face.
At this mistake, at this... monstrosity.
At the product of a one-night endeavor.
The blades of grass running along her legs felt like actual knives cutting past her shiny skin, her airy feet planted against the damp soil a creeping sensation up her legs, from her soles, ankles, then all the way to her calves. Like the monstrous phalanges of the God who'd creep his palms up the fabrics of her shawls, tempted her to a night of pleasure ravaging her body.
Like Mother Earth wanted to devour her whole for her unmistakable sin.
She wishes it would— if it meant she'd be separated from this pest.
Motherhood was never her call in life.
"— You look just like your father," she sneered under her breath, biting back the venom from her words; any more insults, any more of her woes uttered from her sinful mouth, and the skies would rule it out as blasphemy.
She would be smited, eviscerated by the Lord above, but not alone.
The vermin in her arms would accompany her sooner or later into the walkway of death, and she'd rather this thing suffers in life before it could be granted the mercy of death.
Because even in the afterlife, her mistakes will shadow over her.
"Disgusting." Is all she could say, all she could do, as her ultimate curse was to bear the world this unwanted Deity of the Imperceptible.
An insignificant little thing this was. The babe in her arms, draped in tufts of hair like the clouds the Almighty Zeus sits upon.
A Demigod of the Imperceptible. Only the ruler of the inconceivable things: The ruler of the little wisps of air clinging onto a soldier's hair in a bloody battle, the whispers of the dandelion seeds sweeping around a field, the gentle warmth from the cinders of a crackling hearth— only loved by those who cling to life and live it with meaning.
Something so human. Something she is not. Something she does not want to be. Something she was demoted to be by the Goddess Hera as punishment for her bedding the Queen's husband.
What once was a beautiful water nymph residing in the oak logs of willow trees— the glowing sheen dancing across the strands of her hair was gone, her bedazzled eyes now a dull color barely reflecting the light of the sun, and her skin, oh her skin, now barely soft and silky; imperfect, like that of a human's.
How hideous. How terrible. How this child brings misfortune upon her.
Looking down at its Godly presence emanating off of its body, as if it drained her magnificence, turned her mortal from when it was all but a fetus inside her womb.
She hates it.
She hates you.
When your chubby little fingers reach up to grip on your mother's now fragile hair, she clenches her teeth and snatches your frail limbs away, almost tithering on the temptation to crush your tiny bones, uncaring for the cries it produces, echoing across the empty, green fields.
And tears flowed down her sunken cheeks, it was the only reminiscent thing of her past: The water sloshing from inside her human body, and she sobs a little more at the remainder of her past glory.
"You..." Her voice cracked, crushing your tiny palms into her splintering ones, her dull eyes bursting into flames of hatred. "You ruined me, child. You destroyed everything I was... I hate you."
When your cries begin to permute into larger decibels, she only sneers, only stomps her bare feet into the ground, as if tempting the Earth to swallow her whole if it was merciful enough to spare you the punishment.
"Hate. You will receive nothing from me but hate...
"From now on, until my death. You hear me, my child? I will make you wish you were never born into this world."
Just like that, when the thunder stroked just barely within her perimeter, she stops her cruel tugging, stumbles in her shaky steps until her back hits the trunk of the willow tree, her old home, and stares blakly with abject coldness, on the withering patch of grass now ash and cinder, ignoring of the cries of the toddler in her slipping arms.
Her hold tightens, just barely, enough to keep your body at bay, from falling into the soil, just enough so that it wouldn't anger the King above into harming her any further. She leans her head against the bark of the wood, cradles your body mechanically, and releases an empty sigh, staring up at the heavens, cursing Him inside the caverns of her plotting mind.
Under her breath, she dully utters:
"Next time... You won't be saved the next time."
And somehow, this was the most mercy your father has given your unfortunate soul.
Somehow, this was the only mercy you'll ever receive in the years of your miserable, immortal life— as this was only the start of the sweltering pain you would soon be put through.
reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.
a/n: very short prologue, i know. but chapter 1 is already very long and this is just the beginning of something sinister for the mc's mom as an introduction. also, unlike a&a., all my other chapters for other series' will be a tad bit shorter, but that's because that series is my main project so... yeah. this is something. don't forget to comment or send in a message in my inbox idk 😭
yall ever stare at a good synopsis until u reached the very end and realize its an oc fic
the origin of blindfolded devotion
" it's too late for you and me... "
pairing: arrangedhusbandclanleader!satoru x arrangedwife!reader
trope: slow burn but they never burn + "please don't leave me" + death of a spouse
one month of loving satoru gojo, and one month of satoru gojo loving you. except the shifts of time and space never truly lined up, and eventually he learned the price of perfection—albeit far too late. if only he had realized earlier that the only way he should’ve regarded you was with pure, blindfolded devotion…
wc: 8.6k
cw: ↪ angst warnings: satoru is genuinely an asshole in this oml, whoever said playing nonchalant was hot? slimed. miscarriage -> major character death (guess who!) ↪ smut warnings: consummation of the wedding (he takes his stress out on you), fingering, unprotected piv, breeding (no like deadass they're pushing for an heir) it's a magical experience for the two of you but he ruins it cause he's a loser leads to -> pussydrunk satoru, and i mean he is WHIPPED, 2x oral (f. receiving)
jj's a/n: this is for my darling @sweethearticism's 13k followers event!! sweetheart's brutal bakery is looking to be delicious i am so ready for all of these (so ready to cry ngh) this is revenge for all the times you made me cry with your writing eden, and don't worry, i'll get more personal revenge later... wink. i can't find the fanart creds so if someone does, pls lmk!! other images are from pinterest and dividers are by me!
also. this is MY TAKE on satoru being your arranged husband!! i believe that satoru doesn’t like being told what to do and just pretends to under the guise of “actually following along” while secretly having another agenda. but i also feel that if he was meant to marry a woman that he did not know, he’d be mad because it’s another choice being taken away from him. but because he is quite literally a mirror who deflects instead of hitting things head on anymore, he takes that out on reader. so if anyone comes at me for mischaracterization (anons in my inbox if you were curious), just know that i 1) don’t give a shit and 2) i am the biggest mischaracterizer and i’ll make it make sense to the world. if not, just my little group here on tumblr <3
mita's a/n: i have further decided that i shall stake a claim on the fanfiction that i helped write, so now i will make an appearance! this was such fun to write. i hope you like reading it as much as we (yes, we, even if jj will not admit it) liked writing it! xoxo
find the rest of my works here!!
You’re seated at the dinner table, waiting for your husband and the elders of the gilded Gojo clan to arrive. Your own family was forgotten the moment you signed yourself over to his family, a single scrawl of ink dictating that you were forever his, in sickness and health.
Wed to man that you hadn’t even seen, since the Gojo clan elders demanded, in the name of tradition, that you wore the blindfold during the ceremony. A lady scoffed that it was proof of your surrender to him.
You tell yourself that what you’re doing is surrendering to duty, truly.
But your sudden compliance when the same voice placed in front of you as you shared sake that tasted like coiled, bitter poison on the way down, is a stark contradiction to that.
You think, Maybe I can get a look now.
When you try and twist to catch a glance of the man you’re meant to spend the rest of your life with, but before you can turn fully, his hands ground your chin back in the direction of the empty chair across the table.
A battlefield of food stretches between the two of you, and yet you’re still plagued with the struggles in your own heart between duty and love.
Something like the very emotion bleeds through the slender fingers that tie a blindfold around your eyes. You’re left with only the sensations of your touch and the echoes of light and dark shadows across the folds of your shifting blindfold. Not even allowed to know what your husband, the man you are wed to looks like.
“Trust me,” he sneers, all too clear in just his voice, devoid of empathy and instead dripping with a poisonous replacement—something like malice, “that’s what this is about, isn’t it?”
The weighted silk on your eyes feels less like trust and more like a leash.
Yesyesyesyes I crave for angst
Me mustering up the courage to ask to be added to a taglist.
Pretty please
pairing: satoru gojo x f!reader
content: blind!satoru, childhood best friends to lovers.
he learned to recognize your footsteps before he knew your name.
it was the sound of your sneakers dragging on asphalt, the soft rhythm of your breathing as you stood beside him during recess while the other kids played tag he couldn’t join. you used to narrate the game for him under your breath—who was running, who was cheating, who was about to cry. he’d sit beside you on the curb and smile like it didn’t matter, like the sounds were enough. and somehow, they always were.
you were the first person who didn’t talk about him like he was a project. you never raised your voice around him like volume could compensate for light. you never told him what he couldn’t do, you just showed him what you liked doing and then let him decide for himself. when you liked hopscotch, he learned to count the boxes by feel. when you got obsessed with gummy bracelets in middle school, he asked you to teach him the knot. when you learned how to rollerblade in eighth grade, you held his hand and made him try.
somewhere along the way, he started noticing the way his chest felt around you. like it held too much breath. like it was always one step behind the rest of him. it wasn’t something that arrived all at once—it was a dozen small things that built on top of each other until he couldn’t remember what it had felt like not to want to sit beside you, or hear you laugh, or wait for your approval like it meant more than anyone else’s.
he didn’t have anyone else who knew him the way you did. who chose him in every season, in every classroom, in every long walk home. and maybe that was part of it. maybe that’s how he fell. because he never had to ask for your attention. you just gave it, and meant it, and stayed.
and the first time you kissed someone, it wasn’t him.
he’d never admit how bad it hurt. you told him the whole story in the cafeteria while he chewed on the straw of his drink, pretending not to be jealous. he’d thought for a while after that that maybe he was the one imagining things, that maybe you didn’t feel it. the way your hand always found his wrist before a crowd. the way you made sure he got the side of the couch he liked without him having to ask. the way you’d touch his face without thinking—flick his nose, brush a crumb from his cheek, rest your chin on his shoulder like it belonged there.
but it wasn’t imaginary. he could feel it, and the truth of it settled deeper each year.
you’ve always been gentle with him. not out of pity. not because he needs it. he knows how to move through the world alone. he’s mapped his house and his school and the streets between them. he doesn’t panic when things are out of place, just adapts. he’s lived with this body all his life—he knows its edges better than anyone else. but when you reach for him, he lets you, because he trusts you, and because he knows you like to take care of him just as much as he likes being taken care of.
and now you’re both twenty. the world is quieter than it used to be. there are fewer lockers and more train stations, fewer hallway voices and more tired groans between college classes. but he still knows when it’s you entering the room.
you’re here now, beside him on the living room floor, with your knees touching and his hoodie drowning your frame. you’ve just painted your nails—he can smell the faint chemical tang mixed with the candy-scented lotion you always forget to rub in. he wants to ask if the color is the same as last time, the soft one you told him reminded you of cherry ice cream, but he forgets the word for it.
he doesn’t say anything. just tilts his head back and listens to you flip through a magazine.
“’toru,” you murmur, voice lazy with contentment. “you ever wonder what you look like?”
he smiles, tongue pressed to the back of his teeth. “sometimes. why? you wanna tell me again how pretty i am?”
“you are,” you insist, firm, like it’s ridiculous that he still doubts it. “you’re so pretty, satoru. and not just because of your face, okay? but also because of your face.”
he laughs under his breath. “go on.”
you shift closer. he feels your thigh press against his, the warmth of you anchoring him to the moment. your fingers are careful when they touch his cheek, like you’re tracing him into memory. like you’re trying to see him without your eyes.
“your eyes,” you say softly. “they’re… they’re like glacier water. i know that doesn’t mean much to you. but they’re this really pale blue. almost white. sometimes they catch the light and look silver, like steel. sometimes there’s a tiny ring of grey at the edge. but they always look clear. sharp.”
he goes still beneath your hand. he likes the sound of your voice when you describe things to him, especially colors. he doesn’t need to understand them perfectly. he just needs to hear how they feel when you say them.
“i think if i had to describe them without sight,” you continue, “they’d feel like ice melting on your skin. cold at first, but soft when it settles. you know that feeling?”
he nods, barely.
“and the way you look at people when you know something they don’t? it’s like that too. like pressure behind glass. like something waiting to crack open.”
he lets out a breath. doesn’t realize he’s been holding it. “and what do you look like?”
you pause, like you weren’t expecting the question, and then your voice drops to something quieter. “i don’t know how to describe it, really. but i always hope i look like someone you’d want to stay close to.”
he doesn’t answer at first. just reaches for you, slow, steady. his hand finds your cheek with familiar ease. you’ve always let him do this—trace your features when he wants to remember, when he wants to memorize again. his fingertips brush over your temple, down your jaw, across the corner of your mouth. your lips are slightly parted. he thinks he could kiss you now if he were brave.
you’re so warm, always. you smell like strawberries and notebook paper and whatever body spray you used in high school and never stopped buying. his thumb strokes beneath your eye, and he imagines the shape of you pressed into color. not light, but texture. not hue, but temperature. you are soft around the edges and bright at the center. you are the feeling of late spring against the backs of his hands. the echo of laughter in an open hallway. the taste of lipgloss on a soda straw.
he pulls away before the moment can stretch too far.
“you are,” he says quietly, voice steadier than he feels, “someone i want to stay close to.”
he doesn’t mean it as a confession. not really, not yet. but the air still changes between you, softens somehow, like something has exhaled around the edges of the room.
your fingers find his almost immediately. like muscle memory, like instinct, like they’ve never forgotten the shape of him. your hand is smaller than his now, but it still fits, still grounds him.
he squeezes once, and you don’t let go.
your other hand rises slow, brushes his cheek. he doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. he’s always let you touch him like this, even when he didn’t know why it made his heart beat different. you’ve touched his face a thousand times—wiped smudges from his jaw, flicked water at his nose, cupped it between your palms on winter nights to warm him up. but now your fingertips pause at the edge of his mouth, and you’re close enough that he can smell the sweetness of your gloss, the warmth of your breath. your knee bumps into his and doesn’t move away.
"satoru," you start, and your voice is small in the space between you, breathy almost. your fingers fidget in your lap, curled around the hem of your sleeve. "do you think i’m pretty, even if you can’t… see me the way other people do?”
his mind goes silent, loud, then silent again.
yes. yes, holy fuck, yes.
yes, he thinks you’re gorgeous.
yes, he thinks about the soft skin between your waist and hip, the way he once pretended to stumble just to anchor his hand there and feel something new, something you, something he hadn’t mapped before.
yes, he held your hand on the walk to school even though he knew the way—he memorized the route a year before you ever offered.
yes, because blindness is the absence of vision, not the absence of knowing. not the absence of light. and you, you’ve always been light. warm and present and here. even if he could see, even if the whole world sharpened to color and shape tomorrow, he knows he’d still look for you first.
but his tongue is heavy. full of all the ways he wants to say it, and none of the words feel like enough. so he nods, once, slow. deliberate.
"yeah," he says. quiet like a secret. "i do."
he hears you shift a little closer, the fabric of your sleeves brushing. his chest is pounding. you smell like coconut body wash and nervousness, and it makes his whole mouth dry.
"um," you breathe, hesitating like you're standing on the edge of something. "can i—" your hands twist again, body curling inward, afraid to fill the space wrong—"can i kiss you?"
he doesn’t answer, he just nods again, heart in his throat, hoping you’ll know he wants this just as badly, something thrumming behind his ribs like panic and hope tangled together as his hand finds your wrist, the way it always does when words don’t work.
he guides you closer—not because you need help, but because he does. because this is uncharted territory, and he doesn’t trust his voice, and he’s never done this before, never wanted it this much, never let himself believe he could have something like this.
but then your mouth brushes his, and something shifts under his skin.
the kiss is soft, patient. a quiet question and a quieter answer. he tastes your breath before he tastes your lips. feels your thumb press against the curve of his jaw like you’re holding him steady. his world doesn’t stop, but it rearranges. folds inward, folds around you. and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel like he’s reaching for something he can’t name.
your lips are soft and warmer than he expected. not delicate, but certain. the gloss tastes like strawberry, and something else he can’t place, something warmer, like the inside of your laugh. you tilt your head slightly, and he mimics the movement without thinking, chasing more of the contact. your hand slides from his cheek to the back of his neck, and it makes his whole body stutter.
he kisses you the way he’s always known how to do everything—by touch. his mouth moves gently over yours like he’s mapping it, learning you for the first time all over again. the shape of your upper lip, the curve of the corner when you breathe out. the way your mouth opens for him without hesitation. he doesn’t know what to do with his hands at first, but his body makes the decision before he does, one hand sliding to your waist, the other pressing lightly between your shoulder blades like you might float away if he doesn’t keep you close.
your lips are slick, and you taste like everything familiar. everything safe. he can’t tell if he’s breathing or just surviving through your mouth, if the sound in his chest is a sigh or a thank you or a prayer. he only knows he wants more of you. he leans in deeper, mouth parting wider, and you meet him there like you’ve been waiting for this, like you’ve known it too.
his fingers curl into the fabric at your side. he wants to remember this. wants to memorize the way your breath stutters and catches, how your palm slides down his arm and stays there. how nothing else in the room matters.
and when you pull back slowly, not far, not fully—your nose brushes his. your hand is still at the nape of his neck and his heart is in his throat, your breath is still mingling with his, soft and uneven.
you press your forehead to his and whisper, like the secret’s already been kept too long, “you’ve always been the one, toru.”
his breath stutters, the softest hitch in his chest, like his lungs weren’t ready for something that tender. his hand is still resting at your waist, but his fingers tighten slightly, like he needs to confirm you’re real, that you haven’t slipped away in the half-second it took for your words to settle inside him.
his lips are wet with the echo of your kiss, and the air tastes like you now. his jaw tingles where your thumb brushed it. the corner of his mouth twitches, like it’s trying to smile, but he can’t quite remember how to move. something in his throat rises and gets stuck halfway, something that might’ve been your name, or might’ve been i know, or me too, or something heavier that’s lived in his chest for years and never made it out.
he doesn’t have the words, even though he wants them. wants a thousand of them. but they’re gone. unreachable. and maybe that’s okay, because you’ve always been good at reading him without needing him to say anything. the way you always knew when he needed your hand. when to laugh, when to wait, when to stay.
his grip tightens once more, gentle. your breath is still brushing his lips.
and he feels—no, he knows—he’ll never need to see your face to understand what love looks like.
because he just felt it in your kiss. because it’s always been you for him, too.
and the world is wide. but with you beside him, it’s never felt empty.
So perfect and intimate
My little two-year-old child...
In a tattered tent, barefoot, playing with stones because he has no toys...
Our tent is filled with insects, scorched by the heat — yet he wanders as if carrying the weight of mountains on his tiny shoulders.
This is war, dear people...
We have been displaced again, and the suffering of a pregnant mother and her small children has begun once more.
Displacement followed by hunger… fear followed by tears… a life that doesn’t resemble life.
💔 Is there a real Superman out there?
💪 Is there a true hero who can take my children to a safe place?
🙏 Does mercy still live in human hearts?
Please donate now. Help us save an innocent child.
Verified by @gazavetters I am Najla, a mother of three young children, the eldest of wh… Claire Hibbeln needs your support for Help Najl
Be part of drawing a smile, building a shelter, planting safety.
Every amount ، no matter how small ، could be a lifeline for a family exhausted by hunger and displacement.
✨ Be the hope in this cruel time…
Be the real heroes. ❤️
When there isn’t 20 new fics for me to read after refreshing the tag (I just finished reading everything and have absolutely no patience)
how i feel reading a “x reader angst” fanfiction and the reader forgives them immediately instead of making them grovel for a long ass time:
(LIKE??? IM PETTY)
This is why I struggle to find a reallyyyy good angst fic sometimes😭😭