#you know those you cut out | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

strangefable · 7 months

Text

thank you for the many, many tags over the past... let's not count the time. but thank you to everyone who's continued to tag me for wips <3 most recently @inafieldofdaisies, @direwombat, @adelaidedrubman, @cassietrn, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @trench-rot, and many many more, thanks so much to everyone who thinks of me <3

today, i have a little bit of the opening chapter of the atlanta prequel to share:

Micah slowed her bike. Wouldn't do to get pulled over for speeding. Not with what sat strapped to the bike behind her. She felt the hard, sharp edges even through the leather of her jacket. She could almost hear ticking in the back of her mind; that thing may as well have been a bomb.

Hell, a bomb would’ve been less unnerving.

She followed the monotone, mechanical voice in her ear as it directed her to the appointed address. She felt a twinge in her neck as she tried to look up to the top of the building. Dark, ominous, sharp. It was a vague shape in the dark night sky, but it still felt foreboding as she gazed upward.

She pulled her helmet off and shook her head, releasing her hair as well as the chill along her spine. She was just a mechanic, but she was not going to get intimidated by some slick, rich asshole too impatient for his coke to wait for a regular mule.

As she entered the lobby, she saw the sleek marble floors, the stark modern architecture. There were heavy plaques on the wall with mysterious names. An office. A swanky, high tower one. Ballsy place to take in a delivery like the one she carried.

A man behind the security desk eyed her suspiciously. She offered him her sweetest, doe-eyed smile. “Hi, I have a delivery for…” she glanced down at her phone, “Mr. Duncan.” She looked back up at the security guard, still smiling warmly.

He grunted, waved his hand toward the metal detector. “Of course he’s still here,” he muttered to himself, before meeting her gaze.” 38, top floor.”

She hesitated as she stared at the metal detector’s arch. She took a few slow steps toward it, wondering how sensitive it was. At least she didn’t have to explain a gun, since hers was locked safely at home.

The detector went off as soon as she stepped through. She winced and stepped back.

The guard gave her a knowing look. “What’re you carrying?”

She attempted another smile. “Just a knife. It—”

He smirked and waved a hand. “Yeah, you’re not the first. Most of the couriers have some kind of protection these days. Can’t be too careful.” He nodded her through, ignoring the alarm as it went off again.

She nodded and smiled. “Yeah. Thanks.” His casual attitude about the whole thing surprised her, but she wasn’t about to argue. She wanted to get this over with and get the fuck out of here.

The whole place reeked of wealth and prestige and it made her skin crawl. So much metal and isolation from a single natural thing. So cold and uniform. She hated shit like this. Not that she’d admit it aloud, but it made her ache for home.

The elevator stopped at the top floor, and Micah ducked out swiftly, grateful to escape the grating music that jangled her nerves even more. Why did the wealthy always have such bland taste in everything?

She entered another lobby, but straight ahead was a formidable wall with a list of large, brass-lettered names behind a block of marble that must’ve been a reception desk. The woman seated there had a strained look on her features as she glanced over at Micah. Instead of a greeting, she only offered a stony, questioning stare.

Micah made a small sound in her throat. “Uhm. I…I have a delivery for Mr. Duncan. Urgent, I was told.”

The woman’s eyes went glassy at the name, and her expression seemed to grow even tighter. “Of course. Down the hall, Fourth door on your left.” She pointed to a hallway to her right.

Micah nodded and followed the directions. The lighting was low everywhere, probably dimmed to save cost outside of normal business hours. She wondered what kind of business it was they did here, then she stopped herself. She didn’t want any details at all. “I’m just a mechanic, that’s all.” She mumbled softly as she came to a stop outside the large, solid wood door.

It was floor to ceiling and she felt a sudden urge to run anywhere else. Instead, she lifted her hand and rapped her knuckles against the wood.

“Yes?” The voice was smooth and sure, the barest edge of a threat beneath the word. Why did the image of a shark swerving beneath the water flash into her mind? She shook her head and pushed open the door.

“Delivery for Mr. Duncan.” It felt so stupid to say, but what the fuck else could she say? This was not her job. She would not let this become her job. She didn’t want the heat of being a mule; she’d made that abundantly fucking clear.

Yet here she stood.

“Come in.” The voice was clipped and cool, all business, but with an attempt at warmth. A small measure to pretend at civility, she supposed. She opened the door.

To her surprise, this room was not all sharp, sleek steel and concrete. It was lined everywhere with deep, rich wood. The scent of it filled her lungs, soothing, familiar. She blinked as her eyes took in the shelves lined with thick, heavy looking tomes. There was a wet bar taking up a whole wall, and it was where most of the room’s light came from.

That and the Tiffany lamp sitting on the gargantuan desk in the middle of the room.

A large, sleek, black, leather chairback greeted her. “You’re late.” The chair swiveled suddenly but soundlessly. A man with piercing blue eyes and a firm mouth stared at her. He peeked his fingers together in front of his face. One eyebrow lifted slightly as he took in the sight of her. “And you’re new.” A glint flashed in his eyes.

She narrowed her own. “No, I’m not. I’m doing a one time favor. Because, I’m told, you were very… insistent.”

His lips curved into a mirthless half smile. “Oh, is that how they phrased it?”

She snorted. “I could read between the lines. Not exactly anyone’s first choice to send a mechanic, but no one else was aw—available.” Her eyes darted away from his. “Mierda.” The whisper escaped her lips before she could stop herself. Shit. SHIT. She was saying too much.

She felt his eyes as he trailed them down her body. She felt them lingering around her curves, so easily displayed by her tight leathers. She shifted her weight and clutched her helmet closer to her body, as though it were a shield. A poor one, but what else did she have?

When she looked up again, she found his eyes staring directly into hers. His expression was unreadable as he forced his gaze on hers. She resisted the urge to clear her throat or look away. Something in his eyes reminded her of the predators she’d faced in the backcountry. You don’t look away from a predator when it’s sizing you up, so she steeled her nerves and met his gaze, her lips pressed thin and straight.

He smiled. Tight. Sharp. Too feline to be real, despite the straight, glaring whiteness of his teeth. It was a smile meant to disarm, but she knew better. “They have been rather… less than satisfactory of late. I’ve been considering exploring other avenues.” His eyes looked her up and down once more. “However, I might be amenable to changing my opinion.” As his eyes met hers again, the weight of his meaning settled heavy on her shoulders.

She shrugged slightly. “That’s above my pay grade. I’m just here to give you what you ordered.”

He ignored the package she held out to him. “You’re not curious?” He took a step toward her. His hand lifted, but instead of the package, he slipped his fingers around her wrist.

She shook her head. “They don’t pay me for that.”

“What do they pay you for?” Another step closer. His fingers tightened. His other hand rose to rest lightly against her waist.

tagging onwards (no pressure at all ever <3) @ivymarquis, @v0idbuggy, @derelictheretic, @henbased, @redreart, @wrathfulrook, @confidentandgood, @damejudyhench, @florbelles, @jillvalentinesday, @marivenah, @harmonyowl, @unholymilf, @shallow-gravy, @g0dspeeed, @strafethesesinners, @fourlittleseedlings, @voidika, @foibles-fables, @chazz-anova, @josephseedismyfather, @turbo-virgins, @roofgeese, @i-am-the-balancing-point, @poisonedtruth, @simplegenius042, @incognito-insomniac, @dumbassdep, @theelderhazelnut, @legally-a-bastard, @aceghosts and anyone i still have managed to miss in this list. (also if you don't want me tagging you, drop me an ask or a dm and no questions will be asked <3) edit: trying to fix tags.

#it is always so hard to know which pieces to share and where to cut into the full story #i had forgotten how difficult those choices are to make agh #anyway here is part of the beginnings of what happened in atlanta and how john and micah first met #i am loving writing this story again #hopefully that is enough tags to keep me out of any sitewide searches now #micah hale #ship: our sins make you mine #fablemade #strangefable writes #wip wednesday #if that doesn't work and this still just... i will delete everything #possibly my whole blog idk #not feeling great any more tonight

48 notes · View notes

gardenofnoah · 1 year

Text

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.

#listen to quietly into letting go by manchester orchestra for the full effect #let me tell you something. i love exploring hurt and accountability in relationships #i just feel like i never get to see that play out in real time. especially now with the whole 'if he breathes the wrong way cut him off'#but idk i think it's important and it helps me heal my own hurts to write it out this way u know??#i just think our inherent humanity is the most precious thing about us #i hold really tightly to the thought that the connections we make are not so fragile that they can't weather a few storms!#even if those storms level our houses in the process! we can come back from that!#i’m not the worst thing i’ve ever done and neither are you!#shinsou x reader #shinsou hitoshi x reader #shinsou hitoshi x you #mha shinsou fic #shinsou hitoshi fic #mha fic #mha writing #fic: i just sat there quietly

120 notes · View notes