aizawasnumberonefan
laney
she/they 2318+ MDNIfanfic side blog
167 posts
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
Last Seen Blogs
n1kt3
I'm bad with titles
lovelyverosika
Verosika
auditoreos
The Dawn Will Come
damianos--of--akielos
DAMEN
idiosyncraticlass-blog
Untitled
Text
do you ever not write for so long that you’re almost afraid to? like what if I’m dumb now
68K notes
·
View notes
Text
Bakugou come and put your warm hands on my tummy :(
64 notes
·
View notes
Text
i miss the early chapters of naruto when kakashi was drawn looking like a wet cat all the time to emphasize the fact that he was weird and unhinged
8K notes
·
View notes
Text
I can't wait to see dadzawa in 4th season tbh......
21K notes
·
View notes
Photo
Heart attacks symptoms are different for women. I recently learned this.
671K notes
·
View notes
Text
Tomura shigaraki x reader, tomura is an art student, takes place in the same universe as my charcoal artist!dabi stuff, tomura is like very insecure in some of this, if the writing feels pretentious and flowery and unnecessary that’s because it is<3
His hair is getting long.
Running your fingers through the ends, you notice how it’s nearing his shoulders now. His head is in your lap, staring up at you as you lean against the mountain of pillows on your bed, clad in a pair of underwear and the tee shirt he arrived in. His jeans are stained with paint, hanging low on his hips, unbuttoned and quickly thrown on so he wasn’t naked and vulnerable in your lap. You thumb at the scar by the corner of his mouth and he kisses it, then your palm, then your wrist. Tomura takes your hand in between three careful fingers and places it over his heart.
Love is not how they told you it would be.
The two of you were assigned to the same group in painting iii, formed so that the students could give one another critiques independently. Only, you couldn’t find a single thing to critique in his work.
Tomura worked with oils—or Tomura lived and breathed and died for them. He painted people, always caught in a moment, in the middle of talking, or yelling, or drinking, or sleeping. His attention to detail was unlike anything you’d ever seen before, colors you’d never realized could appear in skin tones, shine on limbs and cheeks that made his subjects both more alive and human than any real person. His work felt sort of dirty, sweaty, perpetually damp. But it was beautiful. You couldn’t say a thing about it.
He’d confronted you about it one afternoon, stuffing handouts from the professor into his bag, which looked to be filled with more loose paper and no text books.
“Do you hate it that much?” It was the first time he’d ever talked to you, actually talked to you and not just about your work during a critique. “You never have anything to say.”
It stuns you for a moment, his anger and annoyance, how he’s decided to aim it at you instead of the group of people clamoring for issues with his painting all class period.
“I’m supposed to point out flaws, tell you where you could have done better, explain how I wasn’t moved,” you explain, staring down at your shoes, “but I can’t do that. There’s not—I don’t see how I could possibly tell you how you could do better.”
“That’s bullshit.” He mutters, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Don’t just say what I want to hear. I won’t like you any more for it.”
He leaves you standing alone in the classroom. Like you? He thought it was about being liked? You’re in such awe of him that you can’t speak, and he thinks you’re just trying not to hurt his feelings.
During the next class, when he stands before your group for critique, you don’t say a word. And he keeps looking at you like he’s waiting for it, like you’ll be angry enough at him for last week that you’ll rip his painting apart. But your silent, once again. Nothing’s changed.
He’s the first one out of the class once you’re dismissed. He walks fast, and you’re out of breath by the time you catch up with him, resting a hand on his shoulder that he flinches away from. Your breath comes out in quick puffs that you can see, wrapping your coat tighter around yourself as you fix him with a glare.
“You’re wrong.” You say once he’s turned around. “I don’t care if you like me or not after critique. It’s not about sparing your feelings. I’ve never seen anything like what you do. And I watch you in class, and you paint like something is clawing it’s way out of you, like you need to do it or you’ll die.”
“You’re honest with everyone else but me.” He argues, unable to accept your words. You have real things to say to your peers. You don’t hold back with them. You make them better. Why couldn’t you do that for him?
“You are not everyone else.” You watch his eyes widen at your words, and if you had any shame, maybe you wouldn’t have said something so bold. “You’re leagues above all of us. Everyone knows it, and that’s why they’re harsh on you.”
Where you say nothing, your group rips into him, picking at each and every detail until there’s nothing left. He takes it all in stride, accepting their words like it’s absolute truth, and returning to his canvas with sunken shoulders and furrowed brows, concentrated on how he could be better. It’s exactly what they want.
He opens his mouth the say something, but stops, feeling a drop of something fall on his cheek. He looks up at the dark clouds above the two of you, and it begins to rain. He curses, taking a hold of your hand and leading you underneath the front of the design building.
“They’re harsh because I deserve it.” He points out, still holding your hand. You could say a million things right now, tell him in detail how moved you are by every piece he makes, but his hand is still in yours, and you don’t trust yourself not to trip over your words because of it. You can only shake your head.
“Why can’t you accept that you’re brilliant?” You question, exasperated. It makes him laugh, his smile being something you’ve never seen before. It makes you think of all the people who have seen this smile before, the stretch of his lips, the creases by his eyes. Had they felt this lucky?
“I think you’re crazy.” He tells you, knocking his knuckles against your head.
“Do you wanna go out?” You ask before you’re able to stop yourself. He leans away from you, surprised.
“What?” You can’t find the words to speak, to tell him you’re sorry, that it was uncalled for, that you’re a total creep. His face is red, you notice. He speaks a moment later, “yes.”
Rising from your lap, he leans over you, kissing your lips with as much tenderness as he had your palm. Your lips are his favorite thing to paint, second only to your thighs which he grips tightly as he wraps your legs around his waist.
When he’d met you, all full of hope and belief in him of all people, he’d thought of you as such a faraway thing. Unattainable. If you couldn’t talk about his work, there was no way you’d ever talk to him. But he was wrong, something he rarely ever is, your faith in him changing how he viewed his own art forever.
He paints you. He paints you a lot. He even paints the two of you together, though your faces are never in those ones, just bodies tangled together on one canvas. He’d call you his muse if you didn’t hate it. And besides, he knows you’re so much more.
If there had been something inside of him clawing it’s way out, you had noticed it, freed it, kept it safe with you so it wasn’t so agonizing to carry on his own.
No, it’s not how they told him it would be at all.
402 notes
·
View notes
Text
they got caught in the rain after their date but it's ok !!!
6K notes
·
View notes
Text
trying to smack sukuna’s ass but he catches your wrist without even turning around
87 notes
·
View notes
Text
i’ve only seen the first season of jjk but i’ve read so much fanfic i feel like i’m caught up
it’s got me debating writing a few drabbles just based off what i know and undoubtedly ooc
0 notes
Text
working an office job now is so funny because when i was 16 i worked a shitty minimum wage job where my manager was an ex-felon bodybuilder with knuckles tats who spent time in prison for attempted murder… so guess what, phil? your fancy title and lame white-collar intimidation tactics aren’t going to work on me, actually. i watched my old boss pull a knife on someone. you really think im going to fall to my knees when you make passive aggressive commentary? please get real
48K notes
·
View notes
Text
love a fictional character who will scowl and tell people “I’m not sick” “I’m not hungry” “I didn’t get injured”
meanwhile he has an extremely high fever, he ate some soup last week, and the blood is soaking through his jacket
10K notes
·
View notes