(NSFW)

Everything is in its place

Deleting this soon, but there is two ways this fic could go. It could be the origin of the they were roommates with Toji, Suguru, and Satoru

Or it could be its own thing with Toji, Suguru, Satoru, Choso and Sukuna

Decisions! Decisions!

Edit from fey: we are going with option a and I'm keeping this for the tag list

Ying and yang as characters

They've literally swapped places, I think that shows how much they compete eachother honestly.

Sometimes I'd like to think Hawks sees Present Mic as a an actual humanoid parakeet.

Present Mic is never going to know how much he turns on the No.2 hero.

His ridiculous hairstyle is like the large crest of a strong and healthy male, flaunting it at all times while doing hero work. Whenever Mic is bobbing to music, all Hawks sees is a parrot demanding some attention and love.

And that voice? UMPH. Hawks can’t handle such a quirk. Where others hear an unbearable scream, Hawks hears the world’s most dominant mating call. His feathers can sense those screams a whole city away, and it takes a lot of willpower to not follow such a powerful, confident call and tell Mic that yes, he accepts his loud offer to smash.

Hawks keeps it all to himself. Mic doesn’t need to know.

Touya with his hair from chapter 388

Ok so imagine hawks having a SO that has a rabbit quirk and they have this game that basically cat and mouse and if hawks catches them he gets to do what ever he wants with them

Ohohohoooo trust me I’ve imagined this before.

Sometimes Hawks just has to unleash those predator instincts and his cute little prey S/O is perfect for that. He’s a fast and efficient hunter, so if he feels you’re no match for him, he’ll give himself handicaps to keep things challenging.

He might give you a head start and watch you run off, his wings fluttering in excitement. He’ll promise not to use his feathers to catch you, relying on his speed and physical strength. Once you’re in his sights, he flies in like a crimson dart, eager to feel your helpless body beneath his.

Your own instincts instill fear in you. Large sensitive ears are moving back and forth, listening for the faintest sound. He could swoop in from above at any minute. You might catch a glimpse of those hungry eyes before your mind is screaming RUN. It’s all so terrifying, but it’s such an adrenaline rush and you can’t get enough of it.

Go ahead and do whatever you can to win, he encourages it. Leap over him when he goes for the dive. Duck into a small space that he can’t reach, or at least you hope he can’t. Once he grabs hold of you, try your best to wrestle out of his grip. He knows he’s not the strongest guy around, but he’s gonna enjoy the thrill of giving it his all in order to keep you down.

If you lose, he might just stay on top of you for a while, licking you and savoring the taste of your fear. But sometimes he’ll want to get rid of his remaining energy through a rough fuck. It turns into a sexfight and you’re both struggling to get the upper hand while his dick is inside of you. You can break free and leave him hanging and frustrated, or you can pin him down and hump the hunter senseless. If you get overpowered, then you’re going to be fucked into a whimpering mess while he gives in to the animal voice inside telling him to DEVOUR his prey in any way possible.

After all is said and done, you help each other tidy up as much as possible, coming down from your feral highs.

“Thanks for the hunt, little bunny.”

🤘

I am not immune to ToJin propaganda

I’m so excited for all the new things you’ll be writing :D if you’re cool with it, could you write hawks with a broken darling and him just providing comfort? I’d imagine that when it comes down to it, hawks wouldn’t be all too happy about having his darling become a shell of who they used to be. I feel like he’d just hold darling and pray with all his heart that he’ll fix the problem.

Title: Sunday Regret [Yandere Hawks x Reader]

Synopsis: He didn’t meant to do it. And now he’ll do what it takes 

Word Count: 1312

Notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, mentions of violence

 If he wasn’t in the middle of cooking, he’d probably carry you into the dining room for a change of pace. But he doesn’t want to burn it, lest you get scared at the sound of the smoke detector. 

You haven’t moved from your spot on the sofa in hours. If it weren’t for him, you’d probably still be in bed, tucked on your side, alternating between staring at the wall and burying your face in a tear-stained pillow. 

But it’s not good for you to lay in bed all day, so he carefully picked you up and carried you into the living room after a while. He even left your walker next to you, though you’ve never bothered using it.

You don’t bother doing much of anything, anymore.

At least the living room had more stimulation for you than the bedroom. He worried when you spent hours in there, staring at a blank wall. In the living room, there were books or decor to look at, or he could turn on the TV or play some music, if you wanted. Not that you would say what you wanted, because you haven’t spoken properly in… he doesn’t want to think how long. You’ve made noises. Grunts of assent or disagreement. Sighs. Whimpers, sometimes, at night, when you think he might be sleeping.

He didn’t mean to break you down like this. Truly. How was he supposed to know--know what would happen, and know his own strength. You probably don’t believe him, which hurts (you’re supposed to love him, after all) but he didn’t actually mean to break your leg. You were trying to run, and you made it outside and tripped--all your own fault--and when he’d grabbed your leg as you tried to scurry away, he’d gripped your calf and then.

Crunching. Your screams, no, they were more like wails, primal sounds that made his gut curl. He’s not proud of the way he slapped a hand over your mouth, then, pulling you inside with no delicacy, only hurried fear that someone heard you and might come snooping.

And maybe he shouldn’t have screamed at you after dropping you unceremoniously on the bedroom floor, maybe he should have offered you painkillers right away instead of jabbing a finger in your face and telling you that you could just-deal-with-it.

Maybe if he’d treated you tenderly from the moment of the break, you wouldn’t have become so depressed and downtrodden. The next day, stuffed with painkillers and leg wrapped (courtesy of a favor--no questions, no answers) you simply… stopped existing. You wouldn’t talk, barely nodding or shaking your head at his requests. You stopped bathing yourself--getting to gently bathe you in the tub himself is one perk of all this, he thinks, though he’d never say it out loud. You barely eat, and when you do, he usually needs to feed you.

He’s threatened you with a feeding tube and you didn’t even flinch; he doesn’t want to go that route, but he can always call in a favor. You sleep erratically, sometimes all day, sometimes all night; you stare ahead of you for hours, tears leaking onto whatever pillow is tucked underneath your head. All of his attempts to get you on a sleeping schedule failed, so he stopped trying. You probably needed more sleep to let your broken leg heal, anyway.

He tries to be understanding, because in a way, this is his fault. If he’d been a better boyfriend, you wouldn’t have tried to run from him, and he wouldn’t have broken your leg. (He often reminds himself, that if you hadn’t run away, he never would have needed to grab your leg--but what good does it do to point out that it’s partly your fault, too?)

Besides, he knows that you need lots of forgiveness right now. You’re hurting.  You’re sad. But it’s hard. It’s hard. And he doesn’t blame you, not really, but he wishes he had someone to talk to about his problems. He misses you. He misses watching TV together. He even misses the arguments, in a way. At least you were talking. At least you were feeling something other than the sadness that kept tracks of tears on your cheeks all day.

Maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference in the end. Maybe you would have done this regardless.  It’s not important. What is important--and he knows this in his heart--is that the regrets it, all of it, and he’ll never do it again. And he’s going to make sure you get better by being the best damn boyfriend there is.

“Lunchtime, babe,” he says, quickly scooping together two bowls of rice, some veggies, wanting to keep things light on your stomach. It’s easier to feed you when the vegetables are soft--he worries less about you not chewing properly, at least--so they’re a bit overcooked, mushy in the bowl.

You don’t respond. But it’s okay. He doesn’t expect you to. If anything, this entire ordeal has taught him a lot about considering your needs. He wasn’t exactly a great boyfriend before all this. He got a bit too selfish, making you sit on his lap, getting annoyed if you cried while he made you try on lingerie. Now, though? It’s all about you.

So if he has to miss an interview because you broke down sobbing in the tub and need to be held for a while, so be it. If his new couch gets food stains because you don’t want to get up and he feeds you right from the comfort of the sofa, so be it.

Whatever it takes--he’ll do it.

When he cranes his neck back into the living room, the sight makes his feathers rustle. You’re standing, leaning on the walker he’d left behind, arms trembling from the effort. You got up! It’s the most you’ve done on your own in a long time. A grin instinctively breaks out and he can’t stop himself from practically running up to you, eyes bright, smile brighter.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says, practically breathless from the change. “Do you--shit, this is great, do you want to do something? What do you need? Want to take a walk on the balcony or--”

He pauses when he sees your mouth moving, sees you looking at him with sad, puppy-dog eyes. It’s a tentative gesture, and he’s reminded of an infant, staring at their parents and trying to force through words through unpracticed lips.

“I--I--I…”

He rises up on his toes in anticipation. Moving on your own and talking, all in one day? Maybe this is your breakthrough, maybe this is it, maybe he’s pulled you across that threshold back into health. Back into you.

But you don’t--can’t--finish whatever it was you wanted to say. You huff instead, sighing in defeat, face falling and thick tears dribbling down your splotchy cheeks as you give up entirely.

You burst into short, pitiful sobs, arms shaking violently as your grip on the walker weakens, as your physical strength seems to drop.

He doesn’t wait, and immediately swoops you up in his arms, cradling you as he sits on the sofa, careful of your leg as he tucks you into his lap. You don’t resist as he pushes your head towards his rest, letting it rest there as he rubs your back, stroking softly.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I’m right here.”

It makes you cry harder, leaning your face into his shoulder like you do the pillows on the bed. Which is good, isn’t it? You’re getting it out. And when is the last time you let him hold you like this without struggling, legs and arms kicking, nails scratching?

So he won’t deny that he enjoys this moment, enjoys getting to comfort you in the way he’s always wanted to; in the way that you’ve always, especially right now, needed.

It might take a long time to get you back to yourself. But he’ll be here, every step of the way, waiting for you to come out on the other side.